The Christmas list

You can only be in denial for so long.  There are only so many lists you can write until you realise that the Christmas shopping won't come down the chimney with Santa carrying a bunch of Coles bags.  I do my best to avoid it.  I get myself psyched up for an early morning shop.  That way the car park won't be full and I can get in and out early.  What I'm clearly deluded about is the fact that every other household within a 20km radius of the supermarket is thinking pretty much the same thing.  Get in and get out.  The downside to the early morning shop is that there are no registers open and you've got to unload an abundance of groceries that's toppling over the trolley onto a small square space of express lane counter that is really only suited to a small packet of pre-sliced cheese or a packet of fags.  Both, I can guarantee won't make it onto my shopping list.  The list of things to do is as ugly as the grocery list with only a few days to go and enough jobs to classify you a major employer.  You put it all off until the last minute.  No point scrubbing the shower now.  No point mopping floors now and so on.  So the day before Christmas it's assuming that you'll be baking with one hand and scrubbing with the other.  The tablecloth that doesn't get looked at for 12 months gets a dust off and an iron.  It's usually when you just finished the last once over (on a 35 degree stinker of a day) that you realise the Shiraz didn't come out and the brandy sauce looks like it could be there for the next millennium.  Bugger.  You've done the gift shopping at least you thought, until on the very eve of the day someone presents you with that unexpected small token that leaves you guilt ridden, for a short while anyway.  Well that carpark is filling and I haven't got to the shops yet.  I'm stalling.  I need to get off this computer and face it.  Perhaps I'll start a new list first.

The chicks at the local pool

We've been struggling to stay up with the water demands here in an unusually hot season of consecutive days of 30 degrees.  It's slowed down the egg laying, but not the hatching.  It is Spring, after all.  The sheep and lambs spend their day sitting under a 100 year old Macrocarpa tree in the shade. Bennie and I braved the cool of the morning and went for a walk up the lane.  We walk past the creek and watch out for anything slithering in our path, and then walk up to the old hay shed around the bend.  It's a country lane walk with little finches darting in and out of the prickly hedges and a few horses look up but only briefly.  We saw rabbits this morning.  I'm still yet to know the difference between rabbit and hare, so we'll just refer to these as Super Bunnies.  They were big, and didn't so much hop along away from us as thump off slowly in another direction.  I, personally wouldn't mess with them.  Bennie wasn't that keen either.  We've lost our appetites for slow cook roasts in these warm nights so I've been scouring the freezer for inspiration.  Someone recently gave us about 12 wild ducks (for eating).  I was all keen, getting excited about an opportunity to cook with real, foraged (er., shot) produce that's come off the land.  I searched for wild duck recipes and was all good to go until someone mentioned 'beware of the pellets'.  Having not cooked with food containing bullets before I suddenly lost interest with the thought of running a metal detector over my food.  Am I being a bit precious knowing that my meal wouldn't get through airport security?  My husband laughed at me and asked me if I even knew what these pellets looked like.  I replied "Yes, I've seen James Bond and I've seen bullets.  They are about this big...and gold". Might just cook an omelette instead, less likely to require forensic examination before eating.

The curse of the lilac tree and the loungeroom Starling

I read somewhere, that there is an old wives' tale which says if you put lilac inside the house, it brings death.  Our tree this year has blossomed better than previous years, it's a ripper.  The perfume smacks you in the face when you walk down the driveway.  They keep their fragrance for a little while so I've got bunches and bunches of them in vases and jugs all around the house.  I'm expecting a major massacre any moment now!!  I love to come home to a house filled with fresh flowers.  Particularly now that the garden is offering up new rose buds.  That is, if you can get to them before Possum does.  I've tried putting a net over my favourite rose bush, which unfortunately is also his favourite, but this hasn't been successful.  I can't get the roses out of the netting when I want them and so both me and Possum are denied access.  I just get frustrated with the net and end up pulling their heads off which is not very good at all.  The rose heads that is, not the possums.  Although if he keeps this up, it really will get personal.  People I speak to tell me that at night their gardens are a hub of activity with Quolls, Pademelons (I thought that was some little yellow character from an on line game), Wallabies and Possums, and that eventually they have to fence in and cover everything.  We're lucky not to live that close to bushland or forest because I'd be employing some sort of armed night watch guard if that were the case.  Although we're not prone to any sort of violence here and I was alarmed to come home this week to a dead Starling on the lounge room floor.  With no windows or doors open it's come down from one of our sealed up chimneys where they insist on moving in with their new families.  I couldn't help noticing that it was completely untouched, all feathers intact.  This seemed a bit odd given we had a cat inside at the time.  Then Max appears and without so much of a blink of an eye walks over the dead bird to say hi, nice you're home and feed me now.  He barely even noticed it. We know he's not the predatory kind, but golly, at least pretend you caught it.  Damn those lilacs.

Gruelling

Oh dear!  Fixer upperer anybody?  Not quite.  This is a photo from an historical site in one of Tasmania's former 'female factories' that kept convict women prisoners during the 1800's.  This was a room in what is left of one of the Superintendent's houses which gives a stark look into how hard times were back then (I suddenly don't feel so compelled to wipe down my kitchen bench for a third time today).  This place would have been freezing in winter, being inland with the only source of heating being in this fireplace.  They must have welcomed Spring sunshine even if it didn't belong in such a cold, awful place.  One of the information panels on the walls explains the diet of these women and the rations of food they were given which were mainly bread, gruel and soup, made from meat thickened with vegetables and peas or barley.  I didn't find this at all horrifying.  This prison food whilst not palatable and probably not cooked or prepared with much care was most likely of better nutritional value than a lot of items on our supermarket shelves.  We've got people out there with shopping trolley's full of packaged unknown chemicals, colourings and food additives that if you had put them out on this bench sometime in about 1850, would probably still be ok to eat today.  That's not a good thing by the way.  I worry about where our food comes from and like to have some control over its origins.  Our farm cat Minnie leaves her local catch of dead mice artfully arranged on the back doorstep and whilst I notice this early in the morning, by lunchtime the body has been removed. The chooks love them.  It just scares me a little that this dead mouse has now entered, just slightly into my own food chain..eeewww!!  I'll stop thinking about that now.  Perhaps I need to go and prepare some gruel for dinner.  What is that anyway?

