November catch-up

It’s been a wet couple of weeks to end November.

Last weekend, we went for a bush walk, in the rain.

It was lovely being alone on the track. Just Mr and me. We only passed two other couples. Things looks, sound and smell differently in the rain. Some tree trunks are orange and red. The rain muffles all other sounds, except the creek which has turned into a ragging torrent.

Half way through, I realised my Gortex jacket no longer kept the rain out. Well, it is over 20 years old and the rain was relentless. All good until….

Taking off my hiking boots on our front porch, I spied a leech!!! Three exclamation marks are not enough to convey the full horror. I squealed and panicked. “Get it off me!” Then I saw a second one on my pants. More panic. Luckily I had exercise tights on from my morning BodyBalance class. The black slugs couldn’t get under them and were thwarted by the tights from getting higher.

Except the one outside my tights and trying to suck me through the tights. I had Mr S hold the pants away from my leg while I took off my boots and then rolled off the pants.

Three suck marks showed the place where is given leeches a good feed. And they didn’t stop bleeding for hours! Mr S had the evidence of one – high on his thigh a tiny bite mark that also wouldn’t stop bleeding.

After the trauma I needed a long soak in a hot bath with several glasses of restorative bubbles.

I went back to the front porch to see if my clothing was leech free and could be brought in to wash. No leeches. Where do they go?

A few minutes later, in the kitchen, I spied one on my toe!!! How do they hide so well? And attach themselves so quickly? And move so noiselessly? Yes, I squealed again!!!

Yesterday I went to my favourite yoga class. I was a little hesitant as the gym is in a shopping centre. And it’s coming up to Christmas. And it’s the day after Black Friday (whatever that is and why on earth we have to adopt more commercialism). And it’s wet. What else are people going to do but hang out in shopping centres!

Yoga was lovely though I did prefer it when the class started at 9.30 as I was out before the crowds. Now it starts an hour later. Add to this, I popped into a shop to pick up the token Christmas gifts for our admin ladies. When I got to the carpark it was chaos. Very slow. Bumper to bumper.

And damnation. I ran into another car leaving the carpark. My fault but god the man was incredibly aggressive. I offered my drivers licence to photograph and he shouted, “I’ll do more than that!” as he paced around my car, shouting and gesticulating. There goes my zen state from yoga! But hey! No one was hurt and I have comprehension insurance.

Came home and restored myself with a pot of tea and the second book in the Thursday Murder Club. The Man Who Died Twice. I’m loving it.

Then walked up to the local Danish church Christmas market. No market due to COVID but you could preorder things, which I did. And you could have a Danish hotdog with the lot, which I also did. (Not sure if this sausage was a good example of Danish sausages but if so, Germans do better sausages.)

I follow Diane in Denmark on Instagram. She’s a Scot who’s been living in Copenhagen for 20 or so years. For a few months, I’ve been coveting her Danish mixing bowl. Looked for it in the shops. Only found it online. Reasonably priced. But the postage cost to Australia! $95 one place was going to charge.

Well, how lucky am I! The church was selling them. So I got two. I know I will love mixing cakes in them. And whipping cream. They have a rubber ring to stop the bowl slipping on the bench. Very clever.

What else did I get? A 40cm advent calendar candle and a Danish paper wreath in Danish colours.

Home for a nap, chats online to family and ending the night with the movie that marks the Christmas season for me: Love Actually.

Haven’t been decluttering much under the house. The rain has made that impractical and uncomfortable. (Though I have been decluttering around four things a day inside the house – slow and steady, trying to take out more than comes in.)

Haven’t really done any gardening. Though the garden is loving the rain. I sprinkled some blood and bone so the rain this week will soak its goodness into the soil. The flowers below have all come from cuttings from last year. I have had great luck with the hydrangeas! And such a variety from all the cuttings I have taken.

Today, the last Sunday of November, I have done several hours of work for work to do. And some potting and reading and walked up to a local bike shop to buy an e-bike for me for Christmas. Quite surprised at myself. But then I haven’t ridden it yet.

Three weeks left until My Adult Gap Year. From then you’ll find me blogging on my other site. I wonder if there’ll be a change of pace? Or a change of tone?

Walking in convict footsteps

Once allowed out of our Local Government Area, Mr S and I headed off to a walk I’ve wanted to do for a while – the Old Northern Road built by convict chain gangs. The recalcitrants, the wrong ‘uns of the wrong ‘uns, were sent to clear a path through trees and bush, up a vertical cliffs, so the colony could reach the plains of the Hunter Valley.

