Sweater Weather

On our 2024 trip to Ireland (the first time I’d ever been there) we spent an afternoon in the cutest little pastel-coloured town, like stopping in a postcard. This town is known for its sweaters, so of course we did a little shopping in the iconic knitwear shops there.

There were piles and piles of machine-made garments, but Conor loved the idea of having a truly handmade one. He tried on a hefty knit sweater that was marked as handmade and had the knitter’s name sewn into it on a tag, but we balked at the price and being in that shop felt a little bit too much like a tourist trap, so we fled, sweaterless.

The regret set in as soon as we left Irish soil. After thinking more about it, without the pressure of a salesperson nearby, we felt like the high price was understandable considering the value of a garment knit from local wool, by real human hands. We both considered the sad fact that these famously talented Irish mammies might not be around or be knitting for too much longer, and this type of sweater might become a thing of legends (not to be dramatic about it.) So the decision was made - next trip, a sweater would be purchased.

Fast forward to this year's trip, from which we've just returned.

We had quintessential sweater weather that day as we drove a stretch of the Wild Atlantic Way, in county Donegal. The landscape couldn’t have been more windswept & interesting - it brought to mind cinematic scenes and dramatic ads for whisky and tweed. The winding road got more and more narrow, with ups & downs to rival a rollercoaster ride, and all the while a gale force wind was blowing raindrops and sea spray across the windshield.

The road was mostly our own, although we met the odd farmer coming in the opposite direction down the single track. Somehow, shockingly, it always worked out with the exchange of a familiar nod and half-wave above the steering wheel, rather than a bloody head-on collision and a roll down the cliffs to a salty, wet grave.

We were on this road to go visit a few noted sightseeing spots - wild beaches and cliffs overlooking the Atlantic ocean. But halfway through our driving day, lo-and-behold, a little yellow sign appeared over one of the rolls: “HANDKNIT SWEATERS (visa accepted)”. Like a siren call, out here on the edge of nowhere, far from any pastel-coloured postcard towns or tourist attractions.

The wind blew right and we turned left, following the wee arrow drawn on the yellow sign with a sharpie. One more sister sign, an exact copy in the same yellow, marked a humble home - white walls with three windows and a door all framed in Christmas red. And there she was, just as you might envision she’d be, sitting in the front picture window, chatting on the phone, not at all surprised to see us hang a sharp left into her driveway.

She’d lived there on the wild edge of the world all her life - I mean, how could you move away when your front yard is the Atlantic Ocean? She was happy to see us & seemed tickled that Conor had the same name as her third son - the name she got to choose herself, after giving her first and second sons their grandfathers’ names. Shelves in her front room spilled over with her gorgeous wool sweaters (or jumpers, if you’re in the know) along with photos of her redheaded grandkids and homey nick-nacks. Her current project was set aside on the arm of her big red sofa, next to the phone that she put down as we came up to her front door.

She insisted Conor try on all the colours and different knit patterns she had in his size. She spoke with pride about her various stitch styles, and the patterns which lived only in her mind, not on paper anywhere. She was a bit wary of my camera, I could tell, so I asked before taking any photos and she replied: “Oh you’re most welcome to! As long as you don’t post me on the Instagram!” Someone had shared her location on there in the past and it had caused her a boatload of stress, with a rush of entitled customers who didn’t really get what this special situation was.

So that’s why I’ll not share her name, nor tell you exactly where we found her. And this is actually for your sake as much as hers, since it's a way more magical experience when you just happen upon a little yellow sign, whipping in the wind on the side of one of the wildest drives of your life.

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