Ready, aim, splat

Ah, Spring!  A welcomed season from blistering cold winds that howled through the gaps in my old front window frames.  Spring means new life and nest building. Unfortunately my house has proven, year on year, to be a reliable host of our new mum and dad Starlings.  Like going back to the same seaside shack every year, they choose the inside of my front verandah roof with the late afternoon sun and a room with a view.  Whilst we've been known to be on the generous side with our own menagerie of bird life that includes a good proportion of bantam chickens and guinea fowls, I draw the line at bratty Starlings that outstay their welcome and crap all over the front of my house.  After a Sunday of washing down windows and removing bird pooh from the entrance of a very old weatherboard house that doesn't deserve such ill mannered treatment, I resorted to the only defence I know that doesn't involve a twelve gauge.  A bird of prey.  Now this little feller came from the hardware shop because apparently they don't sell either real or stuffed ones (to my absolute disappointment) and so with beady bright eyes and a plastic bobble head, he had to do.  So Bobble Head as he is now referred to, was placed on the verandah and told to ward off anyone bird like that refuses to see the sign, no room at the inn.  However unfortunately since Bobble Head was engaged in verandah duties, we've had some serious westerly winds come through which continue to blow him off his verandah perch, down the steps and into the rose bushes.  Initially I didn't want to secure him because the Starlings would wake up to that pretty quick and notice that he doesn't leave his post...'yeah, that old plastic bobble head trick, hah, hah, hah!'  So I went out yesterday to collect poor BH to find him rolling around the porch like he'd been on the sherry all night, and noticed that some brazen Starling had managed to plant one right on his head, in between his eyes.  I can only imagine what careful planning that took.  So having failed dismally with my bird of prey defence, I'm at a loss as to what to do with those recalcitrant Starlings with precision aim.  I wonder if the hardware store sells something, perhaps a little more concerning, like a Pterodactyl.  Don't suppose I could get a stuffed one anywhere?

The shared table

We've had five new baby lambs safely delivered on our farm - with no help from us whatsoever.  Phew!  Dodged a bullet there.  Bettie heroically delivered three.  She was pretty big, and very uncomfortable. We've got perhaps one more to come and have pretty well given up on names.  We started with chalky but then a few more chalkboards arrived and now we are struggling to tell them apart.  Did you know you are not allowed to call a blackboard a blackboard any more?  Head farmer and husband found this out in the local hardware store recently searching for blackboard paint to put up on a wall in our preserving room.  He was momentarily denied service by a surly store woman as she corrected him over and over again, saying 'No we don't have blackboard paint.  We have chalkboard paint'. So that's how the little guy on the left got his name.  There's a theory on farms that once you have a name you don't end up on a plate.  That will certainly be the case on our farm.  These little guys will grow up on this five star animal resort being none the wiser.  And costing us a small fortune as ute load after ute load produces more bags of animal feed with not much grass around, for the privileged mouths and beaks on this property.  Unfortunately they all support the shared table philosophy, that what's in your bowl is also mine when you're done with it. The chooks are eating the leftover lamb feed pellets and the thought of this now entering into our food chain via eggs scares me - just a little.   About 11pm every night Bennie our best in class cocker spaniel sneaks down the stairs to polish off the cat's food provided we haven't given Max's food to Minnie as she sits at the kitchen window looking in like something out of the movie Oliver, just not quite so undernourished.   Max won't eat anything that isn't out of a can or pouch and Bennie's gastronomical experiment with eating blood and bone out of the garden beds ended badly all over my new lounge room rug.  So food is a shared experience in my home.  Sometimes I wish it wasn't though.

The locals here even look different

In Bennie's former life, before moving to Tasmania we used to go for a walk to the local coffee shops. And where we lived, there were many.  He would sit under the table and stair longingly at waitresses until he got their attention.  What was hard to explain was that those cute puppy dogs eyes are all about the toast she was carrying and not so much about her. These days there's not much coffee on our walks, and definitely no toast stops.  He's done well considering he's not 'off the land' as they say.  He's had to adjust to new surroundings.  He's learnt that chickens lay eggs that must be delivered without breaking onto the back door mat.  Not an easy task for a dog, but rewarding if you do break them!  He's learnt that roosters are not to be messed with and there are some seriously good smells in the veggie patch when blood and bone gets throw around.  He's now trying to get his head around baby lambs.  They sort of look like a dog...a kind of poodle perhaps?  They don't smell like a dog and they don't play like a puppy at all.  In fact he looks a bit bewildered by them.  Having been a high achiever in his puppy school years, Bennie thinks all dogs should have the same schooling as him.  I imagine he introduces himself to all animals as 'Hi I'm Bennie, best in class what's your name?'  This would be pretty well lost on a bunch of sheep who neither sit on command or stay when told.  Before moving here we used to walk past the local community veggie garden that had a bright red, life size sculpture of a cow in it.  Bennie used to bark at it every time and tell it off for being there I guess.  He's not quite so cocky these days.

Unable to defrost my dining room

Saturday gave us a Spring teaser.  A little warm breeze and some sun to soak through your skin.  Today no sign to be had.  The south wind coming under the gaps and cracks in my old house have come directly from Antarctica without so much as a stop for coffee.  My hallway is like a meat keeper.  I'm tempting to hang a side of beef in the dining room just because I can.  I have had a vase in there with a single hydrangea flower sitting above the mantle since about March this year.  It never died.  It's just frozen in time.  And again the wearing of three layers of clothing is a necessity to get from one part of the house to the other and as I write, I feel the wrap of my leggings and long pants around my knees.  Spring does this.  One day it's hard to bend your arms from the Kathmandu coatings and the next day you are peeling off the layers wondering if your hot flushes have returned.  It will be nice again not to have to gather kindling and babysit the wood fire.  Not that we don't love our seasons.  Just some of us enjoy the winter more than others...like Max.  He moves from electric blanket to fireside and return.  Like the slow movement of a herd (of one) seeking greener pastures, he has an internal radar for warmth.  He's a winter fan.  He's dead keen on the side of beef idea as well.

