9 August 2021

Last Christmas my husband gave me a chainsaw. Just a little handheld battery powered one. I was gobsmacked, then terrified: what was he thinking? When we were newly in Australia , me anyway, building a house in a paddock, he gave me a try with his chainsaw. Within seconds it broke. Actually broke, not just the chain came off or it ran out of fuel or even just got stuck in a too big log. It broke. He took it back to the shop and I didn’t touch the new one. Now thirty odd years later, I’m supposed to use one?


It stayed in its box for a few months, gradually gathering dust, half hidden under the tv table. He charged the battery, showed me how to press the two starter buttons and its chain whirred round. I held it, feeling the weight and balance. I had to wait till I was was alone, for the first time. I took it out to try cutting some twiggy bushes. It started all right but slid along the twigs or ripped untidily, not sawing a neat cut. When I moved onto a bigger twig (the size of my finger!) I automatically pressed down harder and cut it perfectly. Yay!


Eight months later, my chainsaw comes out with me pretty much every time I’m in the garden. We had a big storm recently, which toppled two trees across the driveway. Pat did the big stuff with his chainsaw and dragged the leafy bits to our mulch pile with the tractor. Yesterday I used my chainsaw, cut them into lengths and size and mulched for a couple of hours. It felt good to be outside sharing the work, enjoying the sun, working up a thirst. The battery recharges in the coffee break. How good is that?

The pups help with all gardening projects.

2021

July 21

Not only has a year passed since I last wrote anything but it is exactly a year, and we in Victoria are in lockdown again, first for five days, now extended another week.

We got through it of course but it is hard doing it all over again. The garden has been growing weeds, the roses need pruning and I planted broccoli, leeks and swedes but the nights are too cold and they have barely survived. I even covered them with an old shade cloth blind on the frosty nights.

This year is radically different to last: we now have two Jack Russell puppies. We travelled to Mt Gambier to collect them, just a five-day border closure, after Christmas. They are adorable and have turned our life upside down. They are now nine months old, we walk much more than before and can feel the benefit. Rocket likes to dig. We put more sand in the grandchildren’s sandpit but she prefers the mulch pile, diving into it with excited yelps, paws furiously digging. Dot is prone to freezing on the end of a lead or when she is scared. She isn’t into digging much, except when we are also digging or laying pavers on a sand base. She digs and Rocket attacks the rake, the shovel, anything resembling a broom.

Week three of Stage Four Restrictions

I am writing in my studio again. I walked into a cobweb across the door and opened it to find the floor was a graveyard for slaters, there were white specks of spider poo on the desk, (curiously not on the floor) and the windowsills were covered in dust. Not house dust; this is fine soil blown from drought-affected farmlands. I swept slaters and a huntsman carcass outside and wiped down the desk, legitimate avoidance tasks before being able to sit down and write. I have been reluctant to isolate myself voluntarily in addition to the restrictions we are all experiencing. Instead of craving time alone to write, I have worked in the house editing. The studio feels more like a creative space.

My daughter gave me ‘grand-mothers’ a book of essays by well- and lesser-known women who are grandmothers. I was hooked by the introduction: these are my people, my tribe. I know them, they know me. They understand. Like motherhood, the complexity of grandmotherhood defies description and yet these women describe the myriad emotions I feel that began with the birth of my daughter’s daughter and continue to swell with each successive miraculous birth, her four girls and my son’s precious son. I am so lucky to live close by and be part of their lives. I suspect this may become a grandmotherly blog. Or a birdwatcher’s blog.

The rain has dumped so much water that our heavy clay soil cannot absorb it fast enough and we have silvery puddles all over the lawn. Rainbow lorikeets have invaded the garden and stolen the seeds I put out for the king parrots. They are half the size, but I saw one see off five parrots yesterday, puffing himself up, bobbing his head up and down while hopping and flying from one feed tray to the other. This morning they are investigating a hollow in an old tree quite close to the house. The whole flock swooped in, chattering excitedly, and taking turns to poke their heads into the hole.

Mon 17 August 2020

Last week was our most active in a while, week 2 of lockdown, shops shut – even Bunnings. Yesterday I mentioned to Pat over coffee on our recently restored verandah, that we should be halfway through by now and he shook his head with a smile, ‘No, Jenny, it’s only been two weeks.’ That’s probably why it was our most active. The urge to get out – anywhere – is strong when the choice is so limited. We walked and cycled, took advantage of the sunshine to work outside, mulching fallen limbs with leafy crowns and nuisance sticks and rose prunings that previously we piled onto a bonfire. The mulcher has been like an extra person in the garden and the bush area, quickly converting rubbishy bits into perfect mulch. It is immensely satisfying. We leave the dead trees for habitat and the trunks where they fall.

