Country life – Treechange life

October 2025: reviews, experiences, and happenings on the farm

Read – The Watervale Ladies’ Writing & Firefighting Society by Mette Menzies

This book has three elements important to me right now – friendships, writing groups and preparing for a potential bush fire. (Let’s hope I don’t have to fight a fire like the resourceful women in this book.)

Four women, with a variety of ages and backgrounds, join a writing group in an Australian country town. They soon find themselves besieged by issues including a land grab by big business and dastardly deeds by crooked lawyers and journalists.

The women are all facing various challenges and life transitions. Soon the pressures lead to friction in the group. Can they find the courage to question and prioritize what’s important in their lives? Will they find forgiveness for themselves and each other?

Importantly, the women are lucky enough to find great food and coffee in the township while they face these other hardships. This is worth celebrating in rural Australia.

The Watervale Ladies’ Writing & Firefighting Society was laugh out loud funny in places, with a romance thrown in.

Watched – Slow Horses (Apple TV)

In the industry, ‘Slow Horses’ is a derogatory name for this team of supposedly failed secret service agents. A team that usually manages to outsmart and embarrass England’s intelligence agency elite.

The show mixes thriller, drama, comedy and black comedy genres.

Jackson Lamb is the team’s boss. He’s both obnoxious and endearing. There’s multiple Reddit threads dedicated to his hilarious one-liners which get better with each new season.

There’s a sneaking mutual respect between Lamb and his team, even though he constantly belittles them. Many of the Slow Horses show symptoms of unprocessed trauma. A feature of the show is how they support each other through professional and personal challenges.

Live – Take me to the river

The river bank is still scarred and eroded, still littered with fallen trees and debris in places. Our community is still struggling to recover from the 1-in-500 year flood we suffered earlier this year.

This made the Take me to the River cultural riverside walk with a local historian and Aboriginal Elder all the more beneficial.

We learned our region was named by the Governor of the Bank of England who had never been to Australia. The local Aboriginal people refer to our region as ‘the place of the big hollow’ which indicates both the land’s fertility and propensity to flood.

The highlight for me was hearing a very recent Indigenous story. Over 1,000 members of the Aboriginal community came together to perform a dance to heal the land in December 2019. This followed four years of terrible drought, followed by the worst bush fires in Australia’s history.

After hours of traditional music and dancing in the sand, their feet found the fresh water beneath. A flock of yellow-tail black cockatoos soon landed nearby. These prehistoric-looking magnificent birds are considered to signal coming rain. It did rain soon after, and the drought was declared over in February 2020.

October farm happenings

It’s spring, which means lots of seedlings to plant for summer crops. Herbs were one of the first to go in. Charlie, loves helping in the garden.

Over the past four years we’ve planted lots of Australian native plants. We’re now getting to enjoy both the blooms and the bird life they attract.

June 2025 – in review

A month of books, TV, movies, performances, happenings on the farm.

Read – Some Day is Today by Matthew Dicks

Have you noticed I’ve hardly blogged over the past few years? Well, this post is my second in two weeks (not six months). I’m on a roll.

Reading Some Day is Today is the kick up the pants I needed to get writing and put it out there.

If you have a desire to create, there’s no excuse.

Author Matthew Dicks is known as an epic storyteller. He’s nerdy and eccentric, but successful in following his passion. He’s both relatable and inspirational.

Some Day is Today is full of interesting anecdotes about how Matthew overcame challenges. He organised every aspect of his life to achieve his creative and life goals. There’s advice on career choice, decision-making, relationships, and time management right down to minutes taken to unpacking your dishwasher.

Narrated by the author, it’s an easy and engaging listen on Audible or Spotify.

Watched – Murderbot (Apple TV)

A TV adaptation of the science fiction series by Martha Wells (comedy/action/sci-fi).

I’d never read a science fiction book. I asked hubby for a recommendation, as he only ever reads this genre. He suggested Martha Wells’ The Murder Bot Diaries. Immediately engrossed, I marathon-read the entire series. So, I was excited to get into Murderbot when it came out on Apple TV.)

The protagonist, who calls ‘itself’ MurderBot, is a rogue, but benevolent, ‘self-governing’ security unit. A ‘synthetic’. It’s assigned to guard a team of human researchers somewhat naive to the realities of a universe of exploitable resources. Observing its charges, MurderBot grapples to understand human nature with all its messiness, duplicity, desire and emotion. Trouble usually ensues when MurderBot indulges its addiction of sneakily binge-watching its favourite human soapie TV series, Sanctuary Moon. This provides MurderBot with more questionable insight into the nature of humanity.

