garden

Proof of Spring?

by

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.

Moss artistry

by

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!

Wallaby world

by

On my Substack posts I am going through my archives, so I thought I might do the same here, in between trips elsewhere and posts about them.

I urge you to subscribe so you get an email notification when I post; it’s free.

When choosing my favourite photo, it had to be this one.

The mum (an Eastern Redneck, my most common wallaby there) had decided my western mud brick cabin wall, not far from my steps, was her spot.

I was overwhelmed when her joey and I locked eyes one day, as for it I was its first human, likely to be the only human it would ever see in its life here on my isolated mountain wildlife refuge.

So that meant that my theme was going to be wallabies, especially wallaby joeys. I never got over how small the mothers often were, and how big the joeys got and were still carried about in that cosy pouch. And besides, they are so very cute…

I watched them go from hairless and totally pouch-bound to hairy and venturing their front legs out, having the best of both worlds. They would nibble the grass as Mum levered herself along as she grazed.

Yet even when too big to fit in the pouch, they could still drink her milk. The mothers would tolerate this for a while, then cuff the young away. Final weaning steps, I guess.

I wasn’t so keen on some of the adults’ habits.

After I had to let them all into the yard, due to the pressure of writing ‘Rich Land, Wasteland’, they totally trashed my garden.

I’d foolishly thought they’d mainly eat the grass that I no longer had time to mow. Hah!

They didn’t eat the leaves of bulbs, so the naturalised jonquils and daffodils survived.

But it was unexpected that they’d eat strong-smelling plants like lavender. This was a rosemary bush!

Nor did thorns deter them, as they did the same to roses.

But they were a daily treat to watch. They could ignore me as the only human, and be totally natural. They knew it was their world.

How sweet is this young one? Even as it poses in front of a stripped heritage rose bush…

No wonder I miss the real world of my Mountain and the real wildlife with whom I shared it.

Verandah graces

by

In any home I’ve had, where possible I have cloaked the verandah in vines as living blinds, to give me shade in Summer, fabulous colour in Autumn and sunshine in Winter. 

At my Mountain it was a mixture of Ornamental Grape/Glory Vine (Vitus vinifera) and white-flowering Wisteria.

Each verandah was also decorated with a 1904 old-fashioned climbing rose, Crepuscule. Its generous repeat flowering of raggedy apricot blossoms even survived the munching possums and taller wallabies. It has a sweet if subtle fragrance, which you can bring indoors, as its small clusters make good cut flowers.

When I left the Mountain, I couldn’t take the rose, but I took cuttings of the Glory Vine and at my next place there were a lot more verandahs for it to cloak, so it took longer, but continued to give beauty in framing the great views there. That four acre place helped me acclimatise to civilisation, but it was too much work for me, being ex-dairy land, not bush.

In the rural town of Wingham, where I was flooded out in 2021, cuttings of that Glory Vine came with me, were planted in the raised beds below, and loved it. Here the vine gave me privacy as well as shade.

The Crepuscule was harder to source, but eventually took its place and began to grace that verandah.

Now, in my final downsizing (apart from the coffin) I planted more Glory Vine cuttings; these ones were from my daughter, who’d kept the vine continuity going. They took, and rapidly did the same job.

In a serendipitous moment, I found a Crepuscule as a solitary bare-rooted cutting, on special in a supermarket. Weird that they even had a heritage rose, weird that I got the last one. It was waiting for me…

Even here on the coast, which is not often rose-friendly, it is happily growing up and along the lattice.

I can’t describe the pleasure I get from seeing my Glory Vine and Crepuscule gracing my latticed verandah externally, and giving me shade, privacy and pleasure when I look from within.

Perhaps I’m a boring gardener, but when you’ve had to move a lot, the continuity of these two plants is a comfort, a nostalgic link that I cherish.

Like my old timber furniture, they have been with me on my life’s journey, through fire and flood.

Coastal garden

by

Port Macquarie has many large and handsome native fig trees, which I think are Port Jackson or Rusty figs (Ficus rubiginosa). 

Currently they are laden with fruit, which will turn red when they ripen. Whilst edible by humans, they are not deemed very palatable, but are eaten by flying foxes and many native birds.

