Anne Layton-Bennett

I never expected it would be easy . . .

Mon, 27 Apr 2026 10:39:30 GMT

But I was hoping attracting the interest of a publisher or agent wouldn’t be quite this hard either. After the Write Here discussion late last year, and learning that agents consider it a black mark if they learn writers have already approached two or three publishers, I’ve shelved plans to submit to any more. Highly probable my submission wasn’t read anyway, which I’m advised is the soul-destroying reality. Along with the cliché about the size of publishers’ slush piles, and that unsolicited submissions are unlikely to be given anything more than a cursory glance. But one always lives in hope.

So my focus is now on researching possible agents. This is proving equally challenging, not least because most are either closed to submissions from new writers, have a tiny window when they’re open to receiving submissions, or only accept work that’s been referred to them by an agent. Talk about a Catch-22 scenario. Even so, preparing submissions is proving a useful exercise since all agents have slightly different requirements and the one-size-fits-all approach definitely isn’t one that can be adopted.

Although I’ve received three out of three ‘thanks but no thanks’ so far from the agents I’ve approached thus far, my Write Here group have also said receiving a personal note along with the rejection should be taken as a plus. Nonetheless, a rejection is still a rejection even if it comes with a nicely worded and encouraging email.

Nothing for it but to keep plugging away, and also taking advantage of some other opportunities out there - thanks Queensland Writers Centre - as the clock ticks down to the Australian Society of Authors ’ Pitch Perfect sessions, starting next month, designed to assist writers to refine their manuscripts before the chance to book an online pitch before both publishers and agents in July.

Never say never

Wed, 01 Apr 2026 19:08:03 GMT

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Just when we thought three of our four remaining ageing bantam chooks had finally laid their last eggs, and had reached the equivalent of chook menopause, I was surprised to hear the telltale self-congratulatory cackle this afternoon, indicating one at least had just done something special of which she was inordinately proud, and so was announcing it to the world. As chooks do. Sure enough, when I checked one of the nesting boxes in the chook house - that is often scorned by these picky feathered girls in preference for 'going bush' - there were four eggs. It appears that once again two of them had chosen to share real estate. In this case a former recycling tub, repurposed as a nesting box. So our dwindling egg supply has been replenished. Pretty good going for chooks that would have to be nine or ten years old if they're a day.

And what of the fourth you may be wondering? Well she definitely had gone bush, but I finally discovered her nest a week or so ago, and have been relieving her of some of her eggs for several days. She was a blow-in - a refugee from former neighbours who thought they'd rounded up all their chooks before selling their property and moving on, but failed to realise this one had 'gone bush' and was sitting. She was wasting her time as the eggs were infertile there being no rooster, but it can take several weeks for hopeful chooks to realise and abandon the nest. This larger bantam chook emerged on the day the neighbours were literally packed up and were about to drive off. Panic! We suggested they chuck her over the fence to join ours girls, which they did. So sandy bantam eventually settled in with our three black ones but we have no idea how old she is. Since our former neighbours left six years ago she'd have to be at least seven.

Maybe these bantams’ ability to keep on laying is a sign that being literally free range encourages a happier, healthier and more productive life. Whatever, I'm not complaining, and when the time comes for them to really stop laying, they've all earned the right to their retirement. Whenever that might be.

Book review: Silk Silver Opium

Wed, 11 Mar 2026 05:17:56 GMT

This book wasn't an easy read, and not only because it was often rather a plod for the general reader - like me!. As with other books I've read and reviewed for Independent Australia it was also one I read while negotiating an unexpectedly personally challenging time, when all I really wanted to do was sink into a mindless fluffy fiction book and push the horrors of the world away for a few hours. In the end I did both, which resulted in taking rather longer to read the China book than I would usually do for a review copy. But for all its historical detail, which was overdone sometimes, the book is a fascinating insight into how trade between China and Europe had such an impact on how the world is today - and shows the parallels between how trade influences the relationships between countries, both then and now. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose . . . and all that.

https://independentaustralia.net/life/art-display/book-review-silk-silver-opium-the-trade-with-china-that-changed-history,20775

Harvest time

Mon, 02 Mar 2026 05:14:17 GMT

It has to be said that the photo doesn't accurately reflect this season's tomato harvest. But it's also the season for blackberries, which I realise are (and rightly so) considered an invasive weed in Australia. Nevertheless, and as those who know me well are aware, next to raspberries, blackberries are my favourite of the berry fruits and for me, the wild ones are far better than the cultivated, thornless variety. We inherited vines of the latter when we moved to this property, but they have a different flavour and just don't do it for me like wild ones do.

Despite having blackberry bushes growing up and down our road, until this season I've always been reluctant to pick their fruit from all but a couple of the more accessible places. It’s not because they've been sprayed (they haven't) but because by this time of the year the verges are too overgrown, and the culverts too steep, making them ideal habitat for snakes – or breaking an ankle! But because it's been so dry this summer, the vegetation hasn’t grown much and the blackberries are accessible. They aren't the greatest quality due to the lack of rain, but they're better than I thought they would be, so I’ve have had two decent picks from bushes that are pretty much opposite our driveway. Perfect. And thanks to generous neighbours and friends, we even have the apples for stewed blackberry and apple. Yum. There are still more berries to ripen, which will be even better quality now some of that promised rain has finally fallen.

Of course this is also the season for harvesting produce from the vegie garden, not that there’s been too much to pick this year due to some much colder than usual spring weather last October and November. We certainly aren’t alone in having a failed tomato crop, but for the first time ever I’ve had to resort to buying a box of tomatoes from the local vegie shop. Not to bottle or turn into sauce as some people do, but to cook them up with garlic, capsicum, chilli, onions etc, so there are takeaway containers of this mixture in the freezer to use through the winter months, as a base for casseroles and pasta dishes etc. This box was definitely a worthwhile purchase and has provided more containers than I expected.

Our chest freezer is therefore is looking reassuringly more full than I thought it would, with containers of berries, and stewed fruit on one side, and containers of tomato mixture on the other. Just the way I like to see it at this time of year, prepared for winter.

Life tilted on its axis

Sat, 07 Feb 2026 05:48:16 GMT

That old adage about never being too complacent held true for me recently because life certainly chucked a curved ball in our direction towards the end of last year, which completely upended our lives. With no warning at all our lives changed, and there's no going back. There's only the fog of uncertainty as we navigate the way forward.

Although for completely different reasons this 360 degree turnaround has also been the equally unexpected fate of several friends. This could be sheer coincidence, an indication of our ages, or an example in miniature of the chaotic state of the wider world where the full force of climate change fury is being felt across the country, while elsewhere in the world humanity is hellbent on waging war and destruction causing devastation and grief. It all makes a complete mockery of the ‘Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards Men’ that is a feature of the Christian calendar during December/January in many parts of the globe. As we prepared to wave goodbye to 2025 it’s a celebration that rang very hollow for many people – and is continuing to do so heading into 2026. All that annual optimism that normally surrounds the start of a new year also looked and felt a bit desperate.

But despite the challenges there's no option but to keep on keeping on, so that’s what we’re doing. But even the vegetable garden has come out in sympathy and let us down this year. Like many others we know, our tomato harvest has been pathetic. In truth it's lmost non-existent. As it's likely to do with each year now, climate again played its part. A cold spring that unexpectedly reversed back to winter for a week in October wrecked many of the tomato plants John had grown from seed. They simply couldn’t cope. As a result all but one plant turned up their toes. So did the cucumbers, capsicums, and one of the established blackcurrant bushes. Raspberries are also limping along. I’m picking enough for a bowlful each for dessert each evening, but the freezer certainly won’t be receiving too many of this season’s crop. There aren’t a lot of boysenberries in there either this time. Beating the blackbirds and starlings is always an uphill battle but even getting up ludicrously early didn't really help as the crop wasn’t as prolific as usual. So far therefore we can anticipate pumpkins since they are producing well, but unless we get some serious rain they too will struggle. Rain is supposedly coming tomorrow but as it’s been forecast before to no avail, I’m not holding my breath.

The photo showing a glassbowl full of berries therefore, isn't really an accurate representation of this year's harvest!

The Butterfly Women

Mon, 15 Dec 2025 10:05:36 GMT

This book was both a good historical whodunit, and an insight into the lives of women in Melbourne’s early colonial days. To some degree it was based on the author’s family history which gave it an authenticity that can be lacking in some historical fiction books. Independent Australia doesn’t often offer fiction books for review so the opportunity to read it was a refreshing change from some of the non-fiction tomes I’ve previously put up my hand for, and which I have to hope won’t prove to be too dense, academic or tough to read in what are the tough times we’re already living in. They could get depessing. Sometimes fiction is what’s needed and The Butterfly Women delivered – despite crime novels not being my favourite genre.

The controversial and unaffordable stadium

Tue, 18 Nov 2025 04:17:32 GMT

Controversy over building a third stadium in Tasmania has dominated the headlines in the smallest state for over two years. Despite the majority of Tasmanians opposing it - around 70 per cent – the premier is pushing ahead, ignoring multiple reports from economists and others who’ve all advised against it. Claims about economic ‘benefits’ are either inflated or based on flawed, inaccurate or wildly optimistic evidence. Environmental and heritage issues are significant and negative – and planning issues are flawed.

Community anxiety is palpable and as the date nears for the final decision being made by Members of the Legislative Council that will decide whether the stadium gets the green light, that anxiety and anger is palpable. and growing.

The money that’s been wasted on this project already is nothing short of criminal. So is the time and energy that should have been the focus of the government in addressing the crisis in our public services - hospitals, schools, housing and health.

Several of my letters about the issue sent to the newspapers failed to be printed. Arguably our media is not the unbiased and balanced ournalism we expect. A recent unpublished letter is included in this blog post. It was written before MPs in the Lower House were obliged to vote on the stadium proceeding earlier this month. That both Liberals and Labor allowed it to pass and dismissed dissenting voices from the Greens and most Independents is an example of how corrupted Tasmanian politics has become, and how elected representatives from the major parties fail to truly represent the communities that elected them into office. They are betraying the public's trust.

As for the poem. I wrote it earlier this year but the words remain an accurate reflection of the stadium debacle. It’s also a poem that’s included in the FAWNW’s recently published anthology Strange and Marvellous Things ’ ( see previous blog post ).

Stadium folly

is it time to hesitate

before choosing to participate

in the online debate that's become

more fractious and heated by the day

did Rocky ever stop to think about

the harm he was about to evoke

when he signed a deal we can't revoke

and which has mired us in a mess

that’s causing anxiety and distress

and that has split the state in two

I'm no stranger to the vitriol

that's out there in the comments

after all I've been here before

and I recognise the signs

paid trolls with made up names and aliases

who are unafraid to criticise

'build it and they will come'

they cry, their confidence is resolute

and their belief, absolute

they are deaf to dissenting voices

of reason who oppose this travesty

this expensive monument to sporting vanity

to another stadium we neither need

or want

or can afford

*************************

Dear Editor

It’s said politics is a dirty business, but when it comes to the stadium Tasmanian politics has rarely been this grubby. Despite economic and planning experts concluding cost blow-outs, fanciful economic benefits, and inflated claims about attracting major events will be the result, Liberal and Labor continue to publicly support the stadium. One wonders if, privately, all the major party MPs genuinely do. At least two of them appear to have experienced a Road to Damascus moment over their stadium support. Once upon a time Bass MPs Bridget Archer and Janie Finlay were vocal in their criticism of the stadium. And once upon a time Archer was prepared to cross the floor for her principled stance on certain issues - ones that also aligned with the opinion and expectations of her electorate - when she represented Bass in the Morrison federal Liberal government. She gained considerable personal support as a result. Labor’s Janie Finlay also reflected the majority opinion of those in her electorate in initially criticising the need for a third stadium, until Dean Winter became leader and Labor’s position on the stadium did an about turn. So it seems did Finlay’s. Now Labor was all for the stadium its MPs had to be also, despite any personal reservations they might have. They had to be deaf to the many reasons why their constituents called for it to be rejected. For a piece of infrastructure that has proved to be so controversial, socially divisive, and that poses serious economic risks for Tasmania, all MPs should be able to vote freely. Their responsibility and duty is to those they represent, not the dictates of their Party or its leader.

(sent to the editors of Tasmania’s three newspapers: The Examiner, The Advocate, and The Mercury on 9th November 2025)

It's still a waiting game

Sun, 09 Nov 2025 04:55:34 GMT

At last week’s Write Here gathering those present had a lively and valuable discussion about the pros and cons of self-publishing versus going down the traditional path to publication. Then there was the equally fraught question of whether or not it’s best to first secure an agent.

No definitive answers, but it was always my intention to try and secure the interest of a traditional publishing house first before following the self-publishing route to publication, and all it will involve. In my case a crash course in how to go about it, although it’s definitely easier now than it used to be. Still a lot of work though and a daunting prospect.

So far as agents go, it’s just as difficult to attract their interest as it is a publisher. All but a couple of them – who express interest in memoir/non-fiction on their websites – are not accepting any new authors until early 2026. I was encouraged to approach the agent engaged by the legendary and always wonderful, Dr Bob Brown for his latest book ‘Defiance’ but although she responded very quickly it was just to say she had, ‘no capacity’ to accept new writers at the moment. Sigh.

In the meantime I’ve submitted to the first three publishers I considered most likely, according to their guidelines and wishlists. I’ve crossed two off though now since they’ve failed to respond within their advertised timeframe, so have to assume their response is a No. A rather sobering comment from my mentor indicated that one of these two publishers, who suggests writers send their submissions via a ‘Friday Pitch’ option, don’t even read them. Hmmm.

So keeping fingers crossed for the third one, which is probably the one most likely, and the publisher I would really prefer. But if it’s not to be, then there are still four more potentials to try, and the word from other Write Here members is that approaching several publishers at the same time is quite acceptable these days, providing a brief note is sent around should one express an interest in seeing more of the work.

Who knows such a scenario might make the others sit up and dig through their slush piles and thus set off a bidding war. Well, one can dream, and in the meantime fingers remain crossed and optimism remains high.

Strange and Marvellous Things

Mon, 27 Oct 2025 22:26:31 GMT

Well done to the north-west Tasmania branch of Fellowship of Australian Writers . Once again their editorial team led by Allan Jamieson have produced an excellent anthology, with the intriguing title – as above – and an undeniably quirky cover. The rather wonderful octopus is just one of the creatures on it, indicating a watery theme until your eyes pick out the morose-looking frog, sporting what appears to be a death-cap toadstool hat, and a moustachioed chap apparently hitching a ride to work on a magpie. They all suggest an intriguing mix of writing to be explored within.

I appreciate I’m a little biased in promoting this collection of stories, memoirs, poems, anecdotes and travelogues of far-flung places, since I've got work included, but after my copies arrived in the post last week, and from dipping into the book already, it really does look like another interesting and eclectic read – as FAWNW’s previous anthologies have proved to be.

Tasmania is definitely not short of some talented writers, even if all of them don't necessarily have a published book to their name. Neither do I as yet, but with my magnum opus finally completed, and currently being strategically submitted to publishers that are ones most likely to be interested going on their previous publications, my fingers are firmly crossed.

For a first-time author I knew this part would be difficult, as well as time-consuming given the lengthy delays before possibly receiving that much anticipated email or phone call - or not if the six- eight- or ten-week deadline is reached with no news at all - but hoping that with Dr Bob Brown on-side and putting in a good word when and where he is able to do so, my submission will be plucked from the pile sent by other hopefuls. Then it will be a case of hoping it will spark enough interest to ask for a publisher asking to see the full manuscript.

Strange and Marvellous Things (edited by Allan Jamieson, FAWNW) 2025 is available online or at good bookshops. RRP $25.00

Windy dog walks

Sun, 12 Oct 2025 04:08:57 GMT

October in Tasmania is renowned for windy weather but those strong winds have excelled themselves this year. Never has the expression ‘blowing a gale’ been more relevant, and when the wind is accompanied by heavy rain it’s made the morning dog walk less than enjoyable. Not that Badger could give a hoot. Like most dogs he’s happy to go for a walk whatever the weather, although there was one particularly windy morning this week when he did seem quite happy that I cut it short after he’d done the necessary, and I’d nearly been blown off my feet. Literally. Unsurprisingly that day a large tree fell down over the road that took several hours to clear, and there were statewide power outages.

This morning walk today therefore was a pleasure. The wind had dropped completely, and the rain had eased – at least temporarily. All we need now is for the temperature to rise a bit. Early morning walks in daylight are welcome, but the need for a woollen jacket, gloves and a scarf in the middle of October are unusual.

Soon enough we’ll be commenting on the heat – maybe. The weather jury is still out on the chances of a hot summer, a wet summer, or a steamy tropical summer that includes more than a bit of both. At least our water tanks are full after all the rain. Something to be grateful for.

Spring cleaning

Thu, 02 Oct 2025 23:57:14 GMT

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With a completed draft of my book emailed to my wonderful mentor before heading off on our NT trip in early July, the intention was to tackle a lengthy list of tasks on my To Do list when we returned. A broken wrist suffered while we were away put the kybosh on that idea - full details in an earlier blog post - but with that now on the mend I can finally tick off one item on that list: cleaning out our large walk-in pantry.

A couple of wet days this week ensured I was able to enlist John's help to clean the top shelves, and avoid multiple trips up and down the stepladder. The pantry is amazing and was clearly designed to house bottles and jars of processed produce grown by previous owners in what is now our large vegie garden. But while we certainly grow a few vegies, and berry fruits, I am not into bottling and preserving. Freezing stuff is more my style and John is the jam-maker - he's the one that eats it - so after dispensing with a pile of jars, plastic containers of various sizes, and bit and pieces we are never likely to use again, the pantry is under control - and clean and tidy.

Next on the list is to sort the linen cupboard and - sigh - culling a bookshelf or two. That will not be easy but there are definitely some books I'll not read again, that have had their day so far as a place on my bookshelves are concerned, and need to be appreciated by someone else.

Book review: 90 Seconds to Midnight

Wed, 17 Sep 2025 05:38:35 GMT

This book is the biography of an inspiring woman who as a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl survived the bombing of Hiroshima in August 1945. What she witnessed after emerging from under the rubble she and her classmates were buried under doesn’t bear thinking about. We can get an idea though from the way in which Gaza is currently being systematically obliterated by Israel as we speak. The difference is that the former was destroyed in seconds by a nuclear bomb, along with countless thousands of Japanese – most of whom were civilians, including children like Setsuko Namajura.

Setsuko was one of just two of her 29 classmates to survive and as she grew up she determined to dedicate her life to ensuring there would never be a repeat of the Hiroshima or Nagasaki bombings. By the end of the book she is well into her eighties and has received the Nobel Peace Prize on behalf of an anti-nuclear organisation she has worked with for decades.

90 Seconds to Midnight is far from an easy or comfortable read, particularly as the world now hovers on the brink of another global conflict, between countries who have nuclear weapons capabilities. Never have Setsuko’s warnings about the risks for the survival of humanity and the planet generally, been more pertinent.

https://independentaustralia.net/life/life-display/book-review-90-seconds-to-midnight,20157

Now it's a waiting game

Tue, 16 Sep 2025 09:48:29 GMT

I finally wrote The End on my ‘magnum opus’ shortly before we went on a short break to the Northern Territory in early July - and where I broke my wrist on Day One of the tour. See my blog for the full sorry saga of that incident.

My lovely mentor Robyn emailed it back within a few weeks and essentially gave it the tick of approval with very few corrections, but plenty of advice about formatting in readiness to submit to agents/publishers. These corrections took a little longer to do due to being a bit restricted in the wrist and hand area so far as typing goes. But once completed it was down to researching some potential publishers, checking and re-checking their guidelines and prepping for the submitting process.

I was under no illusions about the submission process and the probability mine would need a remarkable amount of luck to make it out of that slush pile writers hear about but maybe only half believe. It’s been interesting to learn of the similarities of the guidelines publishers have, but individual differences as well – and woe betide any writer who falls foul of those stringent details. Into the bin – or the delete box – without a qualm. I suppose it’s one way of sorting potential writerly wheat from the chaff.

So now it’s a waiting game and hoping that there will be glimmers of optimism at some point in October, before it’s on to the next publisher on my researched list. Until then it’s a matter of keeping my fingers crossed.

Keep on clucking

Sun, 31 Aug 2025 04:39:27 GMT

We crossed our fingers this year and hoped our ageing bantams might still be able to produce a few eggs for another season. We thought they might have reached the menopausal stage in life - if that's the correct term for hens - and had earned the right to live out their remaining time in retirement.

It was therefore a genuine surprise to realise two of our five remaining chooks have clearly responded to the urge to lay. It remains to be seen if the other three will rise to the challenge, and refuse to be outdone, or whether they will decide they're over it, choosing instead to eat and sleep their way to finally dropping off the perch.

Most of the girls are at least six to eight years old, and while we’ve noticed over the years bantams continue to lay longer than full-sized chooks, they’re all still long in the tooth and presumably will stop laying eventually, or at least slow down their production. Weather plays its part and that has certainly gone backwards in the last few days. What has hopefully been winter’s last gasp has put the brakes on. This could also be behind the others’ reluctance to produce, and take advantage of freshly laid hay in their palatial nesting boxes, or if they will scorn these and go bush, which is not unusual. At least we’re aware of some previously used and favoured sites around the property that will need to be checked out just in case, as the egg-laying season gets underway.

Hearing another cackle this morning is a good sign one of them has done the deed!

Fingers crossed.

On the mend

Tue, 19 Aug 2025 01:58:31 GMT

One of the women on the NT tour said it would be six weeks before I could ditch the splint for my fractured wrist and start using my hand more normally. She was right. It’s definitely improving though, and I’m cleared to drive again thank goodness, but there are still things I can only do with difficulty, or not at all. Thankfully partners do come in handy for such occasions! So it’s going to be a few more weeks before I feel confident about lifting heavy items, unscrewing the tops of jars, or doing some of the Pilates poses that involve strong(er) wrist movements than mine currently has. The first time back at senior’s gym tomorrow will be interesting. Definitely no lifting dumbbells for me yet.

At least keyboarding is easier. One-hand typing isn't to be recommended. I kept remembering the amazing pianist on the ABC TV's recent series The Piano which featured talented pianists from around Australia, some of whom were invited to Sydney's Concert Hall to perform. One of those selected was a very talented pianist who'd suffered a stroke in his '20s or '30s but had gone on relearn playing the piano with staggering skill - using just one hand. What an inspiration. And a reminder not to complain given my limitations were only temporary.

No physio is required though, just the hand/wrist exercises I’ve been doing anyway and that are getting easier. My wrist soon lets me know when it’s done too much and it’s time to stop. In what is hoped will be Tassie’s last gasp of freezing winter weather hasn’t helped though, as I noticed yesterday. The wrist ached pretty much all day so the arnica cream had a good workout again.

Comments on the scar have all been ones of surprise – especially when people are advised where the surgery was done. I can only repeat what I was told afterwards: the surgeon who operated on my wrist at Alice Springs Hospital is regarded as one of the best, if not the best, in the country for this procedure, and his team are also held in high esteem. I think I was therefore remarkably lucky in the care and attention I received there, as well as back here in Tasmania. The follow up at Launceston’s Orthopaedic Clinic has also been excellent.

And the plate and pins in my wrist won't set off airport security as they're plastic not metal. Plastics are sometimes good for something even if I do wince a bit while admitting it.

Speaking out again

Sun, 10 Aug 2025 05:09:41 GMT

Speaking out again

During the campaign for the election we didn’t need to have, Tasmanian Greens’ candidates were asked to refrain from speaking out on social media, or writing letters to editors. It was frustrating, but given the extent of the vitriol directed towards the Greens - from both major parties – it was understandable. It’s likely other candidates from the blue and red sides were given similar directives. Politics can be a nasty business and digging dirt on people has unfortunately become par for the course.

But the campaign over, and the likelihood of a stable government for the next four years looking rocky (pun intended) I’ve been able to resume writing letters to editors expressing my opinion on the bizarre, stubborn intransigence of both Tasmanian leaders of the Liberals and Labor. Neither have seemed willing to recognise control of a majority government was akin to a political game of ping pong, flipping from one party to the other, are well and truly over.

Such was the context of versions of my recent letter which won the publishing trifecta, being printed in The Mercury , online in Tasmanian Times , and in the Subscriber Only newsletter from Independent Australia , all on the same day. It remains to be seen if mine, and a heap of other similar letters, will make a skerrick of difference. We can only hope.

https://tasmaniantimes.com/2025/08/letters-to-the-editor-34/

Rockliff isn’t delivering what Tasmania voted for

“Tasmania’s Acting Premier Rockliff recently claimed he “respects the will of the people”. If he genuinely respected the will of the people, he would park his arrogant, elitist attitude at the door of Parliament House.

What he should be doing is discussing how the next four years of our parliament will work — with all our elected MPs. A little humility wouldn’t go astray either, since Mr Rockliff also needs to remember that despite that clutch of 14 seats he holds in the blue corner, they don’t represent the majority of Tasmanian voters. Around 60 per cent of them didn’t vote Liberal.

So this “mandate” Rockliff is also claiming to have is a fiction. “Mandate” has to be the most overused – and misused – word in the political lexicon.

Mr Rockliff doesn't have a mandate. Nobody does. Tasmanians elected an interesting and colourful mix to represent them, one that’s even more colourful and interesting than those elected last year. It could and should be seen as a recipe for optimism and positive change.

Rockliff also needs to seriously reflect on the fact that most Tasmanians voted for candidates that were either Independent, Green or Labor, so it’s pretty obvious they’re sick of a choice of either blue or red. They want a different recipe, one with more spice, more ideas and more vision for our island’s future.

Arguably, the only “mandate” from this election is that Tasmanians expect all of those 35 elected MPs to work together, to form an open, transparent and functional parliament, as well as a collaborative government that recognises the talents and skills of each MP.

Tasmanians want and need a government that lasts four years and doesn't succumb again to self-interest and entitlement, or to the political tantrums that have characterised the recent behaviour of a couple of egotistical, ego-driven men.” (IA – 7 ^th August 2025)

Fractured state

Sat, 02 Aug 2025 07:01:55 GMT

Continuing with the fractured theme, but this time with a political flavour as Tasmanians finally learned the result of the July 19 election today. This was the election we didn’t need to have but thanks to the stubborn belligerence and arrogance of both premier Rockliff, and Labor leader Winter - who called for (and won) a vote of no confidence in Mr Rockliff, appeared unsure of what to do next. Sigh.

Convention should have seen the premier resign, but that didn’t happen. A snap election was called – a mere 16 months after the one last year, and two months after the federal election we had in May – which impressed nobody. Winter election campaigns in Tasmania are no fun which is why they rarely happen. I can only remember a federal election being called in the chilly season, and I as headed for the UK, I missed most of it anyway, so this one was not welcomed.

If Mr Rockliff anticipated a decisive win for the Liberals, and a majority government, he’s been disappointed. Likewise for Mr Winter. The primary vote for both major parties descended even further than it did last year. The Greens’ vote went up – and so did support for Independents. Tasmanians have voted for an interesting line-up of MPs, so it will be fascinating to learn when and if Messrs Rockliff and Winter finally park their respective prejudices and pick up the phone to speak with both the Greens leader, Rosalie Woodruff, and the new-minted crossbench – only one of which supports the building of a new stadium. This is the issue that arguably we had to all head back to the polls for, along with the stuff-up about ferries, their inadequate berths, and a controversial budget that would have seen public assets sold off to pay for (possibly) the contentious stadium around 70 per cent of Tasmanians don’t want, and know full well we cannot afford.

What a dog’s breakfast, as a former library colleague of mine was fond of saying.

I certainly don’t envy those elected MPs having to navigate their way through the controversial minefield of issues facing Tasmania, and despite being a support candidate for Greens MP Cecily Rosol I’m still amazed I secured as many votes as I did – 1,684 from memory – but that was my finale as a support candidate. Four times is enough. Fingers crossed this parliament will last the 4-year distance, but it will certainly be a bumpy ride unless those egotistical and elitist chaps decide to work for the benefit of Tasmania and Tasmanians – not themselves, as I said in the letter below which was – surprise, surprise – printed today.

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The Mercury 2 Aug 2025

Pick up the phone

"Time and again though, this Liberal government just can't be trusted when it comes to the big moments that shape our future. Tasmanians deserve better."

So said Labor leader Dean Winter in a publicly released letter to Acting Premier Jeremy Rockliff on July 30. And Mr Winter is quite right.

Tasmanians do deserve better. And they deserve better from Mr Winter as well. In fact Tasmanians would welcome both men ceasing to behave like spoiled two-year-olds, and acknowledge neither can become premier without the support of the Greens and those progressive crossbench MPs. So would one - or preferably both of you - please pick up the phone and talk to Greens leader Rosalie Woodruff, and others on the crossbench.

Tasmanians deserve to be spared from another dysfunctional parliament, and four more years of Liberal mismanagement and stuff-ups. And we absolutely don't need, nor can we afford, yet another early election. Now it's up to you to get on with working with all of those elected MPs, whatever their political persuasion and background.

Fractured

Sat, 19 Jul 2025 04:46:54 GMT

Alice Springs usually gets a bad rap in the media. Some of it is probably justified, but my recent experience is a very different and more positive story. And I’m giving the medical team at the Alice Springs Hospital a very big and justly deserved shout-out as a result.

A visit to the hospital certainly wasn’t on the itinerary of our recent NT tour. But the trip didn’t quite go according to plan. We booked this tour - that included Uluru, Kakadu, Alice Springs and Darwin – months ago, and long before there was the possibility of another state election so soon after the one held last year, which also involved heading to the polls twelve months early. But that’s by the by.

Day One of the tour, which started at Uluru, involved a sunrise viewing of the iconic Rock. But while heading up to the viewing platform I stopped – a bit too suddenly maybe – to avoid intruding on the view of some chap taking a photo. I either slipped or skidded on the shaley path and fell badly. My left hand took the brunt of the fall, (my phone was in the other hand) resulting in a fractured wrist. Since I’m a leftie this was rather serious. It was also very painful.

Back at the hotel Anna the tour director, ensured I was able to see the team at the small Yulara Medical Centre before we were due to head to Alice Springs. The medics there were great too, taking X-rays to send to Alice Springs hospital, and strapping my wrist up more securely. At Alice I was dropped off at the ED and yes, it was a lengthy and tedious wait – exacerbated to a degree by the fact we’d arrived on Territory Day – the one day in the year that NT folk are allowed to set off fireworks. And they do so with gusto, which always involves multiple injuries and a crowded ED.

So while I was eventually seen by the medics the hour was advancing a lot and the decision was made for me to return at 6.30am the following morning so I could have surgery. This was deemed essential given I’m cack-handed, and I’m extremely grateful for that decision being made. Obviously I missed visiting the various things the rest of the group did that day, but fixing my wrist was much more important.

Arguably it would have been more sensible to suggest I go to Outpatients rather than the ED, but that didn’t happen so the wait was considerably longer than it needed to be – and I certainly saw a slice of life I wouldn’t otherwise have seen, mostly involving Indigenous people and reinforcing some of the stereotypes we hear about in the media. But once it was all systems go, it really was and thanks to Lewis, Mitch, Prof Julian, Dr Ping and others whose names I cannot remember, for taking such care and making such an incredible job of the surgery to reset my poor wrist.

Never let anyone say the care and professionalism of all the staff at Alice Springs Hospital was other than exemplary. It’s an opinion that was endorsed this week at Launceston’s Orthopaedic Clinic where the doctors who commented on my scar and the stitches (and more X-rays) were full of praise for surgery well done, when the temporary cast finally came off.

Even so, with one of those removeable support contraptions taking the place of a cast, I still have four weeks of no driving, and some very careful and gentle exercises to do. Life can certainly be full of challenges, and this challenge was definitely neither wanted or expected, but it is what it is – while typing one-handed has become a new skill!

Finally finished. The initial full draft anyway!

Sun, 08 Jun 2025 01:37:53 GMT

So the first full draft is finally done. It stands at 38 chapters and runs to approximately 131,000 words. No wonder it took 10 years to complete! But it was in between a multitude of other events and activities - and writing commitments - in life.

To those who have shared their stories of that tumultuous time in all our lives, thank you. Your contributions have certainly made the story of the pulp mill campaign a better one. I just have to hope a publisher will agree, and take it on, but realise there's a way to go before it's ready to submit to one.

Writing the final bits to a backdrop of another Tasmanian issue that's proving to be just as divisive and controversial has been strange and singularly depressing. Tasmania has obviously learned nothing from past campaigns. From dams to pulp mlls and now to a stadium Tasmanians are once again mired in controversy. Of more concern is the fact our political class has also learned nothing. The stadium nightmare continues to play out, and is likely to result in another state election just 15 or 16 months after the last one. - which was supposed to provide 'stable government'. In fact it did everything but and at the time of writing none of us know how it will all end - other than in tears. Certainly for many.

So while I've also been involved - at a distance - with that campaign - it won't be my story to tell, if and when it's over.

For now and for me, I'm basking in the knowledge I've actually written a book, unpublished though it is as yet.

Now it's time to tackle all the things that have been neglected for far too long. Starting with cleaning up my office! And weeding our garden!

Race to the finish

Fri, 16 May 2025 00:32:38 GMT

The goalposts have moved continuously since I began writing this book, and in the beginning I didn’t even set any timeline on it. Maybe I should have done since it has dragged out far longer than I ever imagined it would, but I’ve not had the luxury of time to do little else but spend all day writing either. Or not working on the book anyway. The paid work has always taken priority. But now – today – I can say with absolute confidence that I will be able to write The End on or before the end of May 2025. Phew!

There are just a couple of interviews to edit for the In Their Own Words chapters, and finishing off the final chapter that really meant we could claim the campaign to stop a pulp mill being built in Tasmania’s Tamar Valley was over, and that the community had won it. The saga might have ended with a whimper rather than a bang, and for most people it had ended when Gunns went broke, but for those on the frontline it wasn’t over until those permits expired and the government of the day announced they wouldn’t be renewed.

Only then could we have a party, put those twelve campaign years behind us, and stop looking over our shoulders - metaphorically speaking.

So on 31 ^st May I’m planning on putting the writing of this book behind me, although I know it’s really just the beginning. My mentor will undoubtedly have suggestions for rewrites, moving parts from one section to another – and perhaps ditching some bits altogether. But if this tome is to interest a publisher then that’s all part of the process. So I’ll look upon the next stage as akin to putting a jigsaw puzzle together and slotting things into a more natural (and readable) place.

But at least I've 'got it down' and the story is complete. And that’s quite an achievement – even if I never really doubted I’d finish it eventually. I’m only sorry there are several people who were involved but who are no longer around to read it.

Smoke - but no fire

Tue, 15 Apr 2025 04:34:16 GMT

Or only when the leaves change to their rich autumn colour as they’ve done again this year. This Purple Smoke Bush (Cotinus coggygria Purple Form ) was well-established when we moved to the property ten years ago, but as that was in July we missed seeing its stunning autumn glory. This species isn’t an Australian native although some varieties of smoke bush are.

The purple smoke bush is lovely in every season though, with purplish green leaves in spring and soft, smoky feathery flower balls in summer, that float about like thistledown. Previous owners of the property were clearly taken with this small tree as there’s a second one in the garden, but it never achieves the spectacular quality of this one, which has been a blaze of glory every autumn almost to the point where it hurts your eyes to look at it.

There have been many plants in the garden that were unknown to us initially, and several others that were revealed as shrubs and bushes have needed to be cut back or cut out. Then of course the resident guru has planted more native trees and shrubs since being here, most of which have thrived and grown – and from which seeds and cuttings have been taken so others can be planted, or given away to good homes.