Light-hearted in bite-sized episodes.

Cinema – The Salt Path

Based on a true story by author Raynor Winn, this movie stars Gillian Anderson and Jason Isaacs.

The couple are beset with challenge and heartache. They’ve lost their home and livelihood, and the husband was diagnosed with a terminal illness. So they set off on a yearlong hike around the wilds of coastal south-west England. Why wouldn’t you?

Bleak and desperate are two words I’d use to describe the first half of this movie. There were a few lighter moments and the cinematography is glorious.

The Salt Path is about bravery, overcoming challenges, and most importantly identifying your life’s priorities. In this case – relationships and a connection with nature.

The movie was ultimately life-affirming and reignited my bucket list desire for a long hiking holiday. An unexpected theme about sustainable living also came through, which of course I completely related to.

Live show – Tales from the Climate Era

When I lived in Sydney, going to the Belvoir Street Theatre was a treat, so when this theatre company visited my new country hometown, I had to go.

The traveling production Tales of the Climate Era was a series of skits about climate change. How companies, governments, communities and individuals are grappling to understand. Asking questions – is it real? Should we do something? If it is real, when would it be over?

It could be described as confronting, however, I found it no darker than my already swirling thoughts.

I realised how confused I am about the whole issue, so I’ve enrolled in a short university course to hear directly from experts in the field. Hopefully I’ll come away with more answers than questions.

June farm happenings

We harvested a huge crop of purple sweet potatoes. (Well hubby did. It involves rooting around in the soil with your hands, and there’s earthworms the size of boa-constrictors in that garden bed. They creep me out.)

Please, urgently send your best recipes for these purple beauties. I’m learning to make purple pie crusts and gnocchi.

Our region suffered a devastating flood, where people died and thousands of animals were killed. This has been a terrible event. I’ll write about it when I’ve come to terms with it.

We celebrated the Winter Solstice, a turning point for life on the land.

We’re nurturing our first batch of koala habitat trees. Part of our long-term aim to give back to Mother Nature. More koala news to follow.

Celebrating Nature’s Dates and Lunar Cycles

The sun will arise later this morning than it will any other day of the year.

But not yet. Only a few streaks of orange are colouring the early sky.

It’s the Winter Solstice in Australia.

Winter may be all cosy fires and hot soup, but I’m not a fan of dark mornings and early evenings. Today, in the Southern Hemisphere, we’re now tilted furthest from the sun. From today, even though the daily temperatures will continue to fall, at least the sun will shine for a little longer each day. We’re starting our tilt back towards summer.

Another year has passed.

I acknowledge the Winter Solstice like others celebrate New Year’s Day. For me, it’s a time to plan for the coming year. Today, I’ll prepare some of the garden beds, ready for the planting. Other beds are already flourishing with winter crops now well established.

Rows of garden beds ready for winter planting with sunrise in the background — Garden beds ready for winter planting

I’m more connected to nature’s sequence – the Solstices, Equinoxes, and lunar cycles – than dates on the calendar. Not everyone is, of course. I once worked for an accountant, and for him, New Year’s Day was 1st July. The first day of the financial year in Australia. Anthony the Accountant celebrated with a day off and a new financial year diary.

For me, the full moon is more noteworthy than noticing in my diary it’s the first day of the next month. It does help to live away from the night lights of the city.

Bright white moon in a dark sky with light glare and tree silhouettes. — Full moons shine bright in dark country skies

Some witchy woo-woo types align with the monthly moon cycles and consider the new moon the start of each month. As the new moon waxes and builds in power, it’s a time to start new projects and take new directions. After the full moon, as the moon wanes and falls away, it’s a time to let go of things that don’t serve us well. I don’t know if there’s any truth to this lunar energy theory, but it seems like a way to live mindfully.

Does the full moon hold a special power for setting intentions, and does it affect us by drawing the water in our bodies as it draws the tides in the ocean? I don’t know.

I do know, however, the bright light of the full moon makes it harder to sleep. I understand how earth-centered and ancient cultures might have sat up for hours by a full moon campfire, or danced around it.

To bathe in the light of the full moon is invigorating. The light feels cool, clear, cleansing and powerful. Last month, I sat in a steaming outdoor hot tub with light from a full moon illuminating me. It was a time for reflection and appreciation.

