The calendar says mid-winter, but my garden doesn't think so - despite the snow that fell a few weeks ago, and the frosts that have fallen upon us from time to time.

I emptied the compost bin a day ago, harvesting barrow loads of dark, rich compost and working it in around the young vegetables.  A good dose of water on top of that and the seedlings that had been sitting close to the ground, waiting for the next icy blast, are suddenly standing proud, enjoying the sunshine.

and the flowers are happy, too....

Meanwhile, on the far side of The City on the Plain, where the Great Eastern Firebreak begins, there is no sign of winter at all....

I suppose Winter will be back to take another swipe at our little Valley on the Mountain, but until it does, we'll keep on enjoying the balmy weather and sunshine...

The only thing that is missing from this early spring is our friend, Charlie the Copperhead snake - and I'm sure he'll be in the picture soon...

Round Each New Corner....

The road goes ever on and on, said the Hobbit, and thus it is also with work in the garden.  As you near the end of one stretch of edging, weeding, or pruning, another space presents itself to the eyes and wakens the imagination, as it asks you to attend to its particular needs or potentials.

Spade an edge clear of twisting, burrowing tendrils of grass, making a clean border twixt lawn and garden, and the neat line of fresh soil calls attention to the weeds lurking between favoured plants, or highlights the dying tussocks that now slump down across next winter's daffodils and next spring's irises.

Though the spade in your hand still has more work to do, other tools are calling - hoe, weeder, secateurs, and rake, all crying out for their chance in the sun.  A bare patch of soil is begging for a cutting, seedling or rhizome from some other, overcrowded corner of the garden.  Perhaps the shade that covers that bare patch says violets, or the bright sunlight asks for a daisy or gazania. 

A newly mowed lawn makes even a slightly dishevelled herb or flower bed look like the proverbial sore thumb - though a wind such as the one that galloped through the Blue Mountains last night and this morning will soon cover such distinctions in a carpet of tattered leaves and torn twigs, and the grass rake will stand up eagerly, hoping for employment.  And so the work begins anew - and all the while the words are gathering in an unused corner of your mind, preparing to leap onto the page when you return to your desk.

For me, the routine work of the garden - be that garden a few square metres next to the house, or a few acres of squarely spaced watermelon or pumpkin vines unfurling their first large leaves towards the sun - is a meditative time in which my mind can wander far and wide across memories both past and future, undisturbed by the demands of society. 

Characters long forgotten, or newly created, can act out their parts on the broad stage of our imagination, unfettered by mere reality, while the hoe continues inflicting its routine, repetitive destruction on the weeds that have dared colonise the territories around these favoured plants of mine.

Tempus Fugit

With all my creative efforts going into the final chapter of my novel, and most of my remaining time going into preparing for the oncoming fire season - mowing and clearing - as well as helping out with a variety of family issues, I've lost track of my blogging - again.  In the absence of any writerly thoughts to offer you, can I instead present a few instances of the beauty that surrounds me, whenever I have the good sense to get outside and enjoy it....?

Australia's own jacaranda - a white cedar about to bloom

The bush has so many tiny treasures - we just need to move slowly enough to see them

The grape vines along my garden fence, enjoying Spring rain and sunshine

Wonders Unseen in Plain Sight

A few months ago, Spring seemed to have arrived early, but when the calendar rolled on into October, Winter reclaimed our Mountains.  The rains we had wished for so fervently began to seem endless - the parched grass and gardens suddenly flourished in a tide of verdancy and blossom, and lower parts of our yard began to squelch underfoot - the frogs loved it, though, as did our Magpie landlords, when the earthworms were forced up to the surface to swim for high ground.

Now, as the final month of Spring approaches, and the soft green leaves burst from the twigs of Plane and Oak and Alder, Summer has charged onto the scene, and the many scaly and feathered denizens of our little vale are getting their sunbaking done early, before the sun begins to bite too hard.

