Tag Archives: wildlife

Golden Wattle and Blue Skies

wattle in bloom

Wattle in bloom

The first sign of spring at SeventySevenAcres comes with the gentle buzz of bees, and blue, blue skies, as the wattle bursts into bloom, tree by tree.

There is something really special about stealing a couple of minutes in the middle of the afternoon to find a sheltered position in the sun on the lawn, to close your eyes and listen to the sound of the bees as they industriously buzz around the little pom pom flowers, and breathe in the heady, fresh-linen scent that fills the air from the glorious bright yellow blooms.

Don’t be fooled, though. Once the sun drops over the hills to the west, we know well and truly that it is still winter.

This winter has been particularly chilly, and we have burnt our way through all our reserves of firewood just to stay warm. This year saw several snowfalls at SeventySevenAcres, one deep enough to hang around for a couple of days (I know this is nothing in some parts of the world, but for us it was pretty exciting), but mostly we have had thick frosts and biting winds off the Australian Alps.

Many an afternoon has been spent wrapped up in front of the fireplace, with a good book and a warm cuppa, rather than braving the great outdoors.

Our veggie beds look like a mass of weeds, and will need quite some work before spring proper comes and we want to start planting out. I can see some very busy times ahead.

I’m also going to have to grow some resolve and get walking again. It has been too easy to decide it is too cold or too windy to go out regularly, so apart from some brief forays to collect kindling and admire how full the dam is at present, I haven’t really been out and about, and I can tell from how inflexible and unfit I feel!

Lyrebird by dam

a lyrebird beside the dam

A few good hikes up the mountain should fix that, but I’ve got to psyche myself into it first! And, of course, I’m so easily distracted by all the beautiful sights and sounds around the property. It doesn’t take much for me to stop and watch while some birds flit through the trees, or an echidna waddles by (like the one on the track this afternoon as I was driving home from work… sadly, by the time I had pulled my phone out to take a pic, he had waddled off into the bush and I didn’t feel inclined to chase him!)

Echidna

An echidna visiting our garden

Talking of our amazing wildlife, the wombat… sorry, The Wombat has taken up residence again in the wombat hole by the back gate. We are trying to give him lots of space at the moment so he doesn’t feel invaded, but have succumbed to leaving a few old carrots around near the entrance to let him know he is welcome. We will doubtless regret this later, but it is so exciting to feel that after, what, four years (!), he has finally decided we are acceptable-ish.

Of course, our girls (the ‘roo family) have been turning up regularly, but we are yet to see any sign of this year’s babies. That is always a moment of great delight, when we catch a glimpse of a tiny nose poking out of the pouch, or, amusingly, an awkwardly posed leg.

kangaroo and joey

One of our ‘girls’ last year with baby on board

The most common visitors at the moment, though, are the birds that regularly turn up for breakfast. Dusty, the Burrawang, will follow me from room to room, peering with curiosity through the windows, until I take out some left-overs from the night before’s dinner, and will rapidly be joined by an ever increasing array of feathered friends. The magpies are generally second in the queue, along with a family of crimson rosellas, and recently the kookaburra has been joining them on the grass, although the funniest thing I have seen of late was when he dived in and stole food right out of the beak of one of the magpies, without even pausing mid-flight!

We have had a little thrush (still to be properly identified) hopping around, too, along with the whole tribe of blue-wrens.

Later on the choughs and ravens arrive… quite a noisy bunch… and sometimes we’ll get a galah or two, or one of the big sulphur crested cockatoos.

I can never get enough of watching the antics through the kitchen window, and still wonder at our great fortune in being a part of this amazing place.

Don’t get me wrong, though, there are many things that interrupt this view of paradise… pumps that fail, our leaky house-water water tank that will need to be replaced soon, a driveway that is increasingly resembling a goat track, feral goats and pigs (and foxes), some expensive maintenance that is going to be quite tricky to get done… spiders, snakes and biting flies… and the ever present summer threat of bushfire.

All part of taking on a bush property.

But for now, I’ll take the promise of a pleasant afternoon scented with wattle, and the humming of the bees going about their business, with the sun on my face and a not-too-chilly breeze in my hair.