But a changing climate is noticeably affecting some plants, with summer flowers hanging on this year during what can only be described as an Indian summer, while spring bulbs are already shooting up in places despite winter having barely begun.

Meanwhile there’s been no rain for weeks so hand watering continues to be necessary for some favoured plants. Others have to fend for themselves. I fear for the lovely oak tree and the lilac – both of which are unused to drought-like conditions, coming as they do from Europe and which remind me of the land of my birth. These lovely trees may be well-established but I cannot help feeling surely there must be limits to their tolerance for lack of water.

Dr John - a life well lived

Fri, 28 Mar 2025 05:13:16 GMT

Yesterday was another sharp reminder of the need to finish writing this book about the campaign to stop the pulp mill. Not that I really need a reminder but seeing so many of those who fought the good fight to stop it at John Ball’s funeral certainly brought the growing urgency into focus. John – and his wife Caroline - was another of my interviewees. And the second one who won’t be around to read the finished version. Always assuming I manage to find a publisher willing to publish it of course.

The funeral was a magnificent send-off for a talented man who certainly had lived life to the full, had many interests across multiple disciplines, and had explored, excelled and immersed himself in all of them. Not just his day job as a GP, but John was involved in theatre, choir, travel, (generally the more adventurous and rugged the better), bush walking, environmental conservation, gardening, literature, and social justice. And Caroline was with him all the way during their 62 years together.

John was no shrinking violet, and if you happened to stand next or near to him at a protest rally or march, you not only needed ear plugs, you also needed to be aware of the strong possibility you’d be caught in the media spotlight. John had a voice and he wasn’t afraid to use it. He was loud in his condemnation of whatever the issue involved. Generally this was to do with the protection of Tasmania’s forests, wilderness, and the environment, when I knew him. He was certainly vocal in his criticism of the pulp mill and the Liberal and Labor politicians who against all sense and reason, supported it. More recently, and despite increasingly poor health, he was loud in his support of the 2023 Referendum’s Yes vote, and his objections to the proposed third stadium, and the farmed salmon industry that has dominated Tasmania’s – and the nation’s headlines in the past few weeks.

I suspect that wherever he is, he’ll continue to rail against them!

Funerals are often occasions when we see people we may not have met up with for months or years. And so it was yesterday. There were many people there who campaigned equally hard against the pulp mill – or chemical factory as John often called it – with all of us showing signs of our advancing age.

Wonderful to see so many of them, but also a strong reminder I need to finally get this book written before attending the funeral of anyone else from that time.

Blow the Budget

Fri, 28 Mar 2025 04:32:49 GMT

It has to be said that my interest in politics doesn't extend to spending the evening watching the Treasurer pontificate on how his side of politics - which is also the government - will manage the nation's finances for the coming year. And why Labor will make a better fist of it than the Liberal Opposition. In Australia Budget Night is always on a Tuesday, although not generally in March. This year the different date is due to an election that all the pundits say will be called on Friday (today) after the Opposition leader Dutton has given his right of reply on Thursday night. And no, I wasn't about to watch that one either.

Tuesday is also the day I'm usually scrambling to write my contribution to the weekly word game I've been playing for a number of years. I always intend being better organised instead of leaving it to the last moment. It rarely happens. This week the words seemed to fit neatly into a pithy comment involving Budget avoidance.

I even managed to send it off before we did indeed head out to a restaurant to have dinner with firiends.

"Tonight's the night when some of the politically engaged will submerge themselves at 7.30pm listening to the annual Budget speech. No doubt there will be many who will beat their breast , either with exhilaration, disgust or disappointment at the Treasurer's words. Others will simply express their pandiculation and flick the dial to Netflix. As for us, well we decided to switch off the TV altogether and enjoy an amiable evening out with friends. The Budget blues (or bonanza) can wait until tomorrow."

The highlighted words are the ones that had to be included in this week's offering.

And right on cue, PM Albanese called the election first thing this morning. We're off to the polls on 3rd May. The pundits have been saying the result will be a minority government. I have no problem with that - providing the election will also see several more Greens going to Canberra. #smashtheduopoly

Hide and seek

Tue, 18 Mar 2025 05:48:51 GMT

Keeping bantam chooks that are completely free range is all very well, but it’s a problem when they choose to scorn the nesting boxes in the palatial shed that is their chook house. They don’t even roost there at night since being spooked by a feral cat or quoll attack years ago. Bantams clearly have longer memories than most give them credit for. They’ve never gone back, choosing instead to roost in a tree that is arguably less safe than the chook house.

But it’s when they decide to go bush to lay their eggs that’s tiresome. Most were being good as gold this season, but with a few cooler nights last week, and summer on the wane, the rats and mice are moving closer to the chook house – and probably our house as well! - where they know there’s likely to be a free feed. And so it was. Two eggs had been scraped clean of their contents with just their broken shells remaining. Time to bring out some rodent bait.

I was already sure one chook was laying somewhere else, as she’s done before, so it was a matter of revisiting some of her previous haunts. It took a while but finally found her just as she was ready to settle in for the duration. A pointless exercise given the eggs weren’t fertilised since we have no rooster, but chooks never seem to get that bit.

So we managed to scoop up a dozen eggs, and left her with just one to keep her happy for a few weeks before she’s tossed off her makeshift nest, as they all have to be eventually. Theoretically chooks are supposed to know when the three-week incubation period is up, but every time it’s a triumph of optimism over harsh reality, even if it does take several attempts before that reality kicks in.

John’s theory is they’re all getting desperate because they’re getting older and their instinct is to reproduce before it’s too late. Maybe he’s right given he knows more about chooks than I do. Certainly we’re amazed they’re all still laying given they have to be at least seven or eight years old which is positively geriatric in chook terms..

And they’ll never know how privileged their lives have been compared to their farmed cousins.

It's scarecrow time again

Mon, 10 Mar 2025 04:54:12 GMT

Scarecrows have become rather a thing in my East Tamar neighbourhood. They start popping up along fence lines and verges as we get closer to the annual Harvest Market. This in turn began as a way of supporting St Matthias Church that was on the Anglican list of Tasmania’s rural churches to be sold in order to raise funds for the redress payments to historic victims of sexual abuse. The community was incensed that such a historic church was being considered for sale, and very quickly came together to ensure sufficient funds were raised to see any potential sale was off the agenda.

That was several years ago but ongoing funds are necessary to ensure the upkeep of the church and grounds – including the small and equally historic cemetery. Hence the annual Harvest Market – and the novelty addition of a scarecrow competition, the brainchild of the local Garden Club, that’s proved so popular it soon became an annual event with more entries each year.

It's very much a community initiative with our local Men’s Shed creating and selling the frames for a very modest sum.

How effective these imaginative and clever creations are at ‘scaring the birds’ is a mott point, but I suspect not very - given few of them are anywhere near the property’s vegie patch. And that’s assuming properties all have a vegie patch to protect.

Unsure who has the task of deciding the best scarecrow but judging the best one will be a tough job because as well as lots of them, there are some really clever ones this year.

The Whisperer's War

Tue, 18 Feb 2025 05:27:19 GMT

Every now and then I’m successful when I put up my hand to review one of the advance, uncorrected proof copies of books offered by the team at Better Reading , that’s due for publication in a few months’ time. The books are novels or short story collections, and usually by lesser known or emerging writers – probably because the well-known names really don’t need the publicity. Their books will sell anyway.

That said ‘The Whisperer’s War’ is by the very well known Australian writer, Jackie French, who is arguably even better known for the many books she’s written for children and young adults. Her latest novel is for adults and is proving to be a very easy read that suggests there were more Nazi sympathisers among the UK’s aristocracy during the 1930s and 1940s than is claimed in the conventional history books.

Having grown up hearing stories of my parents’ wartime lives in the RAAF, WWll stories have always held a fascination, and I frequently borrowed books of the era’s heroes and heroines from my older brother’s bookshelves. I don’t recall reading anything much about too many Nazi sympathisers though – other than the well-known, and subsequently disgraced Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

Jackie French has suggested there were rather more admirers of Hitler among England’s upper classes in her latest book, and who better to gather intelligence about these admirers – and pass on the information to help the war effort - than one of their own. In other words, our heroine is titled lady and a spy – albeit an unconventional one.

While I’m still only part way through reading the book it’s clearly going to be rollicking tale with heroes and villains and a good dollop of romance. In our modern world that also appears to be heading for hell in a handbasket, it’s a tale for our times – although I suspect the novel will ultimately have a happier ending than one that currntly seems far from certain in the real world.

Thank goodness we can all still escape into the world of fiction.

Getting closer . . . yes, really

Thu, 06 Feb 2025 02:07:29 GMT

There are some writers who must have such a facility with words, and the ability to arrange them in an order that requires little rewriting or rearrangement, but I’m not one of them. I heard about such a writer from a friend yesterday who was equally in awe of someone she knew who’d knocked off the draft of a book in six months. The writer was also still working – albeit part time. We were both jealous, neither of us being the speediest of wordsmiths.

It's pointless being envious of those with that ability though. At least that’s what I tell myself through gritted teeth as I plod away with my own magnum opus, that’s taken many times more than six months, but which I’m determined won’t take more than another couple of them. My consolation is that because I’m editing as I go there will be very little need to revisit and rework, although I’m fully cognisant there will be a need to reorganise chapters, and possibly sections within those chapters.

One of my beta readers has already flagged this – but I’d already reached that conclusion anyway. From what I can gather rearranging the jig-saw puzzle that is an early draft of a manuscript is called a structural edit. And every published book needs one.

Serendipitously, a workshop for this very aspect is being advertised. It’s happening in Hobart next month so I’m now hoping it can be organised for this end of the island too. Even if the Hobart workshop wouldn’t mean a sparrow-fart start to a Saturday morning, the date coincides with a regular commitment I have anyway.

I’ll just keep my fingers crossed that the Writers Centre can follow through with my suggestion this workshop can also be offered in Launceston. It was obvious from the sellout session at last year’s Tamar Valley Writer’s Festival that involved tips about the approach to make to publishers in respect of ‘getting one’s book published’, there would be plenty of takers.

In the meantime there are two more chapters to complete . . . .

Getting closer . . . . but still not there

Mon, 20 Jan 2025 04:55:31 GMT

So much for the anticipated finish line being achieved at the end of last November. Or even December. The year has ticked over in 2025 and this account is still not complete. I plead mitigating circumstances, and the unexpected but definitely serendipitous, conversation with Garry at a memorial service we both attended late last year. It resulted in his being able to answer a couple of questions involving dates and timelines thanks to Garry archiving all the emails he both received and sent during the campaign years and the folders still there on his computer.

Once upon a time I had a similar archive but when the NBN was finally rolled out in this area I was obliged to change my email address and 12+ years’ worth of emails disappeared into the ether. Theoretically they are backed up on my hard drive but when I tried to access one backup I couldn’t. A techo whizz might be able to do so – for a price – but I fear that my record of electronic historical correspondence is gone forever.

Thank goodness for printed paper, newspaper cuttings, diaries and various other pieces of memorabilia.

Garry though, being the dedicated library technician he is bless him, went home that afternoon and delved into his own extensive computer files and forwarded what was in truth a small book of emails covering the time I needed to verify. Talk about illuminating. Amazing how memory remembers certain aspects and totally airbrushes others out out of the frame.

Being able to reinforce my memory of the event I was struggling to recall accurately was brilliant. Less brilliant was then being obliged to re-write three chapters of the book as a result of this information! Ultimately though, a good thing as it’s definitely strengthened the work, but having to backtrack did feel a bit like sliding down the snake rather than climbing up the ladder since, being me, I couldn’t continue until that was done to my satisfaction. Other writers may have been able to set that new information aside and add it later do it later, but I couldn't. Never mind. It’s done now and is better for the re-write. But back in the groove now and picking up where I left off in Chapter 32.

That means just three, possibly four, chapters to go.

There's a sting in this tale

Wed, 01 Jan 2025 05:03:39 GMT

Badger the beagle didn’t enjoy the best of Christmas Days. He was stung by a bee or a wasp quite early on in the piece and ended up with a very fat face. The swelling didn’t subside for hours, and he clearly felt rather sorry for himself pretty much all that day. I’ve since learned that dogs can be sensitive to bee and wasp stings just like humans, so it was fortunate that Badger wasn’t in that category given it was December 25 ^th and the chances of finding a vet prepared to do whatever might be necessary were probably somewhere between Buckleys and zero.

Badger is the third dog we’ve had that’s suffered a bee sting. Our gorgeous Midnight was stung when she was still half grown. She was probably exploring as young dogs do and her curiosity caused her to get too close, or she was annoying a bee too much and he or she got fed up. It was a lesson learned and she also ended up with a very fat face and looked hilarious.

As did Della when she was stung. Della was our lovely but rather traumatised rescue dog who preceded Badger. She quite possibly brought the sting upon herself as she was prone to snapping at bees in order to get a sugar hit. Or this was the reason we always presumed is why she snapped at them. She was a shocker for doing so. But she misjudged it one day and Mr or Ms Bumble - or Mr/Ms worker bee - took revenge. Della learned from the experience alright, but all it did was to make her quicker to snap at those bees.

Regaling friends with the tale of Badger’s less than perfect Christmas revealed a good tip for the future though – should he be stung again. Accredited vet advice is that just like it does for us, an antihistamine tablet will do the trick for dogs if they show more serious signs of distress, or more serious symptoms that could suggest acute sensitivity. Antihistamines are always in the medicine cupboard at this time of year due to the hayfever that affects me when all the grasses are flowering. Now there’s another good reason to ensure there’s always a packet of them in the cupboard.

Confused chooks . . or signs of senility?

Tue, 17 Dec 2024 04:31:07 GMT

A Google search suggests the way to interrupt or stop broodiness in hens is to remove them from the nest after the usual three-week egg-sitting period, and then to dunk their chest and bottoms in cool water. Hmm. Didn’t work with Silver. In truth, it’s not been a reliable method to switch off the broodiness in other chooks we’ve had over the years. That’s assuming we’ve been able to locate the nests of our free-ranging girls, as irritatingly they don’t always choose to lay in the perfectly good nesting boxes in the chook house.

Opportunities for motherhood are long gone as we decided not to replace the rooster following a distressing night of carnage several years ago by either a feral cat or a quoll.

Silver though took her determined broodiness to the next level. She’s a placid chook and wasn’t too fazed when I regularly picked her up and tossed her off the nest to ensure she didn’t croak it from lack of food and water after her three-week stint of sitting on nothing. I’d long since removed the eggs. Stubbornly, back she went every time. A true triumph of optimism over reality for a bantam hen who’s undoubtedly getting a bit long in the tooth (beak?) and has to be admired for still being able to lay eggs at all. I dubbed her Silver due to the sprinkle of white feathers around her throat, which distinguishes her from the two other black bantams, none of which are a pure breed.

Possibly the last stern talking to Silver received while being dunked for the fourth or fifth time after a total of seven weeks on the nest finally had an effect. But I rather think it had more to do with the fact I ensured she wasn’t able to settle back on the nest either. Whatever, the penny must have dropped as the following morning she finally joined the others for brekkie, and has shown no signs of going back on the nest since. Phew.

Typically though another one has gone clucky. She’s now also sitting on nothing, but I’ll leave her there until her three weeks are up, and keep my fingers crossed instinct will kick in although somehow I have my doubts.

All five girls are ageing so it’s quite remarkable they are still up to egg laying at all. One of the benefits perhaps of being completely free range, and compared to far too many chooks around the world who have cruel and appalling lives, are enjoying happy and contented ones – despite their inability to be mothers any longer.

Possum mayhem

Thu, 21 Nov 2024 02:52:40 GMT

We rarely see possums at this property, possibly due to being closer to paddocks and farmland than bush, so it took me a little while to understand the reason behind Badger’s uncharacteristic excitement before getting ready for his morning walk recently. I haven’t dubbed him Mr Mournful for no reason. Unlike all his predecessors his body language and facial expression tends to be inscrutable. We never know what he’s feeling – or perhaps thinking. Happy, sad, contented, enthusiastic? Who would know, and perhaps it’s an indication he still feels a bit insecure. We are after all his third human family and he’s been with us less than a year.

Looking up though it was immediately obvious what had got Badger exercised. There was a brush tail possum on the roof of the covered path to his palatial kennel home. Possum didn’t appear to be at all concerned. He/she probably knew full well there wasn't a hope of either dog or human being a threat. Not at 6.30 in the morning anyway.

Badger was soon distracted as we left for our walk, and I hoped possum would take the opportunity to head off to properties new while we were away. And that’s what I thought had happened initially, but Badger knew otherwise. He was convinced possum was still about. He continued to whine and to be agitated, and it was only when I finally went outside to see what he was still fussing about that I realised why. Possum hadn’t moved off at all, it had just moved off the roof, and was under the eaves. Not so smart after all, but that's maybe because he/she was obviously a juvenile, and probably terrified. I wonder what happened to mum.

Possum was there all day, failing to move on when Badger went for his afternoon walk, so we could only hope it would take its chances later that evening when Badger was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted – since he’d hardly slept at all during the day – and tiptoe off into the night. Thankfully that is what happened. He left a smelly calling card behind though. Maybe it was the possum equivalent of giving us the finger!

Getting closer . . .

Mon, 21 Oct 2024 04:47:48 GMT

I never expected writing a book would be easy, but neither did I anticipate it being quite the long-winded process it has been. I can only shake my head in disbelief when I read or hear of people knocking off their latest book in a matter of a few months – weeks even in some cases. Do these people not sleep? Or cook, clean, weed the garden or go grocery shopping? Do they not have other interests, have coffee with friends, read, play music, or even take time out to write as a job to earn money?

I’ve had to come to terms with the fact I’m a slow writer. And a perfectionist. I’m aware all writers approach the craft in various ways, and mine is decidedly not the one that dashes off a piece of writing with little or no concern for grammar, punctuation or even coherent sentences. I have to get the words right to my own satisfaction before I can move on – and even then there might be multiple re-reads of a section with more tweaks before I’m satisfied. I totally get the writer – and I can’t remember who it was – that could agonise for hours over the placement of a comma. I don’t think I’m quite that bad, but it’s undeniably frustrating words don’t flow out as perfectly as I feel they should do.

But the end is finally close, with an estimated three chapters to go, one of which is already well underway. I’ve had to keep re-setting deadlines but this time, I really do believe I can write The End before the end of November arrives. I need to hold myself to this given that by mid- to late November produce will be starting to ripen once again, and harvesting will also need to be factored in to already crowded days.

Here's hoping the 5am starts will assist - and my optimism isn't misplaced!

Always was always will be - book review

Fri, 11 Oct 2024 03:36:37 GMT

Like thousands of others I was left feeling emotionally bruised and despondent at the outcome of last year’s Voice referendum. No surprise then that on being offered the opportunity to read and review the book by Thomas Mayo, that provided context to the result, and gives his reflections on how the campaign had been so cynically manipulated by the No camp, I grabbed it. As well as suggestions for what needs to be done to change hearts and minds, Mayo argues that only when there’s a greater understanding of just how Indigenous people have been treated since European settlement - or invasion as they regard it – can there truly be less intolerance and a genuine coming together and appreciation of each other’s perspectives.

Far from being embittered by the campaign, the book is Mayo’s response to the referendum result after some much needed rest and recuperation time. He considers just why it was that so many white Australians have a negative view of those with darker skin, but that have called Australia home for around 65,000 years. Readers are given a valuable and thought-provoking history lesson – a more balanced and accurate version than the one written by white Australians and that has been relied on in school curriculums for ovr 200 years. That’s the version the undeniably brutal aspects of Australia’s history have been erased from the pages.

Although there are no signs of a growing awareness it’s still a fact only a more sanitised version of history features in media, books and films. Mayo offers this as a reason for the disconnected - and inaccurate - attitude towards our nation’s Aboriginal peoples.

While I naturally hope many people will read my review, I’d far rather even more people read Mayo’s book. If they do then perhaps when the Voice issue is raised again it will receive a resounding Yes.

https://independentaustralia.net/life/art-display/book-review-always-was-always-will-be,19016

Stadium is attractive for investors? . . . don't think so!

Wed, 02 Oct 2024 00:39:33 GMT

It was rather a surprise to learn The Examiner Newspaper ’s editorial had dredged up the pulp mill in the context of the proposed third stadium - the latest project that’s causing controversy in Tasmania. It was like being transported back in time when there was rarely a week without all three of the state’s dailies championing the pulp mill in some way, claiming it would be an economic boon.

The editor in this piece (published a few days ago) appeared to be following the same well-thumbed playbook. Together with, presumably, a lack of knowledge about recent Tasmanian history, he stated the stadium project had progressed too far, and it couldn’t (shouldn’t?) now be stopped. It prompted a letter to the paper – and a similar one to The Mercury since that newspaper is also principal stadium cheerleader, ignoring the fact that half the state neither wants it, and rightly believes we can’t afford it. Sems it's a case of 'here we go again . . '

“ONCE again Tasmanians are being told investors are lining up to financially support the proposed stadium, while according to a recent editorial, the project has progressed to the point of no return (The Examiner, September 19).

With the greatest respect, that is rubbish. Mr Thomson needs to study Tasmania’s recent history.

This same claim was used during the campaign against the Tamar Valley pulp mill. Several supposed Joint Venture Partners were always just a signature away from ‘investing’ in the pulp mill – until suddenly they weren’t.

All but one melted away into the shadows never to be heard from again, and that one soon departed after due diligence quickly showed the economics of the project didn’t stack up and community opposition was strong, sustained and vocal.

Potential stadium investors will doubtless also soon sniff out the amount of public controversy and opposition surrounding the project. And that the economics of the project don’t stack up.

Economist Saul Eslake made that very clear in his recent report. It should have been enough for the stadium to go the way of the pulp mill.

Tasmania has been treated to a sample of climate volatility recently, a reality that’s only likely to worsen.

Projects such as the stadium will inevitably be impacted. Disrupted travel plans, rising sea levels – which will make the Mac Point site rather vulnerable – and of course escalating global unrest and uncertainty that’s far more likely to result in people hunkering down and staying home.

These all add up to showing this is definitely not the time to be building a massive piece of infrastructure that Tasmania neither needs, and certainly can’t afford.”

Grieving for the Reef

Thu, 19 Sep 2024 23:20:32 GMT

There’s little doubt the Great Barrier Reef won’t be a Wonder of the World much longer. It will almost certainly lose its World Heritage status before the decade is out. The Reef has been under stress for years. Successive governments have known this but done next to nothing about it. They’ve ignored or dismissed the warnings that unless urgent action was taken this Australian icon would not survive. Marine biologists, conservationists – and the successful tourism industry that relied on a healthy Reef teeming with life – are in despair. So are thousands of Australians, including me.

The latest report in a series of reports about the health of the Reef have confirmed it is dying. No longer able to withstand the combined impacts of pollution runoff from agriculture and mining industries, the invasive and deadly crown-of-thorns starfish, intense and increasing cyclones and warming waters from climate change, the Reef is steadily expiring. Too many bleaching events, one after another, have killed those spectacular and colourful corals. They had no time to recover so the species that once called the Reef home are also gone. They’re either dying too, or have packed their metaphorical bags and moved south. But some species don’t have that capacity, so death is their fate too.

Having written about the pressures the Reef has suffered over many years, I was determined to see it before it was too late. It was already becoming a shadow of its former glory when I did so around 15 years ago. I will never forget the magic experience, but it makes it all the more heart-breaking to think that some of the sea creatures I saw probably no longer exist, or are no longer able to stick around because their food sources have disappeared or they can’t stand the heat.

Will humanity wake up to the realisation that we also won’t survive as a species if we fail to protect and look after the environment we all share – marine and land?

My response to the latest report was to write this poem and submit it to the Independent Australia’s writing competition. Maybe it will be a winner, and maybe it won’t – but at least it was published, and potentially therefore may have an impact on decision-makers.

Grieving for the Reef

we cannot say we didn’t know
the scientists warned us long ago
but governments ignored the news
and chose to hold quite different views
about a warming world that’s fuelled by coal
and weather that’s veering beyond control

politicians who favour the red or the blue
surely knew they were lies – and couldn’t be true
but they turned a blind eye and accepted the cash
to fund their elections, ignored the backlash
that urged rejecting the proffered largesse
but they didn’t, and now the country’s a mess
all our land and its people are under duress

not only the land, though, a Great Reef is dying
out of sight and most minds, she is barely surviving . . . .

To read the rest, dear reader, please click on the IA link

https://independentaustralia.net/life/art-display/grieving-for-the-reef-,18902

Wild weather

Fri, 06 Sep 2024 02:26:00 GMT

It's raining in Tassie - again

The last week has certainly been challenging for lots of people across Tasmania. I’d like to think it may also have prompted some of them to consider that possibly, just possibly, all those predictions about our changing climate causing an increase weather extremes may actually be correct. The incredibly strong winds and torrential rain we’ve experienced have been a long way from normal.

Widespread power cuts and localised flooding, along with loss of internet connection has been the experience of just about everyone to a greater or lesser degree. For us it was the latter, and never have I been more grateful for the solar panels and battery that allowed us to at least keep the lights on. Controversial though gas now is, also grateful for the gas stove that allowed us to cook. Not so for many of our neighbours – some of whom were still without power five days into this unusual weather pattern.

So many trees down, blocking roads, damaging fences and properties. The cost of the clean up will be significant, and while the assistance amount being offered by the state government is welcome for those who went three days or more without power, it probably won’t go far enough to compensate for the spoiled food in fridges and freezers that will have been thrown out.

Our community has been brilliant – a true coming together and helping out wherever possible. I hope that’s been the experience of other communities as well. Meanwhile the rain is continuing to fall, so rivers are rising and more flooding will be almost inevitable.

The TasNetwork folk and emergency services have been excellent though – and kudos to them for working in appalling conditions to restore power and services to those in the more rural and isolated areas.

But while it’s been bucketing down here in Tassie, there are bushfires raging in parts of NSW. The scientists warned Australia was in the frontline when it came to experiencing the impact of climate extremes. Governments failed to listen – or to act. Will this wild weather event finally prompt them to do so? We can but hope.

A state divided once again

Sat, 24 Aug 2024 01:28:33 GMT

The idea for the essay that was recently published on the Independent Australia website was bubbling away in the brain for a while. The motivation to finally get beyond the first couple of paragraphs was the writing competition IA were offering for the second year. Time was slipping away so if I wanted to enter it again I needed to get a move on.

It took longer than expected to hit the right tone and I really wasn’t sure it would be accepted. The subject matter fitted the topical/current affairs requirement but being so Tasmanian-centric I thought it likely to be considered too parochial.

Not so, which was surprising and gratifying! Tasmania certainly is no stranger to division. When this stadium idea was first mooted it’s unlikely anyone thought it would develop into the monster it’s become. Or cause such anger, anxiety and social division the length and breadth of the island. Or that it would result in going to an election 12 months early – the result of which has meant even more political uncertainty than there was before. Hence the idea for this article about yet another campaign being waged in Tasmania that currently has no end in sight but has divided public opinion yet again.

https://independentaustralia.net/politics/politics-display/a-state-divided,18879

Was she, or wasn't she?

Tue, 13 Aug 2024 00:01:09 GMT

A fitting title given the latest book I've scored for reviewing purposes is a story of the woman who assumed the identity of Anastasia Romanov, youngest daughter of the last Russian Tsar Nicholas and Alexandra. The whole family was murdered in 1917 during the Russian Revolution, on the orders of Vladimir Lenin, a leading revolutionary who became the founding head of Soviet Russia.

I was still in my teens when I read a non-fiction book about Anna Anderson - who claimed to be Anastasia. There were a few Anastasia impersonators, but 'Anna' was the most credible and she convinced a lot of high profile and influential people both in Europe, and the US where she eventually lived. Ultimately she was exposed as a fraud, but it took many years and several court challenges and there were always niggling doubts given her physical similarity to Anastasia, the terrible unexplained scars on her body, and her detailed knowledge of Russia, its language and its nobility.

This is a novel though so I’m curious to see how Ariel Lawhon the author – a name unfamiliar to me - handles the known facts about Anna/Anastasia and weaves them into a story that leaves readers guessing - and wondering. Writing the short review for Better Reading could prove an interesting task as well, with care needed to avoid spoilers!

By the time I’ve read and reviewed ‘ Am I truly Anastasia Romanov ’ my next review book should have arrived. Thomas Mayo’s ‘ Always was, always will be ’ is a non-fiction title and comes courtesy of Independent Australia. Subscribers to IA are also offered an opportunity to put up their hands for the occasional book that is offered for review. I suspect this one could be more challenging since it deals with the aftermath of last year’s Referendum, and the impact it had across the country, but especially for Indigenous Australians. The review can be a bit longer though, so the word count is not quite so strict.

Then there are the books to read for my two my book discussion groups. No shortage of reading matter, and no immediate chance of being able to dip into the ever teetering TBR pile beside my bed either!

Thwarting Badger's bid for freedom

Sun, 04 Aug 2024 05:24:54 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

Badger the beagle was within a whisker of being returned to the Dogs Home this weekend. After an extremely difficult week when he escaped multiple times – I know, I know, beagles are renowned for their wanderlust - we'd had enough and I had gone so far as to book an appointment to return him.

It was a tough decision and not made lightly as he's a lovely dog in so many ways, but his determination to escape quite possibly is why he'd been surrendered to the Dogs Home twice before. This characteristic simply isn’t on in an area where there are farms and livestock and every second property has a few chooks.

After some discussion and deliberation we decided to give him one last try, so after initially posting on the community Facebook page thanking neighbours for the care and concern so many had showed for our notorious recalcitrant - and all the phone calls and messages to say he’d just been spotted going past -I let slip his time was up.

The universal relief when I later said there'd been a change of plan and the truant was being given a final - and I did mean final - chance, was extraordinary.

So Badger spent two nights and one and a bit days locked up while we figured out the best option to secure the fences even more than they already were. And in the doing of that forensic scrutiny found two of his possible escape routes. Who knew beagles could squeeze and wriggle their way out of a space that looked way too small? Shows how determined Badger was to hit the open road.

Needless to say the Boy wasn't happy to be so thoroughly restricted and supervised. He was only allowed out briefly for his usual walks, and intermittent ‘comfort’ breaks - while always on a lead. So far, so good.

John's done an amazing job securing the fence line even more with rolls of wire specifically designed to keep a dog contained. Fort Knox has nothing on this section of the property. Badger is puzzled. He cannot understand how his bid for freedom has been curtailed.

But fingers crossed he will now accept his lot, (which compared to so many dogs is pretty damn good!) and be satisfied with a couple of good walks a day. If not . . . .

Closer still

Tue, 23 Jul 2024 00:00:47 GMT

Writing a book is definitely not an easy process. Not that I ever thought it would be. I’m a slow writer too. At least I’m not a writer than can just blurt 1000 words out on the page and then return to tidy it all up. I need to edit as I go and feel it’s the best it can be before advancing. On a good day that can mean tapping out a good 1000 words in a day’s session, but more likely it will be 500 words. The approach to writing is different for every writer, but at least I’ve learned over the years that I don’t need special rituals before starting, or need to be touched by my ‘muse’ as some do. When I sit down to write, I’m working. I believe it’s called discipline!

The end is definitely in sight now and the time has come to approach a publisher or two. To that end I’m taking advantage of an opportunity to pitch to one publisher I identified some time ago as one to contact. An Affirm Press author was a guest at the last Tamar Valley Writers Festival I was involved in organising, and one of their staff is now on the TVWF board. I spoke to her at the recent screening of some Sydney Writers Festival sessions, as part of the TVWF’s program of events and she was encouraging.

More recently I learned Affirm Press are accepting submissions, but only on the first Monday of the month. So after reading the guidelines several times to be absolutely certain I have everything covered, the plan is to aim for an August submission.

Between prepping for that, writing up some articles for The Veterinarian, and working on a comp entry for another online journal, the next two weeks will be busy.

The photo of tee shirt and badges? The tee shirt was central to an Action during the campaign and I recently completed the chapter where it featured. The badges came a little later in the piece and were made in their hundreds, but these and many other items of memorabilia collected over the 12 years, either by myself, or that have been given to me, will be offered to the Community History Museum for their collection. But only when I've typed The End.

After all this campaign was a significant part of Tasmania’s history. It needs to be recorded for posterity.

Icy morning dog walks

Sun, 07 Jul 2024 23:58:51 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

Dog walking when there's frost on the ground, and the need is to pile on multiple layers before stepping outside is OK once or twice, but I'm rapidly getting rather over the novelty with the exceptional run of frosty mornings that are characterising northern Tasmania this winter.

Needless to say Badger couldn't give a toss about the weather. He's raring to go regardless and his internal clock is well tuned to the time we normally set off, so it's a rare morning when he's not waiting patiently outside the back door - and if he considers I'm later than I should be he'll let me know!

For a breed that largely navigates the world with his nose (beagles have around 220 million sensors in their noses, compared to around 5 million in humans. Who knew?!), you'd think the frosty chill would kill some of those interesting scents that have him exercised and excited. Not so. He has his nose to the ground regardless, sniffing his way along the road, stopping only to lift his leg occasionally. Of course being only part beagle he might be a little lighter on with those nose sensors. Perhaps a mere 110 million . . . ?!

Regardless, he sets a cracking pace, so I have no trouble keeping warm. But I'll be relieved to see this unusual and very chilly weather pattern stubbornly hanging over the southern part of the country, move on. And I doubt I'm alone in that.

Acts of dogs

Sun, 30 Jun 2024 04:56:53 GMT

A couple of canine issues have had some members of my local community exercised lately, and I’m advised it got rather heated on the Facebook page. So heated in fact that the admins decided to take the respective posts down. That in itself is a pity given we’ve been a close-knit and supportive bunch for many years and are unused to abusive comments about neighbours. Development approvals have seen that friendly relationship shift a little of late with many more homes being built and an influx of new residents. Without a local café/shop anymore, that provided a valuable community hub and meeting place, some of that former social cohesion has been lost.

But with more people there are also more dogs, and as anyone who’s ever owned a dog knows, they can bark. Often, and for lengthy periods, and sometimes at night. Barking dogs is one of the issues that’s a problem. Dogs bark if people walk past the property – and ours is a semi-rural suburb. That’s understandable and it usually stops once one has walked past. It’s when the barking doesn’t stop that problems can arise – even when the owners are at home. And that’s been at the root of the latest conflict. It’s to be hoped the situation can be resolved without the need for Council intervention, but it’s a sad reflection of the growing lack of consideration some people have towards others.

This lack of courtesy extends towards a failure on the part of some dog owners to’ pick up after their dog’. Piles of dog poo on the roadsides has become an unpleasant sight, and they’re on the increase. My response was to pen a poem which I posted on the Facebook page. It remains to be seen whether it will make a difference, and prompt any anonymous recalcitrants to remember to stuff a poo bag or three in their pockets before walking their pooches.

I've said it before, now I'm saying it again,

when walking your dog - whether women or men,

before leaving home, please check that you do

have bags in your pocket to pick up their poo

I know it's a message that's been said before

but dog poo's a health risk - the science is sure

it's also unsightly, and unpleasant to see

much more obvious than when your dog does a pee

so please, dog walking neighbours, always check to be sure

your pockets hold some poo bags

before you walk out the door.

No happy ending for this joey

Tue, 18 Jun 2024 01:06:50 GMT

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This story doesn’t end well

I was only thinking recently that it's been a couple of weeks since I had to remove a roadkilled animal from the road on the morning walk with Badger the beagle. That changed one day last week when there was a still-alive pademelon mum in the middle of the road, with joey in the pouch.