The walk has plenty of information points so the steep climb is relatively easy. Some info plinths have recreations of artefacts, like the leg irons Mr S is wearing below.

Flannel flowers abounded. A clever sign of spring. I’d say there were fields of them except they were growing out of vertical rock faces.

The road was quite wide – two cars could pass easily, though it’s closed to traffic, only walkers and bikes allowed. Most amazing was the culverts, drains, buttresses and curved stone walls supporting the road. Imagine! All this carved from solid rock, by hand, on a diet of flour, tea and, often rancid, meat. Colonisation was brutal on the colonisers too.

The view across the Hawkesbury River was beautiful. Spoiled by the noise of the masses of motorbikes on one of the favourite weekend motorbike routes.

The plan was to do the gentle walk, up and down the same road. But we decided to do the loop and return via the narrow road that was the first attempt by the surveyor to create a road, until the governor, rightly, declared it too steep and the second attempt was made – the track we took up.

Before we hit the down hill (read down cliff), we walked along the ridge. An interesting walk with views west to a swamp and through bush, where we saw a goanna and a lyrebird, and masses of Gymea lilies.

Then we hit the downhill track. Oh my god. It was steep and more like a water channel for stormwater run off. A goat track maybe. It was hard going. Lots of unsteady footfalls with loose rocks and pebbles.

From the bottom of the track we had 2km to return to the ferry. Mr S volunteered to walk the extra distance to our car, so I waited for his return. I’d done nearly 10km. But it was the downhill goat track that did me in.

After crossing back to the Wiseman’s Ferry side of the river, we had a little picnic.

Oh it was lovely to be out and beyond our LGA. And amazing to know that this wild beauty is only 45 minutes drive from home.

Covert COVID weekend

Social isolation is not an act of fear; it’s an act of love. Slow the spread.

I like alliteration. Hence the blog post title. And my weekend was covert in that I was not out and openly on display.

Here’s how I spent my weekend, minimising social contact.

1. Sleeping. I was exhausted. What a week! (I may post on it in the future.) I had a few naps. Heaven.

2. Catching up on my blog reading. Almost done. Just need to use my laptop to read ones on Blogger.

3. Mending a pair of shorts. Three, all three, buttons on the one pair of shorts came off. One on the front – kind of important to stop the shorts falling down. This was the last button to fall off. The other two were from the back pockets. I lost them. I really didn’t care that they’d fallen off. But when the one that made wearing of the shorts possible, that one needed to be sown back on or the shorts were useless. So I sewed that one on. And found two blue buttons that would do perfectly for the back pockets. I won’t imagine needing these shorts until next summer, but I feel a sense of virtuousness.

4. Bushwalking. After reading Nathan’s blog, I decided to venture out for a short exploration. I was soundly rewarded with sighting a TORTOISE IN THE WILD.

OK, not the wild. The edge of a bit of wilderness, 50 metres from the road of the suburb. But who would guess a tortoise could live in water that must have so much urban run-off.

The short walk led us through massive blue gums. We didn’t see such tall trees in Europe.

We enjoyed ourselves so much, we ventured out again on Sunday for a different section of the walk.

I love how this gum looks like it is melting over this rock, like a blog of melted plastic or fat.

5. Cleaning. Blah. Washed sheets and clothes and the floor. Recently, I’ve started wiping over high touch stops, like light switches and door and cupboard handles with diluted bleach. (You know why.) I also did two-fifths of the back French doors.

6. Some work emailing and an online course about COVID herehttps://covid-19training.gov.au/index.php

And in non-covert action, I popped it to the supermarket. No panic buying. Just out normal shop which we’ve been avoiding for months.

Escape to the country

I booked a day’s outing for Mr S and me. A day trip on a vintage train. I told everyone we were going on a steam train. Not that old. It was diesel. Still, pretty old.

Our carriage was a master work of pressed tin ceiling recovered from other carriages and wood work.

On the way out we were served tea and scones. Very civilised.

We travelled south, along the coast to Wollongong.

Then up the escarpment.

We stopped half way up, from where we had an amazing view of the coast, Lake Illawarra and the now declining steel works.

There’s one big difference between modern and vintage trains. Noise. Modern trains are insulted and you are cocooned from the ch-ch-ch of the wheels, the grinding squeal when wheels are forced to go around slight bends, the rattle of windows, the creaky of the carriage. People shouted to be heard over the noise. When we stopped at stations, the silence was deafening. On the video of us ascending through the temperate rainforest, you will hear the shouting, but not all the other noises – my audio didn’t pick it up. But trust me.

