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.

Foreign leaves

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We have very few deciduous native trees, so here in the warm temperate areas we mainly see this seasonal colour show in gardens. As I was recently staying in a house with a lovely old one, I was taken with theirs.

On the tree or off, those autumn leaves are spectacular, as what I think is a persimmon tree shows.

Orange or yellow, they are the falling reminders of summer, be they on or off the tree.

Fruitful or decorative, or both, the variety of colour added to the botanical marvels amongst all the greenery.

Not fallen from trees, but popped up from underground, these small fungi were scattered through the grass like golden-brown coins.

It was a privilege to witness some of Nature’s wardrobe change as it made way for the new green leaves of spring.

Rainforest  oddities

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I have shared flora finds in Sea Acres National Park (Port Macquarie) before, but each time I walk there I see new things!

It’s not your typical rainforest, as it has pockets of eucalypts growing there too, no doubt from past weather events where trees fell and light was allowed in.

As you know, details attract me and while there are many palm strips caught on vines, this one looked so like washing hung out to dry that I had to share it.

Speaking of vines, I saw one very odd and striking vine here, that looks like lacquered and polished cane, but curving. It is apparently Flagellaria indica, Whip Vine or Supplejack.

Growing to about 15 metres, its parts had many uses amongst indigenous people, and birds love its white berries.

Right beside the boardwalk is this brightly coloured and quirkily shaped tree trunk. I looked it up in the Centre’s useful information books and it is a rainforest myrtle, Glossia bidwilii, Python Tree, so called for its blotchy markings.

The shape is not accounted for.

Now how did I miss this before?!

The main plants you notice here are the palms, and I especially love the patterns made by the fan-shaped leaves of the Cabbage Palms (Livistona australis).

Taller, and usually in groves, are the stately Bangalow Palms (Archontophoenix cunninghiamia).

Beneath them, the spent palm leaves seem to block out most other plants; an effective mulch.

At a distance in the forest (sorry about the blurry zoomed image) I could see a strange crown-of-thorns-looking growth feature halfway up a tree. It was as if two trees had been butted roots-to-roots in a grafting attempt.  I could but try to imagine what had gone on here.

If only trees could talk…or at least in a language we could understand.

Nature’s sunny side

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I was hurrying to beat the sun before it rose over the sea’s horizon and became too bright to photograph.

I failed, but Nature still gave me a spectacular display.

While the land and sea were still largely cloaked in the greys and blacks of the previous night, on either side of the hill known as Nobbys, the sun was proclaiming the day.

Within seconds, that daily wonder had risen far enough to be making its way across the water to be colouring the coast.

How come this is a free show every day? Somebody should tax it…

Maybe this is the compensation we get for the loss of such golden people as Janet Cohen, who could see both dark and sunny sides of life.

Even on less showy starts to a day, when the sunshine really is reluctant to come out from behind the clouds, we can be sure it’s there, and that the colours will return to our landscape.

I doubt the bombarded people of the Middle East would be seeing much more than the grey of the rubble that once was their home – and the red of the blood from people, friends, family.

How do they hold on to the sunny side when it is just a memory?

What side of Nature would be visible in Gaza? 

As I walk home, I marvel at the extended free show, at the sunrise reflecting on the glass patio panels of an apartment block.

I vow to hang on to that sunny side of life, despite all the darkness we are seeing spread across the world, as an ignorant bully inflicts his tantrums on so many innocent people.

Here we are safe from bombs, so that in itself has to be seen as part of the sunny side, albeit clouded over. Although far away, we are certainly impacted, as felt by the $3.30 a litre I paid for diesel last time I topped up my little van.

Mere ripples from the bad-tempered stamping feet of the bully…

Familiar dystopia

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I did not think I would feel like doing a post so soon but this is what I’d have been telling Janet had she lived… so now I’m telling you!

I was given an op shop book that by chance is highly resonant, set in places I know well, have camped in and have protested in, and dealing with issues close to my heart.

It is set in the future, where humans have continued on their current trajectory of stuffing things up in the natural world, of being greedy and human-centric, so it’s not a good future. Hence we would say it’s dystopian, that is, the opposite of utopian.

But sadly, the world Inga Simpson has evoked is so close to what we are now doing and seeing that it is eerily familiar.