The exception to that was the dead tree giant at the bottom of the driveway. We had been driving in and out around it for years and the trunk fell inconveniently across one side, blocking the entrance. A complication was that the resident bees decided they would stay and repair the damage to their home. They don’t like chainsaws much. We left it for months, waiting for winter when the bees would be less inclined to be out and about. Pat sawed it quickly and towed their half onto the grassy side. We can see the brand new yellow honeycomb in one end, like two plates in a rack. We had already planted half a dozen new natives in that area and the tree managed to avoid all of them in its fall. As the daughter of a forester, I have an affinity for trees, delighted with the recent books regarding communication between trees and I like to think the tree fell where it did to avoid crushing the new young ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My World in 2020

5 August 2020

How quickly life changes. We are in the Metro Melbourne area: Stage 4 restrictions as of Monday. My instant reaction was to dash down to Bunnings and buy veg seedlings and enough plants to last me 6 weeks. The announcement that we can order and pick up was a great relief but how would I know what to order if I can’t browse slowly around the aisles, wondering if that plant would fit somewhere, suddenly fall in love with one I just have to buy? The whole process of buying plants is a complex one that can’t easily be reduced to ‘order and pick up’. There are colours to consider, height and foliage to complement what’s in the garden already. Sun or shade tolerant, frost or drought. In the latter case, I admit to being very mean to native plants in summer, expecting them to survive in totally dry conditions. The trees and shrubs are almost all natives now, to suit the birds and the bees in the now- fallen big old tree.

I was determined to face down the bitter wind and rain the next day and planted broccoli in the raised self- irrigating veg plots that Pat made by cutting an old corrugated tank in half. I just had time to add a couple of trees to the ‘hedge’ growing behind the tanks when the rain came. ‘Hedge’ in this case being a 3-deep corridor of indigenous trees and shrubs along the fence line. We’ll put in grasses where shrubs did not thrive.

 

26 July 2020   @cantylane.com

My World

No travelling this year! We had a big trip planned to celebrate Pat’s big birthday. UK, Isle of Man, Croatia and finally Portugal to meet friends and ride the Camino route to Santiago. All on hold, like countless others. I’ve been thinking about blogging lately because we are usually overseas at this time, travelling, escaping Melbourne’s winter. This year’s journey will be through this extraordinary time of Covid-19 restrictions. As if the horrendous bushfires that began the year were not enough. Our planet is warning us. The Earth is fighting back.

Enough doom and gloom. This blog will be about my world, the 5 km radius I’m presently allowed to roam. ‘My World. is about writing and gardening and family and home. Welcome.

 

6 June 2018 France

Crecy-en-Ponthieu

After a busy few days visiting my oldies in Scotland (older than me, like, really old) we had visits with old friends, (only as old as us) in Bristol and Cambridge, where Pat stayed while I was in Crecy.  What a fabulous five days that was. I was attending  a writing course with five other like-minded people, run by Alan Durant, author  of 100 children’s books and his wife Ginny who provided delicious meals and a trip to a Michelin guide restaurant. We stayed in the

IMG_0332prettiest cottage in town, slept in the attic, and wrote in ‘silent time’. No talking  and write where you like. I can recommend it. Alan gave us deceptively simple stimuli, like a cemetery and old photos, minimal instructions and half an hour each day of one on one tutorials. At the end of five days, we had each written a children’s picture book and a 3000 word story. These were read out between courses from aperitif to dessert on the final evening. I left feeling energised, and quite likely to go again next year.

Now Pat and I are in a modern apartment in Arras, still in the attic, this time four flights up. We took a guided tour of WW1 sites, cemeteries, memorials accompanied by an enthusiastic Ausssie guide who explained the Australian troops’ involvement in this area. A sobering and emotional day, made worse by shocking hay fever; I sneezed continuously. Pat went to Ypres, Belgium the following day while I rested. We saw entire fields of scarlet poppies, they are a weed here! This morning was market day in the cobbled square. It is hard not to be tempted to buy but we are determined to travel light.

Tomorrow we head back to England, see my brother in Birmingham once more and have a special rendezvous with Dom and Alex in London. We fly out 12 hours before they do!