To my great distress there was nothing I could do for mum except ease her to the side of the road and hope to goodness I wasn’t causing her even more pain. But I removed joey from the pouch, wrapped him or her in the woolly scarf I was wearing and walked home cuddling joey close to my heart with one hand, while holding onto Badger and poo bag in the other. It was a juggling act, and needless to say I was about as far from home as I could be on this particular walk.

Also needless to say I cried all the way home at the tragedy of it. Yes, insignificant in the horrendous tragedies being played out across the world right now, but the callous loss of life that was so reckless and, perhaps, avoidable, is always tragic. I crossed my fingers crossed the little joey was strong enough to survive. I phoned Bongorong Wildlife Rescue – Tasmania’s centralised contact for all injured wildlife – who were onto it immediately of course.

No happy ending

Bonorong phoned back while I was having breakfast and asked could I take joey in to the Animal Vet Hospital in the city. I managed to do so before an appointment I had that morning. Joey’s weight had to be confirmed and the photo I’d sent through of joey on my kitchen scales didn’t cut it. The Vet Hospital said he/she was just under the necessary 200g that is the benchmark. Who knew? I suspect it's because there are too few carers for these 'pinkies'. So called as despite having eyes open, ears up, and wriggling vigorously, very few of the joeys that are this young survive. With limited resources they are sacrificed. Sad isn't it. If only that car had been going a little slower. If only . . . .

Another Good Samaritan from our area - also a wildlife carer - spotted pademelon mum and took her into the vet so she could be euthanased. I only learned of this much later. So two wildlife deaths that were quite possibly totally avoidable if that driver had taken heed of the road signs urging people to slow down between dusk and dawn. And decided to leave for work a couple of minutes earlier on darker winter mornings.

In denial

Sun, 09 Jun 2024 07:22:50 GMT

I struggle to understand how and why so many people continue to believe climate change either isn’t really happening, or is nothing to worry about. The evidence is all around them when they scroll the news on their devices, or watch it unfold on their television screens. It’s both concerning and frustrating that so little attention is being paid to a crisis that is now so imminent – and essentially unstoppable.

Whether one listens to, reads, or watches the news, scarcely a day passes without details of an extreme weather event occurring somewhere in the world. Be it unseasonal and heavy rains, powerful winds, snowstorms, bushfires, floods or drought, more often than not they result in catastrophe for the community and the country impacted. It’s not just the loss of life, homes, and infrastructure, but also the damage to natural environments. For decades scientists from all disciplines have urged action on climate change. They warned the business-as-usual approach will simply increase the economic, environmental and health risks that are already on the rise. They’ve repeated ad nauseum that burning fossil fuels is the primary cause of climate change, and that only by stopping its use will humanity have some hope of putting the brakes on extreme weather events.

In the last week alone we’ve heard about landslides in Papua New Guinea, erupting volcanoes and earthquakes in Iceland, devastation across America from storms and tornadoes, temperatures reportedly topping 50 degrees in India, and closer to home the serious lack of rain across Tasmania and WA. None of these can possibly be described as ‘normal’. So why are more people not concerned the climate scientists just might have a point?

Is it fear of a future they simply don’t want to comprehend or acknowledge? The world is undoubtedly a truly fearful place at the moment. The escalating conflicts in Europe and the Middle East are enough to make anyone close the door, switch off the TV, reach for a good book and let the world turn without them. I can’t do that. Or at least I can’t do it for long. I totally understand the sentiment, but for me it would be giving in to the forces that want us to do exactly that - arguably for their own benefit. In other words switch off and tune out so those same forces can implement and/or sign off on all manner of policies and initiatives free of scrutiny. That’s not healthy for democracy or society generally.

There’s so much at the moment that needs to be held accountable and it’s undeniably wearing. Burn out is definitely a factor to be acknowledged. Important then - in my case - to take some time to appreciate each day; to spend time with our dog, to share moments with my partner, and share meals with friends – as well as touch base with friends and family living overseas. That way I can continue to do my very small bit for the planet: writing letters to editors, signing petitions, commenting on blogs and generally participating in the democratic process with like-minded people however I can.

Unless many more of us do this our fragile democracy will continue to be undermined and eroded and a scenario as described in the following could well be our fate. It doesn’t appeal to me one bit. https://www.laprogressive.com/democracy/elon-musk-peter-thiel-rupert-murdoch-maga-oligarchs

Defy in order to unify

Sun, 09 Jun 2024 07:19:08 GMT

'Origin' is this week's Star Theatre's film club selection and is a reminder of why one joins a film club. A very powerful and well-acted film that, although lengthy and a little bumpy in the timeline at times, is certainly a film and a story for our times given the confected furore by News Ltd’s media recently over comments made by ABC journalist Laura Tingle, during a panel discussion at the Sydney Writers Festival last month.

Based on the book Caste: Origins of our discontents by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Isabel Wilkerson, the film https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAweg5PaMuw addresses the -isms that have been historically exploited in order to divide nations and individuals into some groups believing they are more superior than others. Think Nazis v the Jews in World War ll, and India’s ‘Untouchables’ or Dalits, who are the bottom of the hierarchical population pile in that country, relegated to doing society’s least pleasant jobs. Think sorting rubbish, cleaning open sewers and sewerage, and street sweeping.

As an African-American Wilkerson naturally explores her own heritage about the racial abuse towards people of colour in the US, starting from being captured and sold into slavery. And the film doesn’t hold back. The scenes where a young boy is denied a swim in the municipal pool with his baseball team-winning mates - because of his skin colour is particularly harrowing. Pressure from the coach finally results in all the white people being asked to leave the pool, before an inflatable bed is lowered into the pool. The coloured boy is then instructed to step onto the bed but absolutely must not touch the water. He lies rigidly on the bed hardly daring to breath while it is pulled from one end of the pool to the other while the whites stand silently watching.

This is a remarkably similar scenario to that of Australian Aboriginals being excluded from public swimming pools in this country, and for the same reason: the colour of their skin. And this was just fifty or sixty years ago. It was hard to watch.

The seeds of the book https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/51152447-caste were sown by the murder of a young black American boy – and we learn at the end of the film that it was published in 2020 not long after the murder of George Floyd – and before the election that saw Donald Trump elected as President.

I've now got the book on request at the library. There's already a queue so I imagine there are several others who’ve also seen the film and are now keen to read the book that it’s based on. I suspect the book will be a tough read too – but an important one. The only way to achieve peace in the world is for all of us to respect each other and embrace our differences - not try to dominate or eliminate them.

Inching forward. Still

Fri, 07 Jun 2024 00:05:19 GMT

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Hmm. Well, May came and went and I’m still writing but this book is getting there. Not an easy process and while I can honestly say I’ve not suffered the so-called writers block, there have been more stop-starts than I wanted or expected. Some of it down to the paid writing work, but life in general also has an impact on time at the laptop. After all the house still has to be cleaned, clothes washed and dried, meals cooked – and shopping done. And of course there’s our lovely new rescue dog, Badger to be walked and made a fuss of.

That said the end is definitely in sight. I’m much more focused than I was to begin with, and while there are days when the words don’t flow as well, the feeling after a day when they do, and progress has been made, is brilliant. I just want to keep going but I know now from experience that’s unwise. Far better to stop, leave it and watch an hour of television, or read a book instead.

Last night I made a pact with myself to get up early – if I woke up early – and write some more. Despite the frosty cold that’s what I did. It’s like a compulsion now and I don’t want to stop. Only to scribble another blog post for the website, so the few readers who are either regulars (hah!) or who stumble upon it and are perhaps inspired to browse for a while, may return.

How many words have I written so far? No idea. I stopped counting weeks ago but the draft I gave to my lovely writing friend Shirley, who has encouraged me from the beginning, and is a valued beta reader, looked alarmingly fat when I printed it out a month ago to give her. It’ll be even fatter now. I’ll receive her verdict next week, but I know her criticism will be kindly given, as well as valid and pointed. Until then, better keep going. At least I’m on the downhill run.

Vale TT founder & editor Lindsay Tuffin

Mon, 13 May 2024 23:58:54 GMT

It was rather a shock to learn of the death of Lindsay Tuffin, founder and editor of Tasmanian Times and previously a journalist with The Mercury newspaper. TT as it was always known was the go-to website for those of us campaigning to stop the pulp mill that timber company Gunns was so determined to build in the Tamar Valley.

Logging on to TT was a daily ritual, not only to check out what else might be happening in Tasmania politically, environmentally, artistically, or in any other sphere, but also to get the latest on the pulp mill. Whether for or against it the pulp mill dominated the headlines for over a decade, and Tassie Times was a forum where ideas, news and comments could be shared. It was also the place to vent feelings (anonymously or with an alias) and I'm sure I wasn't the only one to tell Lindsay that TT was an essential public service during those long years and probably saved people's sanity, as well as ensured queues to the psychologists were less, because we could rely on the unabridged version of whatever the politicians and Gunns were saying being on TT. With all three of the state's newspapers: The Mercury, Examiner and Advocate openly supporting both Gunns and the pulp mill it was hard to get an unbiased and accurate account of the many side issues that emerged that involved air and water quality, pollution, forestry practices and the environmental and human health impacts, all of which came to the fore during the campaign.

But when the community finally won, and Gunns went bankrupt, I renewed my acquaintance with Linz as a result of being on the board for the Tamar Valley Writers Festival As one of the program organisers I suggested he be invited as a guest to the 2016 festival. He certainly cut a memorable figure arriving dressed in full leather bikie gear having ridden up from Hobart on his motorbike. Linz proved to be quite a character too being an erudite, witty and memorable panellist and guest during that year's Festival weekend.

Not long after that he handed the TT baton to a new owner/editor who has ensured the massive archive of content relating to the pulp mill can still be accessed. In writing my book about that time I've had occasion to refer to it on more than one occasion. So thank you Lindsay - you will be missed.

Indoor gardening

Wed, 08 May 2024 02:06:58 GMT

I’ve never claimed to be any great shakes at gardening, preferring to leave that to my partner who definitely has green thumbs. And fingers. Inside it’s a different matter and that’s my domain. The house is filled with plants with several grown from cuttings taken from their parent. Other than ensuring they’re watered once a week – twice in summer for the ones that look like they need it – and have a feed during the warmer months, the plants all survive (and thrive) on healthy neglect.

And boy do they thrive! True, some of those cuttings currently growing up are destined as prizes in a forthcoming fundraiser for the Greens, while others were recently donated to a local market that was also a fundraising event, but still no room in the house is without a plant or ten. Several need a good haircut at the moment but I’m reluctant to do this until they’ve stopped flowering, and with the summer we’ve had, followed by the exceptionally mild autumn we’re still enjoying, the little darlings continue to throw out blooms. I haven’t the heart to trim them just yet. These plants certainly have gone bonkers though – and cuttings are destined for several friends who’ve put up their hands to receive them when ready.

Having just spent the best part of an hour watering my houseplants, and doing the minimal maintenance they only ever receive, I can honestly say I wouldn’t be without them. A house without plants is like a house without books: rather empty and sterile in my opinion. There were always plants in the house where I grew up so I suppose I’ve inherited the idea from my mum that it’s normal to have them inside. It's often been said a house that has plants is a healthy house. They provide a calming effect on mood. If that’s correct then our house must be bursting with an abundance of good health as well as emotional balance, and that cannot be bad in these increasingly uncertain and fractious times all around the planet.

Inching forward

Wed, 01 May 2024 01:44:01 GMT

Here we are on 1 ^st May and here I am, still going on the book. So much for goals and targets. There are excuses of course, and perfectly valid ones. Life does have a habit of chucking a few curved balls at you and the first quarter of this year certainly decided it was my turn.

So between a state election called 12 months early, due to our Tasmanian premier’s stubborn determination to push ahead with a massively unpopular stadium project that he could so easily have rejected when he took over the reins; having my arm twisted to stand as a support candidate for the Greens in the election; my terminally ill brother choosing his moment to depart this Earth, and then succumbing to COVID for the first time, it’s perhaps not so surprising progress on the book stalled a bit.

They say all these challenges serve to make one stronger. Well, possibly but to be honest after 12 years campaigning to stop the pulp mill, I’m completely over challenges and I remain unconvinced they do actually make one stronger. They certainly make you exhausted. But on the plus side – now all those challenges have been navigated – the Greens did extremely well in the election and my 600+ votes helped tip Cecily Rosol over the line to ensure Bass has a Greens MP once again. Excellent. And even better is that she’s one of five Greens MPs who will be sitting in Parliament House on 14 ^th May.

On the other side of the world my brother left the planet as a result of the dreaded cancer. If anything is now a pandemic I’d suggest it would have to be cancer. In the developed world it’s presence is insidious and there can hardly be a family who hasn’t been touched by it. No, I didn’t go back to the UK for the funeral. It was always the plan to see him when he was still alive and relatively OK, and I did that last year.

So. COVID. Not a nice experience and I still don’t really know where I got it, but if my theory is right it was while helping out at our local market still to raise funds for Windermere Church. Since I was outside on what was a truly beautiful day then it rather explodes the myth about being safe in the open air. Someone breathed on me sideways - but quite probably they didn’t know they harboured germs either so I don’t blame them.

The virus certainly leaves you flattened though but whether it was due to the five vaccinations I had in total, or whether the virus has weakened a bit as it’s mutated, I certainly wasn’t laid low for as long as some people. Thank goodness. Not an illness I’m anxious to have again but in a way it’s a relief to have had it. Hopefully it’s given me some immunity for the next round of infections.

But all these things didn’t help progress on the book. Reckon I’m now about three quarters finished so the next goal is to have the final draft completed by end of May. Better get cracking.

Smoke - and fire

Mon, 22 Apr 2024 01:40:14 GMT

Every autumn we're greeted to this amazing display of fiery leaves on the smokebush gracing our driveway. Until we moved to the property we'd never heard of this plant, whose botanical name is Conospernum should you be interested. It is an Australian native shrub, but we've no idea which one of the 53 members in the Proteaceae family it is.

In the summer the smokebush's soft feathery flowers, that are a bit like a large dandelion clock preparing to disperse its seeds in the breeze, do resemble smoke. The shrub has it's own appeal then too, but as the season turns and the fine feathery fronds drop off the leaves turn a rich vibrant red and gold, and remind me of the glorious colours I associate with a UK autumn when the leaves on so many deciduous trees change their colours before dropping off altogether to carpet the ground.

Back in Tasmania, and despite being well into autumn, the weather remains unusually warm - and dry. Incredibly dry. No matter who you talk to everyone is saying they can't recall a summer and autumn like this one. The drought word hasn't been mentioned but surely this is what much of Tasmania is experiencing. A welcome, but brief, shower of rain several days ago has greened up grass and paddocks but farmers are still feeding their cattle and sheep with hay, and the wildlife are still edging closer to the verges in the hope of finding a bit of grass to eat. Far too many of them don't survive along roads where too many people continue to ignore the 'slow down for wildlife' signs between those critical hours between dusk and dawn, and another animal ends up as roadkill. A small tragedy in a world where far greater tragedies ae currently playing out, but a needless and preventable tragedy all the same.

Plastic catastrophe

Wed, 17 Apr 2024 05:55:57 GMT

It was indeed a lovely day at Low Head last week. We went with our WA friends Sue and Mark, who've been touring Tasmania for six weeks in their 'Dirtroader' caravan, and popping back to spend a day or two with us before moving on again. They've undoubtedly seen far more of Tasmania than most of us who live here.

That photo though disguises the true state of our oceans and beaches - no matter where they are in the world. The hideous problem of plastics was stark in the posters displayed in the small but excellent maritime museum at the Low Head lighthouse. A volunteer-run museum it's stuffed with interesting artefacts and facts about the wealth of marine life, wildlife, seabirds - and maritime history generally in the George Town and Low Head region.

The information on the charts on the museum's wall was alarming. They indicated just how long all the various plastic that ends up in our oceans takes to break down. Plastic bottles, fishing line, tennis balls, batteries, food wrappings and cigarettes - all have a legacy of decay that can take anything from months to decades to millennia. And it's getting worse.

Earlier this year I went to Low Head to take part in a microplastics survey. It was a national event - taking place across the country along various beaches. It was fascinating to learn how plastic has succeeded in so thoroughly polluting our oceans, and how impossible it will be to eradicate a problem that is being added to every second of every minute of every day around the world.

We cannot now contemplate life without plastic. We rely on it for so many things - many of them excellent, valuable and beneficial. But in creating the benefits we forgot to also work out how we as a species were going to manage the plastic that was too old and no longer useful. Dumping it in the ocean and our waterways can no longer be considered an option.

The creatures at the very bottom of the food chain - krill - have been found to contain plastic. This means that every creature up the food chain that ultimately has dined on krill, has consumed plastic. That includes us. There's no escaping it. No wonder we're sickening with all kinds of weird and mysterious cancers and diseases.

It behoves us all to limit the plastic items we use, and to discard the items we do use in a sensible way. And there's also plastic-free July - a concept that has now been going for several years. It's a wake-up call that shows just how much plastic we use without always realising it. I've not participated before. This year I just might have a go.

Reviewing books

Thu, 04 Apr 2024 03:54:01 GMT

I recently scored a couple of books in the Better Reading lottery that offers readers of the weekly newsletter the chance to put up their hand for an uncorrected proof copy of some of the new books being published. The deal is then to write a short review of the book within a couple of weeks of receiving it. Needless to say some have been a more worthwhile read than others.

The Radio Hour was one of the better ones. A very light and undemanding read, but it still successfully showed - at least for me - just how far Australia hasn't come in the last 70 years, when it comes to the gender gap, and the value that is placed on women by men. We're seeing a lot of that being played out right now and it's depressing to realise so little has fundamentally changed and what a patriarchy the country is in so many ways.

Australia in the 1950s was certainly not a good place to be if you were a working woman. Barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen was definitely the situation and place too many men considered women should be occupying. That said, The Radio Hour also highlights how things were changing, and how women were beginning to push back and challenge such an outdated status quo. But there's still a very long way to go - and with predominantly conservative governments holding the reins of power over the past 70 years, the reality is that equality remains a fair way off.

#betterreading #BRPreview

"This novel is a pointed comment, albeit done with a light touch, on how far Australian women haven’t come in the 70 years since 1956 - the year we learn Martha Berry, who’s worked at the ABC for over 20 years and lives with her invalid mother, turns fifty. Despite filling numerous positions within the public broadcaster, Martha has never had a permanent position - or a pay rise. This changes when she’s assigned to the youthful Quentin Quinn, employed to write scripts for a new radio drama set to rival the famous and long-running Blue Hills.

Although I found most characters bordered on the stereotypical, Purman’s journalist background, (and experience of many years working at the ABC), gives authenticity to the setting, and the creation and recording of radio serials. The plot is handled with a deft and humorous touch but still highlights the scant regard given to women by their male bosses in an era when women were expected to do little more than make tea and type in an office environment. And in the public service at least, once they married their 'career' was terminated.

When wunderkind Quentin inevitably fails to deliver, Martha steps up and secretly writes all the scripts in his name. These resonate with the show’s mainly female audience beyond Martha's expectations, but eventually her cover is blown, although not before she’s tackled some topics previously considered taboo and that scandalised her male bosses. Their success with listeners was reflected in the avalanche of supportive letters from her growing national audience or predominantly female listeners."

I still gave the book 4 stars though.

Scarecrows - a rural revival

Tue, 19 Mar 2024 04:57:48 GMT

My community’s Garden Club has embraced the idea of scarecrows as a part of its Harvest Festival this year. First introduced pre-COVID several scarecrows stood sentinel in the grounds of our then café. Sadly, that business has now closed, but the scarecrow idea has taken off and a walk or drive around our community has seen some impressive and imaginative renditions popping up in driveways and along fence lines.

At the Market last weekend our local champion of the Arts, Di, introduced a community scarecrow on a frame created by our local Men’s She. She invited all the locals and market visitors alike to add a piece of ribbon or fabric to the structure to dress and decorate it. It’s made for a very colourful version, albeit of indeterminate age or gender.

Scarecrows have a lengthy history, going back to Ancient Egypt’s early farmers who also wanted to protect their crops from marauding birds, but farmers throughout Europe and North America adopted the practice with varying degrees of success, since birds everywhere quickly worked out the sedentary pretend human figure provided no serious threat.

These colourful structures may not have been too efficient at scaring the crows but American author Frank Baum is responsible for possibly the most famous scarecrow of all in his Wizard of Oz books. Along with the Tin Man and the Lion, the Scarecrow was one of Dorothy’s companions that helped her to overcome the wicked witch, and find her way home to Kansas – a state renowned for its agricultural sector.

In the early 1990s rural villages in the North of England hit on the idea of a scarecrow festival, in part perhaps to revive their flagging communities but which have since become tourist attractions.

Maybe the scarecrow tradition will become a fixture in our East Tamar community as well. It’s certainly proved popular with residents this year as the photos suggest – all of which were initially posted to the community's Facebook page. Credits are therefore unknown.

A refreshing change

Wed, 06 Mar 2024 05:02:05 GMT

The makeover of this website is now complete and thanks to Abbie-Rose Design for doing such a great job. The launch last week coincidentally coincided with the launch of the Bass Greens candidates in the upcoming state election, of which I am lucky last support candidate at number seven. Emphasis on that word ‘support’. In Tasmania’s wonderfully unique Hare Clark voting system any votes I manage to win will be redistributed across the ticket to ultimately reach and add to those of our lead candidate Cecily Rosol . How brilliant it will be to see her elected, and all the hard work she’s put in over the last few elections when she’s put up her hand to stand, finally pays off.

This election will certainly be interesting given Tasmania’s parliament is at last being restored to 35 seats, and with a crowded field of candidates – including several standing as Independents – the word from the number crunchers is we are heading for a minority government. A healthy change in my opinion. The days of majority governments are all but over and a healthy mix of views and – one hopes – fresh ideas and vision should make for an interesting time ahead. Certainly if the pundits are correct then all the elected MPs will be required to work a good deal harder, and compromise and negotiation will be essential. With a little over two weeks to go it’s going to be a wild ride, but fingers crossed.

State election 2024

So here we are again

with another election

and another poll where

ballot papers are ticked

and we make our selection

from the red, blue and green

or maybe yellow or teal

but will it really be different

to the polls held before?

will boastful promises and claims

repeatedly proclaimed

during weeks of campaigns

then be broken or shelved?

because when counting is done

and no Party has won

and the result is a wicket

and a new game of cricket

with a new set of rules

and an exacting schedule

for those 35 reps

(who'll all need to take steps)

to discuss and debate

and compromise views

to ensure outcomes will not be abused

It’s a boy!

Fri, 02 Feb 2024 01:20:00 GMT

After deciding it was time to welcome a new dog into our lives we visited the Dogs Home at the weekend to see if the only female dog available might fit the bill.

We’ve only ever had female dogs and the one called JD, a kelpie X sounded ideal. Even the name seemed a good omen given they’re John’s initials!

No idea what she was crossed with but JD was much larger than expected – and looked nothing like a kelpie! She was also too boisterous, with a terrible – and clearly uncontrolled – habit of jumping up. She would almost certainly be too strong and difficult to control when out walking. Sorry JD but you were not the dog for us.

I was surprised when John asked about the male dogs available for adoption. He’s always been very pro female dogs and adamant he wouldn’t have a male. The males were mostly very large dogs and of the staffie or mastiff cross-bred type. No doubt lovely animals but too big for us. I did wonder if so many dogs being surrendered and especially the large dogs – were a reflection of the cost of living crisis. The lovely Dogs Home staff obviously weren’t about to say so definitively, but I got the distinct impression that some of the dogs were there for just that reason. Including the dog we both instantly knew was ‘the one’.

Badger had just returned from being walked when we were introduced to him. This three-year-old male beagle X sniffed and peed his way around the garden as soon as we brought him home but appeared to be remarkably laid back and unfazed otherwise. And quiet. Not a peep out of him. We suspect he grew up initially in a household with chooks as he barely took notice of them when being introduced – which we did with him on a lead. He’s friendly and cuddly and playful, but has still to learn his place at this property is outside, not inside the house.

Badger’s first adoption experience didn’t end well. Apparently he was prone to digging holes. We’ve not seen any evidence of that yet, but it’s early days and he’s not been left alone yet either so time will tell.

Yesterday was Badger’s Day Three with us, and butter still wouldn’t melt. Who could resist those eyes and that face. Several friends have warned of potential character traits that include scarpering at the first opportunity. We learned very quickly that he does indeed have that particular trait. In spades. A lesson that all gates must be closed at all times so there’s no repeat of the unfortunate oversight on the part of someone who shall remain nameless, but who failed to ensure one gate was shut properly. We’d had Badger less than 24 hours too!

All was well in the end but it was down to the magnificent community in our part of the world, with neighbours known and unknown all out looking for him following my Facebook post alerting them to the fact Badger had gone AWOL. With no collar and no tag it could have been a major problem, but thankfully it wasn’t and he was back home within the hour.

So when he saw his chance for a second time yesterday the escapee at least had a tag with his name and a phone number on it. He’d not gone far thankfully having been distracted by the labrador further down the road. They were having a great time chasing each other around the garden – so at least we know Badger is well socialised when it comes to meeting other dogs. Phew.

At this point there is little evidence of the psychological baggage our previous dog Della arrived with, but Badger is certainly going to be a handful, as well as being a delight! Fingers crossed he’ll be a lot more settled after three weeks – an adopted dog’s next step in the three-step process of adjusting to a new home. He’s still not barked!

The (revised) plan for 2024 . . .

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 01:43:00 GMT

Completing a first draft by the end of January was always going to be a stretch and so it proved. On a positive note though the final few chapters are planned, I know exactly where this book is going, and I reckon I’m a good two thirds finished.

Anyway, January 31 was always going to be an (optimistic) goal rather than a given!

So my revised deadline for first draft completion is now Easter, which is the end of March. Doable I feel sure as now very focused and determined to not be too distracted by either world or local events that demand letters to editors, or comments on blogs – even though I have managed to do one or other on an almost daily basis. It seems that having become a political/environmental activist – however unintentional it might have been – there’s no turning away from the role.

But there’s also more to do each day than sit before a computer and write for five, six or seven hours. As well as the bread and butter writing and the harvesting and processing of produce it was time to emerge from my bunker and re-connect with friends. Not exactly a New Year resolution, more a recognition I was missing out on a social life!

So January has included a lovely couple of days spent in St Helens with Dee, and arranging a lunch date with some of the Green girls. The Greenie friendships were forged during the pulp mill campaign, and have continued. The balance sheet from those years didn’t include too many positives, but breaking down social barriers and making new friends was definitely one of them. It’s an observation that has been made by many others.

But now the laptop is warmed up and raring to go it’s onwards and upwards with The Book, to borrow a saying from the late Jeremy B.

Time for a change

Fri, 05 Jan 2024 04:48:00 GMT

The start of a new year seemed like a good moment to overhaul and refresh this website, so renovations are currently underway. Or should that be reconstruction? Whatever, the winds of change are blowing through this site and the new and improved version is coming soon. Watch this space, as they say!

The plan for 2024 . . .

Tue, 26 Dec 2023 04:40:00 GMT

Chatting with my lovely mentor earlier this month resulted in firming up the timeline for this book project. An important point to consider was that it will be 20 years since Tasmanians first learned of plans to build a pulp mill in the Tamar Valley. Details of an overheard lunchtime conversation at a Hobart waterfront restaurant were reportedly passed on to the Greens, and the rest as they say, is history. But God bless the wait staff who overheard said conversation and chose to alert the Greens to what was being discussed because opposing the project could have proved far more difficult had plans progressed much further. The proponents – and then premier Lennon – were caught wrong-footed, and it’s likely both were surprised at the response of a community who showed itself less than enthusiastic about the idea.

So while book progress about the campaign has ranged from slow to irregular but steady it’s now time to speed it up. The plan is to have a first draft completed by the end of January – a challenging thought in itself given summer is never a time to relax at the best of times. There’s too much home-grown produce to both pick and process for starters – and that takes time. I’m not the fastest of writers and there is still the bread and butter writing to do. After three years of having a combined December and January issue of The Veterinarian, the new editor has advised that there will be a January 2024 issue, and the deadline for stories is rapidly approaching. So much for summertime being easy!

Then with that first draft optimistically completed I’ll be working towards the final draft by end of June – the probable deadline for submissions for the Premier’s Literary Awards. A nice synchronicity in itself as the awards are only held every two years. The goal is to enter my manuscript in the Unpublished Manuscript category.

Just hope this goal proves achievable.

It didn’t take long . . .

Tue, 12 Dec 2023 04:24:00 GMT

. . . . for the wildlife to move in once they realised there was no dog patrolling the property any longer. The smarter ones realised Della dog had been no real threat for some time, but had still remained wary – just in case. Their boldness increased once the penny dropped she was no longer around, and her doggie scent had dissipated. In a matter of days hares and rabbits were all hopping about and munching breakfast in the early mornings, or venturing in for an evening snack.

They are oblivious to the chooks – who seem to be a little nonplussed by these creatures invading their patch – and they don’t seem terribly concerned about us either unless we startle them, or get too close. It will be interesting to see the reaction when we do welcome a new dog into our lives. We’ll visit the Dogs Home in the new year where there’s almost certain to be a dog bought for Christmas, but surrendered once the novelty had worn off. Or realisation kicked in that a dog is for life, not just for Christmas – and companion animals can prove expensive to feed and care for responsibly.

The past few weeks have been odd going on my morning walks without Della – and I still reach for the lead before remembering it’s not needed now. On the plus side it’s been a novelty to observe wildlife close-up, and to know that we have a resident family of quail confident enough to join the chooks for their breakfast wheat, and bandicoots that have been visibly active on the lawn. No sign yet of any green and gold frogs in the trough though which is disappointing, but at least they’re about as we hear them calling. More distressingly there have been a couple of squashed ones on the road.

The potential downside to no longer having a dog is emboldened blackbirds eager to eat our ripening produce. Specifically raspberries and boysenberries. We managed to thwart the parrots though, beating them to the apricots in the nick of time. The same will need to be done as the greengages ripen in a few weeks as neither tree is netted, but the mulberry tree is way too big to cover so the pesky starlings, blackbirds and parrots will win that one.

Sharing isn’t a concept wildlife understand so it’s all a question of balance when growing produce in the country, but it can become a free for all when it’s harvest time and there’s a need to pull the alpha species card. A case of us against them, although we leave them the odd misshapen or over-ripe fruit as a token consolation.

Five thousand words in five days

Sun, 26 Nov 2023 22:38:00 GMT

And before you ask, that title has nothing whatsoever to do with November being the month where writers take up the challenge to write a novel in a month. Or NaNoWr i Mo . My magnum opus isn’t a novel, but I know writers who use November as a motivation tool to keep their own work progressing.

To be honest that aspect didn’t occur to me. The New Zealand trip was always going to be an opportunity to get some more writing done so in my case it was this recent and fairly brief sojourn there, that involved several days where my partner could indulge his love of fly fishing, and where I could use the time to crack on with the book. It worked!

Where we stayed had very limited internet connection – and no WiFi – so that was one distraction out of the way, although the plan was always to get a few thousand words done in this time away from routine life. Even so writing 1000 words a day – or thereabouts – is good going for me. I’m not renowned for being a ‘fast’ writer and there’s always a lot of fiddling, rewriting, editing – call it what you will – before I’m satisfied with the result, and feel able to move on.

There was also an opportunity on an exceptionally wet day, when outdoor activity was definitely off the agenda, to devote to sorting out and captioning photographs. Not only possible ones to include in the book, but also tidying up my photographs generally. And deleting quite a few. Quite a satisfying day really.

But now it’s back to the real world so that momentum is unlikely to be repeated to the same degree, although I intend to try!

The World According to Us

Wed, 25 Oct 2023 02:14:00 GMT

An impressive title for another impressive anthology put together by Tasmania’s northwest FAW group, and in which I again have several poems included.

Once again the volume has been compiled by Allan Jamieson, and kudos to him for doing a terrific job, as it truly is a fine looking book with a wealth of varied writing from Tasmania’s Fellowship of Australian Writers from across the state. We certainly do have some talented storytellers and poets living on this island.

A quick Google of the title suggests the book is widely available online for around $20 – and will almost certainly be available in a good independent bookshop within Tasmania.

My contributions that are scattered throughout the book are poetic in form, and political in content. It’s a format that seems to be how I best process – in writing – the world according to me. And goodness knows, it’s a world that’s in a fine old mess in too many places. Thankfully and mercifully, not yet in Tasmania. At least not for most, but none of us are likely to escape unscathed from the turmoil.

In the meantime seek out a copy of this anthology, and lose yourself in the stories, poems and anecdotes that it contains.

Goodbye Della: ?early 2013 – 10 October 2023

Thu, 12 Oct 2023 04:27:00 GMT

Della came into our lives as a rescue dog in December 2013. She’d been found wandering the streets by the RSPCA, and was thin, starved and had clearly been a victim of abuse. She was thought to be approximately eight months old.

When we first decided it was time to welcome a new dog into our lives, (we’d said goodbye to Mona a few months earlier) we decided a rescue dog was the way to go. John was initially very taken with a young large, lovely and very lively male black dog, that was part Labrador. Gorgeous though he was I felt he might be a bit too strong and boisterous for me – and he’d also need a lot of exercise which we couldn’t necessarily give him. Plus, we prefer to have female dogs.

Della – or Princess as the RSPCA had named her – was a few pens along. She was more interested in the food than in us and was very timid when we did ask to spend a little time with her, as the RSPCA now like potential adopters to do. A couple more visits and we decided to adopt her – which meant choosing a name. Previously we’ve held off naming our dogs immediately – waiting for a name to choose them. But the adoption papers required a name. Della emerged as the front contender and is a play on Mandela. The suggestion came from a colleague of mine at the time. We were both admirers of Nelson Mandela, who had recently died. So Della she became.

For several months Della was a very timid, needy little dog. She was wary of strangers, especially if they were male. It took a long time for her to overcome her fear of a suddenly raised arm, or a broom or rake picked up too quickly. We can only assume these were associated with a beating. The trauma went deep as she never quite got over her instinctive wariness about these tools, or a sudden and unexpectedly raised arm. Nevertheless by the time we moved to our new property Della had became a more relaxed and contented dog who was happy enough around other dogs.

So it was beyond distressing this hard-won equilibrium was shattered when our then-neighbour’s St Bernard finally chose to jump the fence. She attacked Della while we were walking past the house one afternoon. As we did every afternoon. My theory is that this animal was jealous of her canine cousin being taken out so regularly while she never went anywhere. At least we never saw it being walked or even being paid much attention.

This encounter wasn’t the only one either. At least three more escapes and attacks occurred over the next few weeks and months. This poor dog’s fate was sealed was when it escaped and killed another neighbour’s chickens. Clearly it had to go. But for Della the damage had been done. She was never the same around other dogs. With only one or two exceptions – all of them male – she turned into a female Jekyll and Hyde displaying full-on aggression. And she was a strong animal and difficult to restrain. Her breed was indeterminate – albeit with a good dollop of basenji in the genes – but it was definitely a case of attack first and ask questions later.

Yet with humans she was fine. A gentler and more placid dog would be hard to find. Butter wouldn’t melt. Such a shame but an indication of the trauma dogs – and any animal if it comes to that – when they feel threatened or vulnerable to attack.

It was bone cancer that claimed Della in the end – as it does many thousands of dogs each year. It was very aggressive given the speed of her deterioration and the wasting away was shocking to witness. But dogs are so stoic. They don’t whinge or articulate their pain. They just lie quietly but their expression is obvious. They’re not happy. We had to make the decision to end the misery. And we did that on Tuesday. Now she’s in the paddock where she loved to run and sniff out rabbits. A headstone marks the spot. RIP Della. You were a lovely, lovely dog and didn’t deserve such a tough end.