Siding Springs Observatory in the Warrumbungles features large in this terrific and terrifying book, as does the Dark Sky rating and the Artesian Basin we are trying to protect from the Santos Narrabri gas project.

The main characters race through well-known parts of the amazing volcanic Warrumbungles, on to the precious Pilliga, heading to Mount Kaputar near Narrabri. It’s a great story as well as scarily realistic.

When I went to Mount Kaputar, I was entranced by its differences, but also horrified to be able to see the spoil heaps of the Boggabri area mines even from there.  And the pollution.

I urge everyone to read this book: anyone who cares about what is happening in the north west, about the gas project, the pipeline, the tragedy of Maules Creek, the likelihood of losing so much more if the ill-approved Santos project goes ahead.

It is well-written, totally credible, very place-based, and deals with the social and environmental issues we are all anxious about now.

I use World of Books to get secondhand copies of books, with free delivery, so have immediately ordered another of her books, ’Where the trees were’, from them. How did I not know of her passionate and clever writing?

Please, go find a copy of The Thinnings; this is where we are heading.

Thank you, Inga Simpson. And brava.

No Janet, no blog

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The trip to Clunes and subsequent camping in Victoria was meant to inspire lots of blog posts. The soaring price of diesel just had to be borne: I’d booked everything, and after all, we weren’t being bombed…

However, by the time I got to Goulburn on 16th March, the whole trip was under a different, darker cloud, as I learnt that my lovely friend Janet Cohen had suddenly died that day.

She – and we – knew that her time was coming, but I thought she had months of gradual decline in which we could farewell each other. After 12 years of cancer treatments, she was in the last stage of that battle, planning on using the Voluntary Assisted Dying outlet, the legislation for which she had fought long and hard.

When I was undergoing radiation for a skin cancer on my face, at the same unit she used, Janet sent me the photo above. It sums up her attitude to the ‘dance of life’ and, to the raw deal she’d been dealt. I loved it.

I’d been looking forward to regaling Janet with tales from this trip, and so had she. After her death, so many things went wrong that I felt that my world was as out of kilter as the loss of a wonderful person like Janet could… and should … mean.

I just wanted to get home, to be in the same area as she had lived so I could believe she was really no longer here. And maybe her spirit was partly lingering. I don’t think it is, but her absence does seem more dreadfully real here.

On the long drive home, I thought of many words to describe her, and because I write to try to make sense of life, I have to use words to make sense of her death.

Janet was a beautiful mix of qualities:

Radiant and rational

Life-loving and love-giving

Feisty and fair-minded

Spritely and spiritual

Activist and artist

Natural and nature-caring

Gracious and generous

She was passionate about social and environmental injustice and brought her clear thinking and considerable intelligence to any issue.

She was the most kindred of the very few kindred spirits I have been fortunate to meet in my life.

I had feared the words on my CDs would cause more weeping, but when back in more familiar territory I played the ‘O Brother’ CD. While there is plenty of loss and dying in those songs, I found one that seemed appropriate to Janet’s attitude. Its message was ‘Keep on the sunny side of life’, that no matter how dark and dreary days may be, the sun will always shine again.

I know Janet was as troubled by the world’s events as the rest of us, but somehow she could put things in perspective, even if not exactly optimistic.

Vale, Janet. 

The sparkle and sunshine you radiated in this ‘dance of life’ will be greatly missed by many.

Deep sadness dwells in me. 

I look at the half-read book Janet recommended I get, The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller, and vow to begin it again. Maybe some of her grace and acceptance will come to me.

Catch up and Clunes

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Readers will notice that I have finally got around to getting a more up-to-date photo of myself on this page. 

My daughter took the old one on my 68th birthday, and as I am now 78. it was way past time for my author image to catch up with my age!

It’s not easy to accept how one is ageing, nor to find a friend who is patient enough to tolerate my reluctance in ‘posing’.

So thanks Jane, for being so willing!

And to bite another bullet, I am taking ‘Peeping through my fingers’ to Victoria, for the Clunes Booktown Festival on 21st and 22nd March.  I’d been wanting to go for years, but as a book-loving spectator, not a participant.