A face only a mother could love - but no one will own up

He wouldn't win any beauty contests that's for sure but Crossbeak has recovered well and is now part of the team.  He still struggles to eat with the crew and prefers to jump into the metal garbage bin where the seed is kept.  He can manage to scoop up the seed quite easily from there and chirps away happily, oblivious to the dinner mahem that descends most afternoons at feed time.  I was watching him the other day from the kitchen window where he jumped up into one of the potted pencil pines near the back door.  He must have spotted some insects camped in there and ploughed in face first.  Doris, not one to miss out on anything jumped up pushed him off and stuck her face into the tree.  I often wonder about Doris as to whether she can actually see or not.  I know it's a hairdo choice but sometimes I worry it comes at a cost.  I've seen her walk into the odd wall every now and again.  I guess the feathered beehive works as a buffer?  Spring is here and all the daisies are showing their faces.  Blossom is breaking out all over the garden with the trees along our road looking like they've been studded with bright pink popcorn.  Just need some warm weather now to get out and breath some life into the veggie patch.  We let it go a bit feral over winter and will soon need to reclaim it back from the chooks.  They dance in and out of the bird netting (what a joke) and dig up the leftover straw.  Our soil has enough manure now to just about grow a chook but we don't need anymore.  I'm on the lookout for broodie hens as the days grow longer.  We had a poultry population explosion last year and will need to keep it in check this year.  I'm not sure if they've heard of the one child policy, but we could do with it here.

Tin shed momentary calm

There's something kind of nice about sitting around an open fire in a tin shed on a windless evening watching the last burst of sun hit the hills at the back paddock before it quietly slips away.  We ended our Sunday with a glass of something and some good company to rest tired legs from bouncing around on a tractor (not me) and wrenching nettles out of garden beds (me).  Weekends are a time to literally eat into some of the oversupply we have of eggs at the moment.  Now, at about 5 a day of the ones that we can easily find...the others are for Bennie (pictured sleeping on the mat) to carefully place on the back doorstep unbroken.  Most of the time he's successful, but you can see the look of 'bugger' on his face when not, and of course he just has to eat the contents then.  Weekends usually produce a sponge cake (at least 5 eggs in that, tick), and a roast to slowly go round above the flames in the not so old but made look old tin shed.  Sunday nights are best relaxed but weary.  Unfortunately the evening bliss didn't last long after picking up dog pooh for a second time in the dining room that weekend (you might have heard me scolding the dog from where you are), or cleaning up another pile of cat vomit as Max's delicate constitution repels his offending dinner on no less than three bathroom mats as one is cleaned and replaced by another.  I was glad when the clock said bed time.  I settled into a good book about someone on a bigger farm with much bigger problems to worry about.

Crossbeak and the big reveal

Another busy weekend outside.  Our Sunday night legs begin to wane as the forever walking, bending and lifting jobs get priority.  Weed pulling has never been the name of a fitness class, but definitely should be, 'now dig, dig, and puuullll...those weeds'.  We do take time out for coffee with Minnie and our sheep (all bar one, oops) are all in lamb with Boris now the shepherd.  The three girls are heavy and happy to find anything green.  We've now started our two rows of espaliered apple trees so looking forward to some wonderful blossom (and hopefully fruit) in the coming years.   And my Friday drama was resolved by Friday evening.  Well actually, it wasn't mine, it was Crossbeak's.  He was ready in his cardboard box at 9am for his appointment with his vet for major plastic surgery on his beak.  He was excited and kept popping his little curvy beak outside the round hole carved in the side of the box for air.  We arrived at the vet and the nurse took him into surgery.  I waited nervously.  A little snip, surely that's all, I thought.  The vet came out and I asked "how'd he go?"  He replied, "Not so good I'm afraid".  My God, I panicked for a brief moment imagining the vet to have slipped with the clippers...but the vet advised his beak was a serious deformity that really couldn't be corrected.  He said he was surprised that he'd even lasted this long.  The vet was able to clip back some of his beak but it bled and he was concerned that if he knocks it, the beak may bleed again and this would need to be stopped.  So with some dabbed cotton tips for repair work, I took poor little Crossbeak home.  I guess it's like any plastic surgery, there is the swelling and bleeding before the healing but I wasn't ready for what I saw in the box when I opened it.  He was in shock.  He couldn't walk out of the box and his beak was not a pretty sight.  Why did I do this?  I thought.  Next time when mother nature throws me an abnormality I will but out.  I said to husband farmer, if our baby lambs are born with three heads, so be it.  Fortunately, we soon realised that little Crossbeak is more resilient than we thought.  He managed to recover from his ordeal, clean up his beak and was back eating out of the seed bin as he usually does by the end of the day, with a somewhat shorter and less curvy beak.  Phew.  It was a lot of stress for a mere $20 vet bill.

Waiting for the big reveal

I've sent this photo off to our local vet with a query.  Can something be done to fix our little friend's beak?  He's favourably referred to as Cross Beak but Cross beak or CB as he prefers, struggles to eat grain off the ground and needs hand feeding.  We're hoping just a minor snip or tuck might allow this top beak to regrow a bit more on the straight and narrow, than the major banana bender it is now.  It's a struggle for him at meal times as we have to hold the grain container for him to eat out of.  Unfortunately everyone else thinks he shouldn't be getting special treatment and about three hens try to get their head in the container at the same time.  They peck him as he's a rooster and roosters aren't supposed to eat until the hens have.  Whilst they're all crying foul (sorry) bad manners, this little feller just wants a meal.  Because he's been singled out for special treatment he follows me around and races up to me whenever he sees me.  He puts his little head to the side, looks up and chats away as if I understand every word.  He's still quite young but he may be struggling to put on weight.  So hopefully our vet can come back with a surgical intervention or something minor.  We don't need a complete makeover or want to send him off to some pacific location for a few weeks 'recuperation' and come back with his head wrapped in bandages and wearing dark sunglasses.  He just wants to be like everyone else.  Fingers crossed.  Whoops.

