Few occupations are more at the mercy of the wind and weather than fishing. And it was the practical requirement for warm yet unencumbering clothing that prompted the development of a fascinating tradition in fishermen’s sweaters, variously known as jerseys, Guernseys and Ganseys. It is likely that the word ‘jersey’, used to describe a knitted garment, owes its derivation to the name of the largest of the Channel Islands, where worsted spinning was once a staple industry. Over a period of time, the close-fitting garments knitted in worsted-spun yarn made in Jersey, and favoured by sailors and fishermen, became known as jerseys. Similarly, the neighbouring island of Guernsey gave its name to the classic square-shaped wool sweater, which was designed with a straight neck so that it could be reversed. Gansey, a term which crops up in the writings of both Samuel Beckett and James Joyce, is a dialect variation of Guernsey. Until the coming of the machine age in the nineteenth century, most industries were small-scale and craft-based. As early as 1589, however, the invention of the knitting frame by William Lee, a brilliant Nottinghamshire clergyman, had put into motion the gradual migration of hosiery manufacturing from the domestic setting to the factory. The uptake of machines was uneven, with pockets of the knitting industry, such as the famous knitters of Dent who made small items on short needles, resisting change for many years. The production of heavier gauge knitwear remained a largely domestic activity until much more recently, with women knitting for entire families well within living memory. Every village shop would have boasted a section devoted to knitting yarn, and the market towns would have had at least one thriving wool shop.   The isolated communities along the rugged British coastline were, by necessity, even more self-sufficient than those further inland. In the poor fishing communities, families could ill afford the luxury of goods imported from the outside world. Women knitted for their sweethearts, husbands and children. At a time when resources were scarce, outgrown clothes were passed down and adults’ garments cut down and remade for children. Visitors to the Yorkshire fishing ports such as Whitby and Filey and tiny villages such as Seahouses on the rugged Northumberland coast, reported seeing women sitting in their doorways busy with their needles. Never wasting a moment that could be used to earn an extra penny, women worked late into the evening by the light of rush lamps, knitting the navy-coloured yarn more by feel than by eye. Although the classic Guernsey sweater remained plain (some Guernsey parishes did, however, have their own patterns), the stitch patterns used became more complicated the further north the garment spread, with the most complex evolving in the Scottish fishing villages. These elaborate patterns came south with the Scottish herring fleet, as the women folk followed their husbands down the coast to gut the fish. Thus the pattern known as Whitby flag is in fact an interpretation of a Scottish design. Young women, who had received little formal education, would develop the ability to memorize complicated patterns, which were passed down from mother to daughter, gathering new variations with each generation. The garments were made on five or more needles, often called “wires” or “pins”, so as to be seamless. It was not unusual for men, too, to knit ganseys. Knitting was a natural extension of the familiar tasks of making and mending fishing nets, routine jobs which required considerable dexterity. Tightly knitted in worsted yarn the fisherman’s Gansey was virtually windproof and waterproof. As these working garments were rarely washed, there is no doubt that a layer of filth would have added to the general protective effect. It is consoling to learn that fishermen had “Sunday best” Ganseys which, being decidedly more fragrant, were worn for church and on high days and holidays. Many venerable Ganseys appear in the sepia toned photographs taken by the well-known Whitby photographer Frank Meadow Sutcliffe from 1880 to the turn of the nineteenth century. Prints made from Sutcliffe’s original glass plates provide a fascinating insight into the clothing of ordinary working people. The characteristic, almost tubular, shape of the fisherman’s Gansey was dictated by practicality. The welt, neck and cuffs were knitted tight so as to keep out winter blasts. According to hearsay, so tight were the Ganseys knitted for the unfortunate children of one fisherman that, when the garments were pulled over their heads, the children’s ear lobes bled. The cuffs, also made to be close-fitting, generally ended short of the wrist to avoid impeding the hands and becoming soaked with sea water as the men worked. The close fitting design also helped to reduce the chances of the hem or cuffs becoming caught on pieces of equipment or tackle, a mishap which could prove fatal As time took its toll on the cuffs and elbows, the lower half of the sleeves could be unravelled and re-knitted with new yarn. Garments made in various shades of blue, ranging from deep navy to a hue faded with age, were a common sight. The upper part of the body was knitted more densely than the lower part to provide extra warmth, and it was on the yoke and upper arms that the knitters had the opportunity to show off their knitting skills and to elaborate on the basic stocking stitch with numerous variations. For detailed records of the many local interpretations of traditional fishermen’s jerseys, we are indebted to the tireless efforts of Gladys Thompson, who, in the 1950s, pencil and paper in hand, scoured the fishing ports on the east coast—from Sheringham and Cromer in Norfolk as far as Upper Largo in Fife. Her quest, fired by a determination to preserve for future generations patterns which were seldom written down, took her down the narrow harbour ginnels (passages) and into the cramped fishermen’s cottages, where often a single room served as kitchen, bedroom and living room, with an attic above for storing and mending nets. On one occasion Gladys Thompson describes how, on the track of two knitters who lived on Holy Island, she hired a young lad to drive her across to the island from Berwick. He arrived in a car at least thirty years old and covered with rust and sand. Their journey, made before the causeway linking the island to the mainland was built, entailed driving through the sea which surged into the ancient car through the floor boards. Many of the stitch motifs used to decorate the Ganseys were inspired by the everyday objects in the lives of fishing families. Some of the best-known designs represent ropes, nets, anchors and herringbone. Other patterns are based on the weather, echoing the shapes made by waves, hail or flashes of lighting. Some patterns had more complex symbolic meanings. One of the traditional Filey patterns, for example, is a zigzag design called “marriage lines” which represents the ups and downs of married life. It was even possible for fishing families to recognize from the pattern of a Gansey, which fishing village, or even which family, the wearer came from. At a time when the loss of a boat was a frequent occurrence, deliberate mistakes or the wearer’s initials were often incorporated into the design in order to help to identify a body recovered from the sea. As the Gansey was was traditionally worn tight-fitting and close to the skin, and with no seams to come apart, it could not be washed off in the water. By tradition, the sweaters worn by all kinds of seafarers, whether they be fishermen, naval or retired sea salts, are navy blue—a colour reflecting the sea and sky. Before the advent of synthetic dyes in the late nineteenth century, blue was obtained by using natural indigo, a plant extract imported from India. However, summer weight Ganseys, knitted in a three- or four-ply yarn rather than the usual five-ply, were sometimes pale grey or fawn. In a world which is becoming increasingly global in popular culture, the preservation of our traditional craft takes on a fresh urgency.

The print abovet, showing a fisherman running through the streets of a small northern fishing village shouting "All hands man the Life- Boat!" is dated 26 November 1887. The fisherman is clearly wearing a Gansey which, upon closer inspection, is almost certainly that of the Cullercoats Rocket Brigade. Over a century later, the same pattern can be knitted, and in the same method, all-in-one piece, on five needles, in the finest quality 5-ply worsted wool. If the fisherman returned today, he would find a few things still familiar in Flamborough, and much that was alien. The fishing boats (known locally as "cobles") would still be instantly recognizable, as would Flamborough lighthouse and, if he walked into the premises of Flamborough Marine, upon my soul, he would find a match for his own Gansey.

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