I want my short stories read more widely; these are mostly award-winners, and my biggest wins have been in Victorian competitions (The Alan Marshall and the Boroondara), and my writers’ residencies have been in Victoria too. Plus the Owner Builder Magazine, for which I used to write, was based here, in Dunolly.

So I won’t feel too out of place.

If you are going to it, do come by and say hello! I’m in a Writers’ Tent, stall FE

One cloudy morning

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It would not be recognisable as a Port Macquarie skyline without the ever-present pine trees. 

On this particular morning, the skies above them were my focus, as the cloud show was extraordinarily varied, in pictures and patterns, in colours and connotations, in figures and fancies.

I have often shared sunrises or sunsets, and feel obliged to do a little bit of that here, as the seascape sunrise is always a treat, but today what’s above those strips and swirls of colour are more interesting.

If you think blue skies are boring, and prefer the endless mystery of cloud shows, you might like The Cloud Appreciation Society, to which my friend and webmaster Fred Baker introduced me. Check it out.

Blue skies are made interesting by clouds, so a little bit of blue is allowed to peep through for contrast. 

I kept almost tripping over as I walked about ‘with my head in the clouds’, looking up and twisting backwards in case I was missing another ephemeral wonder.

Whether the clouds were white or grey or both, they were making so many different images up there that I couldn’t keep up.

The display above Nobbys itself seemed to emanate from it, radiating like a bridal veil into the blue.

But today I think the unlimited shades and shapes of grey clouds have won me over; I almost want to delete that distracting bit of colour on the horizon…

Like here. From pearly grey to almost black, from wisps and lace to ripples and smudges, from haloes to heavy linings… I love these clouds!

Macedon memories

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I was recently reminded of my wonderful 2010 nature writing residency at Rosebank in Victoria, thanks to the Victorian Writers Centre. It was a world of mists and deciduous trees, of old gardens and evocative rocks.

The lovely old stone cottage was dwarfed by the huge oak tree at its front.

I met my first medlar tree there– a living mediaeval curio.

I saw streets lined with golden autumn leaves, as here in what I think was Lancefield, where they had a great Saturday market-in-the-mist.

I roamed all around the Macedon area, including Cobaw State Forest and its sleeping boulders.

For a fungi-lover like me, the cool high country was full of hitherto unseen treasures.

Of course I went to Hanging Rock, very early before the school hordes arrived. As I heard the pan pipes playing in my head, I can see how Miranda could have disappeared… no path was obvious…

And the Rock does not exactly hang, but is scarily wedged.

When I left, this is what I wrote in the guest book:

‘I came to Rosebank from the bush, not the city, but it has been no less a new experience – a taste of rural civilisation in this quaint cottage of honeycomb-hued stone, with only the roos and the smell of woodsmoke to remind me of home.

I take away a mind full of fresh sensory treasures to colour and flavour stories yet to be written. Many were close at hand: the awesome Oak; the crunch of its acorns underfoot; the strange sci-fi fruit with its pronged antennae that turned out to be the mediaeval Medlar; the bright yellow carpet that the Twisted Willow bestowed, after filling the lap of the last chair of summer with gold; the graceful hot pink and orange drooping of of the European Spindle bush; sunlit morning mist turning the sheep on the hill pink; the cute little mouse that grew bolder each night, and its astonishing capacity for pellet production.

‘Some were further afield and higher up: snow gums and mosses and bright fungi, including my first Fly Agaric, the archetypal white-dotted glossy red toadstool of childhood fairtytales. 

Most of all, I will remember the rocks – on Cobaw and Hanging Rock and the Camel’s Hump – great rounded creatures with mottled hides, like stranded humpback whales; the pockmarked guardian pinnacles at the Rock which does not hang, but straddles; only its freckled bulbous stomach, under which I scurried, can be said to hang. If Patricia Wrightson’s Nargun lives anywhere, it’s there.

‘But this is a home I have been lent, not just a house, and domestic things have entered my head too: the unconscious game of avoiding the broken board under the carpet in the hall floor; the dear little yellow and white enamelled pot, the nest of cast iron pans, the beautifully balanced and weighted vegetable knife, the old scullery sink, the deep, deep bath that retains the water’s heat – and, not least – the BiIlby egg cup from which I ate my Lancefield market free range eggs!’

Thank you, Victoria.