Dorrigo

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I have been at the Dorrigo Folk and Bluegrass Festival this last wet, wet weekend.

I camped in the overflow camping paddock of the showground, where the Festival is held.

Cows grazed on the hills around us, and my eye was taken by this homemade slide-on camper that had parked nearer to them, way over by itself.

It’s the fourth time I have been to this festival, and it’s always a treat. Being small, it’s not overwhelmingly full of people. Held across several halls and large tents in the showground, most people have trouble seeing all the acts on offer, often splitting each hour between two. I seemed to often be in the Banksia tent; here it’s the lively Lizzie Flynn and the Runaway Trains.

There were lots of delicious looking food on offer at stalls, but I bring my own so I can afford to buy a CD or two if I am especially taken by someone.

As I was: Jo Davie, of sublime voice; the melodious harmonies and playing of the three young women of Apolline; and the treat that is Mickey and Michelle, where his voice and her harp playing were enchanting.

Friday sent many people down town to buy gumboots as the rain fell and the track ruts got deeper and muddier. The produce store must have sold out, judging by the number of obviously new gumboots I saw. I wore my old faithful rubber Blundstones for the first two days and only dared leather boots on the Sunday as the sun kept showing its face amidst showers.

Dorrigo is a high rainfall area, but this was my first festival here in the rain, although I’d heard stories of vehicles having to be towed out by tractors in the past. There were a surprising number of large motorhomes there, but mostly it was small caravans, campervans and tents.

Of course amongst this huge variety of mobile accommodation, I mostly noted the unusual, like this gaily painted caravan opposite me.

On the one day when the sun was out more than not, I took a few photos, but mainly I was too busy going from one venue to another.

Despite the weather, it was a great weekend of amazing musicians and singers, and I think the rain and mud actually made people feel bonded in adventure. Certainly the numbers camping seemed high.

While there were a lot of young families, with the kids being well catered for in entertainment, I also noted a high proportion of grey and white-haired heads. 

My generation?

Young or old, how lucky are we that Dorrigo bothers, rain or shine! Many performers attested that this was their favourite small festival too.

Landless

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With a hot day predicted, I am out early to do my short walk before the heat really hits.

Fire bans are already being put in place in some districts. This feels like mid summer; whatever happened to spring?

We know the northern hemisphere was devastated by heatwaves and fires in their summer; now it’s our turn.

Yet here in NSW coal is still being approved, as with the HVO mine (and encouraged) to be dug up and exported to add fuel to global warming. There are no global borders.

Will the government take the blame for what happens to us all this summer?

Will there be good repercussions, like reversals, after the recent High Court ruling that such greenhouse gas emissions elsewhere from our coal have to be taken into account?

I have to seek solace in nature to combat my anger at the regressive state of our world. 

Even with only distant land in sight, the beauty of sky and sea is pure. Yet that faint brown line above the land horizon denotes the hazard reduction burning that has been being carried out in the hinterland.

Hopefully helpful, as I have seen bad fires burn right back over recently ‘hazard reduced’ forest. But people can only take limited measures to prepare for these unstoppable extreme weather events.

On the very same morning walk, face a different direction, towards the sunrise, and I am given another picture.

The sea is not blue but pewter, except for the slim spotlit patch of sea that is silver. The scattered battalions of clouds are backlit dark, appearing to be showering rain far out to sea.

It does help my spirit to witness these ephemeral events, more than the walk helps my body, I am sure!

Wild surprises

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On a walk called the Tree Fern Forest Walk you’d expect to see plenty of tree ferns, which I did. The height of some surprised me.

But I wasn’t expecting there to also be a grasstree forest (Xanthorrhoea australis). Very slow growing, they can live for hundred of years.

Many times I came across burnt grasstree stumps that had been partly demolished; I assume to get at the central core, but for what and by what?

There were plenty of rainforest walks, where as usual my eye was drawn to details, like this ancient and tightly twisted vine.