This little feller is a resident of the Sorell Farm School.  We recently were happy to find that the Farm School were willing to take our unwanted chickens regardless of sex or breed.  We had an oversupply of chicks born on our property over the summer and not being the sort of people to knock them on the head which was sadly suggested by some, we were happy to find them a farm that not only takes them and gives them to new homes, but also shows them as well.  This little guy was being trained to interact with new comers and sat perfectly still while I shoved my iPhone in his face.  I wanted a selfie but didn't want to push my luck, I could see he was getting a little tired of the attention. This farm school is a fantastic facility housing prized giant rabbits, rare breed chickens, and various livestock all to develop agricultural skills in kids.  It's so great to see that skills are learnt in all different forms nowadays.  Having grown up in the inner city suburbs of Melbourne, this was unheard of, and the only interaction you had with farm animals were the plastic ones you played with as a kid.  What ever did happen to Dobbin?  Moving on...so now when I drive past the school I feel like waving in their direction, knowing that our little feathered friends are doing well in their new home where they are checked and groomed by some really enthusiastic kids.  If they win any show prizes I'll take full credit, of course.

No doubting the Magnificant Max

Very proud of himself he was.  He's been watching the dishwasher for weeks.  He swears that something moved there.  He sat for hours at a time, waiting. And no one believed him.  Bennie would come in, sniff and walk away muttering that Max is delusional and the only thing that lives beside the stove is grease.  Thanks Bennie, cheers!!  So not wanting to dampen Max's enthusiasm, I placed a little piece of leftover cake on the floor to entice his alleged mouse out of hiding.  Bennie, in full support of the strategy, came over, ate the cake and walked off.  Tail wagging.  Max was annoyed.  Bennie just didn't understand the game plan.  So days, and then weeks passed.  Max dedicated lengthy afternoons to the watch.  He held his post amongst dinner preparations with the chopping of vegetables and the banging of pots, he still held his ground.  Somehow I knew that if anything was there, it surely wasn't going to poke its head out with someone in the kitchen wielding a cooks' knife, a dog diligently waiting for something yummy to fall from the bench and a cat, poised to pounce on anything that doesn't resemble diced onion.  We don't give Max much credit.  His experience of cat and mouse usually involves a toy stuffed mouse on the end of the string being dragged along the floor (like I've got time for this!!).  The sad part is he gets more excited by the string than the mouse.  So revenge was his at around 5am this morning when he ran across us in our bed with a somewhat live mouse in his mouth just to show us, to prove us wrong.  I heard thump, thump, and again, he bolts across the bed.  I knew what it was, just wasn't prepared to open my eyes to witness it.  Fortunately the Mr. of the house was responsible for ending the torturous activity and removing the evidence.  He's now asleep.  We'll not doubt him again.

Over here love, give us a smile darl...

Yes, I will admit it.  I went and saw the movie Chicken People on Saturday night.  Very funny.  It does help if you have a few of your own. It's a documentary style film about people who own or breed chickens and show them.  As with most 'show' people, they are highly competitive.  Who would have thought such power could be had as a poultry judge in determining the grand champion of all breeds.  I don't think my, less than perfect specimens could handle the stress somehow.  They certainly wouldn't be keen on being washed under the kitchen tap and then fluffed to perfection with a hair drier.  It's not that they are fussy, or wouldn't get out of bed for anything less than ten thousand bucks...I'm just not sure they'd give up the good life for the limelight.  Doris (pictured below) has a small following of course but not quite the standard for poultry papparazzi.  Most of ours prefer the country comforts to the more luxurious items like a wheelbarrow full of dead plants as the laying spot of choice in preference to the Bordeaux Grand Cru wine boxes in the hen house.  What, French Oak's not good enough?  The wheelbarrows of dried plants are plentiful at the moment with the severe lack of rain for this time of year.  I spent Sunday afternoon pruning some pretty dried looking lavenders that I'm hoping will hang in there through this odd winter.  The weeds barely put up a fight as they're on their last legs anyway and it's hard to tell what's just dormant for the winter or plain dead.  The rain clouds seem to bypasses our town on their way through to the south of the island or out to sea where the more dramatic of weather evens occur.  Though it's only Monday and the weather forecast is always positive - the radar only shows a few minor blemishes of cloud so I'm not very hopeful.  Although it's good news for Doris.  She hates getting her hair wet.

Crossbeak

This is Crossbeak.  He's my new little friend.  He was born this way and I'm not sure what happened to send his top beak in the wrong direction but he's a friendly little feller.  He struggles to eat off the ground so I hand feed him or let him eat out of a plastic container I use to throw seed around.  The other chooks don't seem to have much time for him (so judgemental) as he seems to be on his own for most of the time.  He follows me around a bit when I'm in the garden and he'll just pop up every now and again.  I was unpacking the groceries from the boot of the car the other day and I looked down and he was at my feet.  It's nice to be able to help out this little guy and we won't include him in any redeployments.  Minnie doesn't bother much with the chickens, or anything at all really, and will come out for a casual look for any mice under the hen house.  She'll tip toe around the chickens as she's a bit wary of some of some of the bigger ones.  Although she's got her work cut out for her right now with the current mouse plague.  The cold weather has brought them all out of their frozen apartments.  Don't they have heating?  Bennie and Minnie are doing their best to keep the numbers down but I'll consider a bird of prey if it gets much worse.  We've got a local neighbourhood hawk who conducts a low fly over every now and again but he's only a one bird operation and can only eat so much.  We might just have to cut back on the cat food for a little while, just to get Minnie a little more motivated.  Could take some doing!

Shanks, sheets, snow and fur

The front lawn is a crisp white with winter well and truly here.  You feel sorry for the plants as the harsh frost must slap them in the face pretty hard.
Last weekend we came back from an overnight trip to Strahan and came via Lapland (pictured).  Or so it seemed. It was thick white snow on pine trees that just says Christmas, or not!  No carols to be had we took our photos in the sludge and took off, slowly.  The days are bright but the sun just can't muster enough warmth to go around.  It's a short day and the warmth only stays around for a short time as our family of chickens make the most of it.  The wood fire goes on, and on and it's a bit like the eternal flame as each cold night rolls into a freezing morning.  The slow cooker kicks into slow gear for a good eight hours with some browned off shanks that look more like they came from something prehistoric rather than something lamb like.  But come dinner time we'll be grateful for the dark red, Chianti soaked meat that could be 'cut with sigh' to quote Matthew Evans. Now we're past the winter solstice we can look to the warmer weather.  Just not any time today.  Our outdoor cat Minnie launches out of her bed in the shed for meals only and indoor Max has his behind permanently embedded, in ours.  We're at the point now where all of our sheets now appear to be flannelet, with a fur coating on them that doesn't come off in the wash.  The hardest part is going out to feed the chickens.  Their water bowl has a layer of ice on it and if you get it on your hands it stings, particular for someone like me with hands like raw filo pastry.  And it's really just the beginning.

