Hi My faithful Blog Followers
I decided this year, to revamp my blog. I want to write about more philosophical topics, rather than just life at Spring Creek.
So ... I created a new blog and just posted my first blog at http://margottesch.blogspot.com.au/.
Check it out.
Margot
Spring Creek Station
Check out my latest blog about life on a cattle grazing property.
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
Thursday, 5 December 2013
Diversity of life in the bush
Beautiful RAIN |
One of the fascinating aspects of our
new lifestyle is that the daily routine is so often unpredictable. We do plan
of course … every Sunday over roast dinner we discuss the week’s activities.
But a plan in the bush is only ever a loose guide as it can all be thrown to the wind.
Perhaps it rains (to be so lucky) or there is always the threat of the
inevitable flat tyre. The Traprock can
be unforgiving in more ways than one!
All too-frequent flat tyre |
Check out the nail in the quad bike!?!?! |
This is even worse if it happens to a
tractor tyre. The tractor not working is very
serious, as it means no ability to put out bales of hay/feed for the stock, no
way to unload deliveries or move heavy machinery around … the list goes on. No
tractor can be crippling to a day’s work.
Or your day might be disrupted because you find the stock are on the road, or in the neighbour’s or worse, the heifers are in with the bull … they do go looking for trouble!
Perhaps the Jehovah’s Witnesses turn
up at the door. Can you believe it? They come more regularly than you would
expect … driving for an hour or more to say “Hello” and basically chat about
nothing and leave some literature which is destined for the burn bin before they have reached the gate. Why do they bother? Actually, last time I
asked them not to come any more. Chris made the mistake of engaging them in
philosophical discussion for sport one visit. Regrettable! He became a target,
then, identified as someone ‘searching’. Little did they know he’d hide when
the car pulled up at the gate after that.
Sometimes the extreme heat can drive
you inside forcing you to abandon a more physically demanding task. We’ve been
severely dehydrated on more than one occasion. It can creep up on you without
you realising. In winter a nasty bitterly cold wind can keep you in, though
Chris often goes out regardless.
You might run out of fuel and need
to order a new delivery. Can’t do much without diesel to run the vehicles nor
unleaded to run the pumps, bikes etc.
Solving water problems |
There may be no running water in the
house or the other day the waste water wouldn't drain
away. Problems like that can’t wait; they take over.
Or there might be a power outage …
that can be crippling - no internet
connection, no two-way radio! As our water pressure relies on a pump, no power means
no running water in the house – no shower, no water to re-fill the toilet
cistern (eek). At least you can plug in a crappy old phone for emergencies.
But despite all these intrusions,
you know what? The awesome thing is that it doesn't really matter. This
lifestyle means we can be adaptable and let our day develop anyway it wants. It
just means rearranging a few priorities. As long as it gets done, it doesn't really
matter whether it’s today or tomorrow.
Wouldn't change it for the world ... my day is my own and I love it.
Thursday, 24 October 2013
Country women and their gardens ...
Many country women take great pleasure in their gardens. It’s
one thing I’ve struggled with in coming to live in the bush. I’m not a keen
gardener as I’d rather be in the office writing. But I’ve worked at it (with some
help) and I have to say after five years, my garden is gradually
improving. This year some visitors even commented, “Margot, the garden is
looking lovely.” I was very proud as no one has ever said that to me before!
Spectacular colours |
But today I had delight in sharing my neighbour’s triumph
for a little while at “Cooinda” near Stanthorpe. Margaret Finlay’s spectacular array
of colours and hidden delights took my breath away as I explored her substantial garden (which has grown over the years requiring the garden gate be pushed back again and again).
The garden Gate |
Contrasting colours |
Margaret followed along contributing the names of the plants
and telling me the story of her garden which echoes the story of her family. The
Finlays have had their fair share of tragedy in recent years including losing a
daughter and daughter-in-law to cancer. Her garden has become, in many respects,
a memorial, nurturing family tributes to members now lost, amongst gifts from
concerned loved ones and family eccentricities.
The garden has become Margaret’s life. It’s her work, her
hobby, her passion … her retreat. I can’t see me ever achieving anything so
heart-stopping at Spring Creek Station but I have to admire what Scott and
Margaret have achieved. They’ve created a garden that the family loves to share for weddings, parties, barbeques, tennis tournaments. I imagined imbibing a casual glass of
wine amongst the beautiful gums that have been
gradually subsumed and provide a stunning contrast to the shrubs and bushes set
around them.
It’s impossible not to be infected by Margaret’s enthusiasm.