A beautiful moment in time.

wattle in flower

No quotes this time, but I did find a poem that included wattle… however, as it was about where a dying stockman wanted to be buried I decided against using it!

…coat of an elegant scoundrel…

My first encounter with foxes goes back to my very early years, visiting some friends of my father at their house in a small village somewhere down in the south-west of England. Who they were, or where the village was is lost to memory, and neither of my parents recall the incident, although I have very strong visual images of the house (red brick in a garden swathed in bushes), a walk up the hill behind the house (long grass, lightly treed), and the ‘nest’ with the cubs.

They were beautiful (as in the cubs, although I’m sure the friends were, too) and I fell in love, and to this day I cannot help but be beguiled by the beauty of the red fox, and how clever and agile they are, and every time I see one dead by the side of the road a deep sadness fills me, just the same as if I see a ‘roo or a wombat that has been hit by a car.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand that foxes are a nuisance. I understand that they don’t belong in Australia. And please understand me, I don’t keep chooks for the sole reason that I don’t want to limit them to a small, fox-proof enclosure.

Because, around here, there are foxes.

It is quite possible that we don’t have a rabbit problem (touch wood) because of them.

Not that we see them very often, but there are signs that they are around. And a neighbour who keeps goats goes into overdrive when his breeding stock are kidding (just had to use that word) because of the trouble he has had in the past with the newborns apparently being taken by foxes.

In our early days here, too, we found an old rusty trap with a dead fox caught in it, much to my concern as I truly don’t approve of trapping, and I certainly didn’t want to find any more through the unpleasant expedient of stepping on one.

I know the neighbour has resorted to using poison baits, and I know he does it responsibly, with all the correct permits and so forth, and he always puts warnings in mail boxes. I used to worry about eagles scavenging on carcasses and getting poisoned, too, but I’m less concerned now since nothing much seems to scavenge on the foxes by the side of the road. Like wombats they seem to be there forever, slowly decomposing.

I know of someone else who tried humane traps, but the foxes were too smart, and he ended up waiting them out and shooting them, but that took a fair bit of patience and guile, too.

My reaction, though, when I glanced up while filling the kettle early the other morning to look right into the eyes of an old fella poking around the garden?

Camera.

Sadly, I couldn’t find the actual camera in time, so my phone captured a weirdly blurred image of something questionably a fox, mostly hidden by the reflection of the flash in the window. Artistic perhaps, but unconvincing.

Spot the fox... yes, he is there... try looking for two shining dots, his eyes, looking straight at me...

Spot the fox… yes, he is there… try looking for two shining dots, his eyes, looking straight at me…

By then he had wandered down to the compost bins, and my guess is he was hoping to find some rats or mice or something.

He was quite big, with a roan coat, mottled ginger and white, and a dark red brush, mostly white legs, and dark, intelligent eyes. He had seen me at the same time as I saw him, but, initially at least, didn’t react. It wasn’t until the phone’s flash went off that he showed any concern.

He didn’t wait around to find out if I had anything more in my arsenal than a flashing light, but disappeared up the cliff-face, as in directly up the cliff face (I mentioned their agility, didn’t I?), and off into the bush.

I’m not keen for him to come back, by any means, especially as I am weighing the pros and cons of getting myself a small herd of goats to help with weed clearing, but just seeing him reminded me of what amazing and beautiful creatures they are. And clever. I read once that it was possibly because they are so clever that people have an issue with them. We don’t like to be outsmarted!

Red foxes were introduced (on purpose) to Australia for sport hunting way back in the 1800s, and from there have spread right across the continent (except the far north) and are now pretty much prevalent in every state except for Tasmania, where, a couple of years ago, there was a massive hunt after one was spotted leaving a ship (Fantastic Mr Fox on holiday?). I don’t know whether that one was ever found, but wildlife authorities have now confirmed evidence of possible habitation and there is a huge program to try and prevent it getting out of hand. Originally, competition with tassie devils was thought to be the reason that they hadn’t naturalised there before, but the poor old devil is having its own issues at the moment.