Midsommer Murders have nothing on this place

While Max considers the dinner arrangements, I'm out there committing random acts of violence on his behalf.  Keeping chickens also means keeping rats,  I've discovered.  They'd taken up residence under the chook pen and were only discovered by our yard patrolling Cocker Spaniel inspector Bennie.  Chief farmer and husband decides to put rat bait under the hen house far out of reach from anyone other than a rat.  The plan appeared to work, until today.  One delirious and not at all well looking rodent ventured out to escape the scene of its not such a good idea last meal.  And of course Bennie found it.  Bennie doesn't quite know what to do with it and as chief mouser was still tucked up in her flannelet high vis jacket laden bed, she offered no instructions.  Ordinarily Minnie would hunt out the mice and direct them into the courtyard where she can share the game with Bennie.  They go halves.  Not as in, here I'll play with it and then you can play next, it's more, here's your half.  That game usually ends pretty abruptly.  So no Minnie to instruct, Bennie keeps barking at the toxic rodent and I'm worried he's going to pick it up and bite into it.  So I quickly pick up a nearby shovel.  And I'm not a shovel wielding kind of person either.  I hate violence.  I can't watch anything more violent on TV than really old James Bond films where baddies just fall to the wayside.  So with a heavy blow I land the rat enough spade to cease its pain.  And then sincerely apologise to it.  But it just looked at me with tail and legs still twitching.  I apologise again, and repeat the blow.  This time a few less twitches but not the intended outcome.  Jeez, this is hard for me you know!!  I'm not sure if I'm more horrified at my pummelling an unfortunate creature to death or the fact that I'm incapable of even doing that.  Struggling to keep Bennie as a spectator, when he's back is turned I swiftly shovel up the almost dead rat and fling it over the fence into the bushes to die a less eventful death.  And I stop apologising. I can't be sorry for something that I didn't completely. do.  Two cats you say!!!

Apples keep coming

Apple season rolls on.  Ruth at the monthly Bream Creek Farmers Market has some of the best pink lady apples around.  At the Farm Gate market the couple from down south might still have some Geeveston Fanny's but you can only have what they've picked the night before.  We've been loading our crisper with freshly picked apples now from about March.  Including our own, home grown provided we got there before the grubs.  Given our large chicken population in the garden, I was surprised that the local moths even had the nerve quite frankly.  Knowing that apples lose their love in the fridge, we're doing apples every way and every day including sliced matchsticks on yoghurt for breakfast topped with home made toasted honey and oats, coconut and hazelnuts, we're eating apple teacake courtesy of the Australian Women's Weekly Cookbook, even without the 1970's burnt orange and lime tiled kitchen to match.  An apple and blueberry crumble will make a showing again for dessert tomorrow with Ruth's tombolla sized blueberries she's still picking off the bush from down Huon way.  Being a colder climate down in the Huon Valley I suspect there's no need to cold store fruit there, you just leave it on the trees and eventually it will freeze.  It was a tiny two degrees as I headed off to an appointment yesterday morning.  I put on my hand knitted scarf that is half scarf half blanket and headed into town.  Hobartians have heaters of every sort for every occasion.  The only weird thing is that they don't call it air conditioning, they call it a heat pump.  Known to me as a split system heating cooling air conditioning unit, they say they only ever use it for heat, so that's why.  A tradesman once entered my Hobart office and said he'd come to fix the heat pump.  I said good luck finding it, looking around for some kind of plumbing apparatus.  He must have thought I was completely clueless given I was sitting under the wall mounted heater.  Lost in translation, not to worry.  Now back to those apple recipes.

Sounds of the season

I've only just adjusted to Autumn, and just now they're telling me that winter starts next week.  I'm not ready.  I'm still admiring the golden leaves on the oak tree in the front of our property that's over 100 years old and the dampness of the grass on the ground.  The chooks are finally laying eggs again which means we don't have to go shame faced to the egg sellers at the farmer's market every week.  Our friendly beaked community are more prepared for the weather than I am.  They've allocated laying boxes and found perches around the garden when there is no room at the inn.  The lavender bushes are slightly flattened where they've rested weary feathered bottoms at night and the top of the veggie patch polly tunnels have provided a rooftop view for our guinea fowl.  It's a funny sight of an early evening when I step outside the back door with chook feeding container in hand to see about thirty birds rushing towards me like long lost friends.  And whilst I used to think it was just about food, now I'm not so sure. Last Sunday we had a mild, sunny day and spent most of it doing jobs around the garden.  I ventured out to the back paddock in the early afternoon and perched myself on the old wooden picnic table.  It's a lovely look out towards the green hills up the back and you could almost imagine you are all alone.  Very peaceful.  And after a few moments I was joined by head rooster Cyril (pictured above).  He jumped up onto the table and sat beside me on my left.  And then one of our Wyandotte hens also jumped up on the table on my right side and stood there, with us all looking out at the view.  It was quite a moment shared.  There's so much more to the interaction between us and animals but I guess sometimes we rush around so much it goes unnoticed.  I'm only beginning to understand the different noises our birds make.  The guinea fowl have a few sounds, one resembling a rusty spring, and the other is someone trying to start a car, unsuccessfully.  The amount of rooster crows we hear is extraordinary, all different and one that actually even says 'cock a doodle do' like a human would.  Some of the younger ones don't quite reach pitch and some just sound rather painful.  So bring on winter.  I guess if the chooks are up for it then I am too.

That's not all wool...

Can sheep get too fat?  I understand the hungry argument for fat lambs but when they are pets stacking on the kilos, and visitors pass sheepish comments like 'they're certainly in good condition' we may just have a problem on our hands.  Our girls are expected to be heading for the maternity ward some time around Spring, and the plan is...or was, to shear them before they get too, ahem, big.  We may be too late.  They're barrels already.  When it comes to rounding them up it's quite possible we will need to replace the sheepdog with a forklift.  They've been very successful in extracting grain on a regular basis from husband and head farmer, and our generous neighbour recently flung them a hay bale which is now not much more than a few straws.  Rambo our visiting Ram (left) is two weeks away from the end of his vacation on our farm and I suspect it's going to take some doing to get him to go home.  He'll not want to get into that Ute because he knows that life on this farm is pretty damn fine.  He's been hand fed apples and has enjoyed the warmth of a purpose built sheep shack with water views and soft furnishings (old wool).  And Lambie (fourth from the left) belongs next door and is now too big to be hoisted back over the fence.  It is quite a sound when they come thundering up to you thinking you have food to offer.  A bit like a herd of wildebeest thumping through the paddock.  Can't be good for the foundations though.