In flower right now on this coastal walking strip is another tree, with such pretty pink flowers and deeper pink buds that I wondered if it was indeed native. There are several of them, but growing near such a populous area I could suspect garden-escapees… 

I was surprised at the size of the tree on which it blooms, and then spotted an even larger tree covered in the same flowers. 

But I was right to be suspicious: this is actually Norfolk Island Hibiscus (Lagunaria patersonia), a native of Lord Howe and Norfolk Islands.

It is also called Itchy Bomb tree, as it can irritate airways and skin, and has proven an invasive weed in mangrove forests. It certainly does well here, and by the size of these trees, has done so for a long time.

The native Swamp or Spider Lilies (Crinum pedunculata) are showy enough to also be garden plants, but they do belong here.

And this native one I know is often used in landscaping: the Blue Flax Lily (Dianella revolutum), here showing its purply-blue berries that follow the bright blue flowers.

All this late Spring lavishness within minutes walking from busy streets… amazing!

And on the other side, the sea. How lucky am I?

Intentional food and beauty

by

The lucky inhabitants and visitors to this garden find plenty to eat, if they are partial to nectar or berries. The owners have planted native shrubs and small trees with the specific aim of attracting and providing for them.

It’s highly successful, as the frequent forays of honeyeaters in this blooming time mean the branches are rarely still, a bouncing and swaying leafy larder.

Grevilleas, Kangaroo Paws, Banksias, Bottlebrushes and Lilly-Pillies abound.

This dense shrub is a favourite with small birds, and its prolific flowers are an unusual and very pretty shade of pink.

But my favourite in the pink stakes is the Lilly-Pilly with beautifully drooping hands of pale pink new leaves, which fade as they age.

Its bunched berries are pink too: what’s not to like?

Or if pink does not appeal, there are many of these Lilly-Pillies with cream powder puff blossoms.

Their fruit is a darker pink, larger and in smaller bunches, and perhaps more appetising?

It would be a very choosy bird that did not find this garden both a haven and a rich food source.

As a human I find it both a haven and a rich source of visual beauty, with the sightings and sounds of the birds an extra treat.

I could probably eat the Lilly-Pillies, but I’m too busy eating raspberries off the vine…

Low tide treasures

by

The hooded keeper of this treasure trove glowers warningly from his island, arms folded, tail curled beneath him.

I assure him I won’t touch anything, just look.

The tide is turning, so soon his garden will be safe once more from plunderers… and blunderers like me.

The scalloped sand ripples around smaller rock islands seem to show a tide that receded in circles, leaving a rococo mirror for the small patch of blue sky peeping though the clouds.

Other parts of the rock shelf mirrored the land world more dramatically, with plateau lakes, rushing waterfalls, steep cliffs and deep fjords.

The forests of cunjevoi nearest the sea edge were glowing bright green, not having been exposed to the sun for too long, and about to be submerged again.

I began to think of the clever adaptability of all the inhabitants, animal and vegetable, of this tidal shelf.

The shells can close up to prevent evaporation, but so do these Chelsea-bun-shaped creatures.

Every now and then one of them shoots a stream of water into the air before closing again.  I managed to photograph these with their little red mouths still open right after such an ejection. The bubbles they created are still visible.

I could see those red mouths because there is little vivid colour in these pools, so this red starfish was a beacon.

In other pools there were many starfish, but far more secretively camouflaged, mainly blue or with duller reddish tips.  They were well hidden amongst the showy seagarden plants or part buried in sand.

But this garden has as much sculpture as plants – rocks of gold and amber, decorated with filigree created by the Galeolaria seaworms, studded with the pearls of more mobile shells.

It even has more modern industrial-style sculpture sections, where vertical rules divided the rocks before freeform artistic elements were added.

I am yet again in awe of the design intrinsic in Nature, which we can only emulate. Perhaps, as we veer from fire to flood seasons, we might also emulate the adaptability of the inhabitants of rock shelves.

Surviving the Big Wet

by

Many of the plants in my low garden, in ground or in pots, are turning up their toes at the seemingly endless rain, like this lavender.

Yet other things, like these fungi, can take advantage of it.

