Two By Two
Well, it was bound to happen, and we had a good run of fine weather (it seems awfully British to be talking about the weather all the time. I guess old habits die hard) but the rain finally came – to New Zealand anyhow. The folks in Oz are still getting crispier by the day but over here we have this:
If you look carefully you can see the rabbits under the hedge lining up two by two.
Speaking of rabbits, we have a visitor. A few weeks ago we noticed there was an addition to the happy band of bunnies who enjoy our free-range garden, easy access to water-features (there’s a stream behind that hedge) and round-the-clock smorgasbord (our neighbours have a courgette field right next door). Clearly our garden is a des res for the long-eared and, unsurprisingly given our no-poison, no shooting ethos which is fully in keeping with our I-love-fluffy-bunnies and He’s-a-vegetarian lifestyle, the rabbits are living very happily at the bottom of the lawn. A black rabbit, much larger than the little wild brown rabbits suddenly appeared and every day gets bolder and bolder about coming closer to the house. He is also a little, er, ‘frisky’ and we are often called to the window by our daughters shouting “Look, the rabbits are playing leapfrog again!”
We assumed that he was an escapee, a desperate creature on the run and, like the B-movie that is my life, he was soon joined by an equally dissolute friend who, if Hollywood scriptwriters had a hand in this, would probably be called Mungo. The new rabbit, more friendly and hungry than his chum, is the biggest bloody rabbit we have ever seen. No kidding, I have had cats smaller than this bunny. Here he is sitting under a tree, very close to our porch, washing his face in a puddle and looking hungrily at my succulents.
He seems very tame and was quite happy to be approached but waited with something vaguely like a sneer on his little furry fizzog until I was within a few inches before taking off like greased lightning to the other end of the garden. We are in two minds whether to turn him in or not. Nobody has reported him missing and, apart from the slightly crazed look in his eye and the way he licks his lips when he gets close to my roses, he seems harmless and perfectly happy. Him Indoors has dubbed it the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, which almost inevitably, led to an afternoon of Monty Python and an incessant chorus of ‘Neep’ from the little ones who don’t get the jokes but know that constant reptition of a single word can eventually give Mummy that funny twitch.
If anyone is wondering if I’ve actually done any knitting lately then rest assured that I have. The progress isn’t exactly impressive though as I have been SPINNING! Yippee!
It’s been ages since I’ve had a chance to spin and I’ve found that knitting is slightly less hazardous around small children (unless they ‘help’ Mummy with her sock-knitting which brings on the aforementioned twitch and much howling.) The girls can’t resist ‘helping’ with the treadling and, sooner or later, one of them sticks her hand through the wheel and there are tears before bedtime. While the girls are at home it is too dangerous, when they aren’t at home then I’m working. And in the evening it would be me crying (ask me how I know) as I fight with tension, twist and my inability to do two things at once with opposite ends of my body.
This Monday the local Spinners and Weavers were invited to do a demonstration of, you guessed it, spinning and weaving at Waitangi. This, for the non-Kiwis, is where the Treaty of Waitangi (you’ll notice the connection there) was signed between the British and the Maori and they generally agreed to stop fighting each other with guns and start fighting each other with lawyers instead. Debate continues over the meaning, intentions, translation and implications of the Treaty but, in the meantime, it has given us a public holiday and an excuse for lots of ceremonies to mark the occasion. Like the launching of the waka (Maori war canoes) from the beach which took place conveniently just before my turn at the spinning demo was to begin. Look:
Here are four waka ready to launch. They have a leader- the chap in the cape (which is called a Korowai) and the crews are made up of old, young (some looked about 12), men and women. There was singing and ceremonies beforehand and watching the nine boats being launched was great fun. The carving on them is very intricate and the crews were, occasionally, half dressed. So, a little eyecandy for those amongst you who like their men solidly built:
Around the corner from Waitangi is Paihia, a tourist town which is home to these guys. They are not wearing a lot at the back under those skirts (Piupiu), a fact which generally shocks/delights the tourists as they are seen around town during peak holiday season. All in all, there was a lot of women taking photos on that beach (I do like a man who doesn’t look as if he’ll snap like a twig when you jump on him.)
There were many men, and women, who were wearing the maori tattoos (Moko) which show their heritage and genealogy. I really wanted to take photos of their tattoos but I was feeling a little shy and didn’t and I’ve been kicking myself ever since. Next time, I’ll get a grip (of me, not them) and ask, I promise. They were walking works of art, some of the men were covered from knee to wrist.
Once the waka were launched they headed up the inlet to Haruru Falls as the Bay of Islands was pretty rough and choppy. The flotilla was an impressive sight.
I spent the next few hours spinning at the Treaty House in Waitangi and demonstrating to international tourists exactly just how inept I was at the task. I also widened the vocabulary of a few non-English speakers. Here are the fruits of my labours (I spun two of these):
You’ll have to excuse the crappy focusing, it was the only photo I managed to take which accurately showed the colours.
I had some dyed roving in my spinning stash which didn’t seem enough for an afternoon’s spinning so made up another batch using some Kool-Aid-type drink crystals, working on the principle that anything that contained more than one E-number and is guaranteed to stain the best clothes of your offspring is likely to colour my fibre. I bought the cheapest I could find (guarantees Stainability!) and zapped the roving in the microwave. Then I mixed up my efforts with the older red and orange fluff and grabbed random colours when spinning.
I’m planning to ply this with some white although I have no idea what to do about the Dylon dyed stuff (the older roving) which still stains my hands. Also stained my nice white blouse, skirt, basket etcetera etcetera. Any ideas? Another trip though the acid solution and a few blasts in the microwave for the completed skeins, perhaps? I’ll have to soak and hang them anyway to set the twist after plying, I think.
One day I’m going to knit with my handspun. I’ve been spinning (okay, not nearly enough) for a year now but so far I haven’t knit anything at all with my yarn.
In the meantime, the sewing machine is out and I’m whipping up a quick spinning apron. I’ll inflict more of my corner-cutting sewing on you another date. Right now, I have a date with some stain remover.
