Taking the Wool to the Max

It’s fair to say that I am quite often at my very happiest when late Autumn rolls around. There is the gently, not-yet-scarily, looming prospect of Christmas. It is cold enough to warrant the additional layer of a blanket on the bed, or on the sofa, or in the chair, or, to be honest, any damn place I find myself wanting to layer on a blanket. Or two. Stews and soups and pies are back on the menu. Best of all, I am not expected to any gardening, whatsoever.

The weather obliges with fogs and mists that bead my hair and coat. Sunbreaks through clouds at odd angles and unexpected times, turning the very air golden. Leaves of such gorgeous colours, I want to wear them. Frost-rimed mornings that etch my surroundings with chilly silver-white. The river is high and muddied, swirling debris along at truculent speed.

 

Happiest of all the days are those when I can wake up, wriggle my toes against the cotton edge of my duvet, full to bursting with glee at the thought of a day all to myself, to fill with walks, cooking, reading and crafting. Crocheting, to be precise; my newly learned skill that, until recently, I was indulging in every moment I could, in the midst of woolly blanket-making happiness.

Back in August, I’d found the pattern on Attic 24, brought the wool, deciphered the instructions and looked up the stitches I didn’t know on YouTube. And then I set too. Hooking with newly obsessed glee and quite indifferent to the odd twinge from my wrist.

As I watched the blanket grow from under my very fingers, I was aware that the pains in my right wrist were also growing in intensity and frequency. So I strapped it up and carried on crocheting. And then I woke one morning and couldn’t even hold a pencil. Slightly worried now, I stopped for a couple of weeks, watched the dust grow on my woolly pile and fretted.

That was at the end of August. It is now December and under doctors orders, I am still strapping my wrist up and avoiding as much fine motor work with my right hand as possible. Trying to open jars with my left hand. Getting my colleagues to open parcels for fear of slipping with my left and stabbing myself in the eye, as happened when I was cleaning the bath, only with a cloth, not a pair of scissors. Writing as little as possible. And, above all, absolutely utterly completely No Crochet.

What I have essentially done is given myself RSI. Crocheters wrist, like housemaids knee but with no pervy lord of the manor checking how well I’ve polished his fender. When people ask I tell them it’s an extreme crochet injury. Taking the wool to the max baby.

The Teen is now no longer getting a blanket for Christmas. She is suspiciously okay with the news.

Photos taken on a recent frosty morning walk. The patterns made never fail to fascinate.

Here be Dragons

About a month ago, I needle-felted a small purple elephant for my neice (yes, another homemade toy for the tot, yes I am making the most of the fact she’s not old enough to verbally critique my work yet) and it actually turned out very well. Feeling pleased with myself and with my dormant felting skills now reawakened, I asked my teenaged daughter if she would like a purple elephant.

No, I have no idea what I was thinking either. This is the same teenage who adores the stories of Dracula and hobbitses and such, who regards the colour pink much like a hospital matron regards the e-coli bacteria, and who recently rejected the purchase of a black hoodie because it had hearts on the inside lining, despite the fact no one would be able to see them. Purple elephants were not wanted (as indeed they wouldn’t have been by me at her age).

Instead she asked for a dragon. Ah. Dragons are not known for their fluffy round qualities, more for their scary-spiky-fire-breathing qualities. Still, I had some slightly prickly-to-the-touch alpaca wool I’d picked up when we were at Solva Mill in Pembrokeshire. So, I set to trying to draw one. Create a design if you will, like a proper artist.

Four bizarrely chicken-shaped dragon drawings later, I gave up, looked at some postcards of dragons painted by the talented Jackie Morris that we’d got from the same place and decided I needed to think long and lizard-like instead. And, after a month of poking furiously at the wool, damaging my shoulder with over-enthusiastic poking, and stabbing myself in the fingers countless times, I’m really quite pleased with the result:

His eyes, a happy accident that occured when I tried to make him blue ones, stood back and realised I’d felted them too far back on his head and I couldn’t get them back out again, are possibly my favourite bit. Somehow the accidental blue reminds me of a jay’s eyes with the flash of colour.

His wings are actually made from a softer wool, felted into a roughly triangular shape and then the edges bent over some florists wire to help them retain shape. The darker veining, a whim, makes me really happy:

Actually, all the little bits of detailing make me extremely happy – especially the little curly tufts on his head:

And look at his pointy tail! Made out of the same wool as the wings because it was actually easier to shape. The long body and tail are 100% wool only, no wires involved, and this is one of the reasons I love needle felting: it feels like a proper sculpture taking shape under your hands. From a soft, formless pile of wool, this creature emerged.

And what a beautiful creature he is! I know I’m biased because I’ve made him but honestly? For a first time dragon attempt, I defy anyone to say he’s not pretty darn great. The only thing I would do differently are the feet: I feel he needs talons not paws, but I’ve already figured out a way to solve that for the next one.

And absolutely most of all, I love his slightly tilted head, the unconsciously created quizzical expression, as if to say “this is all well and good, but when do I get unleashed on the village?”

And there you have it. One needle-felted, quizzical, curly headed dragon for my daughter’s Christmas when he’ll be named and given pride of place at the top of the tree.