Tasmanian Poetry Festival’s Poetry Cup – Yes or No

Mon, 09 Oct 2023 00:33:00 GMT

The following wasn’t the winner of the 39th Poetry Festival’s iconic Poetry Cup event, but it came pretty close. Or so I understand. The winner is judged by audience response so the more claps, foot stomps, cheers and sundry expressions of approval, the better.

Poems have to be read in one minute or less too – and that can automatically disqualify a few unless they stop on the hooter. That doesn’t always work though as the punch line might be missed. So there are a few variables and there are no guarantees the recognised ‘good’ poets will be winners. It can be a rookie who walks away with the cup.

Mine wasn’t the only poem to have the Voice as its theme – poems are often political in some way, or satirical, and humour is always a safe bet for generating positive responses. It helps to be one of the final readers on the night too – but that’s a lottery of course with names plucked at random out of the box.
Anyway, what follows wasn’t the winner but given the issue, and the few remaining days that are left before (most of) it becomes as irrelevant as yesterday’s newspaper, here it is. And if it might encourage a few people who stumble across this post to vote Yes, it’s done its work.

Yes or No

write a cup poem she said, once again
there are plenty of issues –
for a start there’s Ukraine
or there’s Rockliff’s state government
God knows that’s a mess
or the stadium controversy –
that came close, I confess –
but as you can see from what I am wearing
it’s the Voice that won out
in this poem I’m sharing

because how do we start to unite a nation
that’s now doused with deceit,
and such misinformation
the seeds of toxicity deliberately sown
have sprouted and flourished
how they’ve spread and have grown,
with words that are twisted that were initially clear
have spread division and hatred in addition to fear,

voting Yes on the 14th would see us united
we could make plans for a future where all are invited
but if that’s to happen there’s work to be done
it’s not over yet, the campaign’s to be won
we have one week to go
to persuade those who say No
with our posters, our leaflets, and letters and doorknocks
stay positive always and ignore all those roadblocks
so we can claim the moment, be assured of success
and a moment to celebrate
because the country said Yes

Exploiting the ‘No’ vote

Sun, 24 Sep 2023 03:11:00 GMT

The ugliness of those dissenting voices in the Referendum for the Voice has been brewing from the start but with three weeks to go it’s escalated. The Referendum has exposed a division that was certainly there, but which seems to have grown like a many-headed Hydra. It’s been politically hijacked by the federal Opposition, and is being exploited by various extreme right-wing groups for their own poisonous ideologies that seem to be based on hating anyone and everyone who doesn’t agree with their particular view.

As if the world doesn’t have enough hatred going on with conflicts and war in so many countries, never mind planetary reminders that we should all be turning our attention to that runaway climate change train that will force us all to put aside all these quarrels in the effort to simply survive.

It was fantastic to witness the support for the ‘Yes’ vote last weekend in so many rallies and walks across the country. I hope that support will be sustained and strengthened in the days to come so the polls are proved misleading and incorrect, and the ‘Ayes’ will indeed have it.

I expressed my view in a poem that was another entry in the Independent Australia ’s writing competition. As with almost all these poetic creations, this one began life as a result of the weekly Word Expo word game. But I very quickly rewrote Exploitation and it’s now been published. I can only hope that it might just contribute to changing the minds of a few of those who read it – especially if they were veering towards voting ‘No’.

A dog’s life

Sun, 10 Sep 2023 00:11:00 GMT

All those who have a companion animal in their life, be it dog, cat, rabbit, horse or sheep, is fully aware that animal is likely to depart this planet before they do. I’ve buried several dogs and cats, and a couple of rabbits, and it doesn’t get any easier when it’s time to say goodbye. But who’d be without an animal in their life if they’re able to have one? Not me, that’s for sure, but realising the time to say goodbye to Della might be considerably earlier than we expected has come as rather a shock.

We’d noticed Della was carrying her left hind leg a bit a few months ago but thought little of it initially thinking she’d perhaps just sprained her foot. But it didn’t get any better, so we rang the vet. Paul had just left for an overseas holiday and wouldn’t be back for several weeks so we had to take Della into a different clinic. The young vet there was very thorough, and I’m sure knew her stuff but she couldn’t find anything definitive, so we left with a box of anti-inflammatories, and advised to come back if they didn’t do the trick for what we and the vet suspected was the beginning of arthritis or rheumatism. Della is around 11 years-old – she’s a rescue dog so the RSPCA could only estimate her age – so this diagnosis was entirely plausible.

Initially we thought they did do the trick. They weren’t necessary every day so the box lasted several months, and we also trialled Rosehip-Vital – a natural treatment to relieve arthritis and rheumatism.
Despite all our efforts though Della’s limp became more pronounced, so it was time for another visit to the vet. Our own this time. Paul explained the situation as tactfully as he could but it’s obvious he believes Della has cancer, and it’s in the legbone. There’s a chance it’s a badly torn and inflamed cruciate ligament but it’s a slim chance. We’ll known on Wednesday when she has an X-ray.

Next week we’ll know if it’s time to say goodbye to Della but until then I’m hanging on to the possibility it’s that 25 per cent chance the problem is cruciate.

Here we go again . . .

Sun, 13 Aug 2023 05:35:00 GMT

When I started this blog I was determined not to make it too political. The website was to remain – mostly anyway – an activist-free zone. But it’s hard sometimes. I’m not sure what it is about Tasmania but all too often its people tear themselves apart over controversial issues. So far, since I’ve lived here, there have been dams, forests, pulp mills and poker machines. The forestry issue has been ongoing for decades, and with no signs of a resolution. We nearly had one with the hard-fought forestry agreement that for an all- too-brief-time saw an end to the ’wars’ between timber workers and conservationists. The Liberals tore that up when they won government around 10 years ago. Now we’re back to where we were – a situation neither side wished for.

The latest controversy involves football. The AFL version, not soccer – which is of course the ball game of the moment, given the Women’s World Cup Championships, and Australia’s Matildas surpassing all expectations by making the semi-finals. And may the best team win.

But soccer aside, what’s concentrating the minds of Tasmanians is whether the price of finally getting a licence to have a state team in the national AFL draw should depend on building a massive new stadium. The outgoing AFL boss insists it’s a condition of the licence. The premier apparently didn’t say boo to this rather high-handed demand despite most Tasmanians being outraged at the decision. And why not really when we already have two stadiums. One in the South and one in the North. Both have hosted AFL games for years – to audiences that haven’t always filled either stadium. Both stadiums have also successfully hosted other sporting events, as well as concerts.

So once again Tasmania is a state in conflict. The business case for a new stadium is extremely optimistic at best. More than one economist has picked a multitude of holes in it. And with so many other pressing social needs such as health, hospitals, housing and a homelessness crisis, requiring funding, building a stadium is considered the height of reckless extravagance by over half the population. The predictable if depressing result is sides being chosen, sleeves being rolled up, and preparing for another conflict to consume time and energy – for both those who are for it and those who are opposed.

A poem I wrote describes my opinion of the project. I entered it in the Independent Australia competition where I hoped it might at least get published – and raise awareness of the issue on a national platform – but I never believed for a second it could be a winner. But so it is: the July winner in the Fiction/Poetry category . At the No Stadium rally being organised later this month I’ve been invited to read it out.
So once again another poem I’ve written has resonated. I continue to be amazed – but if this one helps to change the hearts and minds of our government, and force a rethink on the terms of the contract, it’s done its job. No to a new stadium. Yes to a team .

Graphic designed by Marion Curtain

Feeding the birds

Mon, 24 Jul 2023 01:00:00 GMT

We first noticed the arrival of a pair of turtle doves on our property around three years ago. Since I knew the species isn’t native to Tasmania I wondered where they’d come from. Their distinctive cooing call reminded me of visits to my grandmother’s home in the south of England when growing up. The birds weren’t common in the North, or not where we lived anyway, so hearing the gentle coo coo always takes me back to the lush rural landscape of Highclere, in the UK.

Nowadays though that pair of turtle doves has grown to over 20 birds, so as well as being successful in the breeding department, they’ve clearly worked out where their bread is buttered. Or where there’s likely to be a feed of grain. It no doubt comes with having a few chooks, and the doves – along with various parrots, eastern rosellas and sparrows – have clocked on to when breakfast is served at our place.
Finding food in winter is always a challenge for many bird species, especially those who rely on seeds, flowers or insects for their sustenance. These are all scarce during the colder months, but even so we can’t remember quite so many birds turning up at chook meal times before.

I’m conflicted about feeding wild birds regularly, although have been obliged to turn a blind eye to John feeding the small troupe of magpies on a daily basis. We inherited the magpies with the property thanks to the previous owner feeding them. At least I’ve encouraged him to reduce their feeds to once a day rather than two.

But as it’s winter, and recognising finding food is tough, we’ve relented enough this year to buy a bag of seed designed for wild birds. To be honest it looks pretty similar to the mixed grain ‘muesli’ seed the chooks have, but at the moment after I’ve walked Della dog, I now juggle two containers of grain in my hands each morning. One for the chooks, and another for the doves, sparrows and rosellas that are swinging on the wire and waiting patiently and optimistically for their share. At least there’s no squabbling and they all seem quite happy to mingle as they peck away.

Humans could learn a lot from their behaviour.

A surprise success

Mon, 26 Jun 2023 00:15:00 GMT

I still find it amazing that some of these poems I write, and that I rarely agonise over, take hours to compose, or even – really – take terribly seriously, nevertheless strike a chord or find favour in a publication. Of course they wouldn’t ever do that unless I took the time (and had the confidence) to submit them, and I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t feel they were perhaps worthy, given the majority are unquestioningly and unapologetically political. But even so . . .

In the case of this most recent success, I wrote the poem initially for a Greens’ Fossil Fools Trivia Night fundraiser where the theme was obviously the ongoing climate change risks associated with mining and fracking coal and gas. Two of us were invited to read poems during the evening, and I was one of them. Mine was well received on what was essentially a fun night, albeit with serious undertones, designed to poke fun at the former Coalition government’s failure to take climate change seriously – and to try to help the election of our Greens candidate in the forthcoming Legislative Council. A big ask, and we didn’t succeed this time, but if you don’t try . . .

I filed the poem away in my increasingly bulging folder and gave it little thought until I read the details of a competition and publishing opportunity offered by online media organisation Independent Australia https://independentaustralia.net

Despite subscribing to IA for several years it’s the first time I remember it has invited readers to submit articles, fiction or poetry for consideration for such an opportunity, and one that is running for around three months. Winners and short-listed entries are announced each month, and a selection will be published on the website. To be eligible for consideration all entries, regardless of category, have to be on a current affairs topic, be that political, social justice, environmental etc.

I remembered my Fossil Fool poem and fished it out of the folder. I read it through again. With a bit of tweaking I felt it certainly fitted the brief. So I reworked the last stanza and added another one, completed the entry criteria and sent if off, not really anticipating I’d hear anything back for a while – if ever.
So it was a genuine surprise to learn it had indeed been published, and with its own Mark David cartoon to boot! https://independentaustralia.net/life/art-display/fossil-fools,17603

Whether ‘Fossil Fools’ will progress any further in the IA competition remains to be seen. I won’t know that until sometime in July so watch this space as they say!

Grey invaders

Tue, 06 Jun 2023 15:17:00 GMT

The UK’s squirrels have been immortalised in Beatrix Potter’s ‘Squirrel Nutkin’, as well as in numerous Christmas cards with the traditional snow-covered landscapes, as they nibble on their hidden cache of nuts. These are Britain’s native red squirrels though, a species that has disappeared from many regions across the country since the introduction of North America’s grey squirrel during the 1890s. Grey squirrels are just as cute of course, smaller in size but with the same distinctive bushy tail, but as well as being prolific breeders, they also brought the squirrel pox disease with them and it’s this that has contributed massively to the decline in red squirrel numbers.

Although carriers of the disease the greys rarely succumb to it. The reds though proved immediately and fatally susceptible, so along with being out-competed for food red squirrel populations have dwindled despite ongoing and determined conservation efforts to help save them.

I’ve certainly not spotted any red squirrels during my time in Yorkshire this year, but the greys abound. They are more commonly dubbed ‘tree-rats’ due to being so prolific and a pest, where I often walk my niece’s spaniel, Lexie, it’s a rare morning I don’t see one of them scampering along the ground or racing along the branch of a beech tree somewhere along the woodland track where we often walk.

The greys have their champions of course and it’s certainly far too late to even consider eradicating them now, but even so I suspect these invasive and destructive pests are quietly culled by farmers and landowners as the scientists and conservationists work on developing a vaccine and/or cure for the deadly squirrel pox, alongside working to protect those few red squirrel populations that continue to hang on in the more isolated northern areas of England and Scotland.

An example to follow

Thu, 11 May 2023 13:44:00 GMT

It’s no secret that the British are a nation of dog lovers. So back in the land of my birth for the first time in four years (thanks to Covid) it hasn’t taken long to resume by morning walks with Lexie – a rescue dog like our own Della – owned by my niece’s family.

Lexie very soon twigged I was pretty reliable when it came to walking her in the morning. Usually before breakfast but not always given the morning bathroom rush for everyone in the family either getting ready to go to work, college or school.

There are two go-to dog walking spots in this Magdale area – an unexpected and discreet woodland oasis given this outer suburb’s proximity to a former dour northern industrial mill town once renowned for its textiles and fine worsteds. So many dogs are walked in one of these special public areas – the site of a former water mill – which has successfully avoided development thanks to a proactive community that now owns and manages it. A dedicated group of volunteers ensure the extensive natural space is maintained and respected by all those who use it. And people do respect it. There’s very little litter, and with strategically placed dog poo bins, very few owners fail to clean up after their dog. I suspect if they do, and there’s a witness, they’ll be called out and strongly taken to task!

Since my last visit some lovely timber structures have been added, presumably carved and donated by local craftspeople. The river of course is a huge attraction for those dogs that love the water. Lexie, being a spaniel, is certainly one of that number, but she almost came to grief this morning. Determined to have a swim she slithered into the river down a particularly steep bank and then had trouble getting out again. Her quick dip turned into an impressive swim for an ageing dog as I had to coax her downstream to a shallower spot where she could clamber out.

The Holme is nowhere near the size of Tasmania’s Tamar River, but sections must still be good for fishing since there have been a couple of hopeful anglers chancing their luck in the few days I’ve been here. Perhaps it’s more an opportunity for quiet communion with nature than a serious attempt to catch their evening meal.

This park area is definitely a popular spot for walkers though, with or without dogs or toddlers. And as it’s an off-lead area it’s brilliant to see the dogs all getting on. If only humans could manage to do so. Big or small and regardless of breed I’ve yet to see any unpleasant interactions among the many dogs enjoying their exercise in this fabulous public space. It’s a refreshing change given our delightful Della, who while great with people, becomes a Jekyll and Hyde animal when it comes to meeting and greeting her canine cousins. Since she wasn’t always this way I can only assume it’s because she was attacked while still a young dog (and by a St Bernard of all things), that has caused her distressing personality change. Sadly it’s meant we can never let her off the lead to romp about and follow her nose exploring smells and scents, and to generally behave as dogs love to do off leash.

When it comes to pollination – don’t forget the birds

Sun, 23 Apr 2023 05:08:00 GMT

We are frequently reminded about the importance of bees when it comes to pollinating flowers, vegetables and fruits. But while most people these days are aware of the critical role bees play in pollination, birds are just as crucial and many bird species are struggling to survive.

Climate change is a threat for birds globally, just as it is for us all. Rising temperatures, and more frequent extremes of dry and wet seasons that lead to floods and bushfires are all affecting birds’ ability to feed and breed successfully, and even just survive. Additional threats are human activity, deforestation and land clearing, invasive species, and predation – in particular by domestic and feral cats.

Certainly in Tasmania the threat of habitat loss from land clearing and logging is right up there, with iconic species like the swift parrot, masked owl and wedgetail eagle under severe pressure of becoming extinct. Introduced species like sparrows, blackbirds and starlings are also aggressively displacing smaller native species in the fight for food and nesting sites. It’s no wonder our native bird species are at risk. Adding to the stress in both urban and regional areas is the increase in light and noise pollution at night. These stimulants can disturb birds’ feeding, and sleeping habits, and ultimately their breeding cycles.

What can we all do to help the survival of our local native bird populations – and help to minimise the biodiversity loss that the loss of birds would accelerate? Well, wherever you live a good start would be to plant more bird-friendly native bushes and trees. Native bushes, shrubs and trees can provide ideal habitat for some species, and the flowers and fruits are a vital food source, especially for some of our honeyeaters, parrots, and wattle birds. To help insect-eating bird species, consider limiting the hours the light outside your home at night is burning, or at least lower its brightness. Security is important of course, but so is the survival of our lovely birds. How shocking it would be if the scenario Rachel Carson wrote about in the 1960s, in her most well-known book ‘Silent Spring’, ever came to pass.

Photo credits: Wedge-tail eagle – Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary; Swift parrot – BirdLife Australia

Importance of community

Wed, 05 Apr 2023 00:16:00 GMT

Although not written initially as a blog post, it’s certainly relevant in the context of the larger work I’m writing. It’s also relevant in the context of the importance of community in today’s world, and why communities everywhere need to be nurtured, and not deliberately smashed to pieces for no good reason that anyone can see, as ours has been.

Whatever the reason behind our local café owner’s decision to make the life of leaseholder Fleur so difficult she’s closing the business, he has certainly succeeded in ripping out the heart of our community. His unreasonable attitude means we’ve all lost something infinitely precious, and potentially irreplaceable, and it’s left many people – myself included – both devastated, angry and deeply disappointed. Not only for Fleur, but for our community as a whole. In the words of Joni Mitchell’s song: You never know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone. But some of us do know. And only too well.

The word ‘community’ has become something of a buzzword. Politicians use it all the time – especially during and since the emergence of COVID when the importance of community was suddenly considered essential to wellbeing. Which it is. A strong and supportive community is also powerful. Our community has proved that many times over the years. And since it first opened, central to all those times, has been the the East Tamar’s Windermere Shop/Café.

A short history lesson
There was neither shop nor café when we first moved here. If you needed another carton of milk or loaf of bread it meant a drive to Mt Direction Service Station, or to Newnham. There was no highway either, or not as we know it now. The highway included John Lees Drive, and for the first several months we lived here it ended at Rocherlea. That last bit from Landfall to the university exit hadn’t been completed. No wonder people equated living out here to being in the sticks. Dilston, Windermere and Swan Bay were relatively isolated and largely separate communities, where immediate neighbours could be several paddocks away.

Maybe that isolation prompted long-term resident Mike to establish the volunteer fire brigade. From all accounts this brought many neighbours from each of the three communities together as fundraising events at Dilston Hall were organised so a fire truck could be purchased. The fire brigade was also the catalyst for our community newsletter Smoke Signals. It was former resident Eric’s contribution to the brigade. His health precluded him from being a firefighter, but his computer skills, at a time when PCs were still relatively uncommon, were significant. But those early issues of Smoke Signals helped to inform new and existing residents about the various opportunities in our area. The aptly titled Smoke Signals contained contact details for local activities such as the playgroup, walking group, book group, sewing circle and garden club – as well as the fire brigade. And joining these groups was how many in the community first met each other.

We’d lived here for a couple of years when the first hints about a corner shop opening were heard. The knowledge we could soon have a local convenience store was exciting. Sure, items were more expensive than the supermarket, but I doubt I was alone in ensuring a few staples were bought there each week to support the fledgling business and the local family who had decided to set it up.

Over the years various people have run the shop/café, some more successfully than others. The years when it was operated by Kerrie and Maree were undoubtedly among the best. Their warmth and friendliness drew people in. People dropped by just to have a chat as they picked up a newspaper or packet of lollies. These years straddled much of the pulp mill campaign. For those unaware, this was an environmental fight to stop failed timber company Gunns Ltd build a massive pulp mill near Bell Bay. Google it to find out more, but suffice to say the campaign was long, hard, bitterly divisive and exhausting, but it was the strength of the community that ultimately ensured the project failed. That it did was due in no small measure to the efforts of those in our East Tamar community, as well as the Tasmanian community more broadly.

It was the pulp mill campaign that also resulted in the long-awaited tick of approval for the bypass that finally diverted traffic from thundering through Dilston. The diversion wasn’t necessarily such good news for the café though. Lack of passing traffic meant a drop in the shop’s takeaway food business. To compensate Kerrie and Maree took a huge risk with the first of the Thank God It’s Friday evenings. The instant and enormous popularity of these weekly gatherings took both by surprise.

But so many of us knew each other by now, and the TGIF evenings ensured many more in the neighbourhood did so too. Several new arrivals were welcomed into our community, settling in quickly to become valuable friends and neighbours. Such was TGIF’s reputation, people chose to buy here because of TGIF’s reputation! These were the years when the shop/café’s position as the hub and heart of our community was cemented. Fleur came on board during this time and the café became the go-to place for so many events and functions. It hosted birthday parties, music afternoons, book and garden club lunches and dinners, fundraisers for various organisations, as well as providing a safe and supportive space for many people in our community who were facing some of the challenges of life’s ups and downs.

Thanks to our strong and proactive community we have a safer exit onto the highway from John Lees Drive. Again the pulp mill campaign is largely responsible. We all knew each other by the time this was raised and were aware of the wealth of engineering expertise among certain individuals. These were people able to point us in the right direction, and to argue convincingly and knowledgeably to ensure we received the safest infrastructure option.

Likewise, when the NBN was being rolled out, and our region became a political football with the off again/on again situation, we knew who to call. That this community was finally included on the NBN map is down to committed members of a strong community who met regularly at the Windermere Café to work out the best lobbying strategies.

Most recently it was our feisty and motivated community that gathered together once more to ensure funds were raised to prevent the Anglican Church selling off our historic St Matthias Church to help pay redress to victims of abuse.

The café then, not to mention Fleur herself, has been instrumental in forging the strong community bonds our region is renowned for. So it’s bitterly disappointing that the café’s owner apparently neither cares, appreciates or understands the café’s importance for our community’s collective health and wellbeing.

Maybe one day he will. Before it’s too late.

Ageing companion animals

Fri, 17 Mar 2023 05:07:00 GMT

Our lovely dog Della is showing her age. She’s had the tell-tale white whiskery face for some time but was as lively as ever until very recently. Perhaps it’s the first early signs of approaching autumn and that unmistakeable morning chill as we set off for the morning walk before the sun has properly risen. Whatever the cause Della has suddenly become a little less enthusiastic to emerge from her basket, and a lot less bouncy first thing in the morning. She’s also noticeably more stiff in the legs, especially her left rear leg which is clearly giving her trouble.

I mentioned it to Paul, our vet when I took Della in for her vaccination booster recently. He confirmed my suspicions. Della is showing the first indication of arthritis or rheumatism. Not yet serious, and medication not yet recommended but the day will come when she may need some pain relief. It seems none of us are immune to the ravages of age.

Since she was a rescue dog, we aren’t exactly sure how old Della is. The RSPCA thought she was about seven months old when we picked her out as our new dog to replace the lovely and recently departed Mona. We collected Della earlier than expected because she’d been able to have the necessary desexing op due to a last minute cancellation, so she was a lovely surprise Christmas present that year.

Those early weeks and months of trauma obviously still run deep, suggesting animals don’t forget abusive behaviour any more than children do. They are sentient and emotional beings after all, so it shouldn’t be surprising. In the first few years there were several embarrassing encounters that saw Della highly distressed, shaking and frothing at the mouth in fear if a visitor – it was always a male visitor – came to the door. We can only assume the person – often a tradesman – resembled in some way the fellow who was responsible for the early cruelty and abuse she suffered.

And now there are three . . .

Tue, 07 Mar 2023 00:27:00 GMT

Green and gold frogs that is. In the bathtub near the small greenhouse-cum-potting shed that’s been a haven for green and golds for several years, and is also a water source for thirsty birds when they don’t fancy drinking or preening their feathers in the bird bath.

The latest wildlife rescue was a large frog who’d gone exploring in the raspberry patch, and then couldn’t work out how to negotiate the netting to extricate herself. We’re sure it’s a ‘she’ because of her size. Female GGs are bigger than the males. Rescue accomplished the obvious solution was to plonk her in the bathtub to join the two frogs already there. At least we think they’re both still there but days can go by when we don’t see them so it’s hard to be certain. Then just as we’ve decided they must have hopped off to pastures new, suddenly there they are, basking on the side of the tub, or hanging onto the wire netting that covers some of the tub, while enjoying the view. Neither of them seem too fazed when we walk past now so assume they’re got used to us and realise we pose no threat. Hopefully they’ll also get along with ‘big mamma’.

Heartening though it is to have seen and heard some GGs this summer, and been able to rescue a couple of them, we’ve not seen as many as usual. Not even squashed ones on the road – roadkill victims when they’ve been out partying in the rain.

It would be easy to lay the blame at the door of development for the apparent loss of these frogs given so much former farmland in the area has been sold for residential housing. It’s known that disease can all too readily be introduced through heavy vehicle movements, and on the soles of boots, and the amphibian fungus disease known as chytrid is still very much a concern around the world.

We’ll just have to cross our fingers and hope our ancient bathtub is providing a sanctuary for at least three green and golds, and they’ll choose to overwinter there, ready for breeding again come the spring.

Keeping up the momentum

Tue, 28 Feb 2023 01:42:00 GMT

There has, of course, been the odd wobble in the planned routine but essentially this book is now steadily moving forward. My wonderful mentor has just sent back the second lot of comments, with gratifyingly few criticisms. She did say there was only some minor editing to do but otherwise it’s looking good. Phew.

I remain focussed despite it being summer, with all that entails when there are vegies that need to be harvested and processed, and opportunities to attend various arts-related festivals which are all crammed into Tasmania’s relatively short season of more reliable weather conducive to holding outdoor events. Then, needless to say and because this is Tasmania, there is the constant and grinding need to respond to other controversial projects that will negatively impact our environment, or threaten public health, wildlife, forests, clean air and waterways, and every other natural resource deemed essential for a healthy life and wellbeing.

Now of course there’s the whole issue of climate change that’s finally hitting home. Even if still being virtually ignored or sidestepped by governments – as it was in the early stages of the pulp mill campaign when the warnings from scientists were still polite murmurings, rather than the louder and more urgent pleadings of today.

The country has experienced the full catastrophe over the past year – and I use the word ‘catastrophe’ advisedly. There have been bushfires and floods with all the destruction and devastation that has fallen on people, homes, crops, businesses, and our increasingly fragile environment, yet still too many in the political and corporate class refuse to listen.

Such is the life of an activist in the midst of such insanity.

Now it’s back to the book . . . .

Rosella rescue

Mon, 13 Feb 2023 00:49:00 GMT

It seems to be the season for wildlife rescues. The rescued green and gold frog is doing nicely and remains happily ensconced in his new bathtub home with his larger companion. We assume he must be much more relaxed and comfortable with life as he no longer jumps into the water the moment we walk by. All good there.

The latest rescue was an eastern rosella who made me jump when it crashed into my office window a few days ago. Birds have a habit of doing this, at certain times of the year especially, but I can’t ever remember a rosella doing so before. The windows weren’t even that clean! Plus most are adorned with discreet but rather attractive butterfly transfers – possibly placed there by previous owners as an optimistic deterrent to just this situation. If so it hasn’t worked too well!

Over the years several birds have either suicided flying into some of the windows in this house, or given themselves a very nasty headache before apparently recovering and flying off. The rosella was still alive, but undoubtedly suffering when I rushed out to check. He was on his back and very distressed even after I righted him. He was in no hurry to fly off either poor fellow but it was impossible to tell if he had injured himself internally.

I picked him up and sat outside on the deck with him perched on my knees while he panted and shook from shock and fright. Even so he was content to sit placidly and thankfully made no attempt to peck me with his small but powerful beak. It was rather a privilege to be so close to such a magnificently plumed bird and to study him quietly while he recovered. So light and so fragile and yet so graceful when in the air.

Thankfully Ross the rosella did eventually recover but it took the best part of 30 minutes during which time he did make rather a mess of my clothes. I took this as a good sign and that he was getting over the shock, and what the heck, they were due to be washed anyway.

He followed up by pooing in the water container I eventually brought out, thinking he might welcome a drink. He declined though, then declined any further contact with me. A good sign I thought and totally fine by me as it indicated he really was going to be OK. Sure enough he soon hopped to the edge of the deck and then half flew onto the driveway and then rather unsteadily into the magnolia tree.

I followed just to make sure he wasn’t still a bit wobbly, but no he had his confidence back and soon flew to another tree at the end of the driveway and then off. Hopefully he’s learned a lesson and won’t fly into windows again.

Frog rescue

Mon, 30 Jan 2023 04:21:00 GMT

I’ve come across some strange finds over the years when dog walking each morning. There are the typical, if depressing, bottles, cans, cigarette butts, food wrappers etc, and for which I’ve ensured there’s always a bag in my pocket so these offensive items can be removed, and dumped into the relevant disposal bin at home. But sitting in the middle of the road one day last week was a bright green juvenile green and gold frog. Bizarre.

Given the absence of any obvious suitable water habitat close by, how this frog came to be there will forever remain a mystery. His (or her) life was destined to be extremely short though if he remained on the road, so I picked him up and carried him home. Froggy didn’t even try to resist so maybe he was already regretting the adventure that had led him to this spot.

Green and golds are not uncommon in our area, despite being now extremely rare in most parts of the state. To the point where they are now a listed species. Until the campaign to stop failed timber company Gunns Ltd building its pulp mill, most people in the area were unaware the green and golds that happily hopped around their properties and basked in the sunshine, were in fact a threatened species. Such is the depressing lack of knowledge about our vulnerable wildlife among so many Tasmanians, or concern and care by successive governments.

Several years ago I’d researched green and golds for an article so I knew about their vulnerable status, and we’d got excited one summer a couple of years ago when we counted up to 12 of these frogs living in an old bathtub we keep topped up with water for birds and various visiting wildlife to drink from. By last summer though they had dispersed, as they do, not to be seen again until their growling mating calls are heard in spring. Disappointingly though there was no sign of frog life in our bathtub last summer, and there’d been none this year either thus far.

So young GG was on his own when I popped him into his new and rather murky watery home, unsure if he would stay, or even if he was actually healthy. At least I thought he was on his own.

He kept very much to himself, and if we did happen to spot him basking on the edge he quickly dived in before we got too close. We noticed his colour was darkening though. Perhaps that was something to do with the water . . . ? Then a few days ago we noticed there were two green and golds sunning themselves on the edge. One was significantly larger. Had it been there all winter unbeknownst to us? Or was it a recent arrival?

So now there are two, and while the juvenile is still rather timid, the older one is quite laid back and sits on the side quite unconcerned when we walk past. Hopefully their tenancy will last the summer, but after that who knows? Where these frogs go during the cooler autumn and winter months still remains something of a mystery so far as I’m aware. We’re just enjoying having them visit.

Feasting on fruit

Sun, 22 Jan 2023 05:04:00 GMT

‘Tis the season of harvesting summer fruits. The raspberries continue to produce, and will do so for at least another month given the autumn fruiting variety hasn’t got underway properly yet. Picking them occupies around an hour of my morning, and I can see another round of jam-making may be required as the freezer is already well stocked. Jam-making is my man’s domain though. I rarely eat it.

As we’re also keeping an eye on a friend’s place at the moment, harvesting the bounty from their apricot tree is also on the agenda. It’s a well-established tree and it’s loaded, but it’s a case of beating the birds who must also be keeping an eye on every apricot, plum and peach tree in the district that’s not netted, ready to swoop in for a feed the moment fruit looks ripe enough.

We suspect the possums have also paid this property a visit, and if they go away to tell all their mates trees can be stripped of fruit overnight. Rather anxious that doesn’t happen so we’re picking apricots that still aren’t quite ripe. They’re swiftly achieving the juicy state though while laid out on baking trays on our kitchen counter. As of yesterday more half-ripe apricots are also spread out on paper on the spare bed!

Next it will be a case of beating the birds and possums to the greengages, as these plums are ripening fast too. I’m convinced birds are attuned to the berry and stoned fruit season, and once they’ve had their fill of one variety, they move on to the next. Certainly they seem to have become bored with boysenberries. I’d given up on picking ours believing it a waste of time because pesky blackbirds, starlings and magpies were nicking so many, but when I walked past the vines last week I was surprised how quickly I managed to fill a container. So I reckon the birds have moved on. Apricots are now flavour of the month, and next it will be greengages – unless we can beat them to it!

A Long Goodbye

Mon, 09 Jan 2023 01:21:00 GMT

Scattering the ashes of a friend who died suddenly and unexpectedly around 15 months ago wasn’t the preferred way to start a new year, but that’s how Stuart’s wife and a few of his friends chose to do it on the day that would have been his birthday – 2nd January.

Blame COVID for the long delay. Julie wasn’t able to travel from her teaching post at Indonesia’s international school due to travel restrictions in both countries, so she had to wait until she retired at the end of last year before she could pack up and return to Tasmania. She and Stuart had lived overseas for well over a decade and while he’d come back and was doing up the house they still had here, Julie wasn’t quite ready to finish working. Then COVID hit.

Stuart and Julie were neighbours at our previous property, and among the few that came along to the Happy Hour I decided to organise before the second Christmas we’d lived in the area. I pinched the idea from my mother, who started her pre-Christmas Happy Hours after my father died. Over the years these occasions had grown from a few neighbours along the street coming along for drinks and nibbles, into a regular fixture on the calendar that also included family and other friends.

I borrowed the idea because I didn’t like not knowing our neighbours in our semi-rural suburb, and my working life at the time didn’t leave time for socialising. Over the years our pre-Christmas Happy Hours also became something of a fixture and it was definitely a great way to get to know one’s neighbours!

Being of a similar age to us Stuart and Julie became good friends as well as neighbours, and another friend Marilyn and I kicked off our European trip staying with them in Portugal. An extended holiday courtesy of long service leave from our respective jobs, and what a memorable trip it was.

So it was great to reconnect with Stuart again when he came back to Tasmania and follow the progress on his house renovations, as well as hear all about his intrepid travels around the world. He was also a lover of vintage cars, which he regarded more as an investment and only to be driven on high days and holidays – and definitely not when it was raining!

Between adventure travelling around the globe, representing Australia in tai chi championships, renovating his house, landscaping his garden, and developing his talent as an artist, painting Tasmania’s wilderness, Stuart packed more into his life than most of us do. His final journey, at his request, was down the Tamar, in sight of the Batman Bridge. Vale Stuart. We will miss him.

Summer ’22

Wed, 28 Dec 2022 03:42:00 GMT

There were serious doubts summer was not going to arrive in Tasmania this year, but with a few days left before we wave December goodbye there are signs of optimism. Warmth and sunshine also spells optimism for ripening boysenberries, raspberries – and tomatoes – all of which looked to be in serious jeopardy a few short weeks ago. For all it being a first world problem, no berries for Christmas would have been horrible to contemplate, and while the tomatoes will be later than usual there are encouraging signs they will be ready earlier than we first thought.

So for the next few weeks it looks like 5.30am starts to walk Della dog before a quick breakfast and then out to pick the berries in order to beat the worst of the heat. Just as well we’ve almost eaten our way to the bottom of the freezer. The winter months have seen it steadily emptied, and defrosted, so it’s ready and waiting to receive this year’s bounty in my usual collection of recycled and assorted containers.
There should be plenty of berries to share with friends too – even if I reckon the birds are not playing at all fair and stealing more than their share of the uncovered boysenberries. The wretched blackbirds aren’t at all fazed by the foil-wrapped used loo rolls strung up on the vines and swinging in the breeze that I fondly hoped might deter them. I may as well not have bothered. Sigh.