A women's face in near darkness, illuminated by moonlight. — Bathing in moonlight

One lunar ritual I do ascribe to is putting my bowl of crystals beneath the full moon for an energetic cleansing. (I also rinse the dust off them at the same time, which is possibly the real cleansing they receive.) I don’t really believe the crystals hold any special powers beyond being a pretty collection I’ve built over time, but this ritual acknowledges time passing and the trinkets from Mother Earth.

A bowl of crystals and shells to be placed under a full moon for energetic cleansing. — Crystals and shells – trinkets from Mother Earth

Did you pause to notice the Winter Solstice this year, or the Summer one if you’re in the Northern Hemisphere? Or are you more attuned to the passing of the days and months in your calendar, like Anthony the Accountant?

Drop in for Chaos, oh, I mean Christmas

Our friends and family are invited to call in any time, any day, this year.

We are not doing a Christmas Day. Instead, multiple days of feasting, fun, games, swimming and day trips exploring.

It’s Choose our Own Adventure.

I’m not responsible. No-one is. We all are. Each day will roll like the dice on our board games.

Family cat playing with Monopoly board game money — Charlie playing Monopoly

At a time when the most family members are present, we’ll open our presents. This year is one present each from Secret Santa.

We’ve been on a mission to simplify Christmas for nearly two decades.

For about ten years we had family camping trips. Our small family group of vans and tents clustered in a beach-side caravan park.

On the day we arrived and set up, we were all as busy as elves. Then, we enjoyed a week of relaxation.

Christmas feasting was limited to what could be kept fresh in small camping fridges or cold on ice.

The kids got presents including pushbikes and ‘walky talky’ two-way radios. They spent days running about with newfound camping friends. Over the years, we got to know other repeat Chrissy Campers at the caravan park.

Motorhome in a caravan park — Family camping

Then, the years flew by like a red nose on Christmas Eve. Grandparents sold their vans. Families formed step-families, and kids needed to share Christmas Day with both sets of parents. We moved on, simplifying camping to a morning picnic.

Chrissy breakfast at the beach followed by a swim. Afterwards, everyone was free for lunches and dinners with extended families. Or, by 11am, head off on holidays. Jump into the car when most people were jumping into other Christmas traditions. Get well ahead of the holiday traffic.

Our Christmas picnics usually had a theme, most memorably, 1970s Finger Food. Who agrees food on a toothpick just tastes better?

Circular bread cut-outs topped with slices of tomato and basil held together with a toothpick. — credit Abdulgarfur Ogel (Pexels)

After moving to the country, the new Christmas tradition is to celebrate at our place. It’s hot and the property and animals need us at this time of year. But the family loves visiting from the city, enjoying space, the pool, and quiet starry nights.

Girl aiming at a target with a bow and arrow during a family Christmas activity — Target archery at our place

The kids are older now. The pressure of step-families has been replaced by the pressure of juggling time between us and their partner’s family.

After 20yrs of us simplifying Christmas, there’s still time pressure.

So, this year, it’s Christmas Day/s. Call in any time. Stay as long as you like.

Three family members doing craft at a table — Family craft

There’s a draft menu for four-days. We’ll all be cooking together. All hands on deck to Deck the Halls. And low stress preparation in the days beforehand.

The days may be chaos, but it will be jolly chaos.

Merry Christmas to all the many and varied families!

Feathered families – friendships with magpies

Instead of making my morning coffee as I lay in the caravan bed, my husband was lingering outside the open door.

Was he waiting to talk to one of our camping friends returning from a walk?

Suddenly, he crooned with a sing-song lilt, “Oooogle oooogle woooogle oooogle.” And I knew he was talking to … a magpie.

We have magpies around our new home in the country, but they are aloof and independent. They don’t drink from the bird bath. Or follow us on the lawn mower like the butcher birds do, feasting on easy meals of crickets and tiny lizards.

When we moved into their territory, we were glad to find the magpies here are not in the small minority who swoop people they don’t know during nesting season … because it was nesting season.

Magpies can apparently recognise at least 500 different people. So we walked around with uncovered faces so they’d get to know us. And they’ve ignored us ever since.

Maybe country magpies are just too busy. Their city counterparts will give you the time of day on the back deck.

At my parent’s house in the city suburbs, magpies share their mornings.

