The summer week

Dead grass, everywhere I see.  We're on the sunny side of the southern part of this island.  It's the east coast which having lived on the mainland for most of my life, I wouldn't think a half hour drive would send you into another weather zone, but it does here.  We're often missed off the rain radar as the weather seems to use our town a bit like the campervans.  Somewhere you just pass through on the way to somewhere else.  We're so dry here we needed to reconsider our lawn mowers.  With the distinct lack of grass, our four legged mowing machines were starting to complain.  And where one has no green grass to eat, and one spies rosebushes next door...and one can leap like a mountain you know what, our friendly goats were becoming a problem.  The two twins, very cute and very different from each other, Billy the smaller of the two was the worst.  No wire fence would deter him if he knew there was green to be had over there. And whilst they were good fun, the sight of Billy snacking on Peonies did direct my thoughts to the slow cooker, but only for a minute.  So rather than face animals being permanently chained up we sought out another solution.   Some friends of ours live further north than us in a cooler climate including much more rain, and they get snow in winter.  They've got too much grass and were keen to adopt the new recruits. So last night we said farewell to our goats and wished them well on their journey.  As I walked back into the yard I imagined a collective sigh of relief from all the roses.   Bring on winter.  We're over this heat.  Even if it was for only a week.

Extreme gardening

I think I've over watered the chives (pictured).  It's going to be an usually hot week here in Tas and was getting a little ahead of myself.  Having limited ability in the skilled gardener category I tend to over do things.  This can be a good thing.  When I'm on a weed pulling mission there's no stopping me.  The chooks think it's marvellous.  They stand beside me cheering me on as I launch myself under overgrown rose bushes, with my weeding weapons of mass dislodging.  I recently met my match with a lone box thorn branch sneakily siding up beside an English box hedge hoping to go unnoticed.  I thought it looked a bit unusual.  I put on my chainmail gloves and went to it.  I pulled it and pulled it.  The chicken crowds gathered.  It wouldn't budge.  I pulled it with all my weight and it didn't even move, not even slightly.  It's long rope of a stem held firm as its roots had securely lodged themselves under the old concrete border for protection.  I contemplated wrapping it around myself and hurling myself across the courtyard but decided the audience had been entertained enough for one day.  I'm later told that the only way to deal with this pest is to cut it down and poison the roots.  I hate the idea of putting any poison anywhere near plants given particularly if left in my care they need all the support they can get.  But this will be added to the list of jobs.  As for the chives.  Well I'll just step away from them for a while.

Max still likes his garments pressed well

Since moving to this property our clothing attire has changed somewhat.  Before moving here we used to stroll to the local bayside coffee shops and sit amongst our stylish neighbourhood folk dressed in designer Lycra, regardless of participating in anything more active than steering the B-double pram with the dual coffee holders down the street.  We were the same.  Except instead of the pram we pulled along the designer Cocker Spaniel sporting his highly groomed, spaniel feathered look.  Oh my, how we've changed.  I now knock around in a pair of jeans which contain enough organic matter to be considered decent compost, I bought clothes from last year's AgFest and everyday I wear a pair runners with a hole poking out in the toe.  I'm even considering putting gaffer tape over the hole so I can avoid buying a new pair.  But worse still, I own two flanno's that make me look like a lumpy picnic rug, and my range of hand knitted woolly hats has multiplied including one with Suffolk sheep on it.  What went wrong?  I used to be someone of style and substance.  Well there has certainly been a reduction in the dry cleaning bills.  But the ironing hasn't reduced somehow.  Even with Max's help.

