I found myself in the train rather a lot the last week.
Then I had to travel to the north because my grandmother passed away:
Long hours in the train, interspersed with long breaks for tea to prepare for the next stint. Lots of time to think about grandmother, who knitted for food in the War and who gave me the knitting book that she got from her own mother:
Yesterday I returned home, bringing with me one of her cups:
On this trip I bound off the shawl I was working on. It is now finished.
Knitting is a wonderful way of travel. The repetitive motion soothes and it occupies the hands while you are looking out and pondering.