Yesterday was a good day. A friend of mine came to visit from out of town, and I got to spend time at my LYS while helping her pick out yarn for a sweater. (It’s not often that I get to play “yarn consultant” so I’m usually pretty excited when the opportunity arises.)

We hemmed and hawed over which colour to go with, picked out her purchases and then fell into a conversation with the cashier about the sometimes expensive cost of yarn.

Now, this is not something that crosses my mind often when I’m buying yarn. In fact, I rarely ever take into consideration the cost of the item because at the end of the day it’s about knitting with something that feels good in my hands. (Why knit with it if it doesn’t bring you joy?)

Purchasing yarn, for me, is a sensory experience. I stare at the colours with intent (revelling in how they blend or speckle together), lightly run my fingers through the strands (acquainting my fingertips with the feel of the fibre) and sometimes (because it’s all or nothing) I might even give it a sniff or two. (If it’s okay for wine aficionados, then, in my opinion, it’s definitely okay for yarn aficionados.)

Now you might be thinking to yourself “that’s a bit of a weird process” (unless you’re just like me and you understand 100%) and you know what I can accept that. But in the end, I enjoy my method because, in all honesty, we’re going to spend a lot of time together. I would even go so far as to say that the yarn and I embark on relationships of varying degrees. Sometimes, it’s a quick and easy fling, sometimes a long commitment or sometimes it’s just a yarn you wanted to try out but alas the relationship it wasn’t meant to be.

I know everyone has their process and you should do what works best for you. I, personally, just find it hard to use yarn I don’t enjoy touching. (Not for myself and not for someone else.)

A girl’s gotta have some standards after all.

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.)

The view at low tide was magnificent so you can only imagine what it looked like when the tide rolled in.

(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.)

You probably can’t tell, but I’m smiling in this picture. I had no idea of the trouble that was looming.

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.

I had no words.