Earlier, as I walked to the village shops, I found one of our resident Magpies "spread-eagled" on a patch of dry mulch at the foot of the hedge.  For one horrified moment I looked at a pile of ruffled, outstretched, black and white feathers that looked like it had been put to its rest with a cricket bat, but as soon as I spoke, his head rose.  He looked over one fluffed up shoulder as if to say "do you mind?" and settled back to his repose in the sunshine.  He was in the shade when I returned, quietly practicing a tune for future display.

I was reminded of a thought that comes to me around this time every year.  What a wonder it is to be able to walk down a tree-shaded avenue when the sun is casting so much heat in my direction; if it weren't for those delicate green membranes that stretch out from twig and branch to capture that sunlight, life would be far less pleasant.

The sunlight that would make the pavement too hot to walk upon, or sear the grass and herbs that lurk in the coolness beneath the spreading tree-branches, is caught and broken up by that fragile leaf. 

Some is thrown back into the air to give us the lush greens that delight our eyes, and some is locked up in chemical bonds that join simple molecules of water and carbon dioxide into basic sugars, a result of the photosynthetic micro-factories that make up so much of each leaf.

How much of that heat does a leaf gather from the sunlight and conceal in the valence bonds of the sugar it creates? 

Put a match to a dried leaf, or to a pile of leaves, come Autumn, and warm your hands by the flame for a while - quite a bit, isn't it? The leaves feed the twigs and branches, and build a world so different from the one that would exist without them.  Truly wonderful stuff, all that heat captured and stored safely for future use as food for caterpillars, or sheep, or cattle - or as mulch to nourish and nurture other plants.

Looking Up

Two weeks ago I was enjoying the verdancy produced by the late September rains, while worrying it would not be enough to break the drought.  196 mm of rain later (almost 8 inches) and two almost continuous weeks of low cloud, rain, and dampness creeping into everything, and the lake is overflowing, the creek is carrying tons of water over the Falls towards Lake Burragorang, and life is flourishing.  The true owners of our Spring garden are now over-running all corners of it.....

The constant downpours sent many of the marauding molluscs up the tree trunks, but the flood they were fleeing did not eventuate, and now they are coming back down to munch on the tastier parts of the vegetation.....

The rain of this month alone has deposited almost 600,000 litres of water - 600 tons - on our property, and more is seeping in from the places uphill.  The frogs are calling in great numbers, the birds are excited, and I am jumping at sudden skittering noises among the leaves, as I walk around the place. 

After encountering that Copperhead a few weeks ago, my snake-alertness levels have risen.  Also rising fast are the numbers of tiny Skinks that are seeking warmth and food in every corner of the garden.  So far, the rustling and skittering has all been from those tiny, scaly slivers of lizard, dashing for cover as I crash about.  Their parents and grandparents seem to know me well enough not to bother spoiling their sunbaking when I pass, but the tiny ones seem to fear everything that moves - and rightly so, as many of our birds would see them as a perfect snack for the squalling nestlings constantly calling for food, and the smaller snakes, too, would not pass up such opportunities.

When I walk to the village in the mornings, I often pass some time chatting with our local baker - if that is the right term, as he does a lot more than just bread and pastries.  He has been cooking german style food in the same place for decades, and is known well beyond this neighbourhood.  The other morning, as he was opening the big, canvas umbrellas that shelter the outdoor tables between his front door and the street, he told me that one of the things he loves about Australia is that, no matter what the season, he always has flowers in his garden.

He's right - we live in a wonderfully fortunate place.  His home town was somewhere well into the hills and forests of Bavaria, and he has often told tales of the great depths of snow that would pile up around and upon the buildings.  At times, it was possible to open a window on the upper floor of his mother's house and step straight out onto level snow.  That depth of cold is unthinkable to someone like me, who grew up on the Cumberland Plain, and was astounded if there was frost on the lawn.

