How Tina Turner inspired this Báinín Wool piece

Earlier this year, a piece I had been quietly working on over the past few months was featured as part of the sustainability talk at Bloom. Styled by sustainability advocate Roxanne Parker alongside an MSGK hand-loomed side-split dress and Conor O'Brien's stunning coat, it offered an opportunity to showcase the remarkable character of Báinín wool and the work of the Galway Wool Co-op.

This piece began with a simple desire: to honour the raw beauty of the Báinín wool. For months, the wool sat on my desk, demanding attention, but waiting patiently for its moment to become something more when I was ready for it.

The collar is hand-knit in a herringbone stitch, one of my favourite stitches for showcasing depth, structure and durability. The stitches overlap like scales or armour, creating a fabric that feels protective, enduring and deeply rooted. In Báinín wool, the stitch takes on a remarkable solidity, showcasing the fibre's resilience while celebrating its raw, natural character. 

For me however, the fringing is where the wool truly comes alive. The contrast between the earthy Báinín and the softness of alpaca creates something both rugged and delicate, a meeting of wildness and refinement that I find endlessly captivating.

It's all a bit punk, really. Real punk. Of the land. Warrior-like. Tina Turner in Mad Max has been sitting on my mood board ever since I first got my hands on this wool..

There is something fierce about it. It doesn't ask to be softened or disguised. It stands firmly in its own character.

One of the things I love most about my work is creating pieces that feel thoroughly modern, and it doesn’t feel more past and present than when using this wool. I remember sending a voice note to stylist Roxanne about going through various design processes with the wool, trying to explain how emotional working with it felt at times.

I couldn't quite put it into words then, and I'm not sure I can now, but there is something about holding it on my needles that stirs something ancient and familiar deep within me.

I still struggle to explain why working with it feels different. It isn't nostalgia, and it isn't sentimentality. There is simply a presence to it when it passes through my hands, or when I walk in to see it strewn across my desk, raw and wild and hard and full of the weight of its own story. The feeling is difficult to describe, but it is one of the reasons I find myself increasingly being drawn to Irish wool.