Journal

Studio Exclusive: Heather for Natural Dyeing: Golds and Greens

At the heart of my love for creating colour from plants is place, connection, and a spiralling back through time. A thousand years or more, to when colour was coaxed from nearby plants in much the same way as I do now. Textiles were treasured, not disposable. Colour was earned.

I am not drawn to the tidy, packaged pots of powdered dye. That is someone else’s story. Mine is rooted here, in the plants underfoot, in the scraps I gather from garden, hedgerow, kitchen, and hill. It matters to me that the colours come from this place, in this season.

It is easy to imagine the past in washed-out browns, but that is a trick of time and fading fibres. Our ancestors loved bright colour. They prized the purest yellow from weld, the deep orange from madder, the luminous blue of indigo. When cloth survives, it often shows only the gentled remains of those shades, except in the hidden seams or protected fragments, where the original garishness still sings through.

The Scottish plants I tend to use do give softer, more muted tones. Grey-pinks, olive greens, peach, silver. These are the colours I am drawn to myself. Earthy. Weathered. But in the earliest periods, these quieter plant dyes would likely have made up the whole palette. There is little evidence of access to strong imported colours in those times. What was used was what could be gathered, grown, or foraged locally.

Heather is an exception. One of the traditional dye plants of the Highlands, it offers a surprising richness. When you harvest it just before it flowers, it gives a glowing golden yellow, the kind that lifts the dullest grey and makes it sing. And it asks very little of you. Simmer the flowering tops for half an hour, add your yarn, and wait. No alchemy. Just time and heat.

Below, I have included some tips to get the most from it, more lightfast, longer-lasting shades. But honestly, even if you throw it in a pot over a campfire and stir in some fence-gathered fleece, you will get something. Some trace of colour and place.

There is a theory that the earliest tartans were not planned patterns, but checks and stripes that came from weaving together home-dyed threads. Each batch different. Each colour the result of what could be gathered that season. It rings true to me. That piecemeal beauty. That sense of the cloth being not just worn but witnessed.

That is how I work. A hundred grams of fibre at a time. No two batches quite alike. Each one a distillation of weather, landscape, and mood.

Below, you will find a simple how-to for dyeing with heather.  All heathers will give you dye but the traditional one in Scotland was ling, Calluna vulgaris.

 

Studio Exclusive: Dyeing with Willowherb: From Bright Gold to Charcoal

Rosebay Willowherb (Chamaenerion angustifolium) is one of the most recognisable native plants in the UK, with tall spires of magenta flowers, narrow fringed leaves, and soft, smoke-like seed heads. It thrives in disturbed ground, often appearing on bombsites, railway sidings, and industrial clearances. During the Blitz, London’s bombed-out spaces famously filled with its bright pink blooms.

Though common now, it wasn’t always so. Up until the late 19th century, it was relatively rare in the UK. Its explosive spread may be the result of hybridisation with American species and its adaptability to post-industrial landscapes. Each plant can produce around 80,000 seeds, fitted with fluffy, wind-borne parachutes. They can travel up to 20 miles and remain viable for 20 years, making this one of the UK’s most persistent pioneer species. It is one of the few plants that will germinate on burnt ground.

It is not surprising that it is a symbol of resilience, rising from the ashes, a phoenix of a plant.

Despite its invasive tendencies, willowherb has a long and rich history of human use. Its young shoots, around 4 to 6 cm, can be steamed and eaten like asparagus. The early leaves were used fresh in salads. As they mature, they accumulate tannins and were traditionally fermented to make “Ivan Chai,” a herbal tea that was a major Russian export to Britain before Indian tea plantations took over the market. The plant’s stems contain a thickening agent once used to set jellies, and the magenta flowers were sometimes turned into floral syrups.

Its seeds, attached to silky fluff, were used to start fires. People kept them in small lidded containers called tinder boxes, used to store easily ignitable material for lighting fires before the invention of matches. Some accounts even claim the fluff was used to stuff mattresses, though the volume needed makes this questionable.

Medicinally, willowherb was used as an antispasmodic and for treating skin ulcers and digestive complaints. More recently, it is being investigated for its potential use as a renewable biomass fuel.

And - of course - it is a spectacular natural dye plant.  

The reason willowherb can be fermented into tea lies in its high tannin content - but unlike many plants with tannins that produce various shades of brown, willowherb gives a surprising yellow. And, when combined with iron, the tannins react and the yellow transforms into a deep charcoal.

It’s this dramatic shift that makes it such an exciting plant for creative dyeing, perfect for layered, expressive effects in natural textiles. Dip dyeing, tie dyeing,  . . . .

Rag Rugs, Remembered: Creativity, Memory, and the Quiet Legacy of Women’s Work

There’s something deeply evocative about a rag rug.

