I failed. I can’t graft ribbing.
I devoted all of yesterday’s knitting time to the attempt. I had Montse Stanley and Mary Thomas open in front of me. I unpicked it at least three times.
I need, somehow, to grasp the concept. Instructions-by-rote serve well enough for ordinary st st grafting, but not here. Next time I get to Camp Stitches, I’ll post an appeal for one-to-one instruction on the notice board. As if…
Meanwhile, here’s a surprisingly successful picture of the result. Perhaps because the camera battery is in a near-death state, and it didn’t flash. I don’t think it’s a fatal error. I don’t know what sheep’s tummies look like, and don’t ever intend to find out – do they have a visible seam, like pussy cats? Whether or not, I think this will more-or-less do. At least it’s obviously not sewn. But it’s not grafted ribbing.
I wonder how Ted got on at this point?
The other excitement was the arrival of the lace yarn from the Yarn Yard which Natalie has flattered me by asking me to test drive. Needless to say, it’s beautiful – I’ll attempt a picture tomorrow when I’ve beefed up the camera battery. Pink and yellow like the dawns one sometimes sees in Strathardle at the other solstice.
However, my job is not to admire the colours but to assess the yarn. It looks and feels not unlike Helen’s Lace, but that’s half silk and this is pure wool.