Slip and squelch...

... for Knots in the String.

So damned wet!

We have had over 63 mls of rain in two days at the farm – the paddocks are soggy, the sheep are longing for sunshine as they squelch through the last few days before lambing, we can’t get onto the paddocks to drop bales of dry lucerne hay and it’s going to be life and limb stuff, getting round the flocks to check them.

(Photo taken on a fine day last week but one can see the water running down the stocklane)

There have been three years of wet seasons now and as one farmer said to my son the other day, it’s easier to manage flocks in a drought than these godawful conditions. Mind you, if we ever see drought again, I’m sure farmers will change their minds.

Our farm is hilly – very hilly – and my husband and son have already been involved in ATV accidents. (My husband’s terrible accident inspired Annie’s story in Passage). My son almost lost his lower leg when an ATV tipped sideways and crashed onto his calf. Since then of course, we have purchased a UTV with roll-cage, seatbelts and speed-governors but accidents can still happen. Farming might seem like a bucolic event where time is spent leaning on a gatepost admiring the ever-changing palette of greens and umbers or listening to the most perfect bird choruses or admiring the way a wedge-tailed eagle uses the up-draughts of our hills to hover in a moment of magic. In truth it’s a business like any other but filled with the stress of caring for not just the lives of living things, but for a whole environment.

Without a healthy environment, there’s no healthy farm.

(The top dam on the same fine day is chokkas)

Last week, we collected another 400 trees to plant on the property, that’s over a thousand we’ve planted thus far with more to come. We hope to create a micro-climate (God knows we need it in this time of climate change), with the added benefit of shelters for wildlife and farm stock. My husband has very strong ideas of the kind of positive legacy he wishes to leave behind and I love him for that. He has a very measured approach to the business of farming, always looking for the best, not necessarily the most traditional, method of working. He steps outside the square and thinks outside the box.

But as I write, the easterly mist drifts in again and shrouds the landscape as if with organza. Against the dark patina of trees, one can see the drifts of moisture – what I call ‘wet’ rain. One even breathes it. There’s more than just petrichor, there’s the fragrance of cherry plum blossom trying so hard to show its spring brilliance, the heady odour of bright yellow narcissi, the clinging smell of damp wool and above it all, wet dog and a batch of triple choc cookies fresh from the oven.

We’re told it’ll be wet on and off until at least December when La Ninã and the Indian Ocean Dipole might just drift away. By the stars, I hope so.

In the meantime, I’m busting out and drinking a hot chocolate made with marshmallows and Lindt chocolate flakes.

Maybe I can dance it all off at the barre tomorrow.

My Time:

I used to call this part of my newsletter Boredom Busters but My Time sounds less harsh and more real. Boredom Busters sounds as if it belongs to someone who is apt to be bored and may live a narrow kind of life. I’d hope that’s not me – because apart from when I’m in the city, I’m never bored. There’s always something to do, be it working on the manuscript, gardening, cooking and best of all, walking. Walking (and I don’t mean ambling where one’s heart-rate barely shifts) is something my dog and I love. Of course, we have to stop at all things he finds interesting so it’s a bit of a stop-start peregrination, but he’s a lively terrier and so he likes to trot along. Suits me.

Tomorrow is ballet day (my favourite day) and I’ve just spent valuable writing time chasing up a navy leotard and ballet skirt I ordered in July. They tell me it will be early September before delivery. So navy leggings and white yoga top for the foreseeable.

Reading:

On audio I’m still listening to The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart by Holly Ringland. There’s aspects I love about this book. But equally, there’s aspects I don’t; it’s a very personal thing. I will say that Ringland has an innate love of the Australian Outback and it sings under her penmanship. The other point I praise Ringland for is her wordage. I love her style. But a good editor may have stopped unresolved threads being introduced to the story. Nevertheless, it’s still a book that’s worth the read.

On Kindle, I’ve almost finished Wolfskin by Juliet Marillier. Haunting, such a ballad!

And in print, a coffee table book called A Tree in the House by Annabel Hickson. Rather beautiful. You’ll never walk by a fallen branch or twig again, without wondering just how you could arrange it in your home.

Watching:

The final of DI Roy. Kind of expected the ending and a bit sick of her dour face, but solid police drama.

Finished watching the latest iteration of Persuasion. Truth? Watery. Nothing like other productions and I felt it didn’t pay due homage to Jane Austen.

Grand Canal Journeys with the two new hosts – Sheila Hancock and Gyles Brandreth. I began this in trepidation. I grieve for the loss of Timmy and Pru, the original presenters of the series. I grew to love them and loved the way they re-fired my interest in classical drama and poetry. As the first (new) episode began, I thought, nope, can’t do it, but I was stitching hearts at the time and couldn’t put the needle down to get the TV controls. The longer I sat with it, the more Sheila and Gyles disarmed me, not least because like Pru and Tim, they’re of an age I relate to. Suffice to say I’m hooked again.

I’m at the point in my all my viewing where I must sit and flick through my wish lists on Britbox, SBS On Demand and Netflix to see what new series grab my attention. If you’ve watched any you like, let me know.

So that’s it for this week. Outside, the sky is breaking up a little and whilst there’s big Cumulonimbus heads on high, and ethereal mists down low, one can see odd patches of light and even a shy blue. Can it mean we’re done with the worst?

I hope so.

Cheers.