Apart from being a nuisance to farmers and backyard hen-keepers, of course, foxes are a problem for small, native animals, which have not evolved to be wary of them. Their distribution can be seen to correlate with the decline of native species such as bettongs, bilbies, numbats, small wallabies, and quokkas.

Not good news.

While baiting and shooting remain the most widespread choice for management, research is being conducted on the reintroduction of native predators. Apparently, where dingoes have been reintroduced not only does the fox population decline, but native animal numbers start to recover. Its all about balance.

I like that idea.

The title quote, by the way, is from a poem by Margaret Atwood, which, in the way of Margaret Atwood, says it all:

Red Fox

The red fox crosses the ice
intent on none of my business.
It’s winter and slim pickings.

I stand in the bushy cemetery,
pretending to watch birds,
but really watching the fox
who could care less.
She pauses on the sheer glare
of the pond. She knows I’m there,
sniffs me in the wind at her shoulder.
If I had a gun or dog
or a raw heart, she’d smell it.
She didn’t get this smart for nothing.

She’s a lean vixen: I can see
the ribs, the sly
trickster’s eyes, filled with longing
and desperation, the skinny
feet, adept at lies.

Why encourage the notion
of virtuous poverty?

It’s only an excuse
for zero charity.
Hunger corrupts, and absolute hunger
corrupts absolutely,
or almost. Of course there are mothers,
squeezing their breasts
dry, pawning their bodies,
shedding teeth for their children,
or that’s our fond belief.
But remember – Hansel
and Gretel were dumped in the forest
because their parents were starving.
Sauve qui peut. To survive
we’d all turn thief

and rascal, or so says the fox,
with her coat of an elegant scoundrel,
her white knife of a smile,
who knows just where she’s going:

to steal something
that doesn’t belong to her –
some chicken, or one more chance,
or other life.”
Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned House

Watched by a Wombat

Mostly, all we ever see of him is a handful of cube shaped calling cards that he leaves heaped on a rock or a fallen log nearby.  For ages, we didn’t even see that, but, bit by bit, he has been venturing closer and closer, and, for a while now, we have found his scats quite closely arranged in an ever decreasing circuit around the perimeter of our garden.  There was even evidence of a brief foray into the garden, once, to investigate his old hole.

I feel as though we are being watched.

We’ve been at Seventy Seven Acres for three years now, and, right from the start, the Eastern Greys just sort of took us for granted. To them, we’re family.  There is a Swamp Wallaby that considers us his catering crew, and a family of Brush Tailed Possums with a similar view, not to mention the myriad of birds that watch me through the window every morning, waiting to see if there is anything for breakfast.

The Echidna occasionally turns up at my study window searching for insects caught in the cobwebs (I’d rather have the spiders than the poison and am too lazy to go around with a brush too often), and we have seen turtles at the dam and blue tongue lizards and water dragons on the track.

Wombat remains (mostly) invisible.

Wombat on track... facing off with our car before dashing into the bush...

Wombat on track… facing off with our car before dashing into the bush…

We know he is there.  As I said, he leaves his scats prominently displayed, and I did stop the car in great excitement once to take his photo as he charged across the track.  The previous owners also had photos of him pottering around the garden in a slide show they had cannily left playing on their giant TV screen (it was pictures of the snow on the same screen that caused me to say, “Snow?  that’s it!” and caused the Real Estate Agent a moment of, “Oh, it’s not every year… maybe once every three years… and not very much…”, not realising that it was a selling point for me, not a turn off, and, little did she know, we were already sold by then).

He was a rescue wombat, and I don’t know the full story but I’m pretty sure it involved a car.  Wombats and cars are not a good mix.  Since moving here I have seen too many of them upside down by the side of the road.  Not much seems to scavenge on them (I gather from the story Wombat Stew by Marcia K Vaughan that they are very tough eating) so they tend to be lying there for some time, a sad reminder of the toll on wildlife brought about by our fast paced age.  Wombats are not too good for cars either.  I’ve seen the resulting damage to a visitor’s car after an altercation along the valley.  Best to try and miss them if you can.  Although, that can be difficult, as they are very quick little creatures.  Well, quite big creatures, actually.