Mr and Mrs Maggie know once the jug is set to boil for coffee, it’s time to make meaningful eye contact through the back window. A tiny portion of mince will be provided.

Mrs Maggie (females are mottled black and white behind their neck) knows the mince is kept in the fridge. There was that one morning when the screen door hadn’t closed, so she popped in and sat on the fridge, tapping a toe impatiently.

Magpies are known to live to 25 years, and Mr and Mrs Maggie are at least that.

My parents still remember the initial privilege of Mr and Mrs Maggie first introducing a fledgling nearly three decades ago. They’ve met a new fledgling every year since.

Each year, before the new chick arrives, there’s a gruesome period when Mr Maggie drives the adolescent chick from the territory. Many times, he’s flipped a reluctant son over on his back, with a peck that can draw blood.

One year, a departing son had the original idea of coming to the front door and knocking, while his parents were out the back. Kudos for ingenuity, but my mum and dad reinforced the wishes of Mr Maggie – it was time for the son to search for a home of his own.

Raising a fledgling is quite the commitment for magpie parents. For several months after leaving the nest, chicks need instruction on finding food, flying, and social etiquette.

It takes two adult birds to raise each fledgling. Mr and Mrs Maggie consistently raise one chick each year. Except for that wet and productive season, when grubs and earthworms must have been prolific. Mr and Mrs Maggie knew it would be a favourable season. They allowed their adolescent daughter to stay as an ‘Aunt’. That year, the three adults worked together to raise two fledglings.

Magpies have many of the same neurotransmitters as we do – including dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin. They experience emotions, including affection, playfulness, grief, and deceit. They play hide-and-seek like a five-year-old child.

Mr and Mrs Maggie deserve a huge amount of respect. They are within the 10% of magpies who reproduce in any year.

Only 25% of magpies will have the opportunity to raise a chick during their lifetime. This is due to the difficulty of finding a long-term partner and suitable territory. Also vital is the communication skills needed to form working relationships with magpies from neighbouring territories. This cooperation allows joint defence against outside threats such as eagles, goannas, and cats.

Today, my mum rang in tears. Mr and Mrs Maggie haven’t been seen for a week.

A great flock of white cockatoos, with all their screeching and chaos, had taken up in the small park next door.

We are all hoping that normality soon returns. That tomorrow, after seeing the jug set to boil, Mr and Mrs Maggie perch on the back rail, make eye contact, and ask for a breakfast treat.

Next time you see a magpie who’s willing to give you the time of day, remember they could be 30 years old, with wisdom and life experience. Remember, they’re intelligent and emotional. With highly refined communication skills.

Remember to say “Oooogle oooogle woooogle oooogle.”

Wild Australian magpie in garden with two lorikeets — Mr Maggie injured a leg 10 years ago, but he’s still doing well

Photo credits:
Featured image by Tim Phillips on Instagram @timbeyan. Pic 3 is from Pexels by Vlad Kutepov

References:
Podcasts
https://www.abc.net.au/listen/programs/conversations/talking-magpies-grieving-tawny-frogmouths-and-canny-galahs/103170988?utm_content=link&utm_medium=content_shared
https://www.tunefm.net/2024/02/02/une-emeritus-professor-gisela-kaplan-named-honorary-member-of-the-order-of-australia/
https://www.everand.com/podcast/590594548/What-makes-Australian-birds-so-smart-Gisela-Kaplan-Rebroadcast
Book
Australian Magpie: Biology and behaviour of an unusual songbird, Prof Gisela Kaplan, 2010

Spring has me green with envy

The Spring dawn of gentle sunrise and birdsong was torn apart by duelling internal combustion engines. The neighbours and I, ride-on mowers revving, trying to tame lawns and paddocks before a week of predicted rain.

If it was a ride-on mower duel, our neighbours would have won the morning, with their top-of-the-range, low centre-of-gravity, turn-on-a-tussock, purring machine. A far-flung second was me, astride our ancient, fume-belching, muffler-missing dinosaur. One of my legs held akimbo for balance on tippy slopes, one hand on the wheel and the other holding myself in position. A cramp in my toe from stretching to reach the distant pedal, because the seat’s rusted in position as far back as possible due to years of long-legged men driving in circles.

I may have a mild case of Lawn Mower Envy. An emotion I’d never felt, or even knew existed, before our tree-change to the country.