For all it’s supposed to be a time of rest and relaxation summer is always busy if you grow vegies, or have fruit trees that need harvesting. All this produce needs to be picked and processed, and some of it preserved for the winter months, so while I love the warmer weather and the extra hours of daylight, I cannot agree that summer is necessarily a time when the living is easy! Come winter though there is nothing more satisfying than knowing there’s a well-stocked freezer to rely on when preparing the week’s menu.

Well underway – at last!

Tue, 13 Dec 2022 02:05:00 GMT

After way too many stop starts in the writing routine, this stalled project is now firmly on track and underway. I managed to divest myself of a couple of commitments recently and my brain had a gear change. It’s allowed me to be much more focussed on progressing this book.

For three days a week the phone is switched to silent, email checking is cursory, and no appointments are made, so the designated days can be dedicated to writing. Sorry friends, but please remember I’m no longer available for these days any more! That’s the theory anyway. Needless to say there has been the odd and unavoidable hiccup in my new regime, but at least some deadlines have been set as well as some short and long-term goals for 2023. The pressure is on.

My mentor and a writing friend have read the first 20+ thousand words and given feedback. That’s helped to keep me on track. Currently working on the next 20+ thousand – which is the reason this blog has been rather neglected.

Now it’s back to the book . . . .

Spark extinguished. . . . sort of

Wed, 31 Aug 2022 00:40:00 GMT

Rejection is all part of the writing game. At least it is if one is prepared to put it out into the public sphere in the hope a publisher or editor is impressed enough to print it, and ideally pay the writer for the privilege. That’s the life of a freelance journalist, jobbing writer, or just a hopeful beginner who’s plucked up sufficient nerve to test their lovingly crafted article, story or poem in the court of public opinion. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that every writer serious about their craft eventually decides to take the plunge, and send off their work in hopeful anticipation it will be read, enjoyed and accepted for publication or a competition prize.

I know I was exceptionally fortunate when I finally took this step. My very first foray into testing my writing against that of other hopeful scribblers was a competition. I didn’t win it. I wasn’t even placed, but I did receive an ‘honourable mention’. It was enough to give me the confidence to keep going. My confidence received another boost when I sent off another piece to a small press publishing opportunity, and it was accepted. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of seeing words you’ve written on the pages of a published magazine, journal, or book. It’s a thrill that doesn’t fade with time or more success. At least it hasn’t done for me.

That’s not to say I’ve not had my fair share of rejections. Like I said, they go with the territory. And despite what anyone says to the contrary, they hurt. It’s hard to get your head around the idea that the rejection isn’t of you personally. It’s just that your article, story, poem or whatever, isn’t the right fit for that particular publication, or publisher at that time. It doesn’t mean you’ve written a load of rubbish or that you’ve suddenly lost the ability to write well. I know the advice is often to rewrite the piece and whizz it off somewhere else, and it’s sensible advice but I confess to not always following it.

The background to this blog entry though is because I have just received, not a rejection as such, but confirmation my entry into the Hardie Grant Spark Prize 2022 didn’t make the shortlist. So the book I’m currently working on, and that’s already many thousands of words long, failed to stack up against those few who made it to the top of the pile. How big was the pile? Who knows. Maybe my entry missed out by a whisker, or maybe it didn’t make it past Round One. I will never know. And that’s fine because I shall just keep working on my magnum opus, and keep in my head the lovely affirmation from my friend Shirley, who encouraged me to enter the Spark Prize in the first place. When I emailed her the news she said, ‘You know you can write and this [result] doesn’t change that one iota’.

So best of luck to the chosen few, and to the eventual winner, but for me it’s onwards and upwards.

Roadkill madness

Mon, 08 Aug 2022 02:32:00 GMT

Have we reached a tipping point I wonder, in a realisation and an awareness – as well as hopefully a collective horror – about the staggering number of wildlife being exterminated on our roads?
It’s not like the issue of roadkill is new. Some of us have been urging drivers to slow down on Tasmania’s roads for years, especially between the hours of dusk and dawn when our mostly nocturnal wildlife is active. There have been multiple letters to editors over the years, from both locals and tourists, appalled at the number of roadkilled bodies lining the roadsides. There have been multiple pleas from wildlife champion Greg Irons from Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary , begging people to please show caution, and to slow down, especially when driving at night or early in the morning.

It seems that people are finally waking up and finding their voices. Certainly I hope so. Suddenly there seems to be an explosion of community groups forming around the state determined to halt the carnage. Primarily in their own locality, but also more widely. Facebook pages have been established. Tamar Valley Wildlife Roadkill Initiative and Friends of Summerleas Wildlife are just two of them. Posts are being shared. The ‘likes’ are increasing. While the graphic photos being posted can be confronting, (they’re meant to be) they are also having some success in mobilising people to be more aware. And to encourage them how to be involved.

Letters to editors are good, and Council road signs reminding drivers to ‘slow down for wildlife’ are also good, but a relatively new and effective strategy being promoted by a southern Tasmanian group is posters. They have a range of different ones to choose from and they’re popping up on fences and gates across the island. Thanks to a committed team of volunteers and wildlife carers these posters are being ferried around the state. They all have a photograph of a pademelon, a wallaby, a wombat, a masked owl, a Tasmanian devil etc and a simple message that asks drivers to slow down because everyone deserves to arrive home safe and sound at night. And the cost is modest at only $16 each. Order from Friends of Summerleas Wildlife

It’s a fantastic initiative and already there are three along our road. It’s certainly not the only strategy to help protect our vulnerable wildlife, and I cannot say in truth that it’s proved 100 per cent effective yet in my area, but it’s a start and will hopefully prompt more people to be alert to our furred and feathered friends when they’re driving along regional and rural roads, because as the posters remind us: we all deserve to arrive home safely.

Dear Prime Minister Albanese

Tue, 26 Jul 2022 03:18:00 GMT

Just before the opening of the 47th parliament I emailed the following letter to our newly-minted PM. Labor was after all largely elected because they promised much greater action on addressing the climate crisis, even if many of us want and expect more than the 43 per cent cut in emissions by 2030. That’s not enough and is also why we want and expect the PM to collaborate with the Greens and the teal independents to achieve a more realistic target and time-frame. For the sake of the planet – and our country – I hope he does.

“It’s true you’ve not wasted time since winning the May 21st election, and you’re to be congratulated on mending some fences with our international neighbours, but your approach to the climate change issue leaves a great deal to be desired.

Many of us were heartened and encouraged by your comments during the election campaign indicating your willingness to work collaboratively across the political spectrum to end the so-called ‘climate wars’.
So your latest, and may I say, somewhat belligerent, reported position is bewildering to say the least. It’s also deeply and distressingly disappointing. If Australia is to move forward from the pariah status it rightly earned under the Morrison government, immediate and meaningful action on climate is essential. There is literally no time to lose. Climate change isn’t some vague nebulous future threat to our country or the planet. It’s here. It’s arrived. Just like the 98 per cent of scientists warned us it would decades ago, and who begged us all to act. And to prepare. Now it’s very nearly too late. We’re in the middle of it. The evidence is here for all to see. Catastrophic floods, unprecedented bushfires, damaging winds and storms, and harsh droughts. All have increased in severity and frequency. And they will continue to do so. The physical impact on the land and the environment has been, is, and will continue to be, horrific. The social and economic impacts from the destruction of lives, homes, businesses, and health is immeasurable. And it will only get worse.

And then there’s COVID. Arguably also a symptom of climate change . The wilful and greedy mismanagement of our global environment has resulted in the emergence of serious diseases. Scientists warned us of this probability too. With the warming climate some of those diseases are now being experienced in many more regions, and affecting many more people. Australia is far from being immune to this threat.

And yet Mr Albanese, now you are Prime Minister, you no longer appear inclined to work collaboratively with those so-called ‘teal’ Independents, and the increased number of Greens MPs. You claim a mandate for your government that has a majority of two. Please remember Anthony, these Independents – and Greens – are MPs who were elected because voters in their electorates are demanding our federal government acts on climate change. And acts immediately. And that action MUST include a swift transition from the fossil fuel industry we know is a major cause of the climate mess we’re now dealing with.

Please remember those Independents and Greens secured a vote of a good 30 per cent of the national vote. Labor might have secured a slightly higher percentage of votes, but still in the 30s, with the Liberals/Nationals securing a total somewhere in between. Your majority therefore is slim and cannot seriously be described as a ‘mandate’.

For all our sakes, and those of future generations, please waste no more time. Climate change is above political ideologies. We expect you and your government to work with those ‘teals’ and the Greens, say no to more coal mines, to close existing ones as rapidly as possible, and ensure those working in mining communities are able to transition to the cleaner and greener employment opportunities in the renewable technology options that abound in this country.

There’s literally no time to waste.

Images courtesy of Pexels

Culling – or legal blood sport

Wed, 06 Jul 2022 02:58:00 GMT

Although not widely reported, Tasmanians were made aware last week that millions of the state’s wildlife was being legally killed. The details came to light because of a Right to Information request, submitted by the Tasmanian Greens, that sought specific details about the number of wildlife deaths as part of a parliamentary Budget Estimates Committee hearing. T he shocking answer revealed that the government’s Property Protection Permit system allowed landowners and farmers seeking to reduce the damage to crops and vegetation from wildlife species, to slaughter upwards of two million animals and birds from 2019 to June this year.

I wonder if those figures would ever have come to light had that RTI request not been made.

One would think this sort of number would shock people to the core. That they would be horrified, appalled, angered and outraged at hearing about such carnage. From comments made on The Mercury newspaper’s website, and its Facebook page, a lot of people were not. Quite the opposite. They trotted out the usual responses about Tasmania being over-run with wildlife, and that a good kill – sorry cull – was essential. That farmers and landowners had every right to shoot wildlife that had the audacity to peck fruit or nibble on grain crops.

Of course farmers need to protect the crops that become the food we all eat, and nobody denies some mitigating measures are necessary, but shooting surely shouldn’t be regarded as the first or only one. It’s not as though alternative deterrents aren’t available, and could be implemented. The typical excuse is they are expensive and inconvenient and the result would be more expensive food. Shooting wildlife is therefore simpler and cheaper.

I’ve no idea what it is that makes some humans killers. Of anything. Sure, we are all guilty of reducing the population of blowflies, mosquitoes, European wasps, mice and rats, without thinking too deeply about it. They are pests to be sure, and can cause harm and disease. But to actively condone the massacre of wallabies, possums, wombats, black swans and native hens? That makes no sense to me when, as a nation, Australia has allowed so many of its iconic species to become extinct since European settlement. The most infamous of which in Tasmania of course is the thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger

. Until relatively recently there were serious fears the Tasmanian devil would go the same way, but millions of dollars have been spent during the last 20-odd years to ensure its survival from the fatal facial tumour disease that has ravaged the species in the wild.

And that’s the thing. Millions of dollars and volunteer hours are spent caring for injured and orphaned wildlife so the disconnect between this attitude, and the wholesale slaughter that also occurs, is shocking.

So now here we are, endorsing the murder of many of Tasmania’s wildlife species, when so little is known about the importance they have for biodiversity, or even their overall population numbers. Not to mention their importance as a tourist attraction, one that both government and industry are happy to spruik in the promotional literature encouraging people to visit so they can enjoy the state’s unique wildlife experience.

Then, when people do visit Tasmania, they are horrified at the number of carcasses they see lining the state’s roads. Because in addition to the animals legally killed under the PPPs, there are reportedly an additional 500,000 roadkilled animals annually.

Tasmania likes to market itself as being ‘clean and green’. The sad truth is it’s anything but.

Although not widely reported, Tasmanians were made aware last week that millions of the state’s wildlife was being legally killed. The details came to light because of a Right to Information request, submitted by the Tasmanian Greens, that sought specific details about the number of wildlife deaths as part of a parliamentary Budget Estimates Committee hearing. T he shocking answer revealed that the government’s Property Protection Permit system allowed landowners and farmers seeking to reduce the damage to crops and vegetation from wildlife species, to slaughter upwards of two million animals and birds from 2019 to June this year.

I wonder if those figures would ever have come to light had that RTI request not been made.

One would think this sort of number would shock people to the core. That they would be horrified, appalled, angered and outraged at hearing about such carnage. From comments made on The Mercury newspaper’s website, and its Facebook page, a lot of people were not. Quite the opposite. They trotted out the usual responses about Tasmania being over-run with wildlife, and that a good kill – sorry cull – was essential. That farmers and landowners had every right to shoot wildlife that had the audacity to peck fruit or nibble on grain crops.

Of course farmers need to protect the crops that become the food we all eat, and nobody denies some mitigating measures are necessary, but shooting surely shouldn’t be regarded as the first or only one. It’s not as though alternative deterrents aren’t available, and could be implemented. The typical excuse is they are expensive and inconvenient and the result would be more expensive food. Shooting wildlife is therefore simpler and cheaper.

I’ve no idea what it is that makes some humans killers. Of anything. Sure, we are all guilty of reducing the population of blowflies, mosquitoes, European wasps, mice and rats, without thinking too deeply about it. They are pests to be sure, and can cause harm and disease. But to actively condone the massacre of wallabies, possums, wombats, black swans and native hens? That makes no sense to me when, as a nation, Australia has allowed so many of its iconic species to become extinct since European settlement. The most infamous of which in Tasmania of course is the thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger

. Until relatively recently there were serious fears the Tasmanian devil would go the same way, but millions of dollars have been spent during the last 20-odd years to ensure its survival from the fatal facial tumour disease that has ravaged the species in the wild.

And that’s the thing. Millions of dollars and volunteer hours are spent caring for injured and orphaned wildlife so the disconnect between this attitude, and the wholesale slaughter that also occurs, is shocking.

So now here we are, endorsing the murder of many of Tasmania’s wildlife species, when so little is known about the importance they have for biodiversity, or even their overall population numbers. Not to mention their importance as a tourist attraction, one that both government and industry are happy to spruik in the promotional literature encouraging people to visit so they can enjoy the state’s unique wildlife experience.

Then, when people do visit Tasmania, they are horrified at the number of carcasses they see lining the state’s roads. Because in addition to the animals legally killed under the PPPs, there are reportedly an additional 500,000 roadkilled animals annually.

Tasmania likes to market itself as being ‘clean and green’. The sad truth is it’s anything but.

Spark of hope

Tue, 14 Jun 2022 05:14:00 GMT

Awards and grant opportunities for non-fiction writers working on book projects are nowhere near as plentiful as they are for fiction writers, so when a friend sent through the link for Hardie Grant’s Spark Prize , it took me about five minutes to decide to enter once I’d read through the guidelines.

That decision was the easy part.

After re-reading the guidelines, and the submission criteria several times, entering this award wasn’t going to be quite the piece of cake it looked like at first. After all my work was in progress, I’d written multiple bios of varying lengths by this time, and I had a previous submission for a similar award offered by the Australia Institute 18 months ago. Surely a quick re-write to bring things up-to-date would be enough.

Well, no.

Needless to say I wasn’t successful with the AI award but writing a succinct yet detailed synopsis was a valuable and worthwhile experience even so. The criteria for the narrative non-fiction Spark Prize are even more stringent with their requirement to provide a detailed chapter outline of the work-in-progress. Understandably Hardie Grant want to be sure they are investing in authors serious about their particular project, and that a significant start on it has already been made. A chapter outline, detailed or otherwise, isn’t something I’d given any thought to at all. I was just ‘getting it down’ as it had been suggested I do, not get bogged down in the finer detail of what happened when, and by whom.

So that part took longer to do than expected, and the 3000 word limit that I initially thought was rather generous, turned out to be barely enough. It also meant I had to dig around in the less-than-perfectly-organised documents and files on my computer to check on certain facts, figures and dates. It was a valuable reminder of the importance of up-to-date careful filing, dating and labelling, and necessitated a spot of much needed organising and sorting. At least now information retrieval has been made easier.

My lovely mentor Robyn has generously offered to read through my completed submission before I send it off, so now it’s a matter of awaiting her verdict and hoping she doesn’t suggest too much rewriting given the deadline is only a matter of days away, and my attention now needs to turn to ongoing work opportunities, ones for which I also get paid!

Image courtesy of Google images (unlicensed)

Life can be so full of surprises

Tue, 03 May 2022 02:42:00 GMT

In the wake of the devastating 2019-20 bushfires that raged across so much of eastern Australia for weeks, I wrote a poem that raged against prime minister Scott Morrison’s total failure to show any kind of genuine leadership, or even common decency, empathy or humanity.

The poem was a piece of writing sparked by the words submitted in that week’s Word Expo – a word game I’ve been playing now for well over 10 years with writers from around the world, although these days limited to Australia and New Zealand. Writers submit a word, one that’s not been previously used, and from the disparate list invited to create a piece of writing. It can be anything – poetry, anecdote, story, script – the only criteria is that at least three of the submitted words are included.

While I still hesitate to describe myself as a poet, poetry is often what emerges from this weekly list of words. And most of the poems are political, often relating to a situation that’s been dominating the media in some capacity. It’s quite cathartic to vent one’s anger, frustration or despair at whatever is occurring that week in the state, the country or the world.

In January 2020 it was Australia’s bushfires, and the breathtakingly unbelievable discovery our PM had deemed it OK to quietly creep off to Hawaii with his family while half the country was engulfed in flames. His reasoning for abandoning communities whose homes had been destroyed, and landscapes, forests, animals scorched and decimated, and exhausted firefighters and volunteers, was because he ‘ doesn’t hold a hose, mate ’.

My poem was in the form of a letter and entitled Dear Mr Morrison. Once written it joined others in a bulging portfolio I keep in the filing cabinet, and that might occasionally be rolled out for a reading at the monthly Poetry Pedlars evening. But after spotting a call out for contributions for an anthology – planned as a fundraiser to support sanctuaries overwhelmed with wildlife victims from the fires – I offered this one, since it fitted the climate change/bushfire theme essential to submission requirements.

My poem was accepted, and the anthology was duly published in 2020. It includes impressive and moving comments and personal accounts and hopefully raised significant dollars to aid the rescue and recovery of the millions of animals and birds injured and displaced as a result of those terrible and disastrous fires. While I was not unnaturally pleased to see it in print, it never occurred to me that publication in this modest tome might prompt additional interest.

So an email seeking permission to use an extract from Dear Mr Morrison, from Australian academic Eve Darian-Smith who is based in the US, and was writing a book on the global response to climate change from a world where right-wing governments were on the rise, was completely unexpected. And she was terribly apologetic that she couldn’t offer me any payment, should I agree to her request.

To say I was gobsmacked is an understatement! Needless to say I agreed. Who wouldn’t at such an unlooked-for opportunity!

Publication was scheduled to be in early 2022, and I was promised a copy of the book. Late last week it arrived, and sure enough that extract is included (on pages 57 and 58 actually).

Sometimes you never know how, or with who, the words we write will resonate and find their own life in the world. It’s highly likely the idea for the poem was born on a Thursday, so it could be argued this particular ‘child’ was always likely to have ‘far to go’!

Voting for our future

Sun, 24 Apr 2022 03:47:00 GMT

Despite the best of intentions to keep this blog a political-free zone, I’ve decided it’s not possible. And not just because there’s a federal election in four weeks. Possibly the most important one ever, and one that could just deliver a result able to bring us back from the climate change brink, or else send us spiralling into a frightening future from which there will be no safe return.

It’s no great secret I support the Greens. I joined the party in the early years of the pulp mill campaign, as did Peter Whish-Wilson , who is now an Australian Greens senator and up for re-election. I first got to know Pete when we were both founder members of community group Friends of the Tamar Valley , and he was one of several FTV members, (including me) who stood as support candidates for the Greens either in state or federal elections.

Pete epitomises that saying about a person who ‘grows into the job’. He’s certainly done so since first entering the Senate in 2012, following the sudden and surprise retirement of Bob Brown. Big shoes indeed, but Pete’s filled them fabulously, fighting for our forests, our oceans, our state and our planet for 10 years.

The nation’s youth are screaming too – a demographic that so far has been overlooked in this campaign. That over 700,000 first-time voters registered with the AEC on the last day before the books closed, was apparently unprecedented. Most of those are probably young people determined to have their voices heard, and an opportunity to vote for candidates who are demanding action on climate change.

A fundraiser supporting Pete’s re-election campaign is on next Saturday. Poetry for the Planet, with several slices of pizza thrown in, as well as some motivational words from the man himself. I’m one of the approximately 12 poets invited to share their words about climate change, and the environment. I’m told tickets are selling well, and that’s good. I’m also told that support for the Greens has been rising rapidly in the last few weeks. Not that you’d hear about it in the mainstream media since the focus has been almost exclusively on Liberals and Labor.

I’m hoping the Greens will be the quiet achievers on the 21st May, and will be a vibrant and visionary force in the next parliament. They’re certainly the only ones with a realistic plan to transition the country forward.

Serendipitous moment

Tue, 15 Mar 2022 05:51:00 GMT

Volunteering on an information stall for ABC Friends at Exeter Market yesterday proved to be a lot more beneficial than simply flying the flag for our public broadcaster, worthwhile though that also certainly proved to be.

During the course of the morning while chatting to a couple of guys about why whoever wins government in this year’s federal election should ensure restoring ABC’s funding is a priority, I had the nagging feeling I knew one of them. The question was from where? I was 90 per cent sure it was from the pulp mill campaign, but a fair amount of water has flowed under the bridge since then and we’re all several years older. Interestingly though, it turned out he was also racking his brains for exactly the same reason.

As the conversation wrapped up about the importance of the ABC’s role in ensuring we have a healthy democracy, and a public broadcaster free from political interference that’s able to hold all politicians and governments to account, I decided to ask him if he was who, by then, I was almost certain I thought he was. And indeed he was.

Needless to say once our respective identities had been confirmed reminiscences ensured the conversation continued for several more minutes, but the revelations that followed were pure gold so far as I was concerned. Everyone who chose to campaign against the mill did so for a variety of personal reasons but I’d never known what had drawn Rod into the fight. I do now though and what he told me was a shocking litany of Gunns’, and the government’s, perfidy.
It also included details that not only confirmed what I’ve literally just written about in my early and far-from-finished draft, but also included a lot more detail. And shocking, damning detail at that in respect of Gunns and the company’s appalling aerial spraying practices.

It was all eye-popping stuff, so having confirmed the email address that still lurks in my address book is current, and that Rod is happy to be quoted I shall now need to revisit and rewrite some of the passages I thought were complete. But I’ll be doing so more confidently, and in the knowledge I can tap into his own experiences of the kind of truly shocking forestry practices that were standard for Gunns during those early days of the pulp mill campaign. A time when it seemed to many that it called the government’s tune, and essentially ruled the state. These were also practices that confirmed Gunns, and some of its employees, were quite prepared to disregard both the health and safety of people, and the environment more broadly. It seemed campaigning to stop the pulp mill had inadvertently uncovered a can of very nasty worms.

Photo credit: Garry Stannus

Remember the wildlife

Mon, 14 Feb 2022 02:20:00 GMT

For all the bounty harvested from the garden at the moment, summer can be a distressing time of the year. Hot dry summers mean plenty of time spent watering the plants of course, but they also signal a rise in animal fatalities on our roads. It’s also the time of year that our local farmer separates the youthful steers from their mums. And unsurprisingly the mums are upset. They aren’t afraid to vocalise their distress either, keeping up the lowing and keening pretty much non-stop for three days. And nights. The mother-son bond is strong, but the bond can also be strong for wildlife. I was reminded of this the other day after finding a native hen on the roadside that must have been whacked by a car. This was an adult bird, and probably one of the parents of a family we’ve seen several times lately crossing the road from the paddock to the riverbank. Mum, dad and four chicks – now almost fully grown.

While pairing up isn’t necessarily a lifetime bond for native hens, there still does seem to be a closeness if the behaviour of one of the birds I spotted this morning is anything to go by. A bird I strongly suspect was the partner of the one that was killed was obviously searching for something other than food. I guessed it was probably his/her mate. These family groups of native hens hang around together and they do tend to throw caution to the winds when it’s time for the parents to show the kids around the neighbourhood. Out our way this can often involve crossing the road so it’s unsurprising a few of them don’t make it. Usually though, it’s one of the inexperienced chicks.

But it’s not only native hens that come to grief as the young ones grow up. In the last week I’ve also found a dead magpie, an eastern rosella, a young rabbit, and a copperhead snake. As well as on one memorable morning of carnage, three wallabies. It prompted me to write a letter to our local community newsletter, urging people to slow down when driving, and to consider our wildlife. I can only hope it will make a difference:

“Another plea to everyone in our community to please, please, PLEASE slow down when driving along our roads, and to be aware of our precious wildlife. Recently I was obliged to remove no less than three roadkilled bennetts wallabies – all male.

One was found while walking our dog, then two more when on my way to an appointment in town. All were killed along our road. Two had been very recently killed as they were still warm, and the oozing blood was still wet.

At this time of year when vegetation is drying out and wildlife are more likely to be checking out the grass along the verges, and seeking a bit of moisture, they are also more likely to be active outside the traditional dusk to dawn timeline. All the development in our area is slowly displacing our wildlife, and reducing their decreasing habitat even further.

Please consider that this area is their home too. And it was their home long before all of us arrived. We are incredibly fortunate to have wildlife living so close. Most of us, I’m sure, value, appreciate and enjoy their proximity. So please do your bit to help protect and maintain it. It’s worth remembering too that vehicle damage from colliding with a bennetts in particular – can be significant. And expensive. Thank you.”

It’s beyond distressing to find carcasses on the roadside so to any and all who stumble across this post, please take note. And remember we do indeed share this planet with other creatures, many of whom are now living on the edge due in large part to human activity, and a rapidly changing climate.

Death traps

Sun, 16 Jan 2022 05:54:00 GMT

Mornings at this time of year are dominated by harvesting fruit. From mid-December it was boysenberries – and we have the most abundant crop ever of these wonderful juicy and slightly tart long black berries. They’re still going a month on, although have slowed, thank goodness. There are only so many one can eat after all – for breakfast lunch and dinner at the moment – and the freezer is well stocked already. Friends and neighbours have also benefitted. As have the birds. The decision was made not to net the boysenberries this year. Too hard. I was sceptical but in fact this year’s crop has been so huge the few berries the birds have taken has almost been a relief!

As well as boysenberries though there are now raspberries to pick. These vines are covered and it is rather a jungle in there despite our best efforts to keep them under control. The nets keep the birds out, but not the bees, other insects, or tiny tree frogs. The latter are attracted by the shady cool environment, and a regular supply of moisture. So there are small risks and to avoid them I need to navigate some fragile barriers as I make my way down the row. Three delicate, finely spun and ecliptic structures greet me every day. They’re a silent, sticky and visible klaxon strung across the path, their owner stretched out and waiting in the middle, shimmering in the dappled sunlight, a warning to the unwary. But I know they’re there so I’m prepared. I flicked a morsel to one of them once, by way of an apology for the daily destruction I cause to their handiwork. Or should that be legwork? I was stunned at the speed that tiny creature was wrapped, bound and suspended. Talk about deadly efficiency.

By now the iridescent proprietors of these deadly traps must know I’m coming. Perhaps they sigh with irritation at the knowledge they will have running repairs to do again when I’ve gone. I like to think they realise I’ve had the decency to disturb them as little as possible, by trying not to wreck the whole web. I can only admire their patience and resilience since they’ve yet to give up in disgust and abandon this real estate. It must be lucrative, because tomorrow those three webs will almost certainly be strung across the narrow walkway separating the two rows of raspberry canes.

A time of goodbyes

Thu, 30 Dec 2021 05:27:00 GMT

It’s been another strange year in these Covid times. While 2021 is drawing to a close 2022 is shaping up to be equally challenging. We’re all learning to navigate our way through a new reality without a reliable guide, map or compass.

This year has been a time of loss, both of well-known people and of the less well-known. During the last couple of months the sudden and unexpected death of a friend and former neighbour was a shock. We reconnected with Stuart when he returned to Tasmania after living overseas for several years and set about renovating his little house across the river from us. Despite being the unlikeliest candidate to be felled by a heart attack, ticking none of the boxes generally associated with cardiac issues, this was Stuart’s fate. Proof of the adage that one really does never know the hour or the day, and living each day like it could be your last really is the way to be. He certainly packed a lot of living into his 70-odd years, travelling to, and really immersing himself into, the cultures of more countries than most of us would experience in ten lifetimes. We will miss him.

I posted a photo of this rather spectacular gladioli on social media for both Stuart and Ruth – a friend and former colleague at Osborne Public Library where I worked before moving to Tasmania, and who died earlier this year – as well as for the three far better-known Tasmanian identities, all of whom died within weeks of each other: Tim Thorne, Annie Greig and Peter Cundall.

I’m not generally a fan of gladioli but the bulbs were in the garden when we moved to this property, and they certainly have their own appeal in the right situation. This one was certainly impressive, and a giant even for a flower that’s known for its height.

For many Australians gladdies are associated with Dame Edna Everage aka Barry Humphries. I still tend to associate them with funerals – tribute sheaves, and casket arrangements. It goes back to my previous life as florist shop co-owner.

But the analogy holds given that during the closing weeks of 2021 Tasmania – and particularly Launceston – lost three of its finest people in Tim, Annie and Peter. They were all leaders in their field, and were truly lovely, caring and generous individuals. I feel privileged to have known all of them, albeit not necessarily well, or for lots of years.

So in memory of all these impressive people: renowned poet, writer and environmentalist Tim; dancer and cultural icon Annie; and Peter: writer, horticulturist, gardener extraordinaire, and champion of the environment, this tribute is for you as well as Stuart and Ruth..

Tim was a fine and witty poet, and a tremendous advocate for fairness, justice and the environment. He was also on the Red Jelly panel, (when this little Tasmanian publication was still going) that gave the tick of approval to one of the first short stories I ever submitted. So Tim was also behind my very first publishing success. I cannot pretend to have known him well but certainly recall a memorable trip to Campbell town with Tim (I was driving) during the pulp mill campaign to meet up with a group of fellow environmental and political activists from around Tassie. It was a rather interesting if fiery meeting with some people who held more extreme views than I had – or have – but Tim was certainly one of the still but steely voices of reason and comparative calm. When he could get a word in!

For many years I knew Annie Greig as the long-time director of Tasdance. She was always at the theatre door with her lovely warm and welcoming smile before each of the performances. Much more recently I knew her from cardio and Pilates classes at the uni, along with the oxygen tank that was by then beginning to accompany her everywhere. Exercising to Annie’s infectious laugh, joyful attitude and incredible optimism about her situation was an inspiration.

And Peter Cundall, who was such a fabulous caring man whose passion for gardening, and his knowledge about plants, was immense. I felt hugely privileged to call him a friend, getting to know him and Tina during the long years of the pulp mill campaign, and exchanging several emails during those years.

Peter was a familiar figure to me before the pulp mill years though, as our paths frequently crossed at the newsagents on a Saturday morning during our flower shop years. After finishing his stint at ABC Radio discussing all things plants, he would buy a copy of The Age, (while I was collecting a copy of the Ex) then hide behind its pages while enjoying a coffee at The Muffin Kitchen, our commercial neighbour in the Quadrant Plaza. It was clear he hoped to avoid being disturbed by yet another question about lemon trees, or what to do about curly leaf. Then, of course, I will always be grateful he generously agreed to my request to launch ‘Breaking the boundaries: Australian activists tell their stories’ – in Launceston, as per the publisher’s request. This was a book in which I had an essay about the aforementioned pulp mill campaign. Peter was a truly lovely man, and he will be very much missed by so many.

Community matters: 1

Tue, 30 Nov 2021 05:13:00 GMT

After living in the area for almost 30 years it would be fair to say I feel rather plugged into it. I didn’t at first but that was when we still had the florist shop. My time was divided between the retail shop, and the fledgling flower growing side of the business. I was hardly home, and when I was home I was knee deep in picking and processing flowers, paper work, or housework. Getting to know the neighbours didn’t feature and it was a situation I didn’t like given the distance between neighbours in this semi-rural area was more than a few steps away if assistance was needed for an unexpected emergency, or just to enjoy the time of day.

It was perhaps in our second year in the previous property that I decided to borrow Mum’s idea and have a Happy Hour a few days before Christmas. She did it for the first time the year my father died, way too young, probably as a way of keeping the blues under control as Christmas began on the 24th for my parents. It was their wedding anniversary. Going out for a meal was never on the cards when my brother and I were growing up, so the celebration was a special family meal at home. Then on the 30th it was Dad’s birthday so all in all Christmas in our household was a seriously festive week.

Over the years Mum’s Happy Hour on the 23rd became a major occasion for family, friends and neighbours alike, and that ‘hour’ had grown to be more like an extremely convivial five or six. Mum knew most of her neighbours – it was renowned as a very friendly street! – I knew none of ours but that first Happy Hour we held changed all that.

I designed a basic invitation and letterboxed maybe a dozen of those neighbours closest to us. We had no idea how many might choose to turn up, so catering was guesswork, and on the conservative side when it came to nibbles and finger food. Too conservative as it turned out as nearly everyone I’d letterboxed turned up! Insufficient food notwithstanding It was definitely a success, as well as a terrific way for everyone else to meet their neighbours, not just us! Friendships were cemented as a result of that impromptu decision, and our social life improved dramatically. The Happy Hour tradition continued for several years until various neighbours moved away, moved on, and my life got too busy generally juggling various work commitments – as well as the pulp mill campaign.

Now we’ve moved on, although we’ve remained in the area. We also already know most of our neighbours. But as we head towards Christmas I’m thinking it’s perhaps time to resurrect that Happy Hour idea, and invite those in our friendly community around to have a bit of a ‘do’ a few days before the 25th. Working on it.

Image credit:

https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/diverse-people-set_6703775.htm

Ideas are like rabbits

Mon, 25 Oct 2021 04:53:00 GMT

The postie delivered copies of the FAW NW anthology last week – a very well put together volume that includes seven of my poems. It actually looks like a thumping good read, and I’m not just saying that because I have work included in it. Going on the pieces I’ve already read we really do have a wealth of writerly talent in this state – and the majority of contributions are by Tasmanian writers.

The book is available online through Dymocks, Angus & Robertson, and Booktopia as well as direct from the Burnie-based editor. I understand sales are quite brisk so a second print run is looking highly likely. As is the way with so many of these writing group anthologies, the majority of which are produced on a shoestring budget, there is no payment for contributors. It seems poets are rarely remunerated for their efforts unless they’ve developed a significant following and reputation, and been fortunate enough to achieve publishing success with a mainstream publisher, so it’s kudos only in the case of this book. No wonder that hackneyed phrase about starving in garrets is applied equally to poets, as well as artists.

But publication is a validation, and this book is a nice addition to the CV. It also firms up that decision to put together my own volume of work, and have a crack at sending off some more of what I judge to be my better efforts to those small press magazines considered ‘literary’ that are among the few publishing opportunities for poetry. And the ones who pay their contributors!

And if you’re wondering about the title – it’s from a quote by John Steinbeck.

“Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.”

A stint in the spotlight

Wed, 29 Sep 2021 05:58:00 GMT

Nobody was more surprised than me when I was asked to be the guest poet at the monthly gathering of Tas Poets Performing. I’ve never seriously considered myself a poet, and still struggle to do so despite having had several poems published over the year. So I really did think Marilyn was joking when she said would I be September’s guest poet. She wasn’t joking, and persuaded me to agree.

I’m an occasional attendee at these poetry nights, which are held in a local pub and attract an audience of anywhere between five and twenty. They’re usually a chance to catch up with fellow writers – and those I consider ‘real’ poets like my friend Marilyn – and I generally take one or two of my political poems to read in the open mic set. And they do seem to be well received, which is lovely.