On the side of the tracks, at suburban and country stations, people watched, waved and photographed our train. It’s lovely the impact of heritage trains. I think it is the mystery and sense of adventure. Modern trains, with their quietness, their metal and glass, just don’t have the same sense of romance.

Our destination: Robertson. As it is in the southern highlands, it was much cooler. And breezy.

Did Lucinda eat at her namesake?

No, she didn’t. I don’t drink coffee. We headed straight for the pub which had lovely bright decor and lots burning in the fire place. Luckily I had booked a table; there were many people who missed out.

A few beers and we were ready for a hot lunch. They stuffed up our order and gave us two No 5 blackboard specials instead of a 2 and a 5. They were so busy we didn’t bother complaining. We’d never have got our order by the time the train was to leave.

A quick walk up the Main Street. Past the big poo, sorry The Big Potato.

Up to the Cheese Factory.

As well as a cheese factory and cafe, the building contained the most amazing rabbit warren of a store. Second hand, new, upcycled, clothes, jewellery, toys, furniture. Stuff. Lots of stuff. I bought two pairs of gloves. They are so soft and a little fluffy inside. I couldn’t decide which pair I liked. So bought them both. There was a grey pair. I showed restraint and didn’t buy it.

The fruit shop was amazing. So cheap. $3 for a punnet of fat, lush raspberries. And the biggest bunch of basil I have ever seen, for the same price as a tiny bunch in Sydney.

A walk in the golden light and long shadows back to the station. There’s memorials to the fettlers and men who built the railway up the escarpment. It would have been heavy going. The memorial is made of concrete sleepers, topped by a rail indicator.

The station building looks to be made of wood – an easy assumption as we are in the highlands. But no, it is concrete slabs.

The track not taken. We were not heading this way to Moss Vale. The train had gone there to turn around. We were heading back to Sydney. There’s always something evocative about looking out the back window of a train. Not that you can do it from a modern train with the guard or driver’s compartments in the way. Maybe that is why it seems so special?

Back down the escarpment, to the coast.

Our trip back through the south of city was in dark. It felt like more like 9 than 5pm. We pulled into platform number 1 at Central. The country train side of Central.

We hoped on a suburban train home. So quiet!

We felt like we were returning from a long holiday to a different place. And a different time.

Escape to the city

On Saturday, I went to French lessons. Our pause cafe (the break in the middle of the lesson) was two divine cakes.

I then went straight into the city. I love walking under the Harbour Bridge. It never gets old, looking at all the metal and rivets.

Join me on the rest of my walk to the theatre.

Down some steps between two rows of terraces.

Down three flights of stairs and follow the road you see to be level with the harbour.

And there’s the water, sparkling through the gaps between the wharves.

I met some friends for lunch. I started with a cocktail. The cocktail was divine – so I had another. The food less so. The restaurant is close to one of the theatres we go to but has changed hands or managers. We won’t be eating there again. The vibe, the food, the service just not the same.

Then it was off to the theatre.

I was really looking forward to seeing Hugo Weaving in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. He is amazing. And he was in this play too, as were all the other actors, especially Zahra Newman. But I just didn’t enjoy the play. It was soooo melodramatic, so over-wrought. All that screaming and long monologues and pacing the stage pointlessly. I’m not sure if the fault lies in Tennessee Williams or the director. Still glad I saw it.

Then it was time to retrace our steps back to the train station. The evening autumn light is so golden. Stay golden, Ponyboy.

Back up the steps between the terraces.

On the train home, I saw the trial of the new driverless train coming to Sydney. Exciting and amazing but it does mean fewer and fewer jobs for working class.

I finished the day with a workout at the gym.

Definitely a city day.

Treating the weekend like a holiday

I often spend my weekends resting and preparing for the working week.

How stuffed is that!!!

Rather than free time, it becomes more time tied to work. Washing and ironing clothes for work. Shopping and preparing meals for the week ahead. Other household chores that we just don’t have time for during the week because work eats the whole week.

This weekend I treated the two days like a holiday. OK, that was more by chance than planning, but both days were not tied to preparing for work.

I spent Saturday in the city.

and Sunday in the country.

It’s late, and I’ve had a big weekend so I will share my adventures with you in future posts.

How do you spend your weekends? Having fun? Doing household chores? Working? Preparing for work? Resting and recovering?

The sea was angry that day, my friend

What’s more iconic about being a Sydneysider than going to the beach?

It’s a great way to spend a couple of hours – a swim, a walk, a laze on the sand with a book. I don’t like to stay for too long – my fair skin doesn’t like it. Sometimes I think the drive just isn’t worth it.

And what to do when the beach is closed?