Hubby may suffer Lawn Mower Envy more seriously than me – he’s the one who spends hours on maintenance. Keeping our mowers moving – forwards. I’ve been instructed to limit engaging reverse as it creates wear on one of the belts, and the clutch.

I’m grateful our mower has a drink holder. Cheers to the person who first thought of including that. Ours usually holds a beer, but this morning, it’s coffee. It is only 7am. Our neighbours’ mower probably has a drinks holder too, even an insulated lunch chiller. Apparently, the expensive ones do.

Our main mower is Coxie, the Lawn Boss. He came with the property. He’s a long-time hard-worker, overdue for retirement. Yet he still battles through most of our heavy mowing.

We recently bought another second-hand, though much newer, ride-on called Fergie. Fergie as in the tractor manufacturer, Massey Fergusson. We thought that would mean she’s tough and reliable. Perfect for taming our tufts. Alas, she spends a fair amount of time up on the repair ramps in the shed, receiving Hubby’s ministrations.

Fergie may be much younger, shiny red, with a bigger motor, twin blades and a wider cut, but something to do with her gearing means she shirks the heavy work. The heavy work is along the back boundary where the tussocks are toughest, thickly interspersed with stiff-stemmed weeds that relentlessly march in from the poorly maintained adjoining property.

Today, with Hubby in the seat, heading towards the back boundary, Fergie blew a belt. (I promise I haven’t been overly engaging her reverse.) Fergie was left immobilised between the mango trees at the bottom of the slope.

The only solution was to hope Coxie could tow Fergie home. Poor, ancient Coxie – wheels spinning, Hubby and I pushing. All three of us groaning. But we managed. We dragged Fergie up the hill and back to the shed for her next round of coddling.

I don’t know if the neighbours saw any of that, or if they even knew they and I were having a lawn-mower duel.

Perhaps they can’t hear me over the classical music playing through their headphones, as they sip champagne from their drinks holder, and nibble chilled canapes from their on-board insulated lunch box.

Cohabitating with nature

After my panicked phone call, the snake-catcher turned up – in shorts and thongs.

“I thought it would be a tree snake,” he said, looking at the photo I’d snapped of its disappearing tail an hour earlier – after it had slithered past my bare feet. “But that’s an Eastern Brown. I’ve never seen one around here.”

I checked in with my nearest neighbour. “Oh, really?” she said. “An Eastern Brown? I don’t remember the last time we saw one of those.”

Eastern Browns are the second deadliest snake in the world. I hope it’s gone from beneath my back stairs.

“The only way to know for sure it’s gone is to pull apart the whole staircase,” the snake-catcher said, helpfully.

That would be a full-day’s work. Plus, as Hubby estimated, three more days to put the staircase back together.

“You can live with a snake around,” said the snake catcher, “just be careful where you put your feet.”

A friend asked that night if I’d totally freaked out. I hadn’t, not immediately. Time had stood still. Then, after both the long, silent moment, and the long, silent snake, had passed me by, I’d screamed. Then, gasping, and with shaking fingers, frantically and repeatedly tried to send a text off to hubby who was slashing grass down by the dam.

I’d read that if a snake approaches you, stand still and let it pass. Ironically, in my frozen panic I’d done just that. The snake had flicked its tongue, tasted my presence in the air, then languorously turned away. Its scaly shimmer slipped soundlessly beneath the wooden step, right by my feet. I finally breathed again, into the silence. Silence, like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

“What are you going to do now? Do you regret moving to the bush?” My friend questioned that night, perhaps horrified and fascinated because she, too, had recently moved from the city.

“Well, I wish my husband would keep the back door closed!”

Hubby had tried to soothe me, saying snakes don’t go inside.

They bloody might. Why wouldn’t they, when it’s cool and quiet in the middle of the day. When we’re using the mower on the back lawn, stamping around and dragging pot plants about?

My husband’s behaviour didn’t change at all. Still walking around in bare feet. Me, in comparison, for the first whole week ‘post-snake’, chose knee-high gumboots to accessorise my usual sarong when venturing down the stairs to the spa at night. I also spent three days stomping up and down the stairs in work boots and jeans, generally creating as much ruckus as possible.

A week later and we hadn’t seen the snake again. I sought the advice of the experts on the Australian Snake Identification, Education + Advocacy Facebook group.

“Is it likely the snake has moved on?”