Room for the chickens up top

Ok, this is not my bed.  But it was a bed I stayed in at a Bed and Breakfast recently run by a couple with exceptional taste in furnishings.  But I'm not just talking about a few quilted cushions and matching tassels, this mattress was the supreme being of all mattresses.  And now I'm ruined for life, alas no other mattress will ever be as good.  We couldn't have a bed like this in our house.  Firstly we have sloping ceilings in our upstairs rooms which would mean that the canopy would be more like a shelf just above your head.  And the curtains would be problematic for us too, as Max would be swinging from them on most mornings.  This bed was at a considerable height and we were warned that a step ladder is often required to hoist one's self on top of this pocket spring, latex covered surface of loveliness.  And way too high for a sneaky cocker spaniel to leap onto whenever I'm not looking.  It's a dead giveaway when Bennie's been sleeping on the bed as he likes to put his backside up against the pillows and kicks out the ones he doesn't like.  Clean sheets and doggies smells.  Yes, that would be a great accommodation offering.  Our house in its present form would fail as a bed and breakfast.  The rooster population rise early and sometimes can be heard as early as 2am (get a watch guys...) and Max starts the strangled cat wailing in the passage about 5am.  Bennie wakes up like something out of a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, all singing and dancing going full pelt down the stairs and crashing at the bottom.  And then there's drive through Minnie screaming at you through the kitchen window when you do surface.  So that's why occasionally, just occasionally we like a night away.  Thank you Devonport Grand B&B.

Supersize Me Minnie puts in her order

Our outdoor cat Minnie appears at the kitchen window around meal times.  A bit like a fast food drive through window she places her order and waits patiently.  At the same time indoor cat Max is screaming for his favourite (whatever the hell that is this week) and Bennie the cocker spaniel knows that there is left over roast lamb in the fridge, and won't stop whimpering until it comes out.  Come dinner time it's pretty full on in this kitchen.  The drive through gets busy when the 30 odd beaks at the bottom of the window wait to place their order.  The chook food container sits on the bench everyday with the leftover scraps bundled in just before service.  Patsy likes her lettuce scraps, Ella prefers left over porridge, Dusty loves the bacon rind and everyone likes the date slice.  The Guinea Fowl prefer the seed and the little black hen we call Little Friend (because she's always at your side) likes to eat out of your hand and doesn't mind a pat while she's eating.  The sheep have sufficient green sprigs of oats to keep them going but Shirley is partial to her piece of apple and will come running at the sight of a core in my hand.  And then, by 6pm it's all over.  Unless we expect to eat.  Next please...

It's a long way to the top if you want a sausage roll

We soon discovered that just because you have a book titled 100 Walks in Tasmania, doesn't mean you are equipped for bush walking.  But we decided to give it a crack anyway.  My idea of a walk of several kilometres would usually involve a large shopping district and a civilised lunch at the end.  Knowing that we were going to be a few hours at the mercy of nature with no Sherpa to carry the silverware, I buttered the date slices and packed the thermos.  Heaven forbid we find ourselves at any destination without access to life saving cups of english breakfast and cake.  So on this day of Anzac remembrance we put on our shiny Kathmandu outfits and headed off towards Mt Wellington.  We hadn't been driving long when we realised we had forgotten the milk and the tea bags.  We had hot water.  So having pulled into a nearby service station we now had milk, all two litres of it (they had nothing smaller) and a box of tea bags to add to the pack.  So off we went.  From Fern Tree at the base of Mt Wellington we walked the Pipeline track towards the Silver Falls.  Through eucalyptus forests with a steady climb for unconditioned legs like mine, I did at one point consider why we opted for this over a perfectly acceptable stair master at the gym, complete with off button, but soldiered on regardless. By now Tenzing Bowers, carrying the catering was far ahead of me.  After about an hour and a half our resting place was the Springs.  Only no springs that I could see.  We crossed a busy tourist road where the Springs Hotel once stood and now housed an information centre, covered gas barbecue areas and a coffee shop.  Yes, a coffee shop complete with not only coffee but tea and milk.  Nonetheless we sat down at the picnic table, made our tea and ate our date slice.  Although we couldn't resist a look at our summit cafe offerings complete with homemade cakes, pies and sausage rolls.  They looked too good to pass up.  We walked off with two steaming hot pork and fennel sausage rolls, with excellent buttery pastry.  We ate them out of the bag.  We were in the wilderness, after all.

Candle light dinners in the back paddock

That's Rambo, our visiting ram (left).  Off to chat to the girls.  He was dropped off last Monday.  Just for a short stay while we host a Suffolk sheep version of the Bachelor.  He belongs to Chumpy who gave us the five minute overview on how to breed sheep as we stood beside the ute asking a lot of 'definitely not farm folk' questions.  Our girls have been living the good life for well over a year now and unfortunately, are probably more suited to an episode of the Biggest Loser rather than any lamb creating dating game.  We've tried saying they are just big boned or that it's probably just all wool, but we're kidding ourselves as our barrels on skinny legs stomp around the paddocks blocking out the sun.  Hopefully Rambo won't have any major reservations and will appreciate them for their sparkling eyes and vibrant personalities. He didn't take long to introduce himself and was soon part of the group munching away on the small sprigs of oats that are coming up again in the paddock (yes more rain please).  He will very soon appreciate the fact that those who are born to, or even unceremoniously dumped on this property, even for a short time do very well indeed.  Minnie being the perfect example of an unwanted dumpee was smart enough to steer her dumper towards the house on the hill with the robust farm animals.  I could just imagine her peering out of a box on the back seat of someone's car saying 'not that one, not that one, yes this one'.  From day one she called us home and we've served her well since then.  Now, Minnie by name only, she's maxed out in all the wrong places.  Now her only exercise seems to be moving from one comfy bed to another.  I counted up recently, she has about four.  All with hand me down fleecy high viz vests and flanno shirts, she does alright on the sleeping arrangements.  But lately it's the laying boxes in the old shed. So to outsmart her I moved them to the chook pen.  Didn't work.  No wonder we have no eggs!