No Temple of Doom here

The new arrivals came via cardboard box yesterday.  Four Guinea Fowls.  Two types of unknown gender.  Our latest additions were the subject of a rigorous assessment process prior to being given permanent residency.  Given our somewhat out of control chicken population we've now adopted a merit based system for any new farm additions.  Merit, meaning they need to contribute to our little farm community.  Being cute is helpful but won't get all the points you need.  Guinea Fowls are said to be great pest controllers and farm watch dogs that will report on anything amiss.  What this means, I'm yet to fully understand.  My interpretation of amiss might be slightly different to theirs.  I would expect a loud uproar if the washing had blown off the line but this might not be priority with them.  I'm advised that Guinea Fowl keep away snakes.  Looking at them now I'm struggling to see how their reptile repellent instincts work.  They didn't come with any wrangling equipment and in the absence of an Indiana Jones whip and hat in the corner of the cage, I'll keep an open mind.  They're quite young at the moment and are still required to be caged but will eventually be let out to roam and forage with the others.  This morning I walked into their cage to fill up their water bowl and found them relaxed and not anxious to run away.  I did look around though and see a large crowd standing at the door looking in.  The chickens had all come to check out the new arrivals.  Even Minnie.  Although if ever I've seen a cat give an eye roll it was this morning.  You could tell what she was thinking, 'yeah right, they got rid of the dinosaurs as well...'  So welcome little friends.  We'll refer to you as the 'Fowls' from now.  Looking forward to the python wrestling any day now.

A day of rest, amongst friends

I was loathed to succumb to a bout of bronchitis recently but it has left me feeling a bit average. Not one to take a swan dive onto the couch I usually ignore the symptoms until the environmental authorities catch up with me and tell me to do something about it.  So today I spent a few quiet hours in the garden on my white adirondack chair (is there any other colour) under the trees which form a shady canopy at the rear of the yard.  I sat with my straw gardening hat slouched over my forehead and quietly dozed on a sunny day with little energy for anything else.  Very soon I was joined by Minnie, pleased to see someone finally with enough common sense to nap midday.  She took her rightful place on my lap and stretched out along my legs purring and dribbling.  Eventually I opened up my eyes and saw that all the chooks had gathered around me and were doing the same.  Nodding off with little eyes blinking until they closed, they all took a place nearby as if to keep me company.  They perched beside me on the table and underneath, on chairs and in the grass. Animals interact with us much more than we know sometimes.  They know that it's me that's the slave with the watering can filling up bowls three times a day, it's me distributing the grain evenly so everyone gets their fair share, and it's me that slips the apple crumble leftovers into their container that disappears so very quickly.  A gathering of appreciation today I think.  Thanks, you guys.  And yes, I will get better and produce more apple crumble, ok.

The nose knows, sometimes

Not exactly crowded for me and number one son this morning.  Overcast, but you could feel it was going to get warm once the sun poked out.  Bennie, nose down inhaling the doggie smells.  I'm walking behind him smelling in the serenity.  The sun was warming the hills on the horizon.  I love this walk.  The sound of the waves drown out the trivial thoughts in your brain and you can't help but relax.  Bennie not so much.  Dogs are fascinating sometimes.  Bennie runs up to a friendly pooch, waves a tail, says hello, "Hello, I'm Bennie. Best in Class 2014..".  Then runs off.  Smells are more interesting.  He likes to run ahead, nose down.  He got way past where we had to exit so I sat down on the sand so he would see me and come back when he finished inhaling the good stuff.  He stopped, looked ahead and raced back.  Right past me towards the tiny black figure in the distance. I had to go after him.  So much for the great nose.

In need of a Nile

I shouldn't discriminate.  It's not even based on anything sound.  They're just everywhere.  Like they somehow demand a right to be there.  In every suburb, every home.  Bloody Agapanthus.  They don't even come in a singular version, there is no word for a singular Agapanthus.  Just like Tim Tams, you can't stop at one. I should like them because at the moment they are the only thing thriving in our very dry garden, and that's without any attention from me.  As chief provider of water to screaming thirsty plants, I admit to skipping the Agapanthus in favour of the geraniums.  It's wrong I know, favouring one child over another but they are overly represented across the State's stone walls and driveways.  Google tells me they're of Greek origin (blue and white, the flag, of course...) and perhaps they consider our piddly Tasmanian 29 degrees not even warm compared to a blistering Rhodes summer and so wave their long arms in defiance.  I should be grateful that such a robust plant can survive the lack of water.  Considering their other name is Lily of the Nile, and given we're sufficiently short on Nile, it's more like Lily of the dry brown paddock really.  Perhaps they are just misunderstood.  Still won't water them.