Of course I was attracted to the many sorts of fungi in these forests, from the surprising high one whose top seemed to be emitting a soft pink light onto its host tree trunk, to the masses of long grey lobes or the orange-tipped colonies amidst splattered white on fallen trees or their cut ends.

I was keeping an eye on the banks of what was a deeply cut track, as I have often seen shy ground orchids like Greenhoods on banks. Not on this one, but it was absolutely festooned with mosses.

In several places I saw isolated colonies of this plant, that I have a dim memory of seeing before and being told it is a moss.

All told, Gibraltar National Park was a fabulous place to visit in September, and I am vastly enriched by what I saw there.

We are truly blessed with what Nature we still have in this country, so I will take this experience into my new practice, of ‘singing against the storm’.

Colour hits

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While I see a lot of gorgeous yellow wildflowers, I think we have to stop the green and gold fixation. There are a lot of purple wildflowers, and not just the hardenbergia most of us know and the small friendly faces of the Purple Flag or  Iris. I think this is Indigofera australis, which I haven’t seen since my Mountain forests.

From light to dark, from lilac to royal purple, these plants are stunning.

Not that I have any objection to whites.  The purity of such a simple flower as the everlasting daisy is always a delight, but the bells and spires I see here make my head spin.

There are many of these bushes, where the complicated inwards whorls carry a touch of pink. A hakea?

I was last in Gibraltar Range NP not long after bushfires, and the tree trunks still bear blackened bark.

My next post will focus on the amazing trees here, from those on dry rocky land to tall eucalypt forests to rainforest, and may I say, ‘Green ain’t ‘just’ green’! 

Of rocks and water

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Most of the rocks in Gibraltar National Park are sleepily rounded, but this unusual one high on a flattish rocky hill was as if fancifully sculpted, and for once not by water.

The creek has many small rills and cascades, interspersed with long tranquil pools.  Mr Mulligan’s long ago plans for a hydro-electric scheme here came to naught, but I can see why it appealed.

Rocks tumble over themselves everywhere here, on dry land or in the stream.

Some of the rocks seem stranded in mid-stream amidst the clear flows. So clear it is inviting; I test the temperature of the water. Cold, but not icy… and not tempting.

I am lulled by the constant busy burbling of the creek and charmed by its flow patterns as it makes its way between the rocks.

And then I notice a dash of bright red on one rock.

I zoom my camera in, and astonishingly it is a small group of sundews (Drosera), pretty carnivorous plants that I know from sandy heaths… not rocks. Yet they mostly appear in poor soils, using the insects they catch as nutrients for that soil… or soil-less rock.

Once again, I marvel at the adaptability of Nature.

Wild wonders

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I have been camping in the Gibraltar Ranges National Park, off the Gwydir Highway out of Glen Innes.

It’s a fabulous time to be here, as the wildflowers are out in overwhelming profusion.

Not the famous and endangered Waratah, although I could see buds on some of the tall plants. There are now signs warning not to pick the waratahs; I think the signs should say ‘Do not pick ANY wildflowers, but especially our waratahs, which are endangered’.

This is high rugged country. I stayed in the small Boundary Falls campground first.

The walk down to these Falls is short, steeply stepped, but with a handrail all the way.

At the base of them is a rocky and secretive creek gully. The falls themselves are slight, gentle and lovely.

On the way to Mulligans Campground is the Anvil Rock walk, which takes in heathland swamp and towering rocks. It was here that I was first overwhelmed by the sheer variety and quantity of wildflowers. I did not know that we had so many native flowering shrubs and trees like the wattles.

I am not going to differentiate what I saw on which walk, and I was disappointed that there is no flora list on offer, as there used to be in national parks. A general sign is not enough.

I think I will have to go with colour…

Let’s do yellow first.

Wattles, acacias, ain’t ‘just’ wattles. I was amazed at the different varieties growing in different areas, changing as the land did.

