First World Knitting Problems

If you follow me on Instagram, you might have seen that I spent some time in breathtaking St. Andrews, New Brunswick. It was my first visit to Charlotte County, and I am seriously contemplating moving there. (Is it too early to think of retirement?)

The town is the epitome of a quaint, homely, beach town (my absolute favourite kind of town), with its beachfront properties, local cafes and saltwater air. It could easily pass for the location for a Gilmore girl episode. (All the communities I want to live in look and feel very similar to Stars’ Hollow.)

However, Saint Andrews didn’t pass one section of my “Can I live here?” test. Hold on to your hats everyone, but I found out pretty early on that “there is no yarn store.” (Of course, I asked. It’s the one place I always try to visit when I travel somewhere.) I’m still reeling from the devastation I felt upon learning that the local yarn store burnt down a couple of years ago. (You can buy Briggs and Little wool at the local grocery, but one cannot knit with Briggs and Little alone. At least I can’t.)

(On a side note, one thing you should know about me is that I’m a dreamer at heart, which ties hand in hand with my love of knitting because I can work on a project and day-dream about everything under the sun for hours (and hours). So upon hearing this news, I immediately started thinking about a life where I’m the owner of the local yarn store in the town. I would bike to work every day (from my beachfront cabin, of course) and supply everyone, from locals to visitors, with multitudes of yarn (and notions) in varying weights, fibres and colours. (It’s nice to dream.))

They say the best way to get over that future yarn you were yearning to buy, is to get under some yarn you already have. (People say that right? No? Just me?) Although with my luck I buried myself in my sock project (because I am beyond determined to finish it before my sweater class starts next month) and jumped right in only to find that my yarn cake completely unravelled, and managed to tangle and fuse itself into a muddled unshapely ball of yarn. I got under some old yarn alright and spent the next two days patiently unravelling each tangle until I had about four different sized yarn balls. Annoyed but not defeated, I am now back on track to knitting my socks again and feeling a bit more accomplished since I’m past all the hard spots. (Just a bit. I’m praying for no more setbacks. Knock on skein.)

Still, even though it doesn’t have a yarn store, I would still dream of one day moving to St. Andrews. I’m an island girl, and nothing uplifts me more than the fresh, crisp smell of saltwater in the air. This week I learned that the combination of saltwater air filling my lungs and a project in my hands has the power to catapult me into a bubble of contentment. I think I’ve found my ultimate happy place.