Helen left at first light yesterday, and phoned from Athens in the early evening to report a safe arrival. Her energy, intelligence and good cheer are sorely missed already.

Where to start? It will take several days, at least, to tell you about everything. And meanwhile the future is starting up – Sharon Miller’s new book is out.

The Games

I didn’t finish the preemie jacket. On Wednesday evening, when we got to Strathardle, I remember thinking, well, maybe it doesn’t have to be blocked. And that’s more or less the last practical thought I gave it. And the peas, for which I had such high hopes, had fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf in the ten days we had been away. No luck there.

I entered the Three Potato class, though, and came fourth out of four.

On the field, Rachel’s son Joe did us proud, and almost did us prouder. He competed in all three of the running races (100 yards, 440, 880) and came within a whisker of winning the Jock Webster Trophy for the best overall performance. His father and his brother Thomas-the-Elder have their names on that cup.

And then at the end, in Musical Cars (which we’ve never won), he was in with a real chance. Cars circle the field, and their passengers run to grab flags from the centre when the music stops. The tension mounted. But Helen, driving, made a fatal miscalculation when only two flags remained, speeding up when she should have slowed down. So she and Joe came third.

It was cold, and rained occasionally.

I wanted to repeat the picture in my sidebar – all the characters were there, and I had memorised their relative positions. But it never happened –everyone always seemed to be somewhere else. This is the best I could get, all the Ogdens and two out of three Drakes:

As a weekend-long party, we had a splendid time. People are always very good about wearing their knitting, which gives me such pleasure. Here is Joe in the Grandson Sweater:

(those steeks seem to be holding up so far) and Ketki in her Calcutta Cup ’08 one:

Various people (including Ketki, notice) were also wearing socks. Hellie’s boyfriend Matt, whom I love, said he’d like a pair of socks. I am much minded to knit them. Does anyone know whether the Curse of Knitting for the Boyfriend applies to one’s granddaughter’s boyfriend?

The sweater pictures above were taken at one of our supper parties in the big flat at the old Kirkmichael Hotel. This is my favourite picture from the weekend, taken (slightly askew) as my husband and I approached on Sunday evening to join the remnants of the party for a feast of left-overs. That’s our light.