Here in the Blue Mountains, which most Sydney-siders regard as the cold place up the other end of the M4 Motorway, we see seasonal waves of brilliant blossom roll through our gardens, providing highlights above and amid a constant flourishing of so many different plants, native and exotic.  In fact, the poorest time for blossoms is late Summer, when even the "cold" mountains can wilt under 35 to 45 degree (Celsius) heatwaves, and week-long blasts of hot wind from the interior of the continent.

Still, late Summer is a great time for the Roses, and, in my back garden, there will usually be a sea of yellow as the Pumpkins - intentional and self sown - make their annual dash for immortality, and keep the bees happy in the process.  It is a wonderful world we live in, may we all treat it kindly.

Not What it Looks Like

The aridity of late Winter was eased by early Spring rains - more rain is falling on The Mountains, and across The City on The Plain as I sit and watch the birds fossicking amid the falling petals...

There was wind yesterday, scattering petals in sudden gusts that made the parrots and rosellas sound the alarm and flee for the trees along the creek, like minnows scattering when a pebble lands amid the school.  It is rarely very long before they are back at the feeder, squabbling over precedence like petty politicians at the annual photo-op with the VIP.  If the birds were absent for more than a minute or two I would be outside, hoping to see a hawk or eagle circling - not that they would be seeing much today...

As lush as our garden has suddenly become, and as damp as everything looks, there is no extra water running down the creek to the Kedumba River and the great reservoir behind Warragamba Dam.  Our lake at the head of the valley is still lower than I have ever seen it, and will need inches of rain to lift it to the level of the overflow - sorry, Sydney, we are keeping all of this batch for ourselves.

We promise to enjoy it, though...

Perhaps there will be apricots before Christmas.....

Is Spring Sprung?

When does Spring begin in eastern Australia?  Specifically, I am thinking about Spring in the Blue Mountains of NSW - the jonquils began flowering before Autumn had ended, and the daffodils were in full flight half way through Winter, so they aren't valid indicators.  Some say that the first day of Spring here is the beginning of September, while others plump for the equinox.  My cherry trees seemed to think the equinox about right....

while Jack Frost wanted to argue the point.....

but, in this part of Australia, there is one sure sign that Winter has left the building, and that's when the firewood you were going to pick up for the BBQ decides it doesn't want to be collected.....

Although this garden is a kilometre above sea level, and there had been a nice frost at daybreak, by morning tea-time this little girl was out soaking up the sunshine.  At not quite a meter long, she is a nice specimen of a Highland Copperhead - venomous, but not aggressive unless badly treated.  In fact, they are considered one of the shy snakes of Australia, and I had only a few seconds to get photos before she was sliding towards a clump of shrubbery that offered shelter from Kookaburras and annoying paparazzi....

My wife says she didn't see any snake when she was picking up sticks in that same part of the garden only ten minutes earlier - was it not there, or did it succeed in pretending it wasn't?  In any event, I think we can declare Spring is sprung.

Good Neighbours

The growl of a neighbour's lawn-mower has been obvious for an hour or so, and now, as the wind shifts, that wonderful scent of fresh-mown grass and clover is drifting in through one window and down the length of the house, searching for an exit. 

Other, more distant, mowers have woken from their dry-winter slumbers over recent days, and even mine has poked its nose out of the garden shed for a little exercise, smashing the drifts of brown plane-tree leaves to a less water-repellent compost.  It's back in the shed now, waiting for another warm spell, and the rosellas and other birds are, I think, grateful.  All those areas yet unmowed are thick with tiny flowers and little seeds and subtle herbs that feed the birds, or feed the things upon which some of the birds feed.

As well as crimson rosellas, king parrots, and various honey-eaters, the finches, silver-eyes, wrens, magpies, currawongs, and kookaburras all look happy exploring the explosion of life that is our little vale in spring time.  Even ducks and herons call in from time to time.