But having to select poems to fill a 10 to 15 minute slot was a different matter altogether. What to choose when the bulk of them are undeniably political and often less than flattering to politicians and governments of the day. They are also of the moment; a snapshot in time. I wasn’t really aware of that aspect until I pulled out the folders and realised just how many poems I’d written over the last 15 years ago.

I’m an accidental poet. In the early days of the pulp mill campaign I was invited to join a word game by New Zealand writer, Yvonne. I didn’t know her really, but her name often cropped up as the author of a story or essay published in the same UK small press magazine I was also beginning to have some success with. After spotting an item in a writing magazine about her first novel being published, I emailed my congratulations as a fellow southern hemisphere writer who was also achieving success. To may astonishment she replied and invited me to join Word Expo, a weekly online word game that was seeking some new players.

Because it was described as a game, not a writing exercise, I decided to give it a go and for reasons that remain a mystery to me what emerges from the disparate list of words submitted by that week’s players, is often poetry. And they are usually political. During the campaign years that meant many of them were about the pulp mill.
For my guest poet gig therefore the mill was one of the three issues I focussed on. The others being refugees, and climate change. It was a fun evening and it’s crystallised a decision to put together a book of these poems that are a poetic social and political history. Although quite when I shall have time to do this is unclear!

I’ve decided it’s also time I officially ‘come out’ as a poet, and added Tas Poet Performer to my writer CV!

Mothers and daughters

Sun, 08 Aug 2021 00:25:00 GMT

I’m rather proud of this fern, which is a daughter of a plant I’ve had since our florist shop/flower growing years so we’re talking a decade or two really. The mother plant was at death’s door for a while. No idea why – and still don’t – but while there seemed to be a spark of life I kept on nurturing her and she finally rewarded me by recovering. Oh, the power of never giving up!

Now she’d found her mojo mother fern kept on thriving and over time she outgrew several pots. She is now very mature and is in the largest pot I could find that doesn’t weigh a ton and which still looks OK indoors rather than outside, but I’m running out of house room to display her in a manner to which her venerable age deserves.

However she isn’t called a hen and chicken fern for nothing, but it took a while before I had a crack at propagating some of those ‘babies’ bursting forth along her fronds. I tend to leave that sort of thing to the resident green fingered plant guru, who is a master at growing plants from seeds or cuttings. Particularly if it’s an Australian native plant – his own special passion and about which he’s now hugely knowledgeable. But I checked out some of our growing library of plant books and followed the instructions, then held my breath. Eventually five little ferns all took – four of which have subsequently gone to other homes and are hopefully still thriving. I know at least two of them are.

The fourth is also thriving, and has been re-potted twice, but this one is of a later batch and currently has pride of place in the bedroom. She is also producing ‘babies’ so as we head towards spring it could be time to start the maternity ward up again in the potting shed. Then I’ll need to find some homes for them.

Tamar Valley Storyteller

Mon, 12 Jul 2021 23:46:00 GMT

I’ll admit to some trepidation and hesitation in taking up the Tamar Valley Writers’ Festival invitation to be a storyteller in its Q&A feature. It’s fantastic idea to promote the talents of so many of the writers living in the valley, but I’m not given to self-promotion – as those who know me will attest – so I felt a bit uncomfortable about outing myself, as it were.

Anyway, it’s out there now in cyberspace and Facebook land, sloshing away among all the other assorted articles, photos, comments, memes etc and will doubtless be quickly subsumed among the avalanche of links that will have already followed its publication a couple of days ago.

Hats off to the Festival though – because it’s a great idea.

Photo credit to Tim Walker. I prefer to be behind the camera rather than in front of it so not many photos of me exist. This one it has to be said, although recent, was taken for another situation entirely. I’ve just borrowed it.

First Base . . .

Wed, 07 Jul 2021 00:26:00 GMT

. . . . At least so far as reaching the first word count target goes, and the goal I had to achieve before taking the draft to my mentor for her first proper review.

I feel fortunate in securing Robyn’s mentoring skills. As I know from others who’ve benefited from her editing criticism and advice she’ll pull no punches, but many of her writing class students over the years have gone on to find serious publishing success with their novels and memoirs. And all of them credit her mentorship in achieving that success. But for all kinds of reasons she chose to hang up her red editing pens a couple of years ago, and was therefore ambivalent about my request to consider steering me along my book-writing adventure. My initial approach was at a Schools4Climate rally we both attended. Robyn said she would think about it, but it was several months later, at a subsequent climate rally that she came across and said yes, she would do it. Phew.

It could be the subject matter that swung things in my favour – Robyn was among the thousands who campaigned against the pulp mill – but her agreement certainly galvanised me into more serious action. At that point, it has to be said, I’d not actually written a great deal but I duly took the few thousand words I had completed for her to read through. She made no comment but she still probably gave me the best advice I could have after reading them and learning how I envisaged the book developing. ‘Just get it down’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about how the stories fit together at this point, just write it down. And don’t come back to me until you have at least 15,000 words.’

Well, I’ve reached that magic number, so now it’s time to see what she thinks. By the end of next week I’ll feel either elated, enthused, and raring to write the next 20,000 words, or despondent at the thought of all the potential changes. Fingers crossed it will be the former.

Three – can be a tricky little number

Sun, 13 Jun 2021 02:32:00 GMT

It’s said the cliched (bad) things come in threes and it was certainly the case for us last week. First up was the niggly little roof leak whose source, try though as he has, John’s been unable to find. It’s only a problem when the rain is seriously heavy, and the wind is blowing in a certain direction, and then the result is a puddle on the floor. So many times since we first noticed there was a problem a few years ago, we’ve been sure it’s fixed, and that this time he’s done it, only to learn during the next downpour that disappointingly, not so. Seems like the services of a builder or roofing expert are in order after all if the catastrophe that occurred in 2016, when we were overseas, is not to be repeated.

Although nothing to the experience of many in those terrible weeks when floods were rife across much of the state, it was still a shock to realise evidence of roof leakage. The worst shock was discovering the worst damage had occurred in the cupboard in my office where water had destroyed all the letters from my mother, and many photographs, sent in my first few years of coming to Australia. The box was saturated and all contents had to be chucked. Contents on that top shelf are now covered in plastic, and a bowl to catch any potential drips sits there permanently, although thankfully there has never been a repeat so some of the work John has done to plug the leak has worked. But not all.

The next drama was the final and total collapse of the clothesline. Needless to say it happened just when I had hung out a pile of washing that I’d finally risked doing on a half-decent morning; a pile that had been building up due to the aforementioned rain and so a pile that was hardly insignificant. Handyman John has fixed it previously but we knew its life was finite. Now it’s completely kaput. But my ever-inventive partner rigged up a line in our covered ‘entertainment’ area (really a converted above-ground swimming pool and done way before we bought the property), so at least we have a very serviceable alternative until we’re able to replace the Hills Hoist-type model that enable washed garments to flap about, and whizz around to dry in the fresh air.

Then, and on the same day, the vacuum cleaner packed it in. Again, this fancy model is one we inherited with the property and possibly was on its last legs as well, but the timing for its demise was rather irritating under the circumstances! Fixing it is potentially possible but I’m not holding my breath. Thankfully we still have our old vacuum cleaner as backup but it seems a shopping trip is now in order, and will undoubtedly be expensive. Sigh.

State election 2021 – Part 3

Mon, 17 May 2021 10:19:00 GMT

As the count staggered to its conclusion last week I continued to be totally overwhelmed and bewildered by my personal vote (2432 in case you were wondering) but remain gutted that it wasn’t enough – along with the impressive vote numbers for the other support candidates – to get Jack over the line and elected as Greens MP for Bass. Surely next time . . . ?

A genuine surprise, as the result inched its way to the finish line, was receiving an email from a former housemate from decades ago when we were both living and working, (studying in Bob’s case) and sharing a house in Perth with two others. As one did back in the day.

While he was travelling interstate with Sue, his wife, and doing the grey nomad thing he decided to see how the Tasmanian election was going. He’s an ex-pat Tasmanian who’s lived in Canberra for ages but still keeps a weather eye on what’s happening in the state of his birth. He noticed my name on the ticket, and as one all too easily can these days, found my contact details using the Google option and sent a lengthy email to say G’day. Although never the most reliable correspondent since our Perth days, now contact has been re-established it will hopefully continue. He may even visit. After all, barring New Zealand, Tasmania is the closest anyone from the mainland can get to an overseas trip for the forseeable future!

There was also the unexpected email from a former work colleague, who retired several years before I did. David was one of the school’s outside support staff and earned my undying gratitude by going out of his way in my first year at the school to ensure I had a key to access the school pool during the summer holidays – the only time staff were allowed to use it. He sent one of the dreaded template pre-election emails from one of the many organisations who encouraged their supporters to seek the position of candidates on whichever issue was front of mind for them. Rightly or wrongly I deviated slightly from the drafted response, and personalised my reply. The reward was receiving a lovely response in return. A man who’s heart is definitely in the right place when it comes to protecting Tasmania’s natural environment.

So there were a few advantages to putting up my hand for this gig, even if it is absolutely and positively the last time I do so!

State election 2021 – Part 2

Mon, 03 May 2021 11:28:00 GMT

Being a support candidate for this election has been considerably more time-consuming than it was in 2014, and I will now view all those template emails various organisations encourage their members/supporters to send off to all candidates with rather more jaundiced eyes – and considerably more understanding for the recipients of these missives – as well as respect for those who actually bother to reply. Few do in my experience.

For the weeks leading up to 1st May my inbox bulged with these template missives – and they all needed a response. It’s the Greens way after all, but it’s also my natural reaction to reply to those who contact me – unless they’re obvious cranks of course, so these individuals are all receiving a reply but I’ve been advised by more than one person Liberal and Labor candidates are nowhere near as thorough . . .

In the election aftermath I freely admit to extreme disappointment the result isn’t exactly the one many of us hoped it would be, although counting continues and the final tally may not be known for another week. It may also defy the pundits’ predictions. On a personal level though I’m overwhelmed by the number of 1st preference votes I received. In truth, I’m completely gobsmacked, and totally humbled at the idea there are so many people in Bass who felt confident enough in my abilities and/or my character to give me their number one vote.

As indicated earlier, the decision to stand at all on the Greens ticket was down to having my arm twisted a little by our persuasive, surfing senator Peter Whish-Wilson. I agreed only on the condition I was number five on the ticket. This pretty much was the same deal as the last time I stood as a support candidate, back in 2014 to ensure Kim Booth was re-elected. Back then we were dubbed the ‘A’ team – as our first names coincidentally all began with an ‘A’.

In 2014 I received 334 votes, and I thought that was both spectacular and surprising. I could appreciate that a degree of name recognition came into it given the pulp mill campaign was still limping along to its unlamented conclusion. But this time?

I continue to hold on to the possibility of a win for Jack Davenport, based on the anxious days of waiting to confirm Kim had made it across the finish line. I so well remember hearing the news Kim had won by around 160 votes in the 2006 election, several days after election day and while on the way home from work, and doing a swift turn around to head back into town and the Greens then-office on Charles Street to join the ecstatic celebrations. And Kim’s laconic comment that he ‘always knew there was a quota in there somewhere!’ Such insouciance!

The peculiarities of Hare Clark means there is unlikely to be a final election result until next week, since preference votes still have to be distributed once the initial count is completed, so there’s reason to hope. My fingers are firmly crossed that Jack will receive enough preference votes from all quarters to see him also fall over the line, so Bass will once again have the Greens state MP we need and deserve.

State election 2021

Fri, 09 Apr 2021 11:31:00 GMT

So here we go again. A spot of déjà vu after agreeing to be on the ticket supporting Tasmanian Greens lead candidate for the Bass electorate, Jack Davenport. A surprise phone call from our wonderful surfing senator Peter Whish-Wilson, when in Perth visiting friends and family recently, and the power of persuasion is the only... Read more »

I’m in shock!

Thu, 18 Mar 2021 05:02:00 GMT

I still feel a bit of a fraud when it comes to my attempts at poetry writing as I don’t really consider myself a poet at all. I started writing poetry after being invited years ago to join an online weekly word game played by a few writers. Most were based in New Zealand, and the instigator and coordinator of the game is a Kiwi, but initially there were a couple from South Africa as well. The idea is to create a short piece of writing – anything from essay, anecdote, story, script or poem – from the words submitted by contributing players each week. Previously used words are not allowed, and the selection is completely random but at least three of the submitted words must be included. Sometimes this can prove quite challenging – especially if only three people played, providing just three words! There’s no obligation to play every week, but those who miss five in a row forfeit their place – although they can re-join at any time.

For reasons that remain unclear to me, poetry is usually what emerges from these disparate words, and over the years most have been political responses to whatever might be happening in the country or world at that time. Writing them provided an emotional release during the pulp mill campaign, allowing me to pen a scathing reply to whatever aspect dominated the week’s headlines. Some will be included in the book. Poems are entirely instinctive, and follow no accepted style or form, but they have a rhythm to them even if they rarely rhyme in the traditional sense.

So they’ve become something of a social and political commentary over the years, and friends who are way more accomplished in writing the poetic form than I am, have also been generous in their praise and appreciation, even suggesting I should consider publication. Although largely sceptical and reluctant to claim a talent I don’t altogether feel is deserved, I have occasionally followed their advice and achieved some publishing success in several small press publications.

Now however, I’ve recently received an email from a US-based Australian academic, so maybe it’s time to have more confidence in my poetry-writing ability. University of California academic Eve Darian-Smith is seeking copyright permission to use an extract from a poem included in the ’From the Ashes’ anthology, published early last year as a bushfire fundraiser to assist wildlife sanctuaries care for burned and displaced animals.

The planned book is: “. . . . Planet on Fire: Climate Change and Global Free-Market Authoritarianism” which examines governmental policies and neoliberal logics that prioritize corporate interests over those of citizens and the environment. The book is to be published by the University of California Press, [in 2022] which is a non-profit scholarly publisher. The book is based on scholarly research and is intended for sale to libraries, scholars, students, and interested general readers on a non-profit basis.”

Now you know why I’m in shock!

Just ‘Wow!’ to echo the response of one of my friends when I told him!

Not just red, but pink, peach – and orange!

Fri, 19 Feb 2021 05:50:00 GMT

Red flowering eucalypts are renowned for their colour range, and our garden can almost boast the full palette, especially now John has successfully nurtured a stunning orange-flowering variety from seed collected from Bruny Island.

We had no idea if the seed would be viable, but John studied the books, checked what germination method was needed and worked his green-fingered magic, and in due course tiny green shoots were visible in three or four pots. Sadly, some later died during that winter. We were away for several weeks and our house-sitter failed to water them, or forgot to water them, leaving us with just two fragile seedlings one of which looked seriously unwell.

Both survived though and were re-potted until they eventually grew to the point where they could be transferred from pots to ground. Despite flowering for the first time this year, the least healthy tree really shouldn’t be in flower at all as it’s still too young. An indication it’s struggling perhaps, but at least we know that the flowers will be the same colour as its parent – that rich and vibrant orange we were so stunned by on Bruny. The bees absolutely love them!

As for the other tree, it’s taller and looks much healthier, but there’s no sign of a flower. Next year though the story is likely to be quite different.

Setting writing goals

Mon, 08 Feb 2021 06:14:00 GMT

So this is the plan, and as I’ve now articulated it several times – most recently at the resurrected Write Here meeting last weekend – there’s a lot more incentive to stick to the timeline I’ve set myself, and actually achieve it. Or else be shamed into having to confess I failed.

My 2021 calendar and dairy therefore now show the first three days of each week are to be devoted to writing. Notwithstanding life’s unexpected spanners occasionally. And not just writing The Book, since the bread and butter article writing cannot be ignored, but my aim is to be considerably more disciplined about the whole task ahead, and considerably less available to distractions – however pleasurable or tempting invitations to do this or meet for that may be.

So far so good, (but let’s not get too excited; it’s only early February after all) and I feel on track to meet the first milestone in my year-long pact with myself to have the first draft of this book completed by the end of December. But long before that moment arrives my mentor will give initial – and probably brutal – feedback when I’ve completed the first 20,000 words. Goal number one therefore is to reach this target by the end of the month.

Two, or perhaps three months after that I’ll present her with the next 20,000 words. And so on. How many words do I envisage this book will be? How long is a piece of string: I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure I’ll know when I’ve reached The End.

I had a light bulb moment a week or so back while racking my brain to remember when certain actions and events occurred. Eventually I established a clippings archive and so can check these things in the boxes of pulp mill-related news items, letters and articles. But in the early days it never occurred to me to keep such things. Bad move, but then again, who knew in the beginning how important it might be to hang on to them.

But while I might not have the newsprint, I had copies of letters and emails written to my Mum, and to UK- and WA-based friends. I cannot really explain why I chose to keep copies of my weekly letters home, but since writing these missives on the computer, rather than by hand, I had done so. They were the equivalent of a journal, or diary I suppose, and documented our day-to-day activities and life’s ups and downs on the flower farm, at school, and – increasingly during the years of the campaign – opposing the pulp mill.

Pulling these files down from the cupboard and flipping through them has certainly stirred some memories, as well as confirmed a few key dates. These letters have also made achieving that target a lot easier; why reinvent the wheel when the description has already been written, and with an immediacy and a freshness it would be hard to replicate so many years on.

There was certainly no expectation that decision to keep copies – a decision I would have been hard-pressed to explain to myself even then – would ever prove to be so invaluable for the years that spanned the pulp mill campaign. But I’m certainly now thanking my younger self for doing so.

Photo credit: Garry Stannus

Dear Boysenberries

Mon, 11 Jan 2021 01:57:00 GMT

You’ve made your point. Great effort, and trust me, it’s appreciated. You’ve outdone yourselves this year and produced the best crop we’ve ever had, but truly, I won’t mind if you ease up a little now. I won’t be offended. Honestly. It’s always great when the first luscious berries on your bushes ripen, and eating them is always a joy. But after a month or more, I’m a little over the need to don a long-sleeved top each morning in order to brave the vicious thorns and prickles that are the decided downside of harvesting your delicious fruit. The scratches and splinters on my hands and forearms are testimony to this painful reality, so a month on, while production has definitely slowed up, I confess to looking forward to the day – like never before – when I can call it quits, leave the tiny few berries that are left to the birds, and devote an hour or so to removing splinters with a sterilised needle.

I could, of course, have called it quits days ago. After all, the freezer is already well stocked with your largesse – and thank you, we certainly won’t be running out of berries for winter crumbles this season – jars of jam line the pantry shelves; friends and neighbours have all been grateful recipients of your bounty; and we’ve happily gorged on your berries every day for weeks. But despite all this preserving, and laying down for winter months ahead, my northern hemisphere upbringing won’t allow me to just ignore the late ripening fruit still gracing your bushes. Perhaps it’s a case of genetic memory when winters were longer, and more severe than they are in Tasmania, and the need to preserve and store food was greater.

Whatever, harvesting produce will be part of my life for the next few months, since when your berries finally finish, your raspberry relatives will still be producing. So will your cousins, the wild blackberries. Hot on the heels of all the berry family will be the tomatoes. And then the apples and pears. And so the year turns.

Memories of Buck

Thu, 24 Dec 2020 05:47:00 GMT

Of those who campaigned long and hard to ensure the pulp mill would never pollute the Tamar Valley, there were many who didn’t live to see it through to the end. Some of these people I knew only from reputation, some I didn’t know at all, and one or two I knew quite well. Several others have died in the years since. The most recent of these was a man who during, and afterwards, became a good friend, and who – together with his wife Joan – is among my interviewees for the book.

The magnificent Buck Emberg left the world on the last day of November, after a life that truly was well-lived. He’d been a teacher, writer, philosopher, and restaurateur among other occupations. He was also a wonderful teller of tales about his colourful and varied life.

This being Launceston, although I didn’t get to know Buck properly until the campaign, I’d actually met him briefly years before, during the florist shop days when he ordered flowers for Joan – perhaps for her birthday or their anniversary. Being Buck, he wanted to swap stories about our respective non-Tasmanian backgrounds and how we came to be living here. Buck was American, with Swedish ancestry. His name stuck in my memory too because of occasional articles in the paper that mentioned the Embergs, and their belief the thylacine wasn’t extinct at all. Buck was convinced they’d seen one, and he and Joan were making plans to follow some strong leads and prove these elusive animals were still around. It didn’t happen of course.

A decade or so later I met them both again at the meetings of Tasmanians Against the Pulp Mill, or TAP, a group I only attended infrequently, but which they went to regularly. Buck and Joan were the architects of the amazingly successful Voters Block initiative, designed to make the state’s politicians sit up and take notice that the mill issue crossed party lines, and people were prepared to vote for those candidates who opposed the mill. It remains the largest petition ever to be presented to Tasmania’s parliament, and it threatened the cosy Liberal and Labor duopoly. It also indicated a significant increase in support for the Greens in the lead up to the 2010 state election – indicative of community opposition to the pulp mill.

A newspaper that focused on the facts about the mill, challenging the spin that had become a regular feature of Gunns’ ‘mouthpiece’, The Examiner, was another of Buck’s clever and creative campaign ideas. Only one issue was ever produced, but it served its purpose, and was subsequently used as a referenced authority on many aspects relating to the mill, and the negative impacts it would have on the region’s economy, environment, and the health of all those living in Launceston and the Tamar Valley.

No surprise then that the wake held in December was an opportunity for Buck’s many friends from those campaign days to reminisce and remind ourselves and others of what a determined and committed community can achieve. It was also a sharp reminder for me to be much more focused in the coming year, and ensure the first draft of this book is completed.

Photo credit: Susie Clarke

Protective plover parents

Sun, 29 Nov 2020 02:16:00 GMT

Plovers are not generally regarded as being the smartest of birds. For example their location choice for nest building can be seriously unwise, and given their propensity for choosing to nest on roadside verges, and on or close to traffic islands, along with their apparent total disregard for safety in the face of moving vehicles, it’s hardly surprising the results are often fatal. Such scatty behaviour is possibly also why plovers are sometimes derided as neither the best or most caring and attentive of parents.

A common urban myth is that although the birds have two clutches of three or four eggs each season, very few chicks are successfully raised. Their real estate choice is part of it of course, but their unwise and comparatively exposed nesting locations, that include a preference for sharing paddocks with grazing animals, is that eggs and half-grown chicks are sacrificed to hawks and eagles, or other predators such as feral cats, who are all on the hunt for a meal. Studies have shown otherwise, and in fact most plover chicks are successfully raised to adulthood.

Far from being casual and uncaring, this pair of adult plovers – or masked lapwings to give them their correct name – have been exemplary parents. The parenting role is clearly shared, with two chicks generally following dad, while mum keeps an eye on the other pair.

Then one day we noticed one of the chicks, teenagers by this time, had suffered an injury. It was limping, and was struggling to keep up. Over the next few days we noticed parenting duties had been revised. One adult was looking after three juveniles, while the other was completely focused on its injured offspring. Whatever had happened to Hoppy, the parents weren’t about to abandon him. But neither did his injured leg improve, so when it was time for flying lessons, Hoppy wasn’t able to manage. Getting about was still obviously a problem, and getting off the ground, (and landing again) would be impossible. Even so mum or dad stuck with him, and could always be seen nearby giving encouragement and protection.

This went on for days. We couldn’t believe the loyalty being shown, and every afternoon fully expected Hoppy to have finally died of exhaustion, been abandoned, or taken by a predator. Of course eventually there was an afternoon when one of those outcomes must have occurred. We didn’t see Hoppy, his parents or his siblings for two or three days. The family had flown off, and the harsh laws of nature had indeed kicked in. But it was still incredible to see such extraordinary devotion and care for so many days from a species that is widely dismissed and derided as being scatter-brained and silly.

Both images sourced on Google images

It’s just hay fever. I do not have COVID-19!

Mon, 02 Nov 2020 04:50:00 GMT

Along with many others the spring months of October and November are characterised by the need for a steady supply of large tissues to help counter the runny nose, itchy eyes, and scratchy throat that are all symptoms of my response to hay fever.

This year’s exceptional spring rains, and now the extra warmth that comes with sunny days has caused an explosion of the grasses that line the roadsides where I walk with Della dog. They are attractive in their own right, especially in the early morning when they sparkle with dew, but this benign view will inevitably become more jaundiced when those seed heads literally explode and all that pollen is released to infect my eyes and nose, leaving me red-eyed, itchy and reaching for yet one more man-sized tissue.

But this year is also exceptional in that we are contending with COVID-19, and anyone seen blowing their nose, appearing red-eyed, or sounding a bit croaky is immediately clocked as a possible infection risk, and urged to get tested. And wear a mask. Or both. In my case – and in that of the vast majority of Tasmania’s hay fever sufferers I suspect – COVID is unlikely in the extreme. Certainly at the time of writing. But those suspicious glances will probably still leave me feeling a bit defensive, keen to apologise, and anxious to explain my sniffles are just due to hay fever. Nothing more.

Mad as a March hare

Mon, 12 Oct 2020 00:51:00 GMT

This is an expression I grew up hearing in the UK, where hares are – or were – quite common in rural regions, but I never gave a great deal of thought about why these animals were considered ‘mad’.

It’s only since living in Tasmania, and my particular corner of it, that I’ve come to fully appreciate the reason. These normally quite elusive and solitary animals really do behave quite differently in spring. Or now in other words, during September and October, when the urge to mate and breed is uppermost in their minds, and they appear happy to risk life and limb sometimes in order to do so. Certainly their behaviour can be extraordinarily reckless, and not for the first time since living at this property – one that’s surrounded by the open paddocks and grassy vacant blocks that are ideal hare habitat – we’ve spotted hares casually hopping along the driveway seemingly oblivious to Della dog, who’d normally be after them like a shot.

Fortunately for the hares, Della’s attention is currently fully occupied on the rapidly expanding rabbit family, that’s taken up residence under one of the sheds, and she’s patiently waiting for one of the youngsters to stray too far from the burrow, perhaps tempted by the lush grass that’s a bit further away than is safe.

If we see a hare or three while on our morning walks though, it’s a different story. Then, it’s all on to hold her as she strains to escape the leash and chase them. And before the development that is relentlessly taking over what was once prime farmland, but which has now been sub-divided into residential blocks, she could and did do just that. Not that she ever succeeded in catching one, but it wasn’t for want of trying and they led her a merry dance for the duration, so she certainly got her exercise even if it never translated into a meal.

Sadly those days of being able to run free to sniff and explore are a receding memory as the opportunities to do so dwindle in a landscape that’s being recalibrated. Once a haven for wildlife, the semi-rural area we moved to so many years ago has seen ever more development being approved as rules have been relaxed to enable more housing to be built.

All the development has, and is, displacing wildlife, and along with the risk of species’ loss, roadkill is often the result. At this time of year, roadkill includes hares. Never mind they’re an introduced species with all the controversy that entails, it’s still confronting and immeasurably sad to find a roadkilled hare that a few hours before would have been leaping and running about, full of the joys of spring, but for a crazy misguided moment when it leapt in the wrong direction.

Roadkill – Tasmania’s shame

Mon, 14 Sep 2020 05:36:00 GMT

Plans for yesterday morning required a reset after I discovered a very alive and kicking pademelon joey in the pouch of a roadkilled mum shortly after setting off on my morning walk with Della dog. Mum was still warm so clearly hadn’t long been hit, and although joey was still very pink and unfurred, she was strong and extremely reluctant to leave the safety of her mother’s warm pouch.

A swift turn around, (luckily on this occasion I was in the car and driving to one of our regular weekend walks), and back home to contact the state’s wildlife rescue service, now coordinated by Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary in the south. I was unsure if the carer to whom I’ve previously taken orphaned joeys over the years was still operating. Amazingly, after what has to be 40-odd years, I learned that she is. I interviewed her at least eight years ago and she’d been caring for wildlife then for about 30 years.

Like all wildlife carers Lorraine was a volunteer and the time and commitment required to help minimise and ameliorate the ghastly toll on our wildlife from interactions with vehicles is just amazing. Joeys as young as the one I rescued need four-hourly feeds – so similar to human babies in their demand for food. And due to their intolerance to cow’s milk a special marsupial formula has to be given, which only registered carers are allowed to access. It’s a product that doesn’t come cheap and it’s likely some carers sometimes pay for supplies with their own money, especially at peak breeding season when the number of animals needing care escalates.

Back home joey soon snuggled into my beanie, topped with a scarf to make it as cosy as possible, while I recorded the details with the WRS. This included identifying the species, weighing the joey, and taking a photo (not easy!) while waiting for Thomas, the designated wildlife-collector-of-injured-animals that day, to come and deliver her to a carer in my area able to cope with one more animal in need.

Spring is a particularly busy time for injured wildlife, a sad indictment on the number of dead animals and orphaned joeys that are a result of speeding vehicles, or careless driving.

This blog post is therefore also a reminder and a request to everyone reading it to PLEASE slow down on our roads, especially between dusk and dawn. It truly is beyond distressing to find injured and deceased animals that would still be alive and hopping if everyone just took a little more care, left home a few minutes earlier, and reduced their speed, especially on those regional and rural roads that are also shared by our precious and iconic wildlife.

Heartbeat- a reminder of home

Thu, 10 Sep 2020 05:57:00 GMT

When it comes to watching television it’s either ABC or SBS. Commercial television doesn’t rate in our household. I can’t stand ad breaks interrupting a program I’m just getting involved in, or a film that’s just successfully managed to capture my attention. I find the ads infuriating, and the way they seem to both speed up, and increase in length as the show gathers pace, the more infuriating I find them. Totally ruins the experience so far as I’m concerned. Obviously I have to hold my nose a bit when watching SBS, but at least there is a mute button on the remote. The only other time the TV is tuned to the commercials is for John to watch sports programs, and they’ve been few and far between in this brave new world of COVID.

But there’s only so much COVID-related news we can stomach, and after a day when pandemic stories seemed to have saturated the airwaves even more than usual, John turned in desperation to the TV guide we – unusually – had that particular week, and said Oh gosh, you’ll never guess what’s getting a re-run on one of the commercials – Heartbeat !

So for the duration, Heartbeat is on Monday night’s viewing agenda, an unexpected opportunity to remind myself of the familiar and comforting Yorkshire dialect, and those windswept moors, while enjoying some comparatively undemanding stories that unfold against a background of the uncomplicated energy that was popular music in the ‘60s.

It’s also a relief to inhabit a COVID-free zone for an hour or so.

Eggstraordinary!

Wed, 26 Aug 2020 03:01:00 GMT

For almost the first time ever our chooks have continued to lay eggs throughout the winter months. It’s not quite the first time, because when still living at our previous property there was a year when I followed the instructions given to me by a friend, who assured me hens would continue laying eggs in the winter months if their diet included some seriously hot and spicy ‘porridge’ two or three times a week. I was sceptical, but it did actually work – although it was a bit time-consuming to make. The girls kept right on laying, although not every day. Some element in the ‘hot and spicy’ apparently triggers the desire to lay an egg, but cooking up food scraps with oats, bran, bread crusts etc, and then adding generous pinches of cayenne, chilli, black pepper and curry powder into the mix did rather stink out the kitchen. It worked though!

However spiced porridge isn’t the reason the girls have kept laying this year. I’m not actually sure of the reason they’ve done so, but my theory is it’s due to either rivalry, or peer pressure following the addition to our small flock with a ring-in.

Earlier this year, as our neighbours prepared to put their house on the market, they rounded up their free-ranging hens in order to rehome them. Despite assuring his wife he’d corralled them all, it seems Rob couldn’t count. A renegade turned up a few days later. Although she’s a different breed, and larger than the bantams we have, we offered to take her if Rob was able to catch her, and hopefully she would be accepted by our girls.

Rob’s mission was accomplished, and fortunately ruffled feathers weren’t an issue, so Henny-Penny was soon happily pecking away with our chooks and doing what hens do best: laying eggs. But perhaps being of a breed that keeps on laying regardless of the season she kept on laying even as the weather cooled, and when most hens take a break for a month or three.

Which brings me to my rivalry theory. Our chooks were not going to be outdone by an uppity newcomer, so anything she did they were going to do also. Who knows if I’m right, but the egg supply has barely missed a beat all through winter, to the point where we’ve even had enough eggs sometimes to give the occasional six or eight away. What a bonus just for giving an unwanted hen a home!

It’s snowing!

Sun, 16 Aug 2020 02:30:00 GMT

Together with the entire population of Launceston I was amazed to wake up to a serious covering of snow blanketing our back garden last week. It was short-lived, lasting just 24 hours in most places, but it certainly provided some respite from the relentless and cheerless COVID-19 news that looks set to dominate the media for the foreseeable future.

Della dog was certainly nonplussed at seeing snow for the first time, and was very hesitant about negotiating it on our early morning walk.

Whether it’s print, TV, radio or digital, the media is filled with little else but stories that are in some way associated with the virus. The issue is of course dominating our lives. How can it not when so many people around the world are restricted now in how they are able to live. Here in Tassie there’s no doubt we’re existing in a bit of a bubble, protected from the worst health fears, mask-free – at least for now – and able to move about quite freely. Albeit slightly more physically distant than we were a few short months ago, and with considerably cleaner hands.

So for now our island state is in a safe state of isolation. Before COVID-19, this was considered a disadvantage, economically speaking. Perhaps more than any state or territory Tassie was regarded as a drain on the country’s coffers, the prodigal that always needed a hand up and a handout. It’s a view that has probably been revised, and not just because we appear to be virus-free, but also because our economy is chugging along better than it is in the mainland states. Certainly there are many people who’ve lost their jobs here as well, and/or are relying on JobKeeper and JobSeeker, but on balance our state economy is doing OK. Tasmanians do seem to have answered the call to support local businesses, and have enthusiastically embraced the idea of ‘holidaying at home’ grabbing the opportunity to visit our iconic tourist spots that are currently free of overseas and interstate visitors. My hope is that for some this will also spark an awakening to just how precious these places are, and a greater appreciation and understanding about why they must be protected from inappropriate commercial developments.

The unexpected snow played its part in Tasmania’s unique point of difference. It might have been a 24-hour wonder, and while not quite the clichéd once-in-a-hundred-year event – as it was ninety-nine years, almost to the day – the snow certainly helped to showcase Tasmania’s magical aspects, and perhaps gave more locals a clue about why the island is regarded by so many people as special. There are now calls to use this pandemic as an opportunity to reshape Tasmania’s future economic prosperity. It’s to be hoped those calls are heeded.

#ScottyFromMarketing

Wed, 22 Jul 2020 07:06:00 GMT

Under the cloak of Covid there are real fears the Morrison government is operating far too secretly, and attempting to push through legislation that has not been through proper processes, or been subjected to the scrutiny it would normally face. With attention focused elsewhere as people worry about their job, or lack thereof, of simply trying to keep their heads above water, financially speaking, it’s no wonder people are not paying close attention to some of the Coalition’s suspected slippery deals. It’s also no wonder that people are becoming increasingly suspicious. Myself included which prompted me to pen this piece earlier today.

you expect us to listen
and heed what you say
warn what could happen
and how we might pay

but why should we hark at
or take note of your words
and stay physically distant
away from the herd

you don’t heed those directions
you just conveniently ignore
that such instructions are mutual
even if they’re a chore

so you go to the football
stand close, clap and cheer
but say parliament can’t sit
‘cos you’d all be too near

large gatherings at funerals
or weddings – no longer allowed
nor are marches or protests
all pose too big a crowd

mixed messaging Scotty
it’s not a good look
and come time for elections
we’ll remember you took

time off on leave
left the country by stealth
when our country was burning
you cared zilch for our health

when shamed into returning
you showed no remorse
just annoyance you’d been rumbled
while fires took their course

so why should we trust
what you say, or believe
you deserve one more chance
when you lie and deceive

Cost of COVID-19

Wed, 08 Jul 2020 05:00:00 GMT

There’s no denying the world has changed forever this year, and there’s no going back however much some people hope and believe it might. The past is now a different country; we’ve gone through the back of the wardrobe (with apologies to LP Hartley and CS Lewis), to enter a world that’s similar, but is also radically different. There was no choice about passing through the COVID curtain, and there’s no certainty about our future either, if indeed we have one. The harsh reality is that millions won’t, because this virus shows no signs of abating or even slowing down, and we’re all at risk. COVID has shown no respect for age, ethnicity or bank balance, and that’s the scary part. This deadly genie is out of the bottle, and it’s quite possibly our fault; we’ve collectively allowed it to happen through selfishness, arrogance and greed.