There were broad-leaved rich yellow wattles with more leaves than blossoms, ferny-leaved golden ones, spiny-leaved ones with paler blooms, and a veritable arcade of lemon-coloured ones, backlit by the sun into a glowing spectacle.

There were many, many yellow flowering pea shrubs, some arching and graceful, others reaching high; tiny ground covers like the Hibbertia/Guinea flower species I’d not seen before; and a yellow-ish lushly flowering tree I did not know. Well, I hardly knew any of these plants!

But yellow was not the only colour here…

Proof of Spring?

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I am taking great delight in flowers in my garden right now, which is a mix of natives and old favourites.

This highly aromatic native is Philoteca myoporoides, which used to be called Eriostemon. It is also called Wax Flower. It’s the foliage that smells so strongly, so I make a point of picking and crushing a leaf as I pass.

The most successful native plant here is a ground cover, Native Violet, or Viola hederacea. It has spread beautifully from clumps dug up from my daughter’s garden. So pretty, and so forgiving; my aim is for it to take over from the buffalo grass.

As I said, my garden is a mix. I love lemon flavours, and I have several dwarf lemon trees, a lemon myrtle and a lemon-scented tea-tree. I think this is a Tahitian Lime, and although it has been in for almost three years, this is the first time it has flowered, let alone fruited, I lean in close and sniff each time I pass, remembering the citrus orchard where I grew up. It is looking hopeful for this year!

Another nostalgic exotic planting are these Snowflakes (Leucojum), which as kids we called Snowdrops. They had naturalised down the front of our farm and grew in great clumps. The flowers don’t last long when picked, but they are so perfect in their tiny white bell petticoats with a green dot on each scallop, that I like to have some inside to look at.

The other has to be these old-fashioned Freesias (Freesia refracta alba), which, even with my reduced sense of smell due to the radiation, are heavenly scented. One of the Brush Turkeys decided to hop in to the large pot and scratch up the greenery a few months ago, but these hardy bulbs have recovered to bloom. They do cut well, and I have vases of them near wherever I sit, as they effortlessly perfume the air.

My most successful fruit tree transplant to this place has been the Cumquat tree (Fortunella margarita ‘Nagami’). Grateful to be out of a pot, it has borne dozens of its little oval globes each year, decorating my small yard with its cheery crop.

The skin on these is sweet but the flesh is tart, so it makes the perfect snack, and I rarely pass without eating one whole; as they only have two seeds, easily spat out. 

I have made Cumquat marmalade, but these are so good to eat fresh, to slice in salads or stir fries, that I am dreading the end of their season.

So although it’s not yet September, the official start of Spring, my garden reckons it’s here. 

I’m reducing my bedding weight and warmth in recognition, so I hope so.

Where rocks rule

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I have been camping in Cathedral Rocks National Park. The granite rocks are indeed impressive, often looking precariously balanced.

The short Warrigal Walk from Native Dog campground takes you past this monster to the swamp where a small creek runs.

Some of the rocks invite anthropomorphic analogies, like this one…

Others gently sit on their bases and allow moss to thrive.

Few wildflowers are out yet, but the many wattles are gloriously in golden bloom.

One French tourist returned from her walk bearing armfuls; I had to tell her that in Australia it is not allowed to pick the wildflowers, and why.

She was also camped in my booked spot…

I love cooking on an open fire, and it was cold enough at night and early morning to need that warmth. Firewood is supplied in these high country national parks. As a vegetarian, I prefer to bring my own grill rack to place over the provided fireplace: all those meaty meals seem encrusted on the provided swivel plate!

But this Native Dog campground is too close to the Guyra Road; it does not feel like I am in the bush, and many casual overnight stoppers arrived late and left early, doubtless unbooked and unpaid, and there is no reception here to do it online at the last minute. 

I did not feel safe, and left three days early.

