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

As I wandered, enjoying Margaret’s “contrasting colours” which appear random but I’m sure have been meticulously placed, I couldn’t help noticing the birds darting and diving around us chorusing the crickets and cicadas. I wasn’t the only one enjoying the garden. I'm told sometimes they are so loud it’s difficult to talk!

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 2^nd and 3^rd 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"

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 didn’t really know what to do but had to learn fast or those fleeces would bank up and you can’t let that happen. As soon as the fleece is off, the shearer’s through the door dragging along the next sheep. The rousabout has to grab the fleece (in a special way) and throw it onto the classing table. The better you throw the fleece, the easier and quicker it is to 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.

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!

Ha! How wrong I was. 

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????

He soon disappeared and I crept along behind trying to track him by the sound of his bike. I did manage to catch up (pretty impressed I managed to do that!) just as he had them pinned to a fence. It should have been an easy muster down to the fence back to our gate.

(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

I gave up and was left parked under a tree in some shade confronting the reality of my still yet developing mustering skills. It wasn't long before I couldn't even hear Christopher.
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!

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

Chris has refined his carving skill which also helps to guarantee tenderness. The veggies are also cooked to perfection – the potatoes crispy and coated in garlic, rosemary and olive oil. The other veggies are lightly tossed in cumin and chilli flakes with just a little olive oil … yum!

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.

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

Highs and Lows of Travel

Travel is usually an exciting affair though I must admit, as I’m aging, it can be a bit daunting. We have just returned from a trip to Dubai to meet our new granddaughter, Livia, and I took the opportunity to duck over to Germany while so close.

Having a daughter working for Emirates brings benefits. But cheap travel comes at a cost. Standby is high risk and you never know exactly what might happen and so started our trip, which saw us waiting at Brisbane airport for 7 hours only to be sent home. We got on a flight the next night though, but I think all the stress took its toll. I’ve never been sick on a plane before, but our leg from Singapore to Dubai was a nightmare. I came down with a severe migraine and unfortunately for me, the pain becomes so intense that I start vomitting … and it doesn’t stop, not until the headache passes, which can take days. It was 7 hours of HELL! The crew and other passengers were amazing and really looked after me as did Chris. You can imagine how relieved I was to get off the plane, even though I had to be taken in a wheelchair to the Emirates Airport medical centre (amazing facility) to rehydrate and recover enough to get out of the airport!

Bathing Livia

But of course once recovered, it was all worth it to meet our little granddaughter and reconnect with our two grandsons. We have a daughter, Zoe and a son, Neal and his wife Lauren, living in the UAE. It is precious time with them, to understand their lifestyles and experience the extremes of Dubai – the multi-culturalism, 5 star shopping malls, the desert and other developments. This is the hottest time of the year in the Middle East – 40° to 45° and it doesn’t cool down much at night. You live in air-conditioning. So it was a relief, climate-wise, to move to the next leg of my journey, visiting my good friend, Birgit, in Frankfurt where the summer was more tepid. Of course, my anxiety levels were high getting back on that plane! Fortunately the trip was awesome and my travel-legs regained.

Lush landscape

Germany is stunningly beautiful. What a place, breathtaking. Though I have been there once before, this time I fell in love. The countryside is so lush and despite the high population density, the landscape is dotted with forests and fields such that you have a sense of openness. I admire the German’s for their organisation, structure and dependability. The cities, towns and villages are full of character, history and interest. It was so lovely to stroll around the malls on cobbled streets with alfresco dining everywhere. I can’t wait to go back.

Cobbled shopping malls

I returned to Dubai to see the family again and break up the journey home (especially after what happened on the way over). All was good. Ramadan had started. State and Church are not separate in Dubai, so it’s law. You cannot be seen eating or even drinking water in public all day … interesting. The family decided to enjoy Iftar (the breaking of the fast at sundown). Many of the hotels cater for this special meal and it was an opportunity to appreciate some Muslim culture at its best. We had a lovely evening … until Lauren and I awoke at 4 am in the morning with vomitting and diarrhoea! The day before I was due to fly home! Can you believe it?

We recovered within a few hours fortunately and I was able to tackle the journey home – 2 kilos lighter than when I had arrived.

But despite the ups and downs, I’m still hooked on travel and can’t wait to go again. I guess it’s just all part of the travel package. But I do hope to avoid any more vomitting during future ventures!

For the love of Country

Nicole Alexander says the inspiration and motivation for her writing comes from her desire to communicate the grazier’s deep love of and commitment to their land.

We’ve been at Spring Creek now for over eight years and although I understand Nicole is talking about generations of graziers managing, nurturing and developing their properties, I’ve had an inkling of what that feels like, even in my short time on the land.

The Grand Entrance

Several times recently, when driving back from town or back from a visit somewhere, I’ve had an inner stirring, a sense of pride, as I’ve driven down the road, approaching our grand entrance (it’s not really that grand but we are proud of it). It’s not that Spring Creek is looking its best at the moment. The winter cold and frosts have snuffed the green landscape. Though, thankfully, we still have plenty of grass from a good summer season, it has hayed off and gone brown.

The colours of the Traprock

But it’s weird, it’s that “hayed off” colour that I find so charming and appealing. It’s the colour of the Traprock.

We  spent last weekend visiting friends on their beautiful block outside Kyogle. The Richmond River district is such different country to the Traprock – green and lush. Though I thoroughly enjoyed imbibing their landscape for a while, I have to say, I’ve realised there is something far more endearing about the Traprock, despite its coarse surfaces, rocky outcrops and shaly valleys.

It has a rugged appeal of its own that I have truly come to appreciate.

I never thought I would have said this. I remember driving around the block with the previous owner, checking it out, considering the purchase. I sat in the back. I was quiet. I was overwhelmed with its size and the amount of work required to make it look “nice”.

But I’ve realised you never really make the Traprock look “nice”. There will always be fallen logs, dead trees, stump holes and regrowth. That’s part of the Traprock charm. (Yet it’s amazing what a few hours in the dozer can do to clean and clear some space.)

We’ve done a lot work. We’ve made a lot of improvements. We’ve built and repaired a lot of fences. We’ve made it home and I’m starting to feel that stirring deep within when I leave and return.

I’m surprised myself to actually feel that … maybe I even love Spring Creek.