Whatever the origins of the virus – and theories abound – it couldn’t have spread so easily and rapidly if our species hadn’t also been multiplying with alarming thoughtless selfishness and greed, and at an unsustainable speed.

In the plant world, the marine world, and the animal kingdom, scientists know that disease is likely when environments are out of balance. Farmers know when single species of trees, grains, fruits or vegetables are grown in a concentrated or confined area, they will attract pests and fungus diseases that have to be controlled. Usually by chemicals or poisons that just cause further harm to the land, or to other insect or wildlife, that then result in other manufactured products designed to restore environmental and ecological ‘balance’. It’s a vicious cycle that rarely works, and will never result in a ‘normal’ environment. Similarly when marine environments change due to interrupting the food chain through the over-fishing of certain key species, for our consumption, jellyfish blooms and predator species then proliferate, so ocean ecology and biodiversity is disrupted and the number of ‘dead zones’ expands.

When humans deem a species has become a ‘pest’ or ‘feral’, as is the case in Australia with out-of-control populations of kangaroos, and parrots, or wild pigs, horses, and camels in northern parts of the country, or cats, rabbits, cane toads and foxes that have been unwisely introduced – or misguidedly released – steps are taken to cull their numbers and stop their spread. Mostly with limited success.

The jury is likely to be out for some time about what triggered COVID, but there is every likelihood homo sapiens played a major factor, unwittingly or otherwise. We may never know. What is certain is that our species has proliferated beyond the capacity of the planet to sustain us, and half the planet has greedily and selfishly sucked the other half dry of food, water and natural resources in a relentless and mistaken economic belief the planet is a magic pudding that will continue to endlessly provide – at least for those who are powerful enough, and wealthy enough.

So the virus could well be a wake-up call for humanity, a sharp and brutal reminder that we aren’t the boss after all. The Earth is. Nature is. And too many of us have selfishly and greedily abused and exploited both for long enough. Their patience is rightly exhausted and it’s our turn to be culled and brought to heel. It remains to be seen if enough of us will learn the lesson, and change our way of life, difficult though that will be for many. I can only hope so. And COVID is likely to ensure it will be so.

A weird winter

Tue, 30 Jun 2020 05:18:00 GMT

This month almost slipped by without a blog post and with hours to go before we click over into July I thought it time to ensure that didn’t happen. It will be brief though as deadlines also beckon rather insistently.

The strange year continues and COVID-19 still dominates the news cycle. Tasmania, and Australia, has done brilliantly in containing the disease compared to the rest of the world – with the exception of New Zealand which is also in the enviable position of all but eradicating it. Likewise here, but caution still rules, and perhaps too much given there is little need (I think) for the extreme measures the premier is still determined to remain in place given our borders are still closed, and will remain so for several weeks yet, so the chance of infection is all but non-existent after no new cases for over 40 days.

I wish I could say that the reason for neglecting this blog has been due to a frenzied outpouring of work on the book, but I can’t. It has progressed but not as far as I would have hoped or liked. I’m not alone in fearing lockdown has resulted in an uncomfortable degree of secrecy around some of our state and federal governments’ plans and policies. Not all of them appear to be particularly benign or beneficial for everyone and it could be argued there has never been a greater need to ‘keep the bastards honest’.

So, yes plenty of writing has been done, but it’s been of the submission variety and letters to editors and politicians. Will they have any effect? I can only hope since the other big issue hanging like a dark cloud over the globe is that of climate change. It hasn’t gone away, and nor will it just because the skies have been freer of planes, roads have been emptier of cars and trucks, and life for so many of us has been lived in isolation within the confines of our own homes.

We have six months to turn the climate ship around according to latest research published a few days ago. Six months. Can we do it? I would like to think so but with too many world leaders bent on bickering over whether or not COVID is more than just a ‘little ‘flu’ and refusing to take the staggering infection rates and death rates seriously I don’t hold out much hope.

So at the moment the world is looking at the extinction of many thousands of species in 2021, and population crashes for many thousands more. It’s sobering to consider that one of those species could well be homo sapiens. Poetic justice perhaps since it’s the proliferation of our species that has spread across the planet, and our collective and rampant selfishness and greed, that has enabled the twisted seeds of this potential fate to flourish. Reaping what we’ve sowed indeed.

And so to autumn

Tue, 12 May 2020 02:55:00 GMT

So here we are, almost halfway through what is certainly proving to be a strange and challenging year. The pandemic lockdown continues, but chinks in the Covid curtain are appearing with most state governments announcing there will soon be an easing of restrictions, albeit very small ones to begin with. However none of them are fast enough for #ScottyFromMarketing – aka Prime Minister Scott Morrison – whose focus has taken a sharp turn lately about concern for the health and welfare of people, to concern about the economy. Mr M wants everyone back at work, at school, and out shopping for goods other than loo rolls so the country can ‘snap back’ to normal, the balance sheet doesn’t look quite so lopsided, and our freefall towards recession can possibly be avoided. Clearly a terrifying prospect for Mr M and a government which sees the world in terms of dollars and cents, and likes to spruik its credentials as better managers of the country’s economy – regardless of the cost in human, environmental and social capital. But a ‘snap back’ is highly unlikely according to several economic commentators who have universally described this analogy as completely unrealistic.

And arguably unwanted. It seems a hefty chunk of the population isn’t anxious to return to ‘normal’. While the lockdown has been immensely and undeniably difficult for many, many people, for others it’s actually been rather cathartic, and unexpectedly enjoyable, so a return to ‘normal’ is not something they either welcome or relish. Quite the opposite. People are appreciating a more relaxed pace of life, time to smell the roses – literally – spend quality time with partners and children, rediscover their creative sides, and enjoy the natural world and the changing seasons. This is proving far more appealing than a lifestyle lived at a frenetic pace that barely allowed time to stop moving, breathe, and enjoy simply being. The health benefits that are flowing from this slower, more reflective pace of life are also proving significant. Not just for us, but for the planet.

It was only a matter of weeks (or so it seemed) before social media was full of photos and videos taken by people around the world amazed they were documenting previously unheard of instances – fish being caught in rivers and canals normally choked with poisonous debris; mountain ranges emerging from dense shrouds of polluted air; and night skies where canopies of millions of stars were being seen for the first time in decades.

The Earth was regaining some balance, and people were starting to realise the extent of humanity’s impact, and our role in the planet’s degradation. A few lightbulb moments were happening across the globe which ultimately, hopefully, will prove beneficial for the world, as economic models are challenged. It’s almost inevitable the pandemic will result in a resetting of how we live, work and play. It will be hard, it will be challenging, but if we are to avoid the climate change catastrophe that hasn’t disappeared, and that continues to hurtle towards us, it’s vital we do all adjust, adapt and embrace a different way of living. And that includes governments with outdated and ideological agendas that don’t belong in our brave new world.

This disconcerting summer

Wed, 15 Apr 2020 06:02:00 GMT

It’s been a strange summer alright. And a challenging one. Since writing my last blog post in the middle of what has been a catastrophic bushfire season across much of the mainland, followed by floods in other parts of the country, and now the new and unknown reality of coronavirus – or COVID-19 – most of the world is now living in lockdown, physically isolated from family, friends and work, and existing in a surreal kind of silence.

The pandemic has certainly changed the face of Australia, and although it’s concentrating the minds of our leaders, most state premiers have risen to the challenge very well. Others not so much, but it’s been surprising and encouraging to note, (after a rocky start in the case of PM Morrison), that Tasmania’s premier, and Scotty From Marketing, are handling the crisis efficiently and with authority. I’m no fan of either man, but credit where it’s due and they do appear to be steering the state and the country well at the moment.
Certainly these extraordinary times put into perspective the mundane and micro nature of the personal everyday. Those raspberries and tomatoes that were proving to be so tardy back in February have more than made up for their production delay in the weeks since. The natural world shows scant regard for the concerns of humanity, and both crops have forged on regardless. Until a few days ago picking them was a daily task that took at least an hour, such is their time-consuming abundance, but the dessert of raspberries we’ve now enjoyed every evening for weeks has been a joy. Unsurprisingly, tomatoes have also been a fixture in all but a very few of our meals – with the exception of breakfast.

As anticipated processing tomatoes has also been a regular item on my To Do list during the past few weeks, so the freezer is now full to capacity. Few meals are served without tomatoes featuring somewhere on the plate, and although friends and neighbours have thankfully helped relieve us of some of this excess bounty, there are few signs production is slowing. It makes up for their earlier tardiness of course, but I will not be upset when I can finally declare this particular harvest over.

Lockdown life is otherwise proving no hardship, which is my good fortune, and I’m well aware of that fact. We have space to move, a garden to keep us exercised and occupied – and plenty of tasks indoors to catch up on. And quite apart from anything else there are books. Plenty of them, and for the first time in years, a bit more time to read them without feeling guilty.

And, even more importantly, there is time (and fewer excuses!) to write my own major project, even if in my determination to catch up on some of those aforementioned tasks, it’s taken a little while to settle down to doing so on a regular and determined basis.

Growing pains

Sun, 16 Feb 2020 10:32:00 GMT

It’s been a strange summer so far as growing and harvesting vegies goes, and I know from speaking with others that we’re far from alone in wondering if and when the tomatoes are going to ripen. Ditto the raspberries. We have two varieties of rasps, one is early, the other late – even into May/June if the weather is kind. This year though both are proving frustratingly tardy.

Despite lush green growth and looking fabulously healthy, the former has limped along providing us with meagre fare. The other teases with literally masses of fruit that’s budding up well, but which stubbornly refuses to reach the pickable stage.

It should be noted that I absolutely adore raspberries so to potentially have so many sitting there refusing to ripen is driving me nuts!

Tomatoes are also proving incredibly slow to show any hint of colour; although I did pick the first couple yesterday. The vines are loaded and John is moaning that summer will be over before the tomatoes are ready. Personally I doubt it given the changing climate means warm summer days now extend well into March, and even April even if the nights are cooler.

I just look at both crops and think, Oh my goodness, when they do actually ripen they’re going to do so all at once, and in a rush, and for a few weeks my life will be dominated, both by picking them, and then – in the case of the tomatoes especially – processing them and cooking up a storm ready to freeze for winter soups, casseroles and pasta sauces.

This is of course a good problem to have, and I’m not complaining, but it makes me wonder how the commercial growers of our fruits and vegetables are managing since their crops must be similarly affected, and with climate change it’s a seasonal production situation likely to become ever more challenging.

As for me well I’d be naturally much happier if these two crops could have sorted their growing and ripening styles a bit more conveniently. But at least they are growing, and they do look like ripening soon, and that’s a good thing. I just need to be patient and wait for nature to do her bit. Which she will of course, but in her own good time.

In the meantime there’s an abundance of cucumbers and thornless blackberries, a steady supply of capsicums, a second crop of peas to anticipate, and what currently looks like considerably more pumpkins than we managed to harvest last year, so we’re unlikely to starve. Always a plus.

Berry Opportunist

Tue, 07 Jan 2020 02:31:00 GMT

Chooks usually get a bad rap when it comes to intelligence, and I’ll admit they’ve never struck me as being the smartest of birds – although there is evidence to suggest that, like sheep, which also have an unfortunate reputation when it comes to intelligence – chooks are a lot smarter than they seem. But over the years we‘ve kept chooks there have been a few who have stood out as definite personalities, and some can certainly have distinct characteristics. There have been some that proved permanently flighty, and overly protective of their chicks, while others have been pretty laid back about the whole mothering experience. Interestingly these are often the ones who prove to be the most successful mothers, as well as the ones whose offspring tend to be the most laid back. Nature or nurture?

A surprise this season has been witnessing the cooperative approach to motherhood displayed by two hens who decided to share the nest and so were both involved in hatching the very few eggs we left them. Of the two chicks that hatched, only one has survived – we think the other was probably inadvertently squashed by one or other hen – and parenting duties have been shared, resulting in what I think is a ‘smothering’ and it will be interesting to note how this chicken develops once the mothers abandon it, which they eventually will do.

This season we have a population explosion resulting from several chooks going bush to lay their eggs, and our failure to find them in time, but among the crowd Sandy Chook stands out. At least she does at the moment as the berries are ripening. She just loves berries, and is wise to the time when I start picking them. Needless to say the boysenberries, strawberries and raspberries are all covered so neither she, her feathered cousins, or the tiresome, invasive and determined blackbirds, can get in to nick them, but she always has her eye to the main chance and would be in like Flynn if she could. As would the blackbirds who are cunning personified when it comes to locating the smallest hole in the netting in the hope of sneaking a feed. I do give Sandy Chook the ones that have been half-eaten by the expletive blackbirds, and naturally enough she’s wise to this too so hangs around in daily expectation of such largesse.

For the rest of the year she’s mostly indistinguishable from all the other chooks when it comes to personality, although she always stands out due to her colour since most of our chooks are predominantly black, but come summer and berry time I can guarantee there will be a loyal, hopeful and expectant follower on morning berry picking tasks.

On rubbish – and revenge?

Sun, 29 Dec 2019 04:14:00 GMT

For many years my morning dog walks have also included cleaning up the roadside verges of assorted rubbish carelessly tossed out of car windows by locals or visitors driving around the neighbourhood.

It started one Clean-Up Australia weekend when, unable to attend the official clean-up in town due to working, I decided to take a bag with me while walking our then-dog, and pick up the litter lying along the road. It was quite an education. The bag quickly filled and I returned home for a couple more. Left the dog behind this time and set off again, and again I didn’t have to walk far before the bags were full.

Since that weekend over twenty years ago I try always to have a bag in my jacket pocket and it’s quite depressing how swiftly they are filled – although not as quickly as on that first rubbish-collecting foray. Occasionally there have been a few challenging, and poignant, variations on the typical bottles, cans, chip packets, etc. The other day involved one of those variations, and leaves me pondering the puzzle, and wondering why. There has to be a story there somewhere.

The items in question were cassette tapes and their cases. Lots of them. Mostly in bits. Lots of them, mostly with the tape ripped out, which streamed and shimmered in the morning sun on the road in a tangled mess, so impossible to repair, and certainly impossible to play.

John and I first noticed this trail the day before when we walked Della dog later in the evening when it was cooler. I reckon we picked up around 10 tapes, most of which were ruined. A few were still intact though and potentially still playable. We thought it was odd but it didn’t occur to us there could literally be dozens more. But so it proved.

The next morning my walk took a different route along the same lengthy and semi-rural road where we live, and it wasn’t long before I noticed the cassette trail again. Whoever wanted to destroy these tapes certainly made a good job of it. But the question remained: why? OK so cassettes have largely had their day, but what prompted this decision to so viciously rip them apart and chuck them out like breadcrumbs for what increasingly appeared to be several kilometres along the road, case and all? Why not just dispose of them in the bin back home? Or donate them to a garage sale or charity shop if no longer wanted?

Was this deliberate destruction done in anger? Frustration? Spite? Revenge? The answer to how many cassettes littered the length of the road remains unclear, but I’ve spotted several gracing the verges when driving into town in the days since so the collection was clearly jettisoned over several kilometres.

So what did this presumably valued and much-loved cassette collection include? The answer is a truly eclectic taste in music, ranging from James Last, Richard Clayderman, Robyn Archer, Bach, Rod Stewart, Chris Rea and The Corrs, and includes a number of bands and musicians I’ve never heard of.

All very strange!

Paying the price of ignoring climate change

Thu, 21 Nov 2019 04:27:00 GMT

Paying the price of ignoring climate change

During the pulp mill campaign I regularly wrote letters to editors of both the national and local media, as well as commenting on as many online articles and blogs as I was able to find. Missives to editors have been much less frequent in recent months and years, but the whole climate issue has inspired me to write more often. My latest efforts though have failed to make it into print. Possibly because they touch on a movement that is gathering momentum around the world – Extinction rebellion, or XR.

Whatever the reason I decided it was time they saw the light of day, and had a potential audience and it occurred to me this blog is the perfect platform, so here they are:

“Every day there are media reports of extreme climactic events around the world. Many of them occur in Australia. Summer has barely begun yet already we’ve experienced shocking bushfires that have destroyed homes, businesses, livestock and food crops. We’ve got the worst drought on record, while elsewhere in the country there’s flooding. Rivers are dry, communities have run out of water, unique wildlife species are either extinct, or on the brink of being so. To say this is ‘normal’ is ridiculous, yet Mr Morrison refuses to acknowledge the risks, or accept two of the major contributors to the climate emergency are mining and forestry. Instead he rails against and vilifies those pointing out the danger of climate inaction in the only means left to them: displays of public, peaceful and creative protests. Scientists from every discipline are speaking out and emphasising the danger of climate inaction, strongly criticising the Morrison government’s wilful refusal to act.

So what will it take for this government to accept reality? How many more homes must be lost to the flames of uncontrollable bushfires? How many crops must be ruined? How many thousands of sheep, cattle, and horses, must be culled? Or forests and wilderness destroyed? Or the health, wellbeing and safety of Australians be compromised and threatened, to satisfy the Morrison government’s love affair with a coal industry whose day is over.”

********************************
“The Morrison government has a one seat majority. This suggests almost half the country didn’t vote for it, and doesn’t necessarily support it. Therefore however much Mr Morrison, and others in his government, continue to dismiss the need to take urgent action on climate change, he shouldn’t be surprised that half the population disagrees with him, or that increasing numbers of Australians are choosing to express their disagreement and frustration in the only means left to them: civil disobedience. We live in a democracy. Civil disobedience and the right to protest peacefully are our democratic right. It’s something Mr Morrison would do well to remember. Democracy is a two-way contract after all, and threatening to remove the right to peacefully protest about government inaction on an issue universally recognised as the greatest threat to the planet, is a disgraceful and unacceptable response from a prime minister.

Thousands of scientists across the discipline have now demanded the world’s leaders take action on climate. For any government to ignore this advice now borders on criminal negligence and shameful irresponsibility. Not only does a refusal to act risk serious social division or collapse, as well as economic ruin for thousands of people, it risks leaving successive generations of Australians facing ever more extreme droughts, floods and bushfires, and an increasingly uncertain and uncomfortable future.

What price the lucky country then?”

#climateemergency

An autumn day in York

Tue, 29 Oct 2019 17:04:00 GMT

It was a rather sobering experience to have a twenty-something chap give up his seat for me on the very crowded train to York while visiting family in the UK. While it’s good to know this courtesy still occurs, it was rather challenging to realise I was the intended beneficiary. Travelling on public transport has long been limited to time in the UK but still, it was a shock to realise I’ve clearly crossed some invisible age threshold since it’s always been a case of me giving up a seat for an older person! I must now look older than I realised. Certainly older than I feel, which is an interesting observation in itself since don’t all of us feel about 18 inside much of the time? Can only think it was my natural hair colour, (a rather elegant silvery blonde that still catches me by surprise sometimes when I glance in a mirror), that swung it.

Autumn in England is a particularly difficult time for railways. The reason is falling leaves littering the line, and which are the cause of a serious safety issue. Who knew? I learned all about it from the information video clips that periodically flashed up on the screen in the carriage – when we finally were able to secure seats. An additional innovation that was new to me but certainly made for interesting reading.

Surprisingly given the season York was busy, chilly, and initially wet, but I did get to see York Minster, although only from the outside. Time constraints, and a need to consider the younger family members. I was rather horrified to learn that one has to pay to go in now , rather than being invited to make a donation, as was previously the case. It’s such a magnificent, stunning piece of architecture and moves me to tears every time.

The forecast ended up being accurate too. The rain did eventually stop and the sun did finally come out.

Spring – a time of new life

Thu, 19 Sep 2019 07:53:00 GMT

It’s always a relief when September arrives and we can finally wave winter goodbye for another year. While it’s true the lengthening days don’t always mean a sudden (and welcome) rise in temperatures, the bulbs are a colourful herald of summer, and iris, daffodils, freesias and bluebells are a cheerful sight, as well as a sure sign the garden is waking up.

On the roadsides there is evidence of other casualties; a flurry of feathers suggesting its plover or magpie parents lost the fight, as well as the bodies of roadkill: hares, rabbits and frogs, usually, but occasionally there is a duck from the Indian Runner flock up the road, or a guinea fowl from the same farm.

Lambs can sometimes fall prey to predators too, and reports of unrestrained packs of neighbourhood dogs are not uncommon in this semi-rural area, but thankfully this hasn’t been an issue so far this year.
So while spring is certainly a harbinger of renewal and new life, like every season it has its darker side, and it can also be a season of untimely death.

Greed and the Gorge

Sat, 31 Aug 2019 03:56:00 GMT

My involvement in the community-led campaign opposing failed timber company Gunns Limited’s pulp mill, planned for Tasmania’s Tamar Valley, was the reason for establishing this website, and blog, in the first place. In addition to hopefully attracting some more writing work, (hello, any editors out there reading this!) my aim was to prepare the ground for a book about the pulp mill campaign. Writing the book has proved slow going though, not least because this being Tasmania, there’s always a need to campaign about some inappropriate and controversial development somebody wants to build. And now the activism gene has been activated there’s no shortage of environmental and social justice issues and campaigns to be fired up about. By default I also seem to have become the go to person when it comes to being involved in Tasmanian actions, or at least helping to spread the word.

As previously mentioned there are already controversial proposals to have cable cars up Mt Wellington/kunyani, mining and logging threatening the Tarkine/takayna, and an east coast threatened by the massive Dolphin Sands resort, as well as an expansion of the salmon farming industry.

These projects do make me wonder about the intelligence of those in all levels of government. Too many appear unable to recognise the priceless value of Tasmania’s natural environment, and that its attraction to the thousands who come here to visit, is precisely because it’s relatively unspoiled and undeveloped, and wild. The opportunity to experience nature in the raw is what draws people here. Tasmania’s point of difference is the wilderness, history, boutique food and craft industries, a vibrant and growing arts culture, and an enviable sense of community in towns and cities free of skyscrapers, and where people can breathe freely, and aren’t obliged to live or work 15 floors up.
It’s the ruggedness of the wilderness, the forests, and the unique wildlife that draw people to Tasmania’s shores. So it’s been both disappointing and frustrating to reflect that a good chunk of my year so far has been the need – yet again – to take up arms, (metaphorically speaking) on behalf of one of these special places.

This time it’s Launceston’s Cataract Gorge that is under siege. Two developers with very different agendas, but with equally inappropriate and intrusive projects want a piece of it. Both will threaten the peace, tranquillity and integrity of an iconic public space that is deeply valued and loved, not just by the locals but also by the thousands who visit it every year from all around the world. Few people are not blown away by the fact such an amazing and accessible place exists in the middle of a city. So it’s not at all surprising tourism publications and surveys consistently rate the Gorge as one of the top three must-see Tasmanian destinations.

Also of concern is the already-approved 39 metre Gorge Hotel, which will dominate Launceston’s skyline, and overshadow the Gorge from its controversial central location. One that is already challenged by increased traffic flow, and potential structural instability given the site’s proximity to the river.

Two campaigns that are arguably driven by greed and ambition on the part of developers, and with little consideration for the broader community who will be obliged to live with them. Neither seem to have any genuine appreciation and understanding of Tasmania’s unique place in a world where people can pause, catch their breath, and reconnect to a slower pace of life in a more natural world free from noise, crowds, and the tyranny of technology.
But while the writing pace on the book has slowed, it certainly hasn’t stopped. I’m just having to revise the timeline for finishing it.

Houseplant histories – 2

Thu, 22 Aug 2019 02:56:00 GMT

With September not far away theoretically we’re nearing the finishing line so far as winter goes, and from the look of them some of my houseplants are feeling the same way I do: hanging out for some warmth, sunshine and freedom from all the layers of clothing needed to stay warm. Not that we haven’t had any sunshine over the past three months, but there’s not always been much warmth to it, and it certainly hasn’t always filtered through to every room in the house for very long. It’s the perennial problem with houseplants in colder weather, moving them around so they aren’t too stressed by the changes in temperature. There’s only so many that can be housed in the rooms kept heated throughout winter; the others all just have to cope and as we near winter’s finishing line some are not coping too well.

My spectacular Asplenium bulbiferum or hen and chicken fern – and my pride and joy – is quite happy, ferns being quite comfortable in cooler temperatures, and the ‘chicks’ I’ve successfully propagated from the ‘hen’ are also doing very nicely thank you. All are going to need re-potting in a few weeks, and the ‘hen’ is also going to need a larger plant pot holder. Again.

I can’t quite remember how I came by this plant – which I’ve had for years – but I do remember it becoming extremely sick and on the point of death some time ago, losing all its fronds one by one. Nothing I did seemed to restore it to health. Stubbornly I refused to admit it was dying, and my faith was eventually rewarded when a new frond or two finally peeped out. From that moment on it has never looked back, and is now seriously impressive, to the point I’m not actually quite sure where it’s going to live, having all but outgrown its position in the bedroom on the dressing table. Interestingly one of its ‘chicks’ is in a similar state of ill-health, and I’m in two minds about whether or not to persevere, or for how long. Maybe I’ll give it a few more weeks yet before declaring defeat.

Other than the ‘nodding violets’ or streptocarpella saxorum to give it its botanical name, my other plants tend to all be refugees, either from life in the florist shop (and since we sold the shop around 25 years ago this makes them all pretty good survivors), or my years in a school library. Again, while this makes the piece I found broken off and which I brought home to try and rescue, makes it not so long in the tooth, it has grown rather rapidly to the point of being another challenge to re-position when it next needs re-potting.

The nodding violets all grew from a cutting given to me by Betsy, a friend and fellow writer I met when we both were in the same women writers group. She broke off a piece from her prolifically flowering plant one day saying it was easy to establish from a cutting. And it was, so now I have several of them – but all are looking like they’ll be happy to see the back of the cold weather.

As will I.

Rodents’ revenge

Mon, 29 Jul 2019 01:26:00 GMT

One of the less delightful aspects of living in a semi-rural suburb are the uninvited guests that tend to arrive with autumn, and then hang around during winter. They are of course, rodents, and we no sooner get rid of one lot than another lot soon realise there’s a vacancy, and move in. As considerate, if reluctant, hosts we do the hospitality thing and leave them ‘food’. Normally this does the trick and they do the decent thing and take off to die quietly away from the premises. But currently we have one (or several) of the little beasts who hasn’t, and consequently we’re dealing with the most appalling stench, which naturally is emanating directly above the kitchen/dining/living area.

When first noticed a couple of days ago, I thought it must be a gas ring not properly switched off on the cooker. Not so. By yesterday the reason for the stink was perfectly obvious. Retrieving the corpse however is next to impossible given the distance from the manhole ceiling entry, and the extreme difficulty in reaching it.

We shall just have to wait for rodents’ revenge to take its course, and hope the vases of paper whites, jonquils, daphne, and bowls of pot pourri hastily assembled with my extremely limited stock of essential oils, will serve to combat the putrid fug.

A couple of days with a nice warm breeze to blow through the rooms would be good too, but given the forecast I suspect that isn’t going to happen. Sigh.

Finally underway

Mon, 29 Jul 2019 00:50:00 GMT

So much for the best laid plans, and all that optimism post last year’s writers’ festival. While the book writing hasn’t exactly gone according to script, a serious start has been made and I can say, with hand firmly on heart, it is underway even if it’s not progressed as far as I both anticipated and intended.

The bread-and-butter writing obviously takes precedence, and there are other commitments – some might say distractions – in life, like federal elections for example, which despite all the predictions and polls, (and the efforts of those on the left side of the political divide) saw the Coalition returned to government. Before you ask, no, I’m not a fan. Not at all. If the pulp mill campaign did nothing else it made me far more politically aware, and left me totally disgusted with both the major parties in the context of the pulp mill project, and Labor and the Liberals’ continued irrational support for it.

During those years I found my tribe in the Greens, and they remain my tribe, along with other organisations and groups whose focus leans towards environmental protection, animal welfare, social justice and conservation. The down side to the ever-increasing need to support all the campaigns being run by these groups, and that require championing, is the time it takes. Ensuring Queensland’s Adani coalmine is ditched, Tasmania’s Tarkine/takayna is protected, and inappropriate developments are not approved at Cambria Green or Lake Malbena, or – most recently – in Launceston’s Cataract Gorge are all too often distractions from the main game, and I realise I’m guilty at failing both to ignore them, or say ‘No’ to requests for assistance in promoting them.

Most recently it’s the invitation, (persuasion more like) to be involved in the committee formed to oppose the Gorge Skyway proposal that has dominated a bit, despite my best efforts to distance myself a little. Fingers crossed, this will not be a lengthy fight to keep the Gorge free of the proposed 24, 8-seater see-through glass gondolas circling this unique and special place that was gifted to the people of Launceston over 100 years ago, and is therefore managed by the Council.

Houseplant histories – part 1

Tue, 11 Jun 2019 02:20:00 GMT

They say having houseplants keeps houses healthy by purifying the air we breathe. They’re also good for concentration and productivity, as well as reducing stress levels and improving our moods. Based on that assessment I should be a picture of calmness and serenity, while pumping out written pieces by the dozen since our home is certainly not short of plants.

I have my mother to largely thank for this since she was very green-fingered. There were always plants throughout the house, as well as in the garden. The indoor plants were often flowering ones, possibly as a cheerful antidote to the northern hemisphere’s dark winter days, and a comparatively short summer, but my mum loved flowers, and planting bowls of hyacinth, iris, narcissi, crocus, and tulips each year – and keeping them in the windowless outhouse (formerly a coal cellar) until their green shoots peeped through, and they were deemed ready to bring into the house – was an annual ritual.

While I appreciate a lovely garden as much as the next person, gardening has never been a particular interest, and I certainly don’t believe I inherited my mother’s green-fingers, but that said I have been surprisingly successful when it comes to houseplants. This is despite no conscious effort on my part since I’m absolutely in the school-of-healthy-neglect category. Few of my plants are flowering varieties, but checking in with them this week to feed and water them, I was suddenly struck by how long some of these plants have been with me. And how all of them have their stories.

Both the lemon vine and peperomia however are still with me. As is the unnamed plant that grew from a piece taken from one of the plants in the public library where I worked. I wasn’t responsible for pinching a bit, I hasten to add – one of my colleagues was, and she gave us all a bit to grow. Clearly it was a popular office-type plant, capable of surviving indifferent and haphazard care, with creeper tendencies that need to be kept in check – hence the need for periodic haircuts. But it was clearly hardy, and so it has proved. Over the years it’s received many a haircut, and various progeny are in pots around my house, and those of friends, as is the lemon vine that was a gift when I moved into my own house. With Deb’s untimely death last year it has assumed an even more special status, being a constant reminder of her friendship and importance in my life. As for the peperomia, that also reminds me of another library colleague, Lorraine, who broke off a piece one day after tennis, saying how easy it would be to grow. She was right!

As for the other plants, their stories are for another day.

Time to farewell the swallows. Maybe

Fri, 26 Apr 2019 07:26:00 GMT

It’s almost the end of April yet the swallows are still swooping and darting about outside the window. That’s unusual. Not that many years ago we were waving these migratory birds off sometime in March. This was from our previous property where swallows were annual visitors who would fly in towards the end of August to nest in our back porch. Although we’ve seen them flying about looking for a likely place to build a nest over the four years we’ve lived here, swallows only decided this year ours could be a good place to call home.

The new residents built their nest comparatively late – but in record time – under the recently-erected car port. Given the late start they’ve still raised two families of three in swift succession and no doubt it’s these young birds that we’re still seeing enjoying the autumn sunshine and warmth each day. Fingers crossed a few will return next year and take up residence, and renovate the nest under the car port.

While it is annoying these birds create a bit of a mess with their droppings, it’s a minor issue against the pleasure of having them about, and watching their antics and athleticism in the air as they catch their breakfast, lunch and dinner on the fly. Some of the preferred insect food are sure to be mosquitos, another decided plus to having swallows about during the summer months.

Generations of porch-nesting swallows at our previous home were completely unfazed by our cat, who was tempted and taunted by their presence every year. A much younger Aggie would sit at the back door and watch them for hours, and when she thought nobody was looking, attempt to climb the flyscreen in an effort to reach the nest. Needless to say she never succeeded, and it was pretty obvious the swallows knew they were safe as they never showed the slightest concern at her frustrated attempts to catch them. She gave up trying eventually, as the years passed, and she lost some of the urge to hunt.

The swallows’ chittering and chattering was annoying for me too as at the time I was narrating for Hear A Book, and I used to record in that sun room area. It was essential to have absolute quiet as any extraneous noise was picked up by the highly sensitive recording equipment so when mum or dad swallow flew in with dinner, and the kids all demanded to be first in the queue, I would have to wait until their tiny stomachs were satisfied and it was all quiet again. No wonder my output was comparatively slow!

With much cooler weather to come it will be interesting to see whether this little group of swallows hang around, or they do decide to head North as so many Tasmanians do during the winter months.

Summer is berry nice . . !

Tue, 05 Mar 2019 05:39:00 GMT

By the time March comes around all the daily harvesting of produce does become a bit tedious and rather a grind, but there are compensations. One of them is having a steady crop of raspberries and strawberries for weeks on end.

The strawberries have been into their second fruiting for a week or so now and are producing well, while we have two varieties of raspberries; one an early fruiting variety, and the other that produces in autumn. Despite the weather being far from autumnal so far this year, the latter variety is going gangbusters and there are loads more berries to come. Which is lovely, and I’m definitely not complaining, but at the same time I’m rather over having to devote time to picking them each day, and the scratched arms that go with the territory and are an occupational hazard.

I was in the UK last year from early May, but for almost the entire month John continued to enjoy a generous handful of raspberries for his dessert each evening, something he gleefully told me each time we spoke, and the way things are looking this year will be no different – unless the weather changes dramatically of course which isn’t looking too likely at the moment.

As for the tomatoes, still they come, although they are slowing up rapidly. I’ve chopped, sliced diced, and cooked them up with the usual onions, garlic, chilli, capsicum and zucchini; made relish, and given masses away, and once again the freezer is chockers, so the pressure is off when it’s time for winter-warming casseroles and pasta dishes.

This year though we also have more than a few containers of raspberries and boysenberries jostling for freezer space, which is of course a very satisfying position to be in as we head towards cooler weather, darker days, and the inevitable colder nights. In the meantime the Tomato Cookbook has pride of place on the bench as I seek out new recipes to keep pace with these fabulous fruity vegetables while they remain so abundant.

Now there are six . . . or seven . . .

Wed, 06 Feb 2019 05:23:00 GMT

Green and gold frogs that is, and who continue to call the sunken bath tub beside the little garden potting shed, home.

Actually our whole back garden seems to be something of a frog nursery, and although the green and golds rule, we’ve also spotted tiny tree frogs amongst the raspberries and grape vine, and for a few days at least one banjo frog was bunking down with his green and gold cousins.

Unless there are way more frogs on the property than are living in the bath tub though, some of the green and golds are getting adventurous and ranging further afield. On more than one occasion I’ve surprised them while picking strawberries or raspberries, while in the last couple of days we’ve noticed one who clearly prefers his own company. He or she has taken up residence in a regularly-watered plant pot by the back door.