Anyway, my understanding is that he was brought up from a joey elsewhere, and released here as a young adult.  There is a wombat hole in the garden, and there was a pile of sand for his digging pleasure, and there are definitely other wombats around, so he is not alone.

The ex-owners told us tales reminiscent of Diary of a Wombat (the lovely picture book by Jackie French) but did warn us that he had become less people oriented as he became older — which was, indeed, the aim of the game.  We, clearly, are not the right people at all, and, quite rightly, he maintains his distance.

Although that distance is getting smaller… and we are being watched.

Some Wombat Facts

Wombats, one of Australia’s famous marsupials, are squat and sturdy in build, with a large head and small eyes and ears.  They have short, muscular legs, which, teamed up with their sharp claws, make them amazing diggers, and the females have a backwards facing pouch so that joeys don’t get showered in dirt as Mum digs.  Wombats can dig burrows that are up to 30 metres long and a couple of metres deep, and they generally stay inside during the day, where they can keep cool in summer and warm in winter, often sharing with other wombats.

Don’t be fooled though, those short legs can carry them at fairly high speeds.  I have memories of reading about one that was clocked at 40 kilometres an hour, and I’ve seen them hike across a road at an alarming speed.  I suspect this is why they get hit so often – people just don’t realise how quickly a frightened animal can turn and run across the road in front of them.

Wombats are generally grazing animals, mostly eating native grasses, but I’m given to understand that they are also partial to carrots and parsnips, and even the occasional bowl of oats!  They are very territorial about their feeding grounds, however, and will chase off challengers with lots of noisy grunts and snorts.

Mating in spring, between September and December, Wombats produce one offspring, which crawls its way to the pouch and usually stays there for about seven to twelve months.  They are tiny when they are born, weighing about one ounce, but they grow quickly in the protection of the pouch.  Wombats reach maturity and are able to have young of their own at about two years of age.

In New South Wales, wombats are protected but continue to face threats from cars and wild dogs, as well as suffering from competition for feeding from domestic animals.  The Common Wombat (like our friend) is not considered threatened, but the Northern and Southern Hairy Nosed Wombats are on the endangered list.

Information from http://www.environment.nsw.gov.au/animals/Wombats.htm (and care of Jackie French’s wonderful book Diary of a Wombat )

 

 

…One White Cockatoo

The poem, White Cockatoo, by Banjo Paterson starts

Now the autumn maize is growing,
Now the corn-cob fills,
Where the Little River flowing
Winds among the hills.
Over mountain peaks outlying
Clear against the blue
Comes a scout in silence flying,
One white cockatoo…

Of course, one white cockatoo is joined by clouds of cockatoos, descending like snow upon the ripening corn-cobs, and I guess that’s it for the crop…

Common across all of eastern Australia, these noisy birds can form huge flocks, resting in regular roosts close to water during the heat of the day and generally heading out to open country to feed either earlier in the morning or later on, when it is a little cooler.

Luckily, the pair of Sulphur Crested Cockatoos that stopped by my garden recently didn’t presage the arrival of a huge flock, but they did provide a few moments of pleasing entertainment.

ImageContrary to the way it may seem, I have a bit of a soft spot for these raucous natives.  They are the clever clowns of the garden and are not immune from playing practical jokes.  We had a large old pine tree in the garden of our house in suburbia where a small family of cockatoos used to congregate to break open the pine cones and eat the nuts.

No worries there.

Not so sure about the pine cones they used to drop on unwary gardeners and small children.

No.  I’m not kidding.  They used to wait until someone was passing underneath and then, basically, throw a pine cone at them.  And laugh.  True.

Or they would fly a low pass overhead and screech at the top of their voices from just behind their chosen victim.  Believe me, they are loud.  Does wonders for getting the heart pumping.

Whilst I had no objection to them eating the pine nuts, I was a little less pleased when they got stuck into our almonds.  There was no keeping them out either.  They generally found a way into or under any netting we put over our young trees, and looked at us with scorn if we tried to chase them off.  They just laughed at the dog, who would stand at the base of the tree, barking, knowing full well that there was nothing that she could do!

Of all the birds, I think that the cockatoo has the most developed sense of humour.