Moss artistry

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It’s been a wet week where I was farmsitting, but, being an older property, it had lots of shady trees and garden structures. The latter were especially made of rocks, as a rocky river was nearby.

Moss loves rocks.

Here it took every opportunity to decorate every surface possible, vertical or horizontal, with every variety of moss possible. 

Whether round river rocks or square pavers, it managed to enhance and link them greenly into appealing patterns.

I loved the way it had taken advantage of any shaded irregularity, be it on a ridged uphill walkway or a cracked flat path.

It did its best to beautify both natural stone and man-made concrete, and the efforts were much appreciated by me!

Watching

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The whales are migrating north now, and Tacking Point Lighthouse is reputedly one of the best spots on the mid north coast to see them.

But the weather has been cold and wet, with the showers unpredictable.

There are quite a few people looking out to sea for those telltale plumes of white as the whales come up for air, and ‘blow’.

And we do see some, but they are a long way out to sea.

I am impressed by the quiet and calm, as people patiently watch. Some have binoculars, some have cameras, but all are quiet.

It’s cold and windy; this requires perseverance. Not instant enough for the few kids, who quickly drag their parents away.

We scan the horizon from left to right constantly. Hoping. But any right-minded whale would stay under as long as possible; the water is warmer than the air.

A white cap? A blow? Mutterings and pointings. Heads and binoculars swivel.

To the south, along Lighthouse Beach, the weather looks more appealing… but still no whale sightings.

One man has binoculars set up on a tripod and speaks into his phone often. I guess he is alerting a whale watching boat where to go to get closer for its tourists. This is school holiday time, so lots of people are here wanting to see these ocean giants.

Maybe I need to do the tourist thing and book on a boat?

Far out, to the south, I spot a partial rainbow, but it does not bring the reward of a whale.

Dolphins swim close to our vantage point, but, charming as they are, I see them often.

For me the most impressive part of this whale watching excursion has been watching the calm patience of ‘the people watching for whales’.

It feels like they are aware of the majesty of these huge creatures on their epic journeys. 

As if in the presence of the sacred, as in church, they sense the appropriateness of staying silent.

This does not happen often in our culture.

High country escape

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Recently I camped for a week at New Country Swamp in Mummel Gulf National Park, about 40 kilometres south of Walcha.

I was glad to be in an AWD for the 15 or so kilometres of muddy road in from the Oxley Highway.

While previously logged, it was a wet forest rapidly regrowing.

My first morning gave me a gorgeous sunrise, with the swamp glowing in many colours.

The two walks are short: one looked out between Snow Gums and over the swamp, the other over Mummel Gulf itself.

There were masses of these Banksias around the camp and through the bushland.

The tree fern regrowth was prolific, softening the forest.

My eyes kept being drawn to the mosses and lichens that thrived in this moist forest…and one rare epiphyte.

And of course there were lots of fungi, on rotting logs and on the ground. None really spectacular, but so plentifully hard at work doing their bit in the ecosystem.

I’d have to say that I most loved the alpine grass clumps, which seemed softly, shaggily cheeky!

I was there to write, so the walks were less important than the weather, although the wood being wet made my evening fires difficult.

Sky spectacles

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Looking through my archived photos, I realise that one of the best aspects of living on my Mountain was that I was so close to the sky. I looked up as much as I looked down.

And the rewards were often spectacular, like this rainbow.

The sunrises and sunsets could be extraordinary. 

Even when it was almost dark down here on the earth, the highest clouds to the north-east might still be able to reflect the glow of the setting sun in the west.

The higher north-east mountain range often caused a mighty cloud build-up to make a palette for these displays.

A low setting winter sun, mountain mist and filtering trees is all it took to create this occasional, and almost spiritual, sight.

On any given day, that higher range might snag clouds at different heights and let them build up into a panorama of sky architecture.

No wonder I feel rather suffocated here on the coast. I am still a mountain woman.