“To be sure, you should replace the wooden deck and staircase with concrete,” was the advice. “You have chickens which attract rodents, which attract snakes. You have water, frogs, and a safe space for snakes to hide and hunt. But remember, Eastern Browns don’t like movement. They’ll get out of your way before you even know they’re there. Just look down before you step down. It is possible to cohabitate with them.”

Cohabitate with the second deadliest snake in the world?

Remodelling the back deck and stairs IS on the renovation list – somewhere between the priorities of fencing, more water tanks, retaining walls and building another shed.

I now know snakes are definitely around, instead of possibly around. I’ve also learnt they don’t chase you. Just look out for them, and don’t step on them.

Life continued for another week.

I now look down before I step down. I’ve calmed down. I’ve reverted to wearing thongs outside.

Then, yesterday, as I looked down, a scaly scurry. Something half-seen slipped from the sunny step beneath my feet. A huge blue tongue lizard.

Another question for the Facebook snake advocacy group.

“There’s a big blue tongue living right where the Eastern Brown was. Does this mean the snake has moved on?”

“Possibly,” was the reply, “but not necessarily. Eastern Browns and Blue Tongues can cohabitate quite happily.”

I may be cohabitating with a snake. And a Blue Tongue.

Photo credit: Shane Walsh, who takes wonderful photos and advocates for cohabitating with wildlife.

Notes:

Even if we are cohabitating, we are never going to be friends. There’s a snake bite kit handy, just in case.

For international readers, ‘thongs’ in Australia generally means ‘flip flops’.

Winter is when I say it is

‘Winter doesn’t start on the first of June. It starts when I say it does’, said Mother Nature, as she handed down the coldest May on Australian record.

Now it’s July – midwinter. The magnolia tree by the back deck is completely bare of leaves and in its dormant state. The tree had been showing me for many weeks that this year, winter was coming early. Yet I remember standing in the hot sun, looking at its yellowing foliage and wondering if it needed more nitrogen. I’m a long way from being in touch with nature’s cycles.

If I’d observed the tree more closely, I’d have known a cold snap was coming. The hints to buy firewood, unpack ugg boots and winter clothes were missed. Are there other tasks we should have completed on the property before winter? Pruning, mulching, fertilising? Are the mango, macadamia, custard apple, fig, orange, loquat and pomegranate trees calling for something we’ve neglected to provide? Hopefully they’ll all survive another season as we learn to fall in step with their needs.

Connecting with the seasons is one of the reasons I moved to the country. To know a small parcel of earth. To leave that patch healthier than when we started – more able to sustain us and provide habitat for wildlife. To give back in a small way to Mother Nature.

It’s our second winter and I’m noticing similarities with last year – my start to understanding the seasons.

The raucous screech of the yellow-tail black cockatoos is less frequent – they’ve depleted the casuarina (she oak) cones down in the gully behind the back fence, and our neighbour’s supply of macadamia nuts. I love these majestic birds and we’ll definitely plant more food sources for them in years to come.

There was koala scat under the trees near the front gate. It’s not yet their mating season and without hearing their guttural, rumbling brays l forget they may be here year-round.

Like last winter, half-eaten figs scatter the ground, suitable only for composting. The king parrots get to the fruit long before us – I see them feasting from the loungeroom window. We’ll never score more than a couple of the juicy delights, but the parrots are beautiful. Loosing fruit to wildlife is known as ‘Bush Tax’, and like making payments to the Australian Taxation Office, there’s an inevitable contribution.

In the bottom garden the sweet potato vines (yams) are dying back and its nearly time to pull the tubers. For the second year, this will be a major winter harvest for us, along with citrus. Both the Valencia and Naval oranges are ready for picking – two more trees that luckily thrive on neglect.

Starting a gardening diary might help me understand the cycles – what’s planted where and harvested when. Year-to-year this would just be a guide though, as Mother Nature’s sequences don’t always fit neatly into the months allocated to seasons.

My permaculture teacher suggested tuning into seasonal changes, rather than gardening by calendar. He starts each day just wandering around his property, observing. He listens to Mother Nature’s whispers.

Even though it’s mid-winter, today on the afternoon breeze a sweet breath of Spring brushed my cheek. The idea of sipping cocktails during a warm sunset, rather than cosying near the fire, seems a pleasant possibility. Is this the first indication of the next season, an early Spring?

But before cocktails and warm afternoons, there’s lots of work needed to ready the garden for planting next season’s beans, corn, potatoes, pumpkin, tomatoes and zucchini.