We humans and our machines are well behind the times, though - long before any of us thought of mowing, those first good showers of rain swept in a few weeks ago and woke the green shoots across the brick-bare earth beyond the front hedge, where the passing shoes and boots of locals and tourists had seemed to have worn the grass to dust. Within weeks there were patches of grass long enough to dampen the shoes, and even the socks, of travellers.

The moisture softened what had seemed impenetrable, and suddenly there were thousands of little holes and twisted coils of worm-castings as the hidden workers woke, wriggled, and flourished - opening, aerating, and fertilizing the soil.  The earth-worms do for free what would otherwise cost us many hours and dollars.  Few humans would willingly work as long and as hard as the worms do, and fewer would achieve the improvements these labourers contribute to the world they draw sustenance from.

Hidden buds swelled and opened, and just as suddenly, the bees were humming and buzzing in throngs as they searched through the hedges, herbs and vegetable gardens.  Stems and twigs that seemed beaten down or even killed by the frost and bitter winds of winter found new suppleness - verdant or rosey blushes spread, and flowers that seemed unlikely a few weeks ago now draw crowds of avian and apian admirers as they trade nectar for procreative assistance.

Beautiful in its own right, this dance of insect and plant creates a wealth of food - honey, fruit, berries, and vegetables - and it happens whether we are watching or not.  We can help, if we are careful, by fostering the growth of the plants that will provide food and shelter for all those natural workers - many of whom we rarely notice or know -and avoiding acts that will harm them.

How can we know if we are doing good or ill?  That is a task that will occupy lifetimes of taking the five senses out into the garden and the bush - our lifetimes, and those that came before us, written or recorded for our benefit.  There are those who will teach us, if we are willing to live out there with them, touching, smelling, tasting, seeing, and hearing.

Warming up

The transition from winter to spring seems to have been more precise and punctual than is usual for the Blue Mountains.  Winter was clear, dry, and often frosty. 

The wind arrived to blow the frost away, and our lake became a bonsai version of a storm-tossed ocean.

The snow, when it fell, settled mostly on the ranges beyond the Cox's River, and only a few flakes drifted across our gardens when the wind swung a little.  Finally, the rain arrived.

The blossoms that had been latent were suddenly bright in bush and garden.....

The bees were suddenly spoiled for choice....

Everywhere I walk there is life.  The warming soil and air has brought out that amazing community of worms and insects and lizards and birds that aerates our soils, pollinates our fruit and vegetables, and eats the aphids, bugs, and caterpillars that try to set up colonies on our favourite plants. 

The magpies are dashing frantically to and from the heights of the tallest pine tree in the neighbourhood, ferrying a constant supply of worms, grubs, and donated mince to the demanding maws of this year's clutch of chicks.

The kookaburras are back, too - greeting the first rays of sunshine with their cheerful chorus, and patrolling the edges of our gardens, picking off the early skinks, while hoping for larger fare in the form of an snake or two.

Every season, in a place like this, has its pleasures and its wonders, but there is a lot to be said for the first few weeks of spring.

Frost and Feathers

This year in the Blue Mountains, Summer hung on well into Autumn's allotted months, and Winter has only finally begun to fight its way into the valley on top of the mountain.  It's first assaults were brief forays, soon pushed back by balmy days and drying winds.

But at last, after some rain, a little snow fell.  It soon melted, but since then frosts have taken control of the mornings, and the scent of wood fires has permeated the evenings. The rhythm of the day has changed.  The kookaburras don't bother with their dawn chorus until the sun has properly climbed into the blue, and the magpies don't come looking for their breakfast treat until the golden light has reached over the tree tops and begun to melt the ice that seals the top of the bird bath.

Before the rays of warmth get past the trees, there is already movement - a pair of red-browed finches sorting through the remants of yesterday's offering to the rosellas and parrots.  Tiny bundles of pale olive-brown, visible only because of their bright red visor, they seem comfortable in a landscape stilled and muted by a thin layer of frost.

