I spent my second day in Iceland in a hotel on the outskirts of Reykjavik, trying resolutely to knit. Gathered around a coffee table with me were Ragga Sjöfn Jóhannsdóttir, my instructor, and my friend Lindis Sloan, both experienced knitters who fluidly worked the yarn with barely a glance at their hands.
And then there was me, gripping the needles as I struggled to maintain the proper tension that would allow me to transform two skeins of local wool into something resembling a headband. My progress was excruciatingly slow, but a couple of hours in, a red ring of textile with pink diamonds was beginning to emerge.
Then Ragga noticed a mistake I had made in a previous row. Taking the needles, she began ripping out my hard-earned stitches. “If you can’t unravel,” she said with a jolly laugh, “you can’t knit.”
It was a counterintuitive way of spending a vacation in Iceland. Most people travel to the island nation for steamy soaks in the milky waters of the Blue Lagoon or nighttime treks to see the northern lights. But in a country with a deeply ingrained craft tradition, a climate conducive to sweaters, and nearly as many sheep as people, knitting tourism is on the rise.
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