I need to be ready because spring may not arrive on the first of September. Spring will be here when Mother Nature says it is.

The Australia Day outhouse

For future Australia Days, I have elaborate plans for a composting toilet, together with reed beds to filter greywater into an ideal frog habitat. Unfortunately, for this year we still had our single antiquated bathroom with an ancient, undersized septic system, supplied with water from just one rainwater tank.

These are the realities of our new country lifestyle. When it rains heavily, we’ll be cut off from town; when it doesn’t rain, we’ll need tankerloads of water delivered. When we flush the toilet too often, the septic overflows as the water supply dwindles.

Having family and friends to stay, therefore, has its challenges. Which, as it turns out, can become opportunities.

Back in November 2021, our Introduction to Permaculture course began with the usual housekeeping run-through: emergency evacuation procedures, break times, and of course, the location of the toilet. Ladies around to the left, men out the back to the Gentlemen’s Pissatorium. Sorry, the what?

The Pissatorium. As it turns out, it’s a strawbale on the ground, semi-enclosed in sheets of corrugated iron wired to star pickets. At the end of each weekend, the semi-sodden straw is forked as nutrient-rich mulch straight into the soil to compost. We spent five minutes laughing over the predictable jokes about whether women also use the Pissatorium, but as permaculture students, we all agreed this was a great way to return both moisture and nitrogen to the soil.

In the December lead-up to family and friends staying for Christmas, my mind returned to the problem of our tiny septic system and single water tank. I pictured us all on the back deck, drinking Corona with lime (from our orchard no less) … and so the opportunity to return moisture and nutrients to the soil …

We already had an unused three-walled outhouse. Shaded by mango trees, a respectable distance from the back deck, it would be ideal. All we needed was an absorbent bale of something to place on the floor.

So on busy Christmas Eve I drove, part of a slow-moving procession of dusty farm vehicles, through to the loading section of the local drive-through produce store. I popped open the canopy on the back of the ute and was soon approached by an older man in faded jeans and a shirt in the produce store’s branded colours.

‘I’d like two bales of something absorbent I can use as garden mulch’, I began.

‘Lucerne hay is high in nutrients and good for the soil, but it’s more expensive. Bales of silage are cheaper.’

‘Does the silage have weed seeds in it? We already have enough weeds in the garden.’

‘Yes, it will probably have seeds in it. Sugarcane mulch is your best bet.’

‘Sugarcane is wrapped in plastic, isn’t it? I wanted something that stays together in a bale.’

‘Ahh, why do you need it to stay together in a bale If you want to spread it around as mulch?’

I glanced at the vehicles queuing behind in the drive through. Barely patient drivers wanting to buy food for their working dogs, worming paste for their livestock, new gum boots, or whatever else brought them to the produce store on Christmas Eve.

I decided the salesperson, with his kindly but now slightly confused face, looked like a salt-of-the-earth farmer-type himself, accustomed to the practicalities of country living.

‘Ok, I’ll tell you,’ I began. ‘I’m building a Gentlemen’s Pissatorium. We have people coming for Christmas, the small septic system backs up and we only have one water tank.’

Like a true pro, he showed no surprise at all, going straight into professional problem-solving mode.

‘Well, you could use the sugarcane mulch, you just need to cut one panel open for the top.’

And it worked.

Now, when friends and family come to stay, an introductory tour of our tiny farm includes the vege patch, dam, orchard, and the Gentlemen’s Pissatorium. Naturally, this is followed by the predictable jokes about whether women also use it.

The banter reminded me of my visit to Europe in my early twenties, when I encountered (from the outside), my first public pissoir. In the chill of winter it looked a breezy affair, with open panels along the top and bottom. There was no door, but the spiral-shaped entrance gave a modicum of privacy, although the occupants legs were visible from the knees down. My boyfriend and I had been out to dinner, then a walk, taking the scenic route back to our hotel. We happened upon a pissoir at a very timely time – for him.

I scouted behind the small building, looking for the cubical for women. There wasn’t one.

‘But I really need to go too,’ I said. ‘Where’s the girls’ pissoir?’

There wasn’t one.

In writing this post I needed to google ‘pissoir’ because I didn’t know if it was spelt with one ‘s’ or two. In doing so I learnt that the earliest pissoirs, ironically, were simply hay bales placed in discrete corners of European villages and markets. The bales were then used as mulch on fruit trees. I also learnt that controversy now rages over