Last weekend was Wonderwool Wales and this year, after much internal (and external – sorry, everyone) debate, I didn’t go. Probably just as well, as I wasn’t too well, but – sigh… I’ve been a lot, and I do love WW:
with one exception, which was last year. Ergh. Yes, I love it – when it’s good, when I don’t freeze despite wearing 85 wooly layers and when I can get an espresso when I need one, which means frequently. And of course memory is selective, which is why I spent some time deliberately reminding myself of the downside to WW.
The Saturday was the bad day for us Wonderwool refusniks, though – as one of my otherwise-occupied friends pointed out – we were saving a lot of money by not being there. But I was feeling OKish, the weather was glorious and the financial advantages of WW avoidance didn’t seem quite so important. In fact, it was just perfect for sitting outside the halls, going through purchases with friends while nibbling lightly on one of Love Patisserie’s delicious treacle tarts. And I was missing out on the best Scotch eggs in the world, let alone all that fibre.
So I took myself off for a consoling walk – along the seafront at Barmouth, which I don’t usually visit for walking, just for shopping – and realised it wasn’t quite warm enough. Brrr. Coooold wind. That made me feel a little less nostaligic (is that the right word?) for what I imagined was happening down at Builth Wells.
I thought I would capitalise on that feeling and got out my stash when I came home, spreading fluff out,
(which gave me the opportunity of updating the mothball situation), sorting through the containers and even delving to the bottom of the Laundry Basket of Doom, which is below the bottom basket:
I really do not need to add anything whatsoever to the stash, nor to the library, nor to the collection of woolly miscellanea: no need for more needles, more stitch holders, more bits and pieces. No need, really, for anything.
That made me feel a bit better too, and then I remembered that this weekend there was a plant fair at Crug Farm Plants, and I could always indulge myself there if I wanted a little specialist retail therapy (Barmouth Co-op doesn’t qualify) – and I can still garden, a bit, even if I can’t look down for long enough to knit and follow a pattern. I’ve been improvising with a music stand, but I still have to look at my knitting from time to time; I can’t do it all by touch. On the other hand, I can look down for long enough to read a plant label, trowel a hole and pop something in to a flowerbed.
And then my friends returned, singing the praises of staying overnight and doing both days (avoids, apparently, the last-minute panic that makes you buy a cone of something which, though lovely, is nonetheless in a colour which makes you look like a corpse). They brought me goodies: some buttons shaped like sheep and some like balls of wool, a porcupine quill for carefully detaching fluff from a carder. I really wish I’d gone.
Or do I?
This was the result of the plant fair. They’re not all mine, I swear it, but if I’d Wonderwooled, I’d have felt guilty. And, as I say, I can at least garden… wonder what all the other WW avoiders did? Mope, like me, for a day? Or cheer up and spend packets on plants?