A Wooly Jumper

In only a few short weeks, I’ll be saying slán to Ireland and saying hallo to Norway. As the days shorten and the nights grow fat, instead of fleeing south toward the sun like a sane person, I will be heading smack into the darkness and cold.

All year, I’ve been carting my winter coat around with me. It came in useful back in January in Iceland where I started my adventure (also in the dark). It held its own at various stages during the winter and spring while I wandered among the Neolithic stones in England with my breath as crisp in the air as a new dollar bill, climbed a mountain in northern Wales, and felt the springtime snow on my face in southern Scotland.

This coat has been in a dresser drawer for months now politely waiting to be used again. It’s there next to a pair of long johns, a scarf, gloves, a knitted cap, and three thin, long sleeve shirts.

Nevertheless, even so well-equipped, I still have on my list of preparatory things to do: Switch out summer clothes for winter wear. This is partly a plan to lighten my bag’s load so that I will fit the airline requirements for weight and luggage amounts and partly a way to ensure that I really am prepared for the fall and winter in Scandinavia.

At the end of the day, this time of preparation is many things. It’s the end of season jettisoning of cargo. It’s the diligent ant eating up the proverbial food in anticipation of hibernation. It’s a letting go of the past and an acceptance of the future.

Since I didn’t bring along my snow pants (too bulky to cart around for a year) and I’ve worn my last pair of jeans to a threadbare status, I mention to my host that I should do some thrift store shopping at some point before leaving the country. I need a solid pair of pants and a sweater.

One day, she tells me she’s going to Dungarvan, a happening town only thirty minutes away, to get some schoolbooks for her daughter and says there are charity shops there where perhaps I’ll find what I need.

I go along.

There are a few things I know about myself. One thing is that I’m horribly ignorant about clothes. Another is that I’ll sacrifice style for comfort. Another is that I often wish I could know the sartorial future in combination with the year’s and a location’s unique climate so as to adequately pack and dress for it all. I can usually make things work, but sometimes that comes with a bit of resignation to my fate as a bad shopper and a more or less fashionless existence.  

I find a pair of pants that fit well enough (though later after wearing them for an afternoon, I realize they are useless without a belt. But thank goodness, I’ve been carting one of those around with me all year as well. My $9.24 purchase isn’t a waste, hooray, though yet again I resign myself to a less than perfect conclusion to my quest).

On the drive home from Dungarvan, I tell my host of my success with the pants though I might say “trousers” since that’s the local lingo, but that I hadn’t found any suitable sweaters although I say “jumpers” because that’s also the local lingo.

“I have a wool jumper in the gallery,” she tells me. My host sells Irish arts and crafts; paintings, ceramics, glassware, jewelry, and more. “It’s Donegal wool. You can see what you think, but you don’t have to buy it if it doesn’t suit you.”

“I was actually looking for a wool jumper,” I say. Because I actually was. I ask her about warmth and breathability and comfort. She’s taken aback by the fact that I’ve never owned a wool sweater in my life.

“I have three that I interchange during the winter and that’s how I get through it.” Wool sweaters are an Irish and United Kingdom yearlong clothing staple. To not have a wool sweater is like a Texan not owning a pair of shorts or a Coloradan not having a The North Face jacket. Like a runner not having a pair of running shoes.

I try to explain that while it does get cold during Texas winters that wool isn’t generally a first choice. How many days out of the winter would a wool sweater really be used? Not enough to justify the expense. But maybe, now that I think about it, the lack of wool appreciation could be partly due to Texas being more cattle country than sheep country. It could just be me, too. Me and my clothing ignorance. For it is true that my dad owned a wool sweater which he wore until it was threadbare and eaten away with holes. While I’d survived my winters in Colorado and Wyoming with sweatshirts and a coat (which was from The North Face and lasted me a full decade). With layers and thrift store jackets. Being ignorant of clothing, rather poor, and unwilling to pay full price for things had also narrowed down my past winter wear choices.

“Even now with the weather getting cooler,” my host says. “You could wear a wool jumper in the evenings and it wouldn’t be too much.”

When we’re home, my host gets the sweater out for me along with a ribbed collar and I take the items up to my room to try on.

The sweater is just exactly right. A friend of mine who is more clothing minded than I am had once told me that wool and cotton are the best materials to wear because they’re breathable and durable and other such useful things which I’ve forgotten.

I’d always thought of wool as itchy. I’d always thought of it as heavy and oppressive. I’d always thought of it as too hot. Time will tell which of those things are true, if any. But I’m willing to give the sweater its chance.  

Later, I put it on again and go down to show my host. As I pass through the sitting room, one of the daughters glances at me and says, “Nice jumper.”

Even later than that, my host has that same daughter snap a photo of me so that she can put it on her website with a caption that says something like: A Texan’s first Wooly Jumper.

“Don’t smile,” the daughter tells me as she stands back to take the picture. “Look like a poor, Irish housewife.” She tells me to stand in front of the Aga as a way to more strongly evoke the sense of place. She thinks we’re selling the Donegal wool.

My host makes a comment about that not being the look we’re going for, that it’s about the jumper, it’s about the website, it’s about me having my first woolen jumper. The daughter isn’t really listening.  

Feeling like I’m under the limelight, I grin stupidly. On the spot, nervous. I’ve never been very good at acting, nevertheless, I try my best to downgrade my smile and stand still. I try to channel my inner Wooly Jumper Model personality.

The daughter takes a handful of pictures and then we evaluate them together and choose the best one. We delete all the others. The picture is like a coming of clothing ritual fulfilled. Proof of my first wool sweater. A way to blend in.

“You’ll have to live in Europe now,” my host says. She knows I live frugally, she knows that a wool sweater is a bit of an investment even though she’s very kindly offered me a discount on the price. “To make the most use of your jumper. To justify the expense.”

I wouldn’t mind that. Not at all. I wouldn’t at all mind a little mountain chalet in a place where the evenings cooled down to a temperature that necessitated long sleeves. I wouldn’t mind a little quiet place in a village or even a city with a slow hum and moderate climate. I wouldn’t mind that one bit.

In the meantime, this sweater will certainly earn its keep in Norway, Finland, and Sweden. I’ll make the most of it from here on out.

After the photo shoot, I take myself and my wool jumper back upstairs. It’s too warm on this afternoon to keep it on, so I fold it carefully and set it aside. I’m content. I’m pleased. I’ve added winter things to my wardrobe, all I have to do is glean out the no longer needed summer things and pass them on or throw them out (depending on how worn through they are). Now I feel set for the future—for whatever, beyond the dark and cold, it holds.

I like the cold. I’ll like it even better now that I’m equipped for it. After I say slán to Ireland and say hallo to Norway, I’ll let you know about the darkness.