She made me realise a good garden is a learning journey: what works where; the
importance of mulching, when to touch and when to leave alone. I shall have to
visit again soon. I only scratched the surface!
If you are interested and live nearby, they are having an
open garden on 2nd and 3rd November (http://www.opengarden.org.au/regions/qld_calendar.html).
It’s $7.00 entry and proceeds raised support Kim Walter’s Choices Program based
at the Wesley Hospital in Brisbane. I guess they wanted to give back a little.
They certainly inspired me.
Margaret & Scott Finlay, "Cooinda" |
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
Rousabouting
I finally got an
opportunity to work in a shearing shed … something I’ve been wanting to do for
a long time.
The music comes on,
the motors start up … game on! The pace is fairly frenetic … set by the
shearers. They get paid by the fleece so they work hard.
Ricky hard at work |
I did some shockers!
They would end up more in a bundle and it was hard to tell top from bottom.
Oops. The head is always supposed to be at one end but I truly had trouble
finding it a few times. Thank God for the expert classer on hand to help.
I did throw a few good ones |
But I did manage to
throw a couple of beauties, very proud of that! And the only way to learn is to
keep trying, and so I did.
Once the fleece is
thrown, you have to work (usually in pairs) to pull off the skirting, then the
neck and shanks and finally you separate the back. There are bins around the
room for all the different bits.
Then you start
again … in a hurry as the next fleece is waiting. If you do manage to catch up
to the shearers, there is wool to be swept, bins to be emptied, bales to be trampled.
So it goes for eight hours (with regular breaks of course).
It was tough at
times. It makes you pull up for a second when you clamp down hard on an unseen prickle
or burr. Perhaps worst of all was that nasty prickly pear whose needles are so
fine they are difficult to get out! I can see a seasoned shed hand would need toughened
skin. Working with the belly piece to pull out the stained bits (from urine) was
not so nice a job … especially when the poor wether was fly-blown. Eek!
The sheep are
surprisingly compliant and quiet. They rarely bleat and seem mesmerised by the
whole affair. They tell me it’s only because the shearer knows how to handle
them. Despite a few nicks and an undignified look on departure (looking very
skinny), they don’t really seem to mind. Perhaps they’re glad to be rid of all
that weight.
Marie looking dignified |
The camaraderie in
the shed is uplifting. A good team working hard together brings a feeling of accomplishment
at the end of the day.
I think I’ll be back
in that shearing shed sometime. It was a little addictive and somehow an
experience tied up with my sense of being Australian. After all, shearing and shearing sheds
shadow the myths of our past as a fledgling nation created by our hardworking pioneers
… and now I’ve shared just a tiny part.
Saturday, 14 September 2013
I seriously thought I was good at mustering!
It's easy to get carried away with your own abilities sometimes. I’ve
even boasted about my exploits amongst the Traprock Group at social events. Oops!
We set off yesterday on a fairly routine work detail – to muster
one of our breeding herds into the yards (which are in the paddock they are
currently grazing).
Simple, should only take a couple of hours … until we came
across our bull on the road.
He had jumped the fence, no doubt that sniffing impulse they have (they raise their head and flair their nostrils, quit disgusting really) had brought a cycling cow to his attention ... on the other side of the fence. He was now grazing with a few of the neighbour’s crew. So, our first job was to get him back. He
wasn’t far from the front gate, should have been a quick and easy rescue. Simple!
We edged them down the road and got them to the gate which was open, ready and waiting. All was going well ... until, a Belted-Galloway
cross, mad as a meat axe, took off full pelt. That set us on a very merry chase indeed in country we don’t
know well, rough country. My abilities were stretched to the max … no, I’m lying … I couldn’t keep up! Christopher took off on his two-wheeler in
hot pursuit as he charged through the thick re-growth, bouncing over logs and
bumpy ground, traversing gullies and gorges.
Maybe it's just because the bike is new???? |
(Chris admitted later, he didn’t even know I'd come up
behind him - shows how much confidence he
had in my mustering ability!)
But the unpredictable happened yet again! That naughty Belted-Galloway
took off at full pace straight into the middle of the scrub. I'm sure our poor bull would have been quite happy to toddle home, But I guess, perhaps, he had another agenda on his mind. Hmm … whatever ... he followed her.
A more sedate type of muster ... my type |
It seems I have no problem, moving our well-trained, well-behaved stock around familiar territory. But mustering isn’t always so predictable, as I was reminded yesterday.
Now I'll have to learn to say, "I'm okay at mustering ... most of the time." Sigh, but at least I'm better than when we first started!