Given the record-breaking temperatures that have characterised January this year, and with more hot weather forecast, frogs must be having a hard time keeping cool. The long dry spell means several smaller dams are also probably drying up, so reliable waterholes like our bath tub must represent premium real estate for frogs. They aren’t stupid. They know the garden areas that are watered regularly, and which plants are the best ones to seek shelter so it’s no surprise the bath tub has become a cool and welcome sanctuary. And now we know it has so many amphibian residents we naturally make sure it’s topped up every day.

With so much of Tasmania currently on fire, and so many of our wildlife displaced and suffering as a result, it’s lovely to think our garden is an oasis for at least one species, and a few individuals who’ve chosen to stick around longer than we remember them ever doing before. While some still dive into the tub when we walk past, others have become increasingly unconcerned by our presence and just continue to bask contentedly in the sunshine.

Summertime and the living ain’t so easy

Tue, 29 Jan 2019 03:48:00 GMT

At least not when the temperatures are as warm as they’ve been this summer, and there’s a lot of harvesting to be done. I’m rather over getting up at 5.30 every morning to walk Della dog, and then start the picking.

Breakfast has become a hasty meal for the duration, fitted in somewhere along the line before it gets too hot.

We had an abundance of boysenberries this year – which is excellent as I love them but they are a pain to pick. Literally. The raspberries are chugging along quite steadily and will continue to do so for at least another four months due to the different varieties we have growing, one of which is an autumn produce. All very yummy and delicious but picking them is also a pain so for these two berry varieties long sleeves are essential and in the weather we’ve been enjoying this is not comfortable. Hence starting as early as possible.

Despite removing some of the thornless blackberry vines last year we still have one, and of course there are plenty of berries on it which are just ripening nicely. At least I can strip off to short-sleeves when picking them.
And the plums have started as well so it’s all on to beat the birds although we did cover the greengage tree after the parrots decided to breakfast on these plums a few days ago. This is the first year we’ve had fruit, and they are prolific – as are the plums that pollinate the greengage – the Prune D’Argan which according to the book we have is the oldest known plum tree in the world.

Last but not least are the tomatoes, which are a bit late getting underway but have now started, and there are loads, so the kitchen bench is currently full of bowls of assorted produce that I shall have to work up enthusiasm to do something with.

So where is John in all of this? Well, he’s not been slouching around. All the watering is down to him – which includes all those native trees and bushes he’s been nurturing so carefully, which he’s grown from seed or cuttings, as well as the rest of the garden. For some it’s a hand watering job with buckets of water.

So as I swelter over picking produce I keep reminding myself I will appreciate all this bounty in the winter months when I go to the freezer(s) and from the selection that’s there, pick out a container of some of this home-grown produce to make those winter-warming casseroles and crumbles.

A hidden haven – Part 2

Mon, 14 Jan 2019 01:16:00 GMT

Now we have two (at least) green and gold frogs in the sunken bath tub. Although both are a similar size neither is the bright green of a mature frog, so we’re assuming they’ve still a bit of growing up to do. One of them especially was quite timid to begin with when it saw us approaching, hopping off the rim into the safety of the water, but they both now seem to have realised we pose no threat, and are content to sit and bask while watching us, the chooks, the garden, and Della the dog until the heat becomes too much for them.

A bit of research has also shown the bath tub could well be a nursery to more green and golds than just these two since it’s a species that takes longer than some to develop from tadpole to frog. Green and golds can stick around the bottom of ponds, dams – or our bath tub – for around 12 months while they slowly mature, so we could well have a few more lurking at the bottom and not quite ready to face the world.

Time will tell, but hoping these two will decide to stick around while they grow into the bright green of a fully mature frog, and maybe pass the time of day on a pumpkin or two, like these two in the photograph.

A hidden haven

Wed, 02 Jan 2019 04:14:00 GMT

We’ve always had frogs on the property, both where we are now, and at our previous place a few kilometres away. Initially though we didn’t realise the large green frogs that we regularly spotted basking in the spring and summer sunshine were becoming increasingly rare. The first inkling these frogs weren’t commonly seen was when our vet – who had something of a thing about reptiles and amphibians – showed great excitement when we casually mentioned this bizarre (to us) sunbathing habit during the course of our then-dog’s annual health check.

Paul’s eyes lit up and he immediately asked if he could come down and frog hunt on our property one weekend. Naturally we agreed, rather intrigued that he thought we were home to a creature clearly rather special.

While we learned from Paul that green and gold frogs ( Litoris raniformis ) were quite rare, it was several years later, and during the pulp mill campaign, that I learned the species was listed nationally as ‘vulnerable’ due to rapidly declining numbers. The cause was a likely combination of habitat loss, and the fatal chytrid fungus disease that has decimated frog populations globally. It seems our East Tamar community is home to a reasonably large and healthy population of green and golds – a status that proved of significant environmental importance in stopping the pulp mill. As one of several listed wildlife species whose habitat would be destroyed or disturbed by the pulp mill, pressure to up the ante to ensure the frogs’ protection provided another environmental complication for Gunns Limited during the long years of the fight to stop it.

Over the years I’ve learned a lot more about green and golds, one of three frog species found in this area. Their growling call can be heard throughout spring and summer and although like all frogs they need to be near water, it was exciting to learn we had a long-term resident last year who decided to make its home in an old bath tub filled with rain water that is adjacent to the small potting shed.

We’d inherited this trough when we bought the house, and as it’s partially covered with a wide-spaced wire mesh then possibly several generations of green and golds have called it home over the years. Last year’s tenant hopped off at some point during autumn, but a week or so back we noticed a new one has moved in.

Hopefully he – or she – will decided to hang around for a while.

Growing pains

Thu, 29 Nov 2018 04:02:00 GMT

A month on and we still have 11 chickens so all three mothers have done well. Being an old hand at parenting Granny Chook has abandoned her brood already so the oldest teenagers now have to fend for themselves. They’re all proving to be skittish, but the rather daffy, and the only brownish-coloured one in the trio is the silliest, and barely has the courage to join the others at breakfast time, or any other time when food is scattered their way.

The younger teenage trio are a bit braver, but they are also having to learn to be independent of mum, who has recently started to take less notice of them, leaving them to fend for themselves for much of the day. They seem to be taking growing up in their stride though, and unlike their older cousins certainly aren’t proving backwards in coming forwards when wheat, bread or veggie scraps are on offer.

As for the ring-in, the pretty black and speckled grey chook with a very pert tail, who was abandoned at a nearby rental property and is still very flighty, well she’s managed to keep five out of the six chicks that hatched, but my goodness has she proved to be an over-protective mum. She’s improving slowly, but for the first few weeks she kept them so close and hidden, we doubted any would survive. Death from starvation was the likely outcome as we had endless trouble on a daily basis finding her little family among the long grass and shrubs, and she was – and remains – so quiet we could never hear them cheeping, or her clucking, such was her apparent terror of anything or anyone considered a threat.

Thankfully in the last week she’s relaxed her attitude, and now joins the early morning breakfast scrum, and appears to be a bit more sociable throughout the day. Just what psychological damage she might have imparted to her chicks as a result of her bizarre isolationist stand remains to be seen though!

Whether any of these chicks are males, and therefore unlikely to survive long-term, is still unclear, but hopefully their gender will soon be identifiable and most will prove female and thus able to enjoy long and productive egg-laying lives – if not with us then with some of our friends who’ve already put up their hands to give some chickens a home.

Spring has sprung

Tue, 30 Oct 2018 04:35:00 GMT

Following a quoll attack last year, (or that of a feral cat; the jury is still out on that one), we were down to just three bantam chooks, one of whom is ‘Granny’ and well into the equivalent of chook menopause. Or so we thought. We saved a young bantam rooster from certain death a few weeks ago, thanks to a neighbour’s generosity, and acquired another bantam shortly afterwards after other neighbours left her behind when they vacated their rental property.

Granny surprised us by producing eggs again, and when it became clear she was preparing to sit, we asked Rooster Boy’s former owner if we could buy some fertile eggs to put under her so we had a chance to increase our little flock, and its genetic diversity. Although five hatched – almost six but one died trying to break out of the egg – the hazards of free-range living were soon apparent. Granny did her best, and she is a good and vigilant mother, but she lost two chicks almost immediately, probably to a hawk or a raven. She still has three though, which are now growing apace, and which she’s keeping close, so fingers crossed they will all survive.

In the meantime one of Granny’s flighty offspring has also hatched five chickens, but is proving to be a negligent mother. She barely batted an eyelid, much less raised the alarm or put up a fight when a raven swooped twice in one day and picked off two chicks, no doubt to feed its own hungry family. We know from past experience that once these predator birds know where to find breakfast they will return to pick the chicks off one by one, so we aren’t anticipating this little family will grow up to adulthood.

As for the orphaned bantam, well she’s still an unknown quantity. She’s been sharing a nest with Sandy Chook, the third of the survivors, but appears to have won the battle for sitting rights. In a few days she will emerge with brood number three, and time for her parenting skills to be put to the test. Fingers crossed she will prove to be a feisty mother willing and able to look after her chicks. Time will tell.

Back on track –

Tue, 09 Oct 2018 04:12:00 GMT

It’s embarrassing to realise just how many months have passed since writing my last blog post. Another rocky road paved with good intentions and all that. As for progress on the book, well best not to ask really, as there’s been none. Or none to speak of.

The reason for the long silence was a need to be far more involved in organising the 2018 Tamar Valley Writers festival than was my intention or expectation. Such is life, which doesn’t always go according to plan, and it certainly didn’t in this instance. But hard work notwithstanding it was worthwhile, and there was plenty of fun and laughter along the way together with new friendships formed and interesting experiences to be enjoyed.

But, the biennial Festival is now over. It was a rip-roaring success, thankfully, and having laid the groundwork – yet again – for future festivals, planning and organising the event in September 2020 should be a whole lot easier. That is the theory anyway, and while I’ve not stepped down completely from the volunteer board, my workload won’t be so intense or so great. That is my aim so all I have to do is ensure it’s also the reality.

The Festival experience has its advantages though, not least of which, (in the programming role I had) is exposure to lots of writers, their journeys to publication success, and rubbing shoulders with a few publishers, so all grist to the mill given I shall be hoping for interest from the latter in due course. It always helps to have a contact, however tenuous, to hopefully pave the way.

With a clear run now until planning seriously begins for 2020 early next year, I have time to recoup my depleted energies, refocus on my own writing, and resume work on this project in particular.

At last!

Summertime

Thu, 25 Jan 2018 04:02:00 GMT

Summer time, and the living is easy, or so the song would have us believe. Personally I’m not so sure. At the moment my life involves getting up at the crack of dawn, taking Della dog for a walk, eating a quick breakfast, and then it’s on with the sunscreen and outside to pick produce. Before the unusually hot weather we’re having this year makes it too uncomfortable to stay outside for long. Then of course there’s always the odd weed to pull out, and dead-heading to do.

We’ve already waved farewell to the boysenberries for another year so currently the produce involves cultivated blackberries – which at least are thornless but are nowhere near as good as the wild variety, their toxic weed status in this country notwithstanding. Then it’s onto the raspberries. Too few of these as yet because the vines are still new but things are looking good for a decent autumn crop. The strawberries have had their spell of R&R and are getting underway again, and then there are capsicum, cucumbers – and those dilatory tomatoes, which are finally starting to ripen, albeit far later than we would normally expect. A straw poll suggests we are far from being alone in experiencing this tomato delay, which is some consolation, so perhaps the very late cold snap we had in November – when we thought we’d lost a couple of plants to frost – is what has set them back.

When the toms do finally get their act together harvesting will be time-consuming. There are loads, and several varieties. Which is wonderful, and I’m certainly not complaining, but it will mean more time out of the day to cook them up with onions, garlic, capsicum and whatever else in the fridge that needs a home, to freeze down for winter casseroles and pasta dishes. Maybe I’ll even dust off the dehydrator again and dry some, or try my hand at relish which did work rather well last year even if it was runnier than it should be.

But all this activity means my mornings are all but over, and barely a word is written, so all that easy summer living? Hmmmm, maybe not. Not this year at least.

A not-so-happy new year

Mon, 01 Jan 2018 10:05:00 GMT

Death is hardly the most cheerful topic to be writing about on the first day of a brand new year, but as the saying goes, it comes to us all eventually. And for my 19-year-old Aggie-cat her time to depart this Earth is rapidly approaching.

For most of us there’s often little choice in the when, where and how we leave this world, and too often for many it is sudden, brutal, and painful. Most governments are still tip-toeing around the admittedly enormously difficult subject of euthanasia for those suffering with acutely painful symptoms of terminal illnesses, yet we don’t think twice about euthanasing our companion animals, believing it to be the best and most humane option.

Those who work in palliative care say we have more control over when we draw our last breath than is generally recognised, and will offer numerous stories of patients who seemingly and knowingly choose to expire either when all the family members are present, or else when they are completely alone, because said members have nipped out to grab a cup of coffee, go to the loo, or duck outside for a smoke. I totally get that, and I maintain my mother chose to delay her departure for a good 24 hours after I arrived in the UK from Australia because she was enjoying the conversation around her bed, and didn’t want to miss any of the gossip.

But to return to Aggie, we’ve been counting down her final hours now for eight days. That’s when she stopped eating. For the first day or two I could put it down to the undeniably hot weather – we all tend to eat less when it’s hot – but by Day Three it was apparent there was more to her refusal to eat than just the heat. She’d decided it was time to go.
By Day Four she’d taken up residence in the bathroom – not one of her usual favourite places – appropriating the bathmat, and content to just sit quietly, undisturbed, and sleep, interspersed with the occasional stretch, a change of position, and to drink some water. Any need for her litter box ceased. Which was just as well since it was some distance away, in the garage!

And the bathroom is where she’s remained, patiently waiting for the end. Or that’s how I see it. There’s no indication she’s in any pain, or is suffering in any way. If this looked likely then of course I would have taken her to the vet – Christmas or no Christmas – but she truly appears to be calmly and serenely waiting for the end to arrive, quite content to let nature take its course. No fuss. No dramas. No fighting the inevitable. Just a recognition and an acceptance that her time is up and she’s ready to go.

For all our intelligence sometimes animals manage these things so much better than humans do.

God bless. I will miss you little Aggie-cat.

We won!

Tue, 14 Nov 2017 04:44:00 GMT

This post should have been written weeks ago, and if I had the know-how should also be accompanied with lots of bells, whistles, balloons and other such illustrations that indicate celebrations are in order. Because they are. Big time. The pulp mill campaign is over. Finished. Done and dusted. And the community won. How amazing is that?
In the end it ended with a barely discernible whimper, and I certainly had the impression local media chose to report it reluctantly and with some resentment. As long-standing and well recognised champions of the project it was a news item that rankled with our local media barons but one they were obliged to print, while hoping few would notice if the details were buried somewhere at the bottom of Page 9.
Like others I’d been counting down the days to 30 August 2017, the date the pulp mill permits expired, my fingers crossed against any announcement by the state government they were to be extended. Again. A quiet check during July confirmed any extension would have to be tabled in parliament, and there was no time to do this before the expiry date, nor was it even being spoken about by the pulp mill’s Liberal and Labor’s parliamentary cheerleaders.
A further check with KordaMentha – Gunns’ administrators – confirmed there was still little interest from investors in buying the site, (with or without the permits), but after so many years we remained reluctant to pop those champagne corks. And then towards the end of October came the phone call that confirmed it was really over, and we really had won: KordaMentha had surrendered the permits. The government confirmed there was no intention to renew them, but stopped short of agreeing to repeal the Pulp Mill Assessment Act, that atrocious piece of legislation largely drafted by Gunns’ own lawyers in 2007, that denied the right to challenge the mill’s impacts on an individual’s health, way of life, wellbeing, or continued business viability should they be in any way negative or damaging.
Instead, so I’ve since been advised, the Act has joined around 500 other pieces of redundant, and arguably contentious, biased, or poorly drafted legislation currently gathering dust on Parliament House shelves until a government with a spine is prepared to wield the necessary new broom.
So celebrations thus far have been subdued and muted, but not for long. Together with so many others I believe the community deserves A Party, a serious celebration of our success in what has been a David and Goliath situation – and a victory that may help motivate and inspire other communities who are facing similar threats from powerful corporate companies – that it is possible to win against seemingly impossible odds.
The Party will be soon, and I have every intention of enjoying it to the max!

Silver lining

Mon, 14 Aug 2017 05:50:00 GMT

Rather too much of July was spent trying to solve the problem of why my PC and printer suddenly decided to cease communicating with each other.

Needless to say I had to resort to the lovely young techo chaps’ assistance, at my usual computer support place, for an answer in the finish. The bad news was learning what I had long suspected: my computer was fading fast and regular backups would be necessary if I was to avoid losing precious work altogether – before my ageing computer crashed completely.

Inevitably it required a thorough check-up, so data from the PC could be transferred (migrated in tech-speak) across to my newish laptop. Sounds easy doesn’t it? It wasn’t. Having identified the cause of the communication loss between PC and printer was a corrupted font style (don’t ask!), and before the techies did their thing, the advice was to change all the offending documents to the acceptable format first. No small ask given the number involved. I am a working writer after all. And then there were all the backups on the external hard drive to check and change as well. Tedious. And time-consuming.

The silver lining that resulted from being without a computer was having no excuse to avoid tidying up my office space, and do some long overdue filing. And no, I’m not a particular fan of filing, but in this case it was as well I didn’t delay it any longer. Last weekend’s heavy rain had resulted in a leak in the stationery and storage cupboard, (in reality a converted built-in wardrobe), which could have gone unnoticed for some time under more normal circumstances.

Despite moving to this house three years ago – the folders, files and boxes that were shoved into this cupboard had never been properly sorted. For all kinds of reasons there had not been time. Now, being computer-free, and on being greeted with several suspiciously damp folders, I had a chance to rescue the various boxes before their contents got too wet, and mouldy. Pulp mill clippings, letters, magazines and journals, as well as other memorabilia, were all at risk, and for some things it was already too late. The worst aspect was being unable to salvage the box of letters from my mother, sent during my first years in Australia, and obviously irreplaceable. They were all sopping and beyond redemption.

Fingers crossed though the leak is fixed, the cupboard’s contents are much better arranged, and more easily accessible. On the whole it’s been a worthy – and sobering – reminder of the extent and wealth of material I have from the long years of the pulp mill campaign – material that is likely to prove invaluable during the course of writing my book.

Goals

Thu, 13 Jul 2017 02:34:00 GMT

An article I read recently in a magazine for writers mentioned those writing goals made so confidently and with such enthusiasm at the beginning of the year, and how many had actually been achieved now we’ve passed the half-way mark. I must admit it resonated, and reminded me of my own New Year’s determination to... Read more »

Location puzzle

Sun, 02 Jul 2017 02:55:00 GMT

We’re currently enjoying seeing the celebrated Downton Abbey series, thanks to the loan of the boxed set of DVDs. I already knew the pile of stones that is the fictional Downton, is really Highclere Castle, a UK stately home I know reasonably well since Highclere village is where my grandmother and aunts lived. I’ve often walked the castle grounds, and toured the house – most memorably in the ’80s after renovations revealed a trove of Tut’s treasures hidden away in a secret cupboard, and later exhibited in the castle basement before being sent off to – presumably – the British Museum. It was a fascinating time.
But while I’m enjoying the Downton story, my disbelief often fails to be entirely suspended because the location simply doesn’t ring true.
Highclere is in Berkshire – a county of lush, rolling and very picturesque English countryside, and which if I’m honest is a bit claustrophobic for one who prefers the wild beauty and clean air of windswept craggy Yorkshire moors. Yet my native Yorkshire is where Downton is set. In the vicinity of Ripon to be precise, so the accents – and the chiselled stone buildings – are all North of England. It therefore jars to see Highclere Castle, which is built of the warm, mellowed red bricks common to the county, taken completely out of context for the purposes of television, and transported to the Yorkshire Dales. It makes me wonder how often this occurs when filming other drama series.
Certainly this series must have been logistically interesting in that respect. A lot of the filming of course was done at Highclere Castle, but then the film crews must have had to hightail it 200-plus miles up the MI for all those Yorkshire scenes at Ripon and Kirbymoorside – and maybe other areas as well where houses and buildings historically right for the period – are located.
Yorkshire has proved a popular location for a number of TV series – and I can remember when ‘Heartbeat’ first screened back in the ‘90s picking the location immediately as Goathland, a village also well-known to me from numerous holidays staying with a close friend and her family, in the cottage they owned there. It gave an extra dimension to my enjoyment spotting all the places that I knew so well, and that were the location for so many of the scenes.

And ‘Last of the Summer Wine’ was filmed a few miles away from where I grew up in West Yorkshire. It’s a show that put Holmfirth on the map, as it were, and it’s profited from the notoriety in all the years since becoming a thriving community that has attracted artists from across the spectrum, and that hosts a renowned arts festival every year.

Meanwhile back to Downton Abbey, where we’re currently somewhere in the middle of series three.

Creating a (mini) native forest

Sun, 11 Jun 2017 03:00:00 GMT

We’d not been at this property long before John began to plant out some of the native bushes and trees he’d already got started from cuttings and seeds before we left the old one. His interest in Australian natives really began when he sought advice from our horticulturist friend and colleague (another John) about establishing a windbreak to protect our hothouses from the strong winds that regularly blow up from the river at certain times of the year. There was a reason for choosing to name our former flower-growing business Seabreeze Flowers!
Twenty-odd years later the windbreak was all grown up and had expanded considerably, and it also included many more species of eucalypt, acacia, and grevilleas, correas and baeckias, etc. from all parts of Australia than it did to begin with. A few exceptions were those from the Northern Territory or far North Queensland, given their chances of survival were slim in Tasmania’s colder climate. Species from these regions were experiments, because they either looked good, had stunning foliage or flowers, or the challenge of getting them to grow just appealed, but it was interesting to realise how many species that hailed from much warmer parts, did actually grow remarkably well if sufficient care was taken to understand the soil and weather conditions they preferred that would assist their survival.
It didn’t take us long to notice that all these trees and bushes attracted many more of the smaller bird varieties to the property, songbirds, honeyeaters, and even a few, like the flame, and scarlet robins, that are now considered vulnerable or threatened species. It also didn’t take us long to notice the absence of these birds at our new place, which is surrounded by farmland rather than bushland, and where our feathered visitors tend to be magpies, butcher birds, green parrots, rosellas, and pink and grey galahs. Even sparrows are a rare sight here.
Soon though this will change. We hope. The acre of paddock that once was home to a couple of Jersey cows – the last in the herd that the property’s retired farmer owners brought with them when they moved here – is slowly but surely being taken over by native trees. Most have been grown and nurtured from seeds and cuttings collected from their parents at the old property, and tended like small children by John, until considered mature enough to make it on their own.

Bullish about Art

Tue, 02 May 2017 02:31:00 GMT

What constitutes art? As it relates to cattle – and specifically how they are slaughtered so we can eat – has been a media focus in Tasmania lately. The fellows in the photo are some of the lucky ones. They are essentially a neighbour’s pets and as such will be able to chew the cud... Read more »

Happy Birthday Aggie cat!

Fri, 31 Mar 2017 05:22:00 GMT

According to the vaccination certificate we received from the RSPCA when we adopted her, Aggie puss turned 19 at some point during March. She’s understandably slowed up a lot, and these days spends most of her days – and nights – sleeping. She certainly poses no threat to wildlife or birds any more either, content to watch them from the window, in the sunniest spot she can find, while she muses perhaps upon her more agile youth, but she remains as glamorous and glossy as she was when we brought her home.

Tomato Harvest 2017 – the beginning

Sun, 12 Mar 2017 22:06:00 GMT

Probably because of the cooler-than-usual January and February, our tomatoes were very slow to ripen this year. That all changed as soon as March arrived – and with it, finally, some hot weather. Almost overnight we went from moaning at the pathetically few specimens ready to pick, to having so many it’s become almost impossible... Read more »

Deadlines

Tue, 28 Feb 2017 23:48:00 GMT

From the outset I was determined not to put pressure on myself in respect of deadlines. This was one writing project where I wasn’t obliged to write to a set deadline, so while I certainly set some goals, I wasn’t going to beat myself over the head if some flexibility was necessary about meeting them. Life after all does have a habit of getting in the way, and it certainly did towards the end of 2015 as preparation for the second Tamar Valley Writers Festival accelerated before this biennial event took place in March 2016. As one of those on the organising committee there was a definite need to juggle priorities.

And all that hard work was worth it, since the Festival provided an unexpected, and unlooked for opportunity to discuss my book project with someone in the publishing industry. As a result of piquing her interest, (which I believe was more than just being polite) there was a genuine offer to contact her with the detailed proposal and synopsis – when I’ve reached that point.

Well, OK, so I haven’t yet arrived at that point, but I’m certainly a lot closer to it than I was, with just two more interviews to go before the hard graft really starts in earnest.

Then it will be a question of finding out if my vision for the book I can see so clearly in my head, will translate into real and readable words, on real and printed pages.

Bruny Island, and red flowering gums

Sun, 12 Feb 2017 23:23:00 GMT

The Eucalyptus ficifolia, or red flowering gums, are beginning to break out in blossom and I’m reminded of our Bruny Island trip last year, and the stunning tree we saw in a garden there while walking down to the jetty to join the Pennicott cruise boat. Tickets to the cruise were the result of a successful bid in a silent auction fundraiser in the aftermath of the April 2015 Nepal earthquake. I still have no idea if I paid over the top for them, or got a really good deal, and it doesn’t matter anyway because goodness knows, the cause was worthy, and the trip more than lived up to expectations. Talk about a wild ride, and thank goodness for the industrial strength waterproof ponchos that were provided – an essential garment given the soaking that was par for the course, even on a fine day!
No guarantees are given about spotting the marine wildlife that abounds in this remote southern Tasmanian coastal region. It’s pure luck as to which species are around on the day, but sadly no dolphins came out to play the morning we went. The colony of Australian fur seals though were another kettle of fish – if you’ll excuse the pun. The rocky outcrops that characterise this region are where the male of the species hang out.

They are batchelors for much of the year, only getting together with the females when it’s time to mate. The boys, both old and young, were plentiful and in full voice. And odour! These fur seals are a federally protected species, and although ungainly and cumbersome while moving about on the rocks, in the water, where the mostly youthful members were having a high old time diving, frolicking, fishing and playing about, it was a different story. There they were sleek, swift and totally at home.

The rich orange of the Bruny specimen was entirely new to us, and naturally my green fingered, native tree-loving partner just had to try and find some seed. Ahem, we did too, without any serious need to trespass (nobody was home, we did check!), and 12 months on there are now two small ficifolias growing well. Because their parent produced orange blossom, I’m assured its offspring will too. Here’s hoping – although quite where they will eventually be put in our increasingly over-crowded garden remains to be seen.

Feeding the birds

Mon, 23 Jan 2017 04:55:00 GMT

We inherited a magpie family when we moved here as the former owner of the house had fed them for years, along with pink and grey galahs, green parrots and noisy minors. There were none of the smaller birds we used to see at our previous property, despite being only a few kms away. There’s less bush and more sheep and cattle-grazing paddocks surrounding us now, which has perhaps got something to do with it, but sparrows, goldfinches, fairy wrens or robins rarely visit, although we’re hoping this may change when all the native bushes and trees John has planted grow up. This micro-forest is an eclectic mix grown from seeds or cuttings collected from their parents at our previous place, and that will, fingers crossed, eventually attract some of the smaller native birds to both feed, nest and take up residence.
I’m ambivalent about feeding the magpies though. For John they are ‘part of the family’ and the weekly shopping list is incomplete if magpie mince isn’t included. Our black and white family flies in every morning in anticipation of their morsel of mince – and it’s true they do sing very melodiously for their breakfast. And tea, since they repeat the exercise in the afternoon when they expect more. Some aren’t averse to trying it on at other odd times of the day, not that it ever does any of them any good.
Feeding the birds was common practice in both our families – we always threw bread crusts and bacon rind onto the back lawn for the birds at home in northern England. Especially during the winter when the weather made fossicking for food tough for our feathered friends. It’s a practice my mother continued to the last, but it was apparent over 40-odd years of visits home how the number and variety of birds slowly changed. Instead of the sparrows, blackbirds, tits and robins that I remembered watching squabble good naturedly over the scraps on the lawn, latterly it was the UK’s large and thuggish magpies, and fat strutting pigeons who swooped in first, and took the lot before the by-now rarely seen smaller songbirds could get a look-in.
There are many magpie colonies where we live now, and there seems to be no shortage of pink and grey galahs either. John has stopped putting out bird seed (thank goodness) because he had to acknowledge it was the galahs who were aggressively taking over the feeder, stopping the more polite, yet surely equally hungry parrots, from taking a turn.
In winter time when food is scarce then feeding native birds is perhaps OK, but I’m not so sure it’s such a good idea to allow them to expect food twice a day, however prettily they ask for it.

Decision

Wed, 11 Jan 2017 01:29:00 GMT

There were always going to be books, films and documentaries made about the campaign to stop the pulp mill. I wasn’t alone in saying this, and in fact so far as documentaries were concerned I was aware there was at least one of these already underway because I was interviewed for it back in 2013. I’ve no idea where this doco’s at, or if it’s been canned. Note to self: need to check.

The campaign to stop the pulp mill had dominated the lives of Tasmanians for over a decade, and like the Franklin Dam campaign before it, Gunns’ pulp mill had become a controversial and divisive issue both nationally and internationally. So while comments were frequently made, both to me and by me, about the books that would eventually be written about this time in Tasmania’s history, it never seriously crossed my mind that I might write one of them.

That notion didn’t really take hold until several people, who were aware of my long involvement in the campaign, independently suggested I do so. I’d already written several pulp mill-related articles, and been invited to write a couple more for inclusion in forthcoming books: Breaking the Boundaries; and, The Fabric of Launceston.
When Gunns folded in 2012, and it was possible to relax a bit with the pulp mill looking less and less likely to ever get up, writing the story of my part in the campaign began to take shape. And in the early part of 2014 I started to seriously visualise the content and context of what I would like this book to be, and how I’d go about writing it – given the first cab off the rank, (The Rise and fall of Gunns Ltd by Quentin Beresford) – had just been published, was selling well and was receiving literary accolades.

The focus of my book would be different.

Lazy days of summer?

Thu, 05 Jan 2017 04:16:00 GMT

Summer. The word conjures up vision of blue skies, beaches, holidays and a relaxation from everyday routines. And every year I buy into that vision too, until the warm weather finally arrives, the garden wakes up, (especially the weeds) and the vegies, the berry vines, and fruit trees start to produce their bounty.

Naturally, the first few handfuls of strawberries are a joy, as is the first taste of everything we have growing here, but as the trickle becomes a flood the time devoted to picking – and preserving – eats further into already crowded days. It’s almost a relief when the flood gradually slows to a trickle once more, and then stops altogether for another year.

Not that I’m complaining. We’re fortunate indeed to have inherited a well established orchard of apple, pear, and hazelnut trees, as well as a large strawberry patch, and a good number of raspberry canes. Disappointingly, and despite looking indecently healthy, these canes produced almost nothing last year, and as a result of the exceptionally wet winter, promptly then turned up their toes, so we shall have to start again with what are to me the best of all fruits.

Currently though I’m knee-deep in boysenberries, which unlike their raspberry cousins, enjoyed all the winter rain and are now prolific. And all from just two cuttings taken from the vine at our previous house. But in the next few days, as they begin to slow down, the thornless blackberries will be ready, along with the tomatoes, so time spent harvesting and preserving is far from over, and probably won’t be for several weeks. What’s that saying about no rest for the wicked?!

So as I juggle the picking and preserving with researching and writing, I’ll look ahead to winter, and some time when I can enjoy snuggling up on the sofa with a good book or two, knowing there’s a freezer full of homegrown produce to see us through the cold days, until spring, and then summer with the inevitable fruit-picking, starts all over again.

Della

Fri, 23 Dec 2016 22:03:00 GMT

We’ve had our dog, Della, for three years. She’s a rescue dog, and was an unexpected Christmas present. We’d been told initially it would be early January before the vet could perform the mandatory de-sexing op prior to adoption, but thanks to a cancellation, her surgery was brought forward, and we were able to collect her on Christmas Eve.

Called ‘Princess’ by the RSPCA staff who’d found her wandering the streets, starving and bedraggled, Della’s background was largely unknown. She’s mixed breed, (but almost certainly with a good dollop of basenji in her ancestry) and was thought to be about seven months old. She’d clearly been abused and mistreated, but according to her short bio was ‘eager to please’. She still is, and three years on is a dog that will always need regular reassurance we aren’t going to run off and abandon her. She loves to hug and be hugged – unusual for a dog – but remains wary of strangers, especially men, which suggests the trauma she suffered as a pup continues to linger, and may always do so, and that’s sad.

Although none of our previous animals were named immediately, we had to come up with an alternative to Princess pretty quickly to satisfy the RSPCA’s paperwork. We’ve always relied on the quirks of their personalities to provide clues about what to call our animals, even if it meant they remained nameless for a week or so.

Several names were considered and discarded before we settled on Della – a name suggested by a friend, and that was inspired by Nelson Mandela, who had died a few weeks previously. And Della is a gentle, loving soul (most of the time) so the name is well-chosen, and suits her well.

Hello World

Tue, 20 Dec 2016 22:00:00 GMT

Welcome, and all the best for a happy new year as we prepare to wave cheerio to this one, and greet the next. For me, 2017 is the start of my website and blog adventure so if you’ve stumbled upon this space by accident I hope you’ll hang around, check it out, and return often. You’ll always be welcome.

The year that was certainly proved to be a rollercoaster in many ways, but putting aside the big picture stuff for the moment, for me 2016 proved to be decision time so far as finally hanging out my shingle in cyberspace is concerned. The catalyst was the inclusion of two essays in a couple of books published earlier this year, ( Breaking the Boundaries: Australian activists tell their stories ; and The Fabric of Launceston) and starting work on my own story about an environmental campaign in Tasmania that both united and divided a community. More of that to come in future posts.

A blog after all is really an online diary, but diaries are personal, and a blog isn’t so I’m still coming to terms with the realisation that a largely unknown audience is likely to read this, just like all those published articles I’ve written over the years are read by an unknown audience. And it shouldn’t feel different, and it shouldn’t really bother me, but for some inexplicable reason it does. Bear with me. I’m sure I’ll find my comfort zone in a little while. Maybe I’ll give this blog a personality and name, like Anne Frank did with her famous diary, and pretend I’m writing a letter. This blog after all is mine to play with and develop as I wish – so hope you’ll join me on the journey.

Best Laid Plans

Mon, 19 Dec 2016 22:44:00 GMT

Deciding to write a book is one thing. It’s the easy bit. The reality was discovering things don’t always go smoothly, or according to plan. And so it was with this grand idea. Towards the end of 2013 we decided it was time to finally wind up the flower growing business, and downsize, so in January 2014 our house was on the market, and we were preparing to pack up and move to the one we’d bought. Unsurprisingly therefore there wasn’t a lot of time devoted to book planning in the first six months of that year other than the planning that went on inside my head.

We’d no sooner moved in to our new property, and got more or less settled, when the rapidly failing health of my mum required me to drop everything and go to the UK to be with her and my family. Much of 2015 was taken up with dealing with the practicalities resulting from the death of a parent, and the book project stalled once again.
By this time though I knew where it was going. Previously rather hazy and unformed ideas had firmed up and crystalised, and I’d already made the initial approach to those people I’d come to know during the campaign, nearly all of whom I was unlikely to ever have crossed paths with otherwise. So by the time the latter part of 2015 arrived I was ready, and keen to finally start doing interviews.

There was no going back now. I was on my way.