Interlaced Celtic knot on upper back

The net loft smells of tar and wet wool, and Ishbel Mackay has given me the bone needle that was her mother's. She says I hold it like a pen, which is no compliment. Yesterday I spent four hours on a single square of mesh and undid it twice before the tide turned. Ishbel just laughed and took the frayed end from my hands, the way you'd take scissors from a child.

She showed me the knot her mother used to finish every repair, a little heart of crossing loops that she tied without looking, over and under, each strand going one way and then the other until the thing holds itself. Ishbel calls it the Hearth Knot. I said it looked more like a star someone had folded in half. She said the difference was only in whether you were looking at it from the front or the back.

I have not told you the rest, because you would only say I should come home. Mam's letter came on Tuesday. The boat to the mainland runs on Thursdays. I have a ticket folded in my coat pocket, and every time I reach for it my fingers find the cord of the needle instead.

Ishbel has promised to show me the back of the knot before winter. Until then I am practising, tying loop over loop, and each time the shape closes it looks less like a question and more like an answer I already knew. I am sending this with the net square I finished this morning, which is still a little lopsided. Keep it on your windowsill and tell me if it holds.

Love, Kirsty