When we moved up from Melbourne some years ago, our new neighbours had a pet cockatoo that lived on a perch on their front verandah.  Our cat was a keen birder, despite our best efforts, multiple bells and water spray therapy.  She took one look at Cocky and you could see her eyes light up.  Heaven.  On a stick.

I was chatting with our neighbour, Anne, at the time and spotted her (the cat, not the neighbour) stalking across the garden.  With huge apologies, I went to prevent what I thought would be a disastrous introduction only to be stopped in my tracks.

“No, watch this,” Anne said, grinning.

A little reluctantly, I watched.

My feline friend continued her soundless approach, while the ‘unsuspecting’ cockatoo completely failed to notice.  I nervously explained that our cat was a very efficient hunter.

“Trust me,” Anne countered.

Cocky was by now preening his feathers peacefully while the Great Hunter bunched up her muscles, poised for the pounce.

And pounce she did.

I swear she was already in flight when Cocky suddenly exploded in size, fluffing up his feathers, extending his wings and opening out his beautiful yellow crest, giving an ear piercing, blood-curdling screech.

The Great Hunter turned in mid-air (against all the laws of physics) and disappeared under our deck, from whence she refused to return until Cocky went to bed.

Cocky bounced up and down on his perch, while Anne explained that this was his normal way of greeting any visiting cats.

I would like to say that our cat was cured of her hunting tendencies as a result of that event, and, indeed, it did cramp her style for quite a while (nor did she ever approach Cocky again), but we still had to perform the occasional rescue over the last few years of her life.

Meanwhile, Cocky’s favourite idea of a joke was to call out to passer’s by, usually inviting them to go to the pub with him, in a voice so realistic that people unfamiliar with him would be looking around for their erstwhile new friend.

Cocky was one of many pet birds around Canberra that were released as the 2003 fires raged through the suburbs.  By then we lived elsewhere (and our Great Hunter had passed on to the Great Hunting Ground in the Sky), but I often fancied that Cocky came to visit us, nonetheless, perhaps throwing pine cones at us from the tree in our backyard.  Perhaps he was the ‘scout’ that led all the others in their mischief…Image

The visitors to our garden the other day were, by comparison, quite benign.  Although they did spend some time investigating our weather station.  And I’m not saying that they wouldn’t have attacked our fruit trees if the wallaby had left them anything to attack.

Still, I’m happy for them to be occasional guests, stopping by once in a while… just, please, not in clouds, descending like snow.

 

 

 

Post Script: Also, just in case you were wondering, here’s a settler’s recipe for cockatoo stew:

Take one cockatoo and pop it in a billy of boiling water with a rock and a handful of root vegetables.  Boil until rock is tender then throw away the cockatoo!

I gather they are a bit on the tough side.  Never felt the urge to find out, personally, but there you go.

Post Post Script: the collective noun for these comedic birds is recorded, variously, as a chattering, clattering, cluttering, crackle, or cacophony of cockatoos.  My vote is for the cacophony.

Post Post Post Script: if you are keen to encourage these delightful birds into your garden by feeding them, I’m given to understand that they are partial to all kinds of seeds, nuts and fruit.  They are also partial to eating any wood that your house or garden structures may be made from, bird netting or shade cloth, and the occasional TV aerial.

 

 

…we all know frogs go…

I’m constantly amazed and delighted by the variety of wildlife with which we share our home.  If I tried to name all the types of birds, for instance, that come by our garden (let alone the rest of the property), I’m sure that I could fill a page easily and still miss some out.

I love listening to the bird calls, starting with the kookaburras in the early morning, right through to our boobook owls well into the night – although I was a little less enamoured of a male common koel that spent last spring singing most of his way through a full octave then stopping, leaving me waiting for the last note, before repeating his call incessantly – all night!  It took a couple of sleepless nights before I got used to that call and slept through his noisy courting.

On the other hand, I never tire of the song of our magpies, nor the cheeky chirping of the blue wrens or silvereyes.