White crystals rest on the twigs and leaves, and lay on the grass like the finest muslin.  Nearby, the broccoli leaves show dark green through the white veins of ice, and the cauliflower leaves seem grey instead of the blue-green that daylight will give them.  When the frost has smoked away in the sun's warmth, all the brassicas, even the cabbages, will show some variation of green, but with a hint of blue that seems irresistable to the red whiskered bulbuls and the satin bower birds.

Some of the yellow jonquils and white narcissus are already blossoming, undeterred by the frost and snow, while the apple trees that mistakenly flowered in May are blushing now at their error, and trying to hunker down for the Spring that wasn't really here.

As soon as the first rays of the sun reach into the clearing in front of the house, the larger birds arrive too. They are abundant, colorful, and noisy - food can be scarce at this time of year, so the offerings we make tend to draw a crowd.

The brilliant green shoulders and ripe-tomato breasts of the king parrots, and the brilliant crimson and blue of the rosellas brighten the the almost bare limbs of the oak tree, and their squabbling for the best twigs shakes a few more brown leaves to the ground.

The male crimson rosellas spend the first few minutes blustering at each other like miniature, brightly coloured sea lions on the mating beaches of the southern ocean.  Rising up on their talons, they bump chests and make threats with their beaks, while chittering and chirruping loudly.  Each confrontation is over in moments, and, unlike the sea lions, blood is never drawn.

When the crisp black and white of the magpies swoops in towards the veranda, everyone ducks for cover.  All returns to normal as soon as the magpies begin singing, and the smaller birds know that the butcher bird and currawong won't dare come near them.  Our landlords, the magpies, are jealous of their property rights - parrots, honeyeaters, finches, wrens, spinebills, and silvereyes are all treated as part of the scenery, but the magpies do not welcome their cousins into their territory.

The smaller birds take no chances, though, and flit through the shadows of the shrubs and bushes in the gardens, brief glimpses of brown, black and white, yellow,and buff,  scattering tiny chiming peals as they keep track of friends and family.  When they lay claim to territory, they are careful to do so from within the thickets, where they can keep a careful watch out for the bigger birds that might threaten them.

When every tree top is full of sunlight, the sky fills with the screeching of yellow crested white cockatoos, holding loud, long range conversations as they decide which of their favoured foraging grounds to visit first.  Soon, when the day is full, the tiny bells and the larger chirps and squawks will fall silent, as even the parrots seek shelter from the occasional hawk that patrols the ridge beyond the creek.

They'll be back, though, with all their colour and music, when the shadows stretch out from the trees to cross the lawns and clearings, and the latent frost of tomorrow begins nipping at ears and noses that are braving the clear evening air of Winter.

The Early Bird

As the season cools towards winter, the flow of life in and out of my gardens is changing, too. The longer nights are generally quieter - lacking the shrilling of crickets and percussion ensemble of the various frogs along the creek and in the swamp.  Around midnight there is usually at least one burst of possum snarling, as territory is claimed and reclaimed, but, after the boundaries are sorted, silence returns.

Have they nothing to say, or are they anticipating the increasing hunger of roaming foxes? - always busier, it seems, in the colder weather.  Perhaps it is the foxes, too, that postpone the dawn chorus of small birds - finches, wrens, and silvereyes - until the first rays of sunshine reach in among the branches and make the world just that bit safer for the smallest denizens.

The first sign of bird life is generally the chorus of kookaburras, telling the rest of us that the eastern sky is changing from black to grey.  The magpies and currawongs are usually next, renewing their claim to lookout tree, nesting place, and grassy hunting grounds.  When they call, you know the sun is not far below the horizon.

Once the early, yellow light has banished the nocturnal predators - fox, cat and owl - to their diurnal shelters, the tiny birds give voice from within the tangle of twigs and thorns.  The satin birds begin to sortie out of the denser foilage, seeking berry and fruit, and the crimson rosellas appear to brighten the world.

This is a time when the shadows are long enough to give ample hiding places to the hunted, and the sky is bright enough to silhouette the early hawks and falcons.

In that still, cool, perfect early light, two crimson rosellas - brilliant red and blue - jinked and swerved through to trees to check out the feeder in the small oak tree.  Often loud and tuneful, they swooped in silence, and checked out their destination from the safety of the neighbouring liquidambar.  Their reflexive caution made me wonder if the cat from two doors up has again been conducting dawn patrols through the adjacent camellias.

Reconnaissance completed, they fluttered down into the feeder bowl and broke their fast, all the while conducting a softly muttered conversation.  The soft chirps and whistles didn't stop as I walked by on my way to the village - they know the humans who belong here, as do the magpies, and king parrots, and the cuckoo doves who spend part of each year here.  If they are gone when I return from the shops, the magpies will be waiting on the veranda rail for me, hoping for a treat, and the black ducks will be grazing across the lawn above the creek, where the fractal edge of tree-shadow gives them a sense of safety.  It would be a poor world without them.

As the day warms and the shadows tuck themselves in closer to the tree trunks, the birds seem to retreat as well, but the shadows will reach out again as the air cools, and the tide of life will flow again across the garden.

Small Wonders

Easter is past, and the calendar claims that Autumn is upon us.  While some of the trees are trying to agree.....

the vegetables aren't so sure.  The bees are still finding food from unexpected sources, as a late batch of corn blooms in our garden (we picked some today - sweet, and plenty more to come, which is unusual, as the frosts should have arrived by now).  The tomatoes and beans are still offering up food, while the pumpkins have ripened nicely - at the same time as the cabbage, cauliflower, brocolli, onion, and pea seedlings are all burgeoning.  A day ago the snow peas opened their first blossoms, so that it something to look forward to.

Other insects and small life are busy, too, and a porch light left on overnight attracted moths to the wall beneath it - to the delight of this tiny spider....

Yet, when I went fishing out along the Cox's River a couple of days ago, the algae that normally send the water green during the hot, slow days of Summer was flourishing.....

Flourishing to the extent that a blue-green algae warning was issued the next day for Lake Lyell, a few kilometres downstream from where this picture was taken. If you are wondering why there are no fish-pix, the big ones all got off after brief tussles - only the tiny ones were willing to pose for a photo.

My Time of the Year

Suddenly it is Autumn - after months of trying to keep the water up to the fruit trees and vegetable gardens, the clouds, heavy with rain, have drifted in among the trees along the creek.

On a sunny day, that rust-coloured casuarina, beyond the orchard, would be humming with bees - now it is silent but for the steady drip of rain sliding down its needles to the creek below.  The garden itself is in transition; autumn sowings of peas and brassicas and onions are beginning to sprout, while the corn and pumpkins continue to ripen.

The pumpkins seem to have enjoyed the long hot summer - all self sown, and turning up all over the garden.

The garden is thick with all the usual birds, feasting on the bounty that warm weather brings, and the migrants are wandering through as well - the grey fantails have been dancing about in the bushes and along the vegie beds.

The Grey Fantail, subtle cousin to the exuberant Willy Wagtail

In this part of Australia, Autumn is probably the finest season - it is abundant, beautiful, and comfortable.  The soil is still warm, the work of Spring and Summer is coming to fruition as the pumpkins and corn cobs swell, and the apples attain their perfect colours. 

 A leaf curling spider has found a perfect place amid the corn.

Beans, tomatoes, and zucchinis lurk in every corner of the vegetable beds and the trees, even as they prepare for Winter, are putting out one last spurt of growth.  Every season has its own beauty, but Autumn, after the searing heat and dry wind of Summer, though anticipating the frost and the snow to come, is the happiest of times.

As the weather eases, and moisture returns to the bush and the gardens, we can again indulge in the luxury of a campfire in the backyard, without fear of alarming the neighbours or the local fire brigade.

Even a soggy King Parrot makes a great addition to an Oak Tree in Autumn