How do you like your mouse tails, poached or fried?

It's officially mousing season according to our Head of Farming and Chief Mouser, Minnie. We know this by the array of headless corpses displayed by the back door mat every morning.  Perhaps she thinks she is required to produce evidence in the form of mouse tails to receive food and lodging.  Vigilant as she is, it does appear that one may have escaped her.  Have you ever smelt that dead mouse somewhere smell?  I have, and I've never forgotten it.  And somewhere around the kitchen wall or in the ceiling there is a hint of rotting rodent that will either go away eventually or temporarily sent us away eventually.  The colder weather has brought them out as Autumn gears up with some much needed rain.  It's also moulting season for the chickens as our back garden starts to look like someone has lost a fight with a doona.  The raw chicken neck is not their greatest look and the egg laying has come to a sudden halt.  With currently about 40 odd chickens of many breeds, including some I think we've invented, I still only have one egg in the fridge.  I'm putting the lack of eggs down to the season but I may be wrong about that.  It could also be that we've moved the chook pen around to face the other way to give the ground a bit of a rest.  This means that their indoor outdoor room is now not facing east, and hence they can't watch the sun come up.  It could also be that we've introduced Guinea Fowls into the flock who don't assimilate at all and aren't the slightest bit interested in dinner time protocols about girls eat before boys. To them Fowls eat before everybody.  It could also be that the Head of Farming and Chief Mouser has now taken to sleeping in their laying boxes in the old shed.  The other day I headed out to hear Doris clucking hysterically in the doorway of the shed protesting that her warm, dry laying box was now occupied.  We'll need to move it.  While the tail count is admirable, we can't exactly have them poached on toast. 

The fruit formally known as Quince

We discovered a quince tree on our property last year.  It took us a while.  I had walked past the fallen quince on the ground on a number of occasions and never questioned it being there.  In fact, for a while I thought it was Bennie's tennis ball.  Eventually it was picked up and marvelled at.  And later we discovered there were two.  Not quite enough to rush headlong into a quince jelly making exercise, and not even enough to produce the smallest sliver of paste, so I elected to bake them.  There aren't too many recipes for baking quinces in such minimal quantities and the end result was similar to having them placed them for a long period of time in an aluminium smelter.  Let's just say there is now a permanent scar on that baking tray.  What a mess.  So this year, again this neglected tree has somehow produced another two quinces despite of us.  I won't be baking them this year as I have a decent recipe for a chicken casserole with quinces and green olives (a Matthew Evans one I think) that I know won't injure any baking dishes.  This morning I noted that Lewis our 2IC rooster was on quince minding duty and expect he would probably alert me should said quince fall from tree.  It's amazing to think that fruit trees can still produce despite our neglect.  Maybe it just likes Lewis's company. 

Don't suppose Manolo Blahnik does gumboots

Autumn mornings have arrived.  A great time of year in Tasmania.  No wind, cool nights and spectacular sunrises.  We had a downpour last night to remind us about rain, and the rainwater tanks got replenished just a little.  If it's one thing we have learned about living here it's that cold nights arrive early and unannounced.  From then on the cold weather preparations swing into action.  Wood loads are gathered with neatly stacked piles appearing in sheds and along fences, well before we stop saving the daylight.  The getting ready for winter activity is a formal topic around the dinner table as the vegetable patch needs working over and the worn dusty pathways to the chook pen needs stones to stop them from turning to mud.  Things have certainly changed for us.  Before coming to live here, getting ready for winter meant a spin around a MYER fashion floor with a view to a mild wardrobe update and some shiny shoes.  Not because it was necessary, more just because you thought you should.  Now it's about warm layers, woollen socks and anything thermal that can go under cover without stopping you getting easily through doorways.  The good jeans I bought then are only good for the dog's bed now and the puffer jacket lacks sufficient puff to get me out into less than five degrees in the morning.  The gloves need to be leather and lined for driving as well as water proof.  The early morning ritual of filling up the chooks' bowl with water becomes painful when icy water comes into stinging contact with blue fingers.  And of course, the obligatory gumboots at the back door.  Come to think of it, I haven't seen them for a long time, they may be in the old shed.  I dread to think who or what has moved into them over summer.  Might be time for a new pair.  MYER perhaps?

I'll take her for walks and everything...

Fortunately she just wouldn't fit in the ute, or the calf for that matter.  A trip to the Small Farms Expo on Sunday gave us a chance to see what else we could add to our little farm.  While the tractors were smaller than Agfest some of the livestock exhibitors weren't.  The chicken pavillion showed brothers and sisters to our own little collection of weirdos and the sheep yard had a few black faced Suffolk like our very own but not quite as...ahem, round. I was successful in convincing the head farmer and husband we shouldn't come home with a donkey, or two turkeys or any more goats (we've just adopted out the last lot). As our own little patch of demanding domestics is enough to handle and every time a new set of hoofs or beaks arrive, I see another holiday in the distance, sail away.  Animals are a tie, but very rewarding as I'm constantly reminded.  However the, let's not get any more goats argument was easily won with the nearby goat fence display a timely reminder that if you want goats, you'll need Guantanamo style electric perimeters between your cute little Billy goat and your prized rose bushes.  Chooks free ranging all over your garden is a picture of cottage heaven but the bigger the chicken, the longer the legs, and the longer the legs, the further they can send your stone and bark screenings in every direction.  What was once a cottage garden in my backyard is a pile of mulch as our mother hen shows her eight fluffy children how to dig for grubs by removing annoying daisies and violets. But the opportunity to meet the breeders of all these amazing animals gave us a great day with the warm sunshine on the Huon oval at its best.   I do really like those highland cattle though.  Lucky we didn't bring the trailer.