Monday, 26 August 2013
Sunday Roast Lunch
Moving
from the city to the bush was, as you can imagine a massive adjustment. I was
quite lost for the first few years in lots of ways (and I still have trouble
deciding what to wear each morning). So to create some structure and routine, I
decided to implement some rituals. For example, morning tea is big everyday with home made cappuccinos and home backing. We always have a barbeque on
Friday nights – to mark the end of the week. But it’s often too cold in winter,
so it’s difficult to adhere to all year round (though we always make sure we
have Friday drinks!).
But there
is one ritual we’ve implemented that has stuck and we follow it quite
religiously. Why … because we LOVE it. That of is course, Sunday Roast
Lunch!
There are
a lot of reasons why this particular ritual works so well and why we really
miss it when we don’t get to enjoy it for some reason or another.
We love
it so much because …
Firstly,
we target the roast being ready for 2pm which means Sunday becomes the only day
Chris knocks off early. If we didn’t have roast lunch, Sunday would just be
like any other day.
Because I
cook them so regularly, I’ve mastered the process. The roast comes out juicy,
tender and mouth-watering.
Tender and mouth watering |
Crispy potatoes |
The meat
is typically home grown … either a beast we’ve prepared with grain for a few
months, or one of our pigs grown out in our custom built pig pen, or it could
be a sheep we’ve fed and prepared just for the purpose. All are slaughtered and
butchered on site. Yes, it’s quite confronting and definitely a reality check
to realise how the meat bought in the supermarket is actually prepared. But it’s
also kind of satisfying growing and eating your own meat. It makes you feel self-sufficient.
But most
of all, it’s just the experience of the meal itself: a few glasses of our
favourite sparkling to warm us up to the meal; the spread of dishes enhanced by
delicious homemade gravy; sitting on the deck enjoying the rural view and the
sound of the birds. It’s a good time to reflect on achievements and plan the
upcoming week and of course enjoy our favourite topic of conversation (in
between world economics, philosophy and religion) – our children, all of whom
we are very proud.
Sunday
roast lunch is the best. I can’t wait for the next one.
Friday, 9 August 2013
Max
We have just experienced the interesting opportunity over
the last three weeks, of hosting a young 16-year-old lad from Germany. Max, the
nephew of a very good friend of mine, wanted to have a farm experience during
his summer holidays. We planned it several months in advance.
Apart from enjoying having someone to look after for a
little while (the tragic empty-nester syndrome) having Max in the house, whose first language is not English, has given me an opportunity to see my
language and culture in a new light.
Max’s English (currently B but he hopes to turn it into an A
next year) is very good but of course we use many colloquialisms, not taught in
the classroom, and we are totally unaware that we use them.
For example, we were out working on a fence. Max was busy
putting on droppers, a task he had just learned how to do. I asked him “Are you
getting the hang of it?” He didn’t answer. I reflected on my choice of words
(as I’ve had to do often over the last few weeks). Why the hell do we use the
word “hang” in that context? Weird. But there are lots of examples just like
that. For example, we use “ridiculous” and “hilarious” in not quite the same way
those words were originally intended. He had to adjust to "Hi" and "Righto".
Another example is “Good on you!” What does that mean
exactly? Funny when you stop to think about it.
All this has reinforced an appreciation of a definition of language I read some
time ago while studying my Master of Arts. “Language
is an agreement within a social group as to the meaning of a word”
[Umberto Eco]. We take our language for granted in Australia, particularly, I
think because we rarely hear any other languages day to day, especially in
the bush. I realise this is maybe changing in the city.
Max also made me look at my own prejudice towards
Aboriginals … a prejudice I would have denied vehemently that I held. But prejudices
can be so deeply ingrained in our culture that it’s “normal”, and we don’t
“see” them. It came about while watching a news program and a young aboriginal
woman was exhorting other young aboriginal women to follow her example in
joining the armed forces. I made a derogatory comment about her use of the
English language when I heard her say “Other womens should get out there and
have a go”. Max challenged me by pointing out that English is not her first
language. My quick retort was, “Yes, but she was born in Australia.” I didn’t
think much about it at the time, but my mind kept coming back to it. My
self-reflection forced me to confront the intolerant and prejudicial nature of
my retort which didn’t take into account
the known disadvantages she likely encountered in her education (and life) …
interesting how a visitor from another culture can make you confront attitudes.
So while we are looking forward to returning to our normal
routine, Max shall be missed and he will leave me pondering the use of
language, culture and world perspectives. We have certainly had some very
interesting conversations!Max at sunset drinks |
Max at work |
Max on the bob cat |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)