Sunday, September 20, 2015

Welcome to Shetland

I've had trouble writing about Shetland. I've been here about a week, and I struggle to find words to explain this place, even in my own head. How have these islands stolen my heart in the space of a few days? The place, the people, but somehow something more.

On a bus yesterday they played a song, sung by schoolchildren from Yell, that begins:

Far away from the bustle of the city and its crowds
There's some lovely little islands in the sea
Some are large, some are small
There's 100 in all
And a hundred welcomes waiting you and me

So come with me across the sea
And meet the folk of my land
Where a welcome true is waiting you
In a hundred shetland islands

When I read this words on the page, they seem insignificant. They don't describe the islands much (a bit more in later verses), "large and small" hardly conjures an image into the reader's mind. "Far from the city" is a bit more telling, but not much. And yet, when sung in harmony by children while looking over the peat stacks to the sea the song has a bit of magic in it. A simplicity in reducing a place to the kindness you'll find there. A magic, I think, that the song "it's a small world" also tried to capture and bring to a larger audience.

And they are right to dwell on the kindness of the folk who live here.

Shetland is beautiful. Perhaps I should start with that. There are so many colors everywhere, and the more you look the more you see. The greens and browns and oranges in the grasses, the purple of the heather, the bright splashes in other flowers, the darker greens in the few trees, the multitude of shades of gray and black and white in the rocks. And the blues. Nowhere on these islands are you more than three miles from the sea. I find this absolutely staggering, having grown up in the central US. And when you can't see the saltwater you can usually see a loch (and sometimes an island on the island).  

This doesn't explain it though. These pieces don't capture the magic in the air here. The raw power of the waves and the wind. The harshness that drives away all but a certain type of person. The land where there are many more sheep than people and they walk on the road and slow down the cars. The community in a place where you can call the ferry and ask it to wait a few minutes for you, or where the bus drivers know to drop you at the end of your grandmother's driveway and send their greetings in with you.

When I was standing on the ferry yesterday watching the shore I told myself to look at the landscape and focus on the human presence. To pick some piece that I could write about if I were back in cultural geography class. I looked at the changing light, and the shapes of the rocks, and the salmon jumping in the pens, and then I turned my head and saw two passengers wearing Fair Isle knitwear: a hat and a sweater respectively. And something clicked in my head.

I've been struck by the odd juxtaposition of the harsh environment and the delicate and intricate knitwear made here. This is perhaps most noticeable in the lace. Light, airy pieces that seem to float. So fine that entire shawls can be pulled through a wedding ring. Pieces of sea spray, frozen in a moment. And colorful Fair Isle. Infinite combinations of colors and patterns that blend together like a sunset.

I was disconcerted when I first visited the textile museum in Lerwick. I'd been windswept on the hillside over town, and then wandered past the electric plant and the concrete storage buildings on the harbor, and found myself opening the door to be greeted by the artistry of the Shetland knitters: hats, gloves, scarves, each presenting a story of time and talent. Why here?

But when I saw the two pieces on the ferry deck, they fit into the landscape. It's not that the patterns or the colors matched the natural shore. They didn't. They had sharp lines and strong colors. It's that they told the story of this place more eloquently than I will on this page. Shetland is a place where over and over again I find people going "one step further" in a task. Honestly, I think it's more like 10 steps further. This attention to detail is seen everywhere.

It isn't that you can play a tune on the fiddle, you can improvise on an old fiddle that's missing a string after working all day and walking to the pub in a rainstorm and still amaze the listeners. It isn't that you can knit a hat, you can knit an intricately patterned Fair Isle hat that matches the jumper you made in grade school and still finish it in half the time that most people can knit a plain one. And did I mention that it's properly finished with no knots, washed and stretched, and is made of 100% Shetland wool? It isn't that you can knit a shawl, but that you knit it on a commission from royalty. It isn't that you smile at passerby, but that you welcome visitors politely and warmly make them feel right at home.

And what I find so compelling here is that this dedication is matched by an effortless modesty. You didn't bring your fiddle because it was to be a quiet night out. You needed something to keep your son warm at sea. You were glad for a customer. You were well brought up. There is a sense of equality. Queen or college student, you can admire the artistry.

In a sense, I can look at a piece of lace and think, "of course, if you have good wool it would be a shame not to spin it finely. And if you have fine thread, it would be a shame not to knit it to advantage..."

And thus, with straightforward logic, come the wedding ring shawls admired the world over.

Fair Isle is even easier to view practically: two colors in a row makes for a warmer fabric. And using many colors in a garment allows one to use up odds and ends of yarn.

And it is this spirit, this quiet combination of elegance and hard work, and an ability to admire beauty in harshness and create beauty in softness, that I have found so inspiring in three of these hundred Shetland islands.

2 comments:

  1. Dear Katie,
    I so enjoy your entries. Have you come across anyone who still knows about "waulking the wool"? It is an old, traditional way to finish off a long piece of tweed yardage. As I understand it (which I don't really) a fairly large group of people sit around a table, singing and pounding/patting the fabric until it is the consistency they want. It is dampened and I think traditionally was wetted with urine...perhaps to help set the dyes. Anyway, if you are still in Scotland and can learn about how this is done, I'd be VERY interested in a description, photos, recordings or a video? Thanks again!

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    1. I heard a bit about it when I was in the outer hebrides - it was washed, pounded, and worked to shrink (tighten up) and soften the fabric after weaving. I hadn't heard about the use of urine but it sounds feasible to set the dye...what I remember reading in the museum was that it was a big job so it became something of a social gathering (with singing like you said), and that sometimes a whole group of woman would gather for several days working one woman's tweed each day. However, nowadays they send the tweed to the mills to be finished. Which means I don't have photoss unfortunately...there was quite a nice description in the book Scotland's Crafts (as well as chapters on tartan and knitting). I'd like to find some of the songs they sang, but haven't yet - I've been curious if they're similar to (or also called) sea shanties because they also set a rhythm and are from the fishing communities

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