My garden is flat, and the swamp it must have once been is evidenced by the next door property, still pools of brown water. The ducks and water hens don’t mind, as they can wade and swim at ease; even the kookaburrras like to fly down and splash about.

But I realise now I ought to have raised the whole area before installing these garden beds or placing large pots down there, so bad is the waterlogging.

So I depend on pots up on my decks, like these surprisingly generous cacti. Formerly called Zygocactus truncata, they now bear the fabulous name of Schlumbergera truncata.

Having survived being inundated at my old house, where again the deck was their home, they have now burst forth into delicate yet showy blooms.

Hardy and beautiful! My sort of flowering plant.

Tuckeroo stone garden

by

I am slowly exploring this Camden Haven area of the NSW mid north coast, taking any turn-offs that catch my fancy. ‘Tuckeroo car park’ in Kattang Nature Reserve was one such. The word intrigued first, then the tree itself that invited me to the green tunnel ahead.

A large specimen with wrinkly elephantine bark, it was loaded with bunches of creamy-lemon blossoms, buzzing with bees.

It is properly called Cupaniopsis anacardioides, and also commonly known as Beach Tamarind, or Carrotwood. Birds love it too, because those flowers are followed by orange-red fleshy berries containing showy orange seeds.

The surprising reward at the end of the short walk was a rocky headland, the northern end of the long unbroken Dunbogan Beach.

I gravitate to small coves and clumps of rocks like this, but what was surprising here were the forms the rocks had taken…

Iron-rimmed geometric shapes, infilled with millions of pebbles…  what gardener had been at work here?

Some still held seawater; at a certain point of tide change the higher rocky rims would be stepped moats.

Other rocks ran in parallel like railroad tracks, or formed crosses in this pebble-crater’s garden.

Others formed backbones for arching ribs…

Or enclosed miniature sea lettuce pools and waterfalls, with small oyster-like shellfish…

Brooding over the stone garden was this ancient wrinkled giant lizard, its smooth head lifted, on alert for any misdemeanours — or for dinner?

Welcome resident reptile

by

I love my little skinks but I was delighted to realise that this very big and handsome skink, an Eastern Bluetongue (Tiliqua scincoides), has taken up residence in my yard.

Over several weeks I have seen it in three different places, but was still surprised to spot it by my back steps. These can grow up to 60cm long, but often only the head will be seen, protruding from a drainpipe or other shelter.

You would usually only see its blue tongue when it is in defensive mode, puffing up its body and holding its mouth open to scare the perceived intruder. This one seems used to me and does not scurry away as it did at first.

I am in awe of the intricate arrangement of its head scales… and a little in love with its cute little feet…!

Stump host

by

This Silky Oak, long ago self-sown in the wrong place, had to be taken down. But its twintrunked stump is still giving life.

One rainforest tree seed has found its way in between those trunks and is somehow thriving.

But someone seems to have cleaned their paintbrush on its bark.  No, it’s my old friends, the slime moulds, this time a smoother variety of the family, one I had not yet met.

On the other side, a different slime mould resembles, not paint, but sawdust, scattered down the bark and coating the fungi which like this stump too.

I never cease to wonder at the many forms this can take. And to think I once did not know of the existence of slime moulds…

But have a look at this breathtaking video from Australian photographer Stephen Axford:

Lichen decor

by

On my morning walk, this unusual decorative wall drew me across the road for a closer look. It looked intentional, with the defined cut-off line at the top.

But in fact it was not made by man, but by Nature. It proved to a most painterly smattering of lichens, opportunistically taking over a stretch of black shadecloth.

Up close, the lichen was both pretty and delicately varied, the shadecloth host giving it the effect of paint on canvas.

Further along the road, different lichen had ‘painted’ just four of a whole fence of timber palings. What did they have that the others didn’t?

Of course we are most used to seeing lichen on trees, as here on the south side of a palm tree in that same street.

Lichen is not a parasite, so it does not harm the trees.

Lichens are formed from a symbiotic relationship between two organisms — fungus and algae. The fungus grows on the tree and can collect moisture, which the algae needs. The algae, in return, can create food from the energy of the sun, which feeds the fungus.

How clever is that?!