25th May 2018

We’ve been out of range of internet for days. It makes us realise how much we use it. I tried to use Google maps on my phone in the hire car and a message from Telstra screamed, That just cost you $100!’ We bought a map. We caught a train to Carlisle using a “two together” railcard, a useful investment. Cost us six pounds fifty each. Other times it has been cheaper to hire a car! The trip is  smooth, quiet and speedy. So unlike the Australian experience. My 91 year- old feisty Aunt Betty picked us up in her car, brand new two years ago. She drives confidently and we were delighted to find she is as young at heart as ever. She still judges pistol and smallbore target shooting, scoring great bundles of them that are sent each week. She drove us to a forbidding fortress/castle in the Scottish Border Country. It is a five story stone cube built in the 1300’s, extended a hundred years later. Mary Queen of Scots used it to visit her future husband  Bothwell (Boswell?) riding 50 miles across the countryside, making herself seriously ill afterwards. The castle sits alone in farming country, any other habitations have long gone. The Scottish wind is every bit as biting as the Manx; finding its way through arrow slits and the open roof. It is said that only the descendants of the family dare to sleep there overnight. I can’t imagine wanting to sleep in such draughty damp accommodation. Onward the next day to Edinburgh.

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19th May 2018

We are waking later and later, half past nine again today! I blame jetlag. After a conversation with Stephen, supposedly to wish him happy birthday, I realised that I was tiring Mum out as well as myself. She is used to her gentle routine and being whisked out for a scenic drive is disruptive. When I call from Australia Mum talks about being in a ‘benign prison’ so I assumed she wanted to go out. I told her we needed a rest day, knowing she would quickly deny that she was tired herself. After a leisurely start we headed down to nearby Glen Maye. It has to be the prettiest of the glens.

The waterfall roars down, tumbles over rocks and makes its way to the sea as it has for millenia. It has carved a deep chasm, hung with greenery like some tropical jungle. The stony path is laced with tree roots worn smooth by human feet. All around us is green, delicate new beech leaves, sycamore tinged with red, bracken and wildflowers I recognise from childhood. The air is damp, cool and shady, the sun barely reaches the ground. Moss and exotic creamy coloured plates of fungi grow on fallen branches, water trickles down the sides to join the stream.  As the glen opened out, the island wind blew harder and colder. By the time we reached the pebble beach, I was over the beauty and needed a hot coffee. At least the wind was at our backs on the return trip.

The afternoon was more chess and ice cream. The beach was littered with seaweed thrown up by the waves – the sea had been pretty rough. Our hosts have bins full of drying seaweed that is heaped around potato plants as they grow. It is a perfect fertiliser, with the bonus of the potatoes coming out clean. Well into their seventies, they put my vegie patch to shame. They have a huge area full of seedlings, fruit trees and berry bushes, a greenhouse for tomatoes and grapes. They run two self-catering holiday properties in the converted barn and ‘spud house’ of their farmhouse. The kayaks by the path are well used; they paddle round the island’s coast seeing puffins and nesting seabirds, finding caves. I hope I am as active at their age.

18 May 2018

We have visited South Barrule, this time with Mum. It is the first time she has seen the house since she left with a broken arm, three and a half years ago. Work has been done inside, it has been cleaned and even the rolled-up carpets removed. Outside the front door scarlet and yellow tulips were blooming – a startling sign of life against the grey stone wall. The back was overgrown and the stones mossy. Without all Mum’s flowerpots,  the clematis and japonica clinging to the walls, it looked empty. It was sad for Mum but not as devastating as she had expected.

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We drove to Port Erin, parked illegally as do all the islanders and bought ice creams to eat watching children braving a freezing sea. We didn’t go in the bookshop this time. Mum doesn’t walk far now and tires easily. That was plenty for one  day.

17 May 2018

17 May 2018

Our internet connection is flipping on and off, so I’ve decided to use Word and upload later. We had noticed an advertisement for a farmers’ market to be held in the hall next to the cathedral on Sunday. We took Mum in the car and wandered in. There were only a few stalls but quite a variety of produce. We bought an apple pie and a rhubarb crumble from one lady and a meat pie from another. The swedes and parsnips on the vegie stall were enormous compared with Australian ones. The plants outside were tempting but Mum has no room on her windowsill for any more. I play chess with her most mornings or try to. Mum was in a chess club for many years so there is no contest. The most I can do is delay the inevitable. She bemoans the fact that there is no one to play with in the home. In the afternoons we drive to Peel promenade and have an ice cream. The locally made brand is popular with tourists and locals alike. They even have a non-dairy alternative for me. The shop also sells home-made luxury chocolates, the sort you only buy in ones. The sea breeze is sharp, so we sit in the car and watch children on the beach; they are oblivious to the chill. A few holidaymakers are sitting in coats and scarves, determined to enjoy their annual seaside trip. The bay curves from the 11thcentury castle on the left past the cluster of houses and hotels to the green hills hedged with gorse, golden at this time of year. Ancient drystone walls are beneath the gorse, enclosing fields odd-shaped centuries ago. A breakwater extends from the castle out into the sea, protecting the bay from the winter storms and creating a sheltered harbour for the fishing boats. A seal appears when the boats come in, hoping for a fish tossed overboard.DSC02187