North Curl Curl can be pretty rough at the best of the times. Deep currents and wild surf last weekend meant the beach was closed.

No point sitting in the sun on the sand if you can’t cool off in the waves!

So we walked up the track on the headland. Despite coming to this beach several times every year for ages, I can’t recall the last time I walked up the headland to the ocean pool. If ever.

On seeing the obelisk, I asked Mr S if he knew what it was – after all he surfed at this beach almost daily as a youngster. Nup. Further on there was a sign. Great, that’ll stop Mr S exploring too close to the edge of the cliff.

Cobber = Old Australian slang for mate

Down the stairs, we found a great spot in the shade of the cliff. The photo doesn’t give depth, but it was as if we were in the midst of the waves. We could see the surfers take off.

The ocean pool was so refreshing – and quite thrilling when big waves hit the side of the pool. I didn’t capture some of the biggest ones, but you can see the spray tower over the people.

I did hope we wouldn’t face a repeat of the Tassie incident! That’s always in the back of my mind when I’m near big waves with only one way out.

It was definitely worth the drive – even if the beach was closed. The fresh scent of the ocean. The clean and tingly skin after a swim.

Perfect!

What to do when I can’t walk?

Read, of course.

• Another Agatha Raisin book. A quick, light read.
• The next book in the Ferrante Neopolitan series. I'm a third of the way through. Getting a bit heavy.

Binge watch TV series and movies.

• Line of Duty Series 1. I don't know how I missed this series. Some shocking, shout-at-the-tele scenes. I will have to get season 2.
• Pioneer Woman. I'm not sure how I feel about this show but it is kind of addictive. It's a cooking show but I doubt I'll cook any of the recipes. Too much butter and cream and fat and cheese. Handfuls and handfuls of cheese. With a layer of more cheese. The outdoor scenes are so different. The flat, apparently tree-less plains made me google if there are trees in Ohio. And there are. But you wouldn't know it. It must be so cold and windy!!! It's strangely addictive in the way of watching shows about cults are. All that smiling, wholesome American, blocking out of any diversity. And oh! The plastic. Everything comes in plastic and styrofoam.
• The 100 Foot Journey. Light, schmaltzy, movie. As you'd expected from something produced by Oprah Winfrey. With great acting. As you'd expect from Helen Mirren. And wonderful scenes from France.
• The Women on the Sixth Floor. A French movie set in the 60s. A gentle love story and personal awakening.

Play mindless games on my phone.

• Twenty. My eldest got me onto this. And I'm hooked. My son got up to 18 and deleted it. I got up to 18 and deleted it too. But then put it back on. And got up to 19. Should I keep trying to get to twenty? Mmm, really it's a waste of time.

• Desktop Tower defence. I have no idea why I'm still playing this. Have been for years or decades.

French lessons. The actual lessons are two hours on a Saturday morning. Add in travel and parking and that's a fair block of Saturday gone. But really, all I'd do is sloth around if I didn't go. Then there's homework and other revision.

Blog. I have more time for blogging. I have posts galore for the future. And I've developed an idea for a new blog.

Going to a cafe. I don't do cafes. I don't see the point of sitting in a crowded small place, often on a road side, on wibbly chairs, paying a premium for a sandwich I can make at home or a cake I don't really like with either too much icing or too dry or both, and poorly made tea or my other choice at cafes, iced chocolate, chosen because I don't like their tea, and then feeling sick because of all the cream in the iced chocolate. But as I can't walk far or up and down stairs, an invite from a friend for an outing to a cafe was accepted.

And did I enjoy it?

The view was of the road, and the intersection was noisy but we weren't right on the road. The chairs were stable. The food was yummy and something I'd never cook. A flourless orange cake with gelato and orange sauce and Persian fairy floss. And the tea was fine.

Do you spy the scone at the top of the photo? I ordered scones first but they only had one left so they gave it to me on the house. A bit too much with the cake but I powered through most of it. The scone was the softest scone I have ever had!And not at all crumbly.

So yes, it was a lovely. Thanks to my friend who took her temporarily disabled friend out for a Sunday outing. I'd do it again. As an occasional outing, it was good.

And plan my trip to France. Of course, I've been doing plenty of this. Must be time for another post on my plans.

Hornsby garden

Mr S and I like to go for a walk in new places. One weekend at the end of April (I wrote it them but forgot to post) I remembered somewhere I’ve been meaning to go a decade: Lisgar Gardens. Full of camellias. Lush with trees and ferns. Building on it started one hundred years ago. 

I especially love the steps leading into a garden. So evocative. And what about the tree growing from a rock. It looks as though it is melting over a rock.