Another sound I love is the chorus of frog calls that serenade us through the evenings during spring and summer.  One of my favourite memories of our first year here at Seventy Seven Acres was the night we decided to go up to the little dam (probably better called the reed pond) by torchlight to see what we could find.  All through the reeds were little clumps of frog spawn, while adult frogs clambered up the thin stalks or nuzzled into the soft dirt beside the water.  Wherever we walked, silence would fall, but the calls from all around the rest of the dam echoed back and forth, a bit like a tennis match.  I was particularly struck by the sound the pobblebonk frogs made – it really does sound like “pobble-bonk”!

Just recently we’ve had a few frogs come visiting us, like a little brown tree frog that moved into the breezeway where we had just installed a couple of Dicksonia Antarctica plants and were watering them every evening with a fine haze of dam water for a couple of hours to help them settle in.

Little brown tree frog... enjoying the mister during a recent hot spell

The little brown tree frog… enjoying the mister during a recent hot spell.  The actual frog was only about the size of a twenty cent coin.

An even smaller tree frog came a-hunting on our bathroom window a couple of nights ago, too.  It was fascinating to see him from underneath, as he reached up onto the glass, chasing minute insects.  Alas, he was gone before I could fetch a camera, but he provided a few moments of enthralling entertainment before he slunk off into the darkness.

I suspect we won’t be seeing – or hearing –  too many more this season, as our evenings are starting to cool down, and our mornings are definitely feeling a little chilly.  I don’t know a lot about frogs – despite a childhood obsession with tadpoling – but I think they sleep the winter away, tucked up cosy somewhere until the growing warmth of spring wakes them up and gets them on the move.

Hmm.  Something else I’ll have to learn about.  I wonder if there is a handy, pocket sized field guide for the frogs of our region…

Camping and Cockatoos

My first encounter with the enigmatic Yellow-Tailed Black Cockatoo was early one morning when a small flock flew overhead and scattered amongst the trees at a camp site up on the edge of the Brindabellas.  I was there as a young teacher with a group of intrepid Year 5s, and a select group of us were collecting wood to make the fire to cook our breakfast.

It was cold and we were stamping about to keep warm, looking forward to Toad in the Hole (Aussie camping style)* and hot tea.  I guess we were a bit preoccupied, and the first thing we knew about the cockatoos was the sound of their eerie cries echoing through the forest.

At first I thought that perhaps seagulls had been blown inland, but the sound wasn’t quite right.  And there were too many answering calls for it to be eagles or hawks.

My confusion was quickly abated as the willowy, black shadows weaved their way through the trees and into sight.  It was breathtaking, and they have ever since remained a firm favourite for me amongst the cockatoo family.

We occasionally hear their haunting cries or catch a glimpse of them here at Seventy Seven Acres.  They are beautiful, elegant birds, and so solemn and graceful compared to their louder cousins: the familiar, white, Sulphur Crested Cockatoo.

Perhaps you can imagine my delight this morning, then, when a pair came to rest in one of our Brittle Gums by the back gate.  I slipped outside as quietly as I could, for these birds are shy creatures, and quickly took a photo before they went on their way.  They only hung around for a few moments, and one very purposefully hid behind a large branch, but the other remained calmly aloof with his back to me, long enough for me to snap my pic.

A beautiful Yellow-Tailed Black Cockatoo taking a moment to rest in our garden.

A beautiful Yellow-Tailed Black Cockatoo taking a moment to rest in our garden.

The Yellow-Tailed Black Cockatoo is reasonably common in South Eastern Australia, although I’m given to understand that numbers have declined as old growth forest has been logged.  Apparently they need large, old, hollow trees for nesting and breeding, so loss of these trees from their habitat has impacted on their ability to retain the larger flocks that were reported in earlier times.

These days they are more likely to be seen as pairs or in family groups of up to about 10 or 12 birds, although they may still form large flocks in winter.  They are semi-migratory, ranging to find food through the changing seasons.  Predominantly seed eaters, preferring casuarina, eucalypt, hakea, banksia and xanthorrhea, they will also search out and eat wood boring insects and bugs in a variety of trees.  As with most of the cockatoo family, they have taken a liking to the introduced pine species, and will happily pry the seeds out of the cones or rip the bark away to find bugs.

