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.
A hydrangea cutting from last year decided to make Spring even more exciting by creating its first ever flower when nothing else bloomed in the garden. Brought indoors its single blossom came to be appreciated and admired all day long for weeks and weeks. Thanks to its beautiful influence this Spring I was drawn to …
Quiet contemplation and contentment. Short days and frosty nights. A coolness of light. The quietness of time spent observing, being aware, noticing the beauty in every tiny moment. I am knitting a sock on tiny needles with rustic 4 ply wool rough against my finger tips. Ice crystals slide down the window glass. Letting all …
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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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Quiet contemplation and contentment. Short days and frosty nights. A coolness of light. The quietness of time spent observing, being aware, noticing the beauty in every tiny moment. I am knitting a sock on tiny needles with rustic 4 ply wool rough against my finger tips. Ice crystals slide down the window glass. Letting all …