For me, they conjure childhood memories—of my gran cutting up old clothes in her Northeast home, of hands busy at the hearth as winter crept in. Every year, she’d make a new rug. Not as art, but as necessity. And yet, looking back, it was art. Quiet, domestic, fiercely resourceful art.

Rag rugs are humble. Scraps turned into something sturdy, beautiful, and useful. And lately, my fingers have been itching to make one. Partly due to the powerful exhibition I saw recently—Winifred Nicholson: Cumbrian Rag Rugs at the Tullie Museum in Carlisle—and partly because I’ve inherited my gran’s rug frame. A piece of family history, waiting to come alive again.

Tiger, worked by Janet Heap early 1960s

A Different Kind of Creativity

The exhibition explores how Winifred Nicholson—a respected artist—collaborated with rural Cumbrian women from the 1920s through the 1980s to create striking rugs. Though Nicholson provided loose design ideas, the true artistry lay in the hands of makers like Mary Buick. Her work, full of precision and pictorial nuance, told stories through stitches. Yet in art history, her name is often lost behind Nicholson’s.

This discrepancy matters.

It reflects how society has long undervalued women’s domestic creativity. Rug-making, quilting, embroidery—seen as craft, not art. Functional, not visionary. And yet, these works were acts of deep care, resourcefulness, and yes—creative genius.

Sheep, worked by Mary Bewick to design by Winifred Nicholson 1960s

Making With What You Have

British rag rugs evolved from scarcity. No pre-planned palettes or bought-in fabrics—just old coats, worn sheets, a t-shirt you no longer needed. In the Northeast, these were called clippy mats or proggy rugs, and they followed simple geometric designs. My gran always used diamonds—drawn on old hessian sacks, filled in with whatever colours were on hand.

In contrast, American traditions turned rug making into a designed-from-scratch craft. But in the UK, it was about making do. And in that “making do,” women made beauty.

Tractor and Haycart, worked by Mrs Hall to design by Jovan Nicholson 1967

Creativity as Reclamation

Watching the exhibition’s rugs—some damaged, worn, obviously lived with—was unexpectedly moving. They hadn’t been preserved behind glass. They’d been stepped on, warmed toes, sat beside fires. They were loved, and used, and that’s part of their magic.

It reminded me that creativity doesn’t need polish. It needs space. Time. Willing hands.

And it reminded me that our making—however small or irregular—is a way of reclaiming ourselves. Especially for women whose time, historically and still, has so often been claimed by others.

What’s Next

I’ll be making my own rug soon. I don’t have long strips of wool, so it’ll be a clippy mat—shaggy, abstract, full of texture and colour. I’ll be working with what I have, like my gran did. Like so many did.

If you’ve made a rug, or remember someone who did, I’d love to hear. If you’ve been to the exhibition, let me know what stayed with you. Creativity is always richer when it’s shared.

Making a Quilted Envelope Bag: A Slow Stitching Project in Vintage Linen

Last year I spent a week on the west coast of Scotland with the Australian textile artist India Flint. One of the projects we worked on was something she called sashiko felting — sandwiching sheep’s fleece between layers of silk, hand-stitching into the cloth, then felting it by slamming it against rocks and washing it in hot water. What emerged was dense, soft, textured. The piece I made became a vessel, now on my sunroom windowsill, where it holds the small leftovers from knitting socks.

A container made of memory and wool.

A few months later, on a quiet evening, I came across the quilted envelope bags of The Red Embroidery on Pinterest. I was drawn to their simplicity — softened corners, visible stitches, a sense that they had been held and handled and loved. They felt like letters to oneself, sewn instead of written.

When it came time to shape the final project for Stitched, the seasonal stitching course in The Studio, these two ideas began to converge. I wanted to end the journey with something both tactile and tender — a project that brought together skills handed down, fragments of old materials, and the quiet comfort of making by hand.

What emerged is this: a quilted envelope bag, stitched slowly from vintage linen, wool blanket offcuts, and leftover threads. It’s a soft, handmade pouch for carrying small essentials — or simply to hold special things. You might use it as a stitched wallet, a fabric keyring pouch, or an envelope for letters, notes, or threads.

It’s worked using the simple, steady hand-stitches we’ve been exploring together. This is a slow stitching project in every sense — designed to be picked up and put down in pockets of time. There is no rush, no perfect outcome. Just cloth, thread, and intention.

For those who’d like to work with the exact materials I’ve used — a vintage linen base, soft wool felt, lace-making thread, long darning needle, and carefully chosen fixings — I’ve created a small batch of supply kits. These aren’t mass-produced; they’re assembled slowly from things I’ve gathered over time. You’ll find the Studio Companion Kit here, if it feels like something you’d like to bring into your hands.

What would you place inside your envelope?