At about 60cms they are the one of the largest of the cockatoos, but with their streamlined shape and long wings, they look smaller than the Sulphur Crested White Cockatoo – and are certainly less raucous!

(Includes information from Michael Morcombe’s Field Guide to Australian Birds – a fabulous resource.)

Aussie Toad in the Hole (camping variety)

This is one of those amazing meals that just isn’t the same if you try it at home… I think you have to be cold, tired after a sleepless night in a tent, and truly hungry for it to work properly, and it is definitely best cooked over a smoky, wood fired barbecue.  Luckily it is also very simple and quick to make.  Warning: this bears only a minimal resemblance to the classic English recipe containing sausages and batter.

Ingredients:  Sliced bread, egg, butter, salt and pepper to taste (per serving).

Method:  First cut or tear a hole in your slice of bread (a circular cookie cutter works well if you have remembered to bring one) and melt a large dob* of butter on a the hot BBQ plate, using the tip of a knife to spread it around.  Drop your bread on top of the butter and immediately crack an egg into the hole.  Cook until the first side is done then flip over to cook other side (time varies depending on how well-done you like your egg – generally, it is not recommended to have your egg too runny unless you are happy to wear it on your clothes for the day).  Season with salt and pepper to taste and eat while piping hot. Totally delicious! ( a real shame that I can’t eat bread any more)

*dob – in this context, ‘dob’ is a technical term meaning an amount of butter large enough to grease the hot plate, but not so large that the food is swimming in it.

…when the bough breaks

There is always something that needs doing around the property.

The remains of the pump house down by the main dam!

The remains of the pump house down by the main dam!

This little project has been waiting for a while, but really needs to be sorted out, sooner rather than later, to protect the pump that makes sure the garden water tank is always full.

In the background is the large tree that fell on it, another ‘little project’ that we are still working on clearing up.

There is some nice wood in the old tree, so we aren’t too keen on relegating it directly to firewood.  Matt thinks he can do some rough planks to make a bench and possible picnic table if we can be patient enough to let it dry out properly.

In the meantime, the tarpaulin that we threw over the top of the old pump house to keep the weather out keeps getting blown off, and when I went out to measure the concrete pad it sits on this morning, I really couldn’t be sure what might be lurking amongst the alluring blue folds.

I maintain a healthy respect for some of the more slithery brands of wildlife that we share our home with.  The tarpaulin has to go.

We haven’t been able to source a replacement shed of the same size at a reasonable price, but Matt found some fairly cheap prefab sheds at the local hardware store.  The one he snapped up looks like it might be too small to fit the pump and all its bits and pieces inside, as well the power point, but, it’s okay, he already has alternative plans for that shed and has his eye on another ‘bargain’ in a slightly larger size.

While the original pump house was just tall enough to fit the pump, the new shed will be able to house some tools as well so that we can leave a few things down near the dam.  We have plans to build a garden on the north facing slope that runs down to the water – maybe a small orchard or some grape vines , or possibly even an extended veggie patch.

Whatever we decide on, the first job will be to erect some kind of enclosure to keep ‘the wallaby’ out.  He doesn’t just eat the fruit, he eats the entire plant, as we have found to our detriment with a cherry tree, an apple, a green gage, and our pear tree (which was doing so well) in our back garden.  I chased him off the peach tree the other day, but some of the lower branches are looking a bit sad.

The impromptu chicken wire fences around the existing garden beds have done their job at keeping young Wally, the possum(s), and the goats at bay, but, sadly, were unable to repel the late frosts that killed off our tomato plants and seriously stunted everything else, or the hot, dry days over summer that took their toll on our veggies.

I’d like to spend more time in the garden, bringing on more edibles by preference, but when school is in, time is regrettably short, so the garden just isn’t looking all that bright at the moment

If nothing else, there’s a lot of weeding to get done.  Not Matt’s favourite job, so it generally comes down to me.  That, and putting up scrappy looking chicken wire fences (that sag, so the possums don’t feel confident climbing over them).  Still, the roses are starting to recover inside their wire-y prison, so I can’t complain too much.

a couple of brave roses putting on a show...

a couple of brave roses putting on a show…

I’ll let you know how the shed project goes.