When you grow up in the Hebrides among your tough Harris Tweed-clad menfolk and the smell of wet tweed and feel of rough wool is as familiar to you as your own skin you have permission to mess with it.
The ancient coming together of our island sheep wool in woven and knitted form is an eternal delight for the senses.
In tiny stone homes folk carded the wool and spun it making threads that bound communities of hand knitters and weavers in industry and clothed, as it turned out, the world.
Slamming Harris Tweed fabric up against Harris wool or any other pure wool feels natural.
To be wild with it; to let the ragged edges show, bare, to cut it imperfectly, to cherish tiny pieces of fibres and let them sing a different tune feels like an evolution of our Hebridean spirit.
As an indigenous Hebridean woman taught a traditional craft of our people, playing with our natural fibres makes my heart sing.
As we are all part of nature we feel the quickening in early Spring, a tingling of life force awakening inside us, a desire to rampage into newness. I wonder if like the sap in plant stems that is suddenly rising and full of vigour, we too have this response in our bodies. All things …
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes. Ah. The cooling wind makes the machair flowers dance in pretty pinks and bright yellow. Bumble bees buzz the red clover. Moths visit at night, painted ladies flutter from flower to flower drinking nectar their butterfly wings move like Geisha fans.
BEFORE: Four yarns who might never meet one another come to Inner Wild and ask, ‘what will become of us?’. First, a flamboyant hand dyed pure merino frill yarn with orange pops like Chinese lantern plants. Next, a lilac and purple variated feather yarn, a mauve wool mix yarn and some pure burgundy merino DK. …
As familiar as skin: Harris Tweed
When you grow up in the Hebrides among your tough Harris Tweed-clad menfolk and the smell of wet tweed and feel of rough wool is as familiar to you as your own skin you have permission to mess with it.
The ancient coming together of our island sheep wool in woven and knitted form is an eternal delight for the senses.
In tiny stone homes folk carded the wool and spun it making threads that bound communities of hand knitters and weavers in industry and clothed, as it turned out, the world.
Slamming Harris Tweed fabric up against Harris wool or any other pure wool feels natural.
To be wild with it; to let the ragged edges show, bare, to cut it imperfectly, to cherish tiny pieces of fibres and let them sing a different tune feels like an evolution of our Hebridean spirit.
As an indigenous Hebridean woman taught a traditional craft of our people, playing with our natural fibres makes my heart sing.
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Sun, sun, sun, here it comes. Ah. The cooling wind makes the machair flowers dance in pretty pinks and bright yellow. Bumble bees buzz the red clover. Moths visit at night, painted ladies flutter from flower to flower drinking nectar their butterfly wings move like Geisha fans.
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