Dabbling...

...for Knots in the String.

When you open this on Saturday, I may perhaps be far up the coast from our home, in a place called Bay of Fires. He and I need some time out and away where there is hopefully little phone coverage. We need seclusion, him probably to sleep and me to walk over red-stained rocks and wade into and out of rockpools with the terrier.

Perhaps I should say dabbling, not wading because dabbling is such a wonderfully parochial word. I had a look at https://www.etymonline.com and it read ‘dabble (v.)1550s, "to dip a little and often," hence "to wet by splashing," probably a frequentative of dab. Figurative sense of "do superficially" attested by 1620s.’

And I thought ‘Yes, that’ll do… dabbling…’

As I write this, we are coming to the end of shearing and a false sense of security, given to us by the mildest weather this last week. But now, the lounge is dark with the storm that is progressing over us, the kind of thing for which the Weather Bureau puts out sheep weather alerts.

Amongst the buzz of the shearing machines and the shearers calling to the rousies (roustabouts – shed hands who pick up the shorn fleeces and cast them onto the skirting table, sweep wool from the board and move sheep around the shed) I can only imagine the language and angst as husband and son try to get as many full-wool sheep under cover in the shearing shed and as many as possible of the already shorn sheep into sheltered paddocks.

All this for a wool-market which has predictably dropped in the last few days. We do grow nice merino wool but honestly, who’d be a farmer?

My Time

Apart from cooking non-stop for the shearing shed, you mean?

*I’ve gardened – nurturing the new hellebores I ordered (lellow ones – in case you’re wondering.) and making sure the wind hasn’t blown the anti-possum wire off the tulip tubs.

*Found the tiniest little nest in one of the Japanese maples and marvelled at the weaving of moss, horsehair, broom bristles, dog hair and fine hairlike twigs. Clever little wren.

*Picked some camellia sprigs hanging over a fence into the street and within moments of being placed in the vase, all petals lay on the bench like a mini snow-storm. Not a great fan of camellias.

*Written heaps and still The End is like some far distant destination through dangerous mists and across fragile rope bridges strung across deep chasms…

*The Brenda Kinsel tapestry clutch bag continues to grow (when I concentrate on each row, stitch in the right direction when I’m watching TV and don’t have to unpick whole blocks).

*I tangled in the dog’s lead, falling with my right leg completely caught up. The dog kept running and took my right leg with him and I think I’ve successfully re-torn one or two of last year’s healed glutes.

Amazingly I still love the terrier but some might ask why…

*And so we walk, with me hoppity-hopping with him. We walked along a lane today, overlooked by almost bare poplars and denuded blackberries. We flushed out a bush pigeon with a clack-flack of its wings while a little rivulet chuntered beside us. The terrier was overcome with a battery of new odours but all I could smell was fungus, winter grass and damp soil – a heady enough fragrance. At that point it was mild, and sunny enough for me to walk in short sleeves, the day before the first day of winter.

Do folk still deny climate change?

They be fools, I think.

Reading:

Kindle – still reading CJ Archer’s The Medici Manuscript. She writes a pacy book, that’s for sure.

Print – despite the physical heaviness of the tome, I’m thoroughly enjoying Gyles Brandreth’s bio of Elizabeth II. It’s describing her exactly as I hoped her to be. We are familiar with the public face, the committed service face, but Brandreth had access to the closest members of the Royal Family and thus this portrait is more nuanced and personal.

Audio – Simon Turney’s and Gordon Doherty’s collaboration – Sons of Rome. This is massively good writing. I cannot split the style between the two writers and there is depth of character and a rising tension as the two protagonists age through Rome’s unwieldy Tetrarchy. Turney and Doherty are well known for their attention to detailed research and they have looped enough fact through the narrative to give a startlingly believable setting. The narrator is a favourite of mine – Jonathan Keeble – and his ability to read and maintain character is stellar. Not knowing any Roman history is a bonus as I have no way of predicting any outcome. Onwards now to the end.

On Substack, a poignant story from New Zealand about a woman and her dog

The dog and the painting

And a rollicking post from one of my favourite breaths of fresh air – Lady Jo just

So, my personality hasn't changed much in a decade. Well maybe a bit.

keeps giving.

Watching:

The Summit I admire the grit and determination of the contestants but it’s all a bit Survivor-ish – hanging in there for a bit of money. Why is Alone better? One learns about the human mind, about spirit and growth. About country and about real survival against the odds.

Queer Eye on Netflix – wonderful series designed to help people (LGBTQI and straight) find their best selves. I really love the Fab Five. They can be my best friends any time.

Fubar on Netflix with Arnold Schwarznegger. My husband likes it, I’m a bit ‘meh’. I compare every spy series with Spooks and nothing is as good. I do rather like Arnie’s comedic timing though.

The Royal Chelsea Flower Show on Britbox and which I’m eking out so that it lasts. Falling in love with the Nurture Garden by Sarah Price sent me down a rabbit hole to learn about Cedric Morris and Benton End and the East Anglian School of Painting and Drawing. About Sarah Cook’s worldwide hunt to find the 90 iris types that Morris bred. The colours are so immensely subtle that I do hope she manages to locate them and that ultimately, they will be available to common gardeners like me. Although I have a sinking feeling – not in my lifetime.

Michael Palin in North Korea – fascinating if frightening look at a circumscribed population.

And so tomorrow, the terrier and I will have a last walk on our own patch before we depart for the north-eastern reaches. We’ll be partnered on our beach by pairs of smartly black and white pied oyster catchers and a constant flock of five hooded dotterels. They scoop out over the water as we approach and then flip back onto the shore behind us with absolutely no intention of migrating north from this safe and sheltered shoreline for the season – I count them daily and the number never changes.

Flocks of Pacific black ducks dabble along the shoreline, moving in as the human incomers finally move out with the approaching winter (thank the stars).

The terrier has no interest in shore birds – he’s a shell seeker after all.

I’ll come home, make a cup of tea and find some images to pair with this newsletter and set it to be delivered on Saturday.

I shall experience hiraeth while I’m gone. Perhaps that might be a post to be written about one day.

Who knows?

For music this week? This one. It has a laidback vibe. A ‘dabbling’ kind of vibe, which is just what I want to do over the weekend.

PS: No bikinis - it’s winter here. Although I may venture into the water in swimsuit and radiator top.