’m back from a very short week in Gran Canaria, where we enjoyed sunshine, Winter Pride and an ambitious programme of sitting down.
We went with Alan and Marcus, who were the best men at our wedding. The four of us go every year and call it “the family holiday”. It sounds terribly wholesome until you explain that the family’s main destination is a shopping centre on an island in the middle of the Atlantic, where somebody who had a dance hit in 1994 is about to come on stage.
Some families have a National Trust membership. We have opinions about the extended remix.
A little sunshine before winter
Winter Pride delivered plenty of fabulous clubbing acts from the ’90s, and a wonderful time was had by all.
There’s something glorious about hearing music that instantly makes you feel 21 again. Unfortunately, your knees haven’t heard the news.
By day, we lounged by the pool, sat in the jacuzzi and walked along the beach. It was a lovely bit of sunshine before the winter madness begins, with just enough activity to justify another sit-down.
The hardest decision most days was whether it was time for lunch. I’m pleased to report we consistently decided that it was.
Bringing some sunshine to LANGYARNS
We also photographed the LANGYARNS spring/summer collection, ready for its launch in January.
So when those photographs arrive in the depths of winter, there will be a little Gran Canaria sunshine waiting for you.
Taking beautiful yarn somewhere sunny and photographing it is, of course, work. I appreciate that this may be a difficult argument to make to anyone who has just scraped ice off a windscreen.
Nevertheless, I remained professional. Even near the jacuzzi.
Your story is your power
One day, while we were sitting in the jacuzzi, we met a lovely Scottish couple and got chatting.
Holiday conversations tend to follow a familiar pattern. Where are you from? How long are you here? What do you do? Has anyone established how you get out of this thing gracefully?
When they asked what I did, I began sharing a little of my story, including how knitting helped me get better when I was living with depression.
And somewhere in that conversation, surrounded by bubbles and people pretending the water jets weren’t pushing them sideways, I was reminded of how powerful our stories can be.
When you’ve lived through something, it becomes part of your everyday history. You know the details. You’ve told yourself the story. It can be easy to forget what hearing it might mean to somebody else.
But sharing an experience can help another person feel less alone. It can offer encouragement, a different perspective or simply the relief of hearing someone say, “I’ve felt like that too.”
We don’t always know what people are carrying. Sometimes, an ordinary conversation gives us a chance to connect in a way we weren’t expecting.
Apparently, that can happen while slowly being boiled alongside three other holidaymakers.
Knitting, mental health and finding your voice
For me, knitting became an important part of getting better. That experience is part of my story, and sharing it reminds me why I care so much about what I do.
Your own story might be very different. It might involve making something, starting again, asking for help or finding a little confidence when you thought you’d lost it.
You don’t have to share everything. You get to decide what feels right and when you feel ready. And you certainly don’t need a polished speech or a dramatic soundtrack.
I had wet hair and swimwear. The production budget was minimal.
But don’t underestimate your experiences. Something you’ve learned or lived through could mean a great deal to someone else.
Be kind. Tell the truth. Keep shining. And keep knitting.
The baby blanket progress report
Speaking of knitting, yes, I have been working on the baby blanket I mentioned last week.
Have I finished as much as I intended? No.
In my defence, there were ’90s dance acts to watch, beach walks to enjoy and a jacuzzi that wasn’t going to supervise itself.
My final hope was four hours on easyJet on the way home: a generous stretch of knitting time, interrupted only by the trolley service and the inevitable moment when something falls beneath the seat.
Retrieving a dropped knitting essential in economy requires flexibility, determination and a level of intimacy with your own knees that nobody books a holiday for.
The blanket remains a work in progress. So do I.
Thank you for reading and for letting me share a little of my story. Here’s to carrying some sunshine into winter—and finding out what happens when we share a few stitches of our lives with one another.
James