Slow food and a month of afternoons

I had to move my almonds in under the verandah. Of course now being a nut farmer (ahem..!) I dry my nuts in the sun.  Well the sun has disappeared and they didn't tell me about that when I Googled how to be a nut farmer.  With my limited knowledge about growing almonds I have two almond trees that have produced large quantities of nuts.  We did manage to get more water to the trees this year and the trees produced better fruit than last year's effort which were a bit thin and sad looking.  The green parrots are dead keen on them and it's a race to see who can get them off the quickest.  We've netted the two trees as best as we could but it's a pain in rear end as the prickly branches make it almost impossible to get the nets off without tearing them and the birds know where the holes are.  So other than letting off a cannon shot every hour we will just have to appear to be generous.  We put in a reasonable harvesting effort with plastic bucket in hand and found the nuts came off really easily.  Their soft velvet olive green coating had opened to reveal yellow or the riper brownish nuts inside. Each one has to peeled.  There's an afternoon gone.  Sitting there shelling nuts the parrots look on at me and politely decline from laughing.  The chickens walk up beside me perched on the church pew under the verandah wondering why I'm throwing away perfectly good earwigs.

Our first lot of almonds had been on their wire trays for a few weeks.  The wire trays, which we will now refer to as our almond trays as they were meant to fit the windows as fly wire screens but were the wrong size and instead were perfect to allow the air to get to the nuts and dry out.  I wasn't sure how long you were meant to dry them for but after a few weeks of serious sunshine I thought it was time to take them to the next stage. Peeling them. Again.  Another afternoon gone.

So after that and about 20 minutes on a baking tray in a moderate oven they came out roasted.  And pretty marvellous might I add.  They were crisp and smokey (really must clean that oven one day) and much better than any you can buy in a packet.  Fresh and crunchy with so much flavour.  My next lot will be coated in a spice mix, just to get ahead of myself.  I'm a bit proud of our own roasted almonds.  Just don't be in a hurry for them and don't run out of afternoons.

The servants get the night off

Occasionally we get out of the house much to the disgust of our furry and feathered family members.  Pets know when you are going away.  They see the suitcases come out.  Bennie immediately adopts his sad eyes look and hangs his head over the top of the stairs to maximise the downward looking effect.  Previously when we've gone away for a night we've come home to goats in the rose garden, chickens fighting and a trail of cat vomit throughout the house.  They punish you when you go away.  So a night in a hotel with no responsibilities and someone putting food and drink in front of us is pure bliss.  We didn't hear any roosters in the morning, during the night no one was snoring on the floor beside our bed and we weren't choking from all the cat fur on the blankets.  We didn't have to separate our food leftovers into a bucket for the chooks and during breakfast, nobody sat beside us on the floor whimpering for toast crusts.  By the time we get home some are pleased to see us.  Bennie is excited as all dogs are to see their owner but Max not such much.  He refuses to acknowledge us and we get the 'speak to the tail because the face ain't listening' routine until he can be bothered mustering enough energy to scream at us for food.  The chickens come running as fast as they can on their little Pekin legs like a herd of tiny dinosaurs all complaining about the delay in getting their dinner.  Sure is good to get home...but no wonder we need a break occasionally.  Cheers.

But my cat hasn't been to Tuscany

We've been living on this property for a few years now and Max the Magnificent (self named) has not stepped foot outside.  In our previous house we had a little courtyard the size of a...tiny courtyard and it had fences all the way around.  Max and Bennie were given their dinner on the deck at the back door.  Bennie ate his in a few seconds and pushed the bowl around to get food out of every corner of a round bowl.  Max had to fight for his.  Unfortunately the local gang of pigeons would descend on hearing the dinner bowls rattle and intimidate Max enough to leave them food.  And they often succeeded.  Unfortunately, Max already being of elevated anxiety levels stills suffers from the pigeon effect at meal times.  Even now he doesn't like to eat his food unless I stand behind him.  I've tried to explain that there are no pigeons here and if there were, they wouldn't have a chance against the Butcher birds, the Noisy Miner Birds, the Kookaburras, the Black Cockatoos, the Chooks, Guinea Fowls etc., but this doesn't help.  He is still suffering from the effects of PPSD.  Post Pigeon Stress Disorder.  Most cats would wolf down their food but Max is quite thin and struggles to put on weight.  He was an ill kitten when we got him from the pet shop (yeah I know...) and has been really fussy with food all his life.  Most cats are fussy and pet food companies spend a fortune on the research into this but Max is truly hard work.  The other night I was cutting up a chicken breast and placed a tiny morsel in front of him on the floor.  He sniffed it and looked up at me with disgust as if to say I'm not eating that crap.  He won't eat the tiniest piece of fish being filleted straight from the ocean and never, ever finishes an entire tin or pouch of cat food.  Every night I reach to the pet food cupboard and pull out a serving saying 'Oh, this is your favourite' but it's always the same.  He'll eat just over half and walk away refusing to return to anything that's over 5 minutes old.  I've tried other brands, Fancy this and Fussy that but they are all the same to Max.  I've tried reading him the labels to get his appetite interested but even I must admit they're a bit vague.  It never actually says what it is.  It's (insert brand name) WITH  beef/chicken/fish etc.  Or it's the brand name with Tuscan style something.  What cat has been to Tuscany?  Other than the ones that live there.  So now I describe Max's food as a tin of With.  I guess even I couldn't get excited about a serving of meat derivatives and cereal.  It had better be with a big serving of something.

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.

'A' Reserve Ticket Holders Only

We've run out of perches.  It's a bit like running out of seats at a football stadium.  The ones we have are all prime seating with a good view of the paddock and they're even tiered so nobody misses out on the action.  The perches start to fill on dusk every night by the same crew, our first batch of chickens.  The older chooks tuck themselves in first and Cyril usually gets seated last, being head rooster.  The newer and younger generations of chickens are later to bed.  They have no reserved seating and are forced into the general admissions area which is just a flimsy bamboo stick poking through the corners of the wire cage.  It was a bit of a quick fix on my part but seems to hold at least two or three.  I know it's going to split at some point, I just hope they get some warning.  Unfortunately we've had to put some goats in the same paddock as the chook pen recently due to their ability to levitate over fences.  And the goats like to snuggle up at night so the chook pen seems to them like a good alternative.  So the poor hens have had their house invaded by two goats that chew up all the straw and stomp around all night keeping everyone awake.  No wonder I haven't had any early morning crowing these last couple of days.  Nobody has had any sleep.