The garden is on several levels, falling down a deep slope. Along the path, among the boulders and trees, were lamp posts. Mr S said we were entering Narnia. Too scary!!!

We ventured beyond the garden boundaries, down the steep valley to the creek below. The track was really not a track. “Should we walk here?” I asked Mr S. 

“Looks like leech territory to me,” he replied.

Yes I squealed. Rightly so as it turned out. Four, yes FOUR, leeches I found in one shoe.  Blerk!!!

“Leech Hollow”, Mr S named it. (The valley, not my shoe.)

Up we went, back along the track, returning to he civilised garden. 

A beautiful public garden. Well worth a visit. Next time we will bring a thermos of tea. And we will be back in camellia season.  

Oot and aboot

Wanna go see whale rock?

What’s that?

A rock that looks like a whale. 

OK. 

While the rain held, we went off in search of whale rock. The online guide listed the usual safety precautions – water, clothing, maps. Even bush on the edges of suburbia can be dangerous. 

We walked into the bush, down a wide, cement roadway, big enough for firefighting trucks. At the bottom of a slope we could see directional signs. None listed the sought-for whale rock. “I wonder which way we need to go?” I asked Mr S. As I spoke, I turned and there was whale rock. 

For size comparison, here is s shot with a disguised Mr S (though I admit there’s not a lot of hiding one can do in a hippy tie-dyed shirt).

Definitely worth the 5 minute walk from the road! Yes, that quick. Why all the safety advice? Ridiculous! WHS gone mad. Anyway that wasn’t enough of a walk, so we ventured in further. Because of all the rain we had (thanks Cyclone Debbie) the creek was over the path. At the first flooded crossing we debated: should we turn back or just walk through? “Ah fuck it. Let’s just walk through it.” So we did. Several times on the way into the bush. And on the way back. 

At least the water was running which meant we wouldn’t get leeches. Unlike our walk the day before!

A couple of weeks earlier we had gone in search of our secret waterfall in another part of the same national park. But we were thwarted by the rain which turned a track into a pond. 

With still water and boggy ground all around, we were in leech territory. In that brief walk I scored two leeches but they mistakenly suckered onto my shoes. Mr S, who’d ventured further and made it to the waterfall, did his bit for wildlife rescue and fed a few leeches. 

A week later, and the day before Whale Rock, we went off to the waterfall again. Stocked with necessary supplies – a stash of salt to battle the leeches – my friend and I lady-stepped over the water-logged paths while Mr S schtomped through. And ended up to his knees in logs and twigs and leaves which had been washed into a pile that Mr S thought was a solid pathway. 

It doesn’t look clearer than the above shot but trust me, the path was now passable.

Mr S made a hasty recovery. We all made it to the waterfall. Our party of three in tact. 

Hard to believe that these are all within 15 minute drive from our home. (This is the designated comfort zone prescribed by my friend and endorsed by Mr S.)

At the outer reach of the 15 minute zone, is Fagan Park, developed on an old orchard site. We visited here one day in the last two months. While most people clustered around the children’s playground and the interesting “gardens of the world”, Mr S and I picnicked at the old homestead which was open for its only Sunday of the month. Maybe Mr S and I are unusual but we love old places. The homestead a host of farm sheds used for fruit packing and equipment all full of objects from the early settlement, many lovingly restored. The water pumps work. The gardens are peaceful. The actual home has been furnished from the period. 

One of the volunteers was a 90 year old whose extended family owned the farm before donating it to the council for a public park. She recalled not being allowed in the main house as a child, being forced to stay in the separate kitchen with her brother. What a connection! To talk with someone who still volunteered and worked in the garden that she played in as a child. 

Picnicking under the she oaks

Mr S impressed with the working water pump

Room of one of the single farm labourers from early last century. Vastly different from the main home.

Tractor shed

Walking into the homestead site

There weren’t many days with skies as blue as this, so we were doubly lucky to chance upon the monthly open day of the homestead. 

Still, there’s a beauty in the rain as the drops on this she oak show. This was taken in my usual lap around “the block” that passes through the edge of the national park. 

There’s a peacefulness in walking on a known path. You don’t have to concentrate and your mind can wander. You can’t think about other things. Conversely, there’s a mindfulness in walking in the new and unknown. You have to concentrate on the path, you are continually looking at the new sights, your mind is processing all the new information. This means you cannot be thinking of all the humdrum of life, you can’t be planning and strategising and going over things and conversations. This is especially true when the path is a rough bush track. 

Both types of walks are good for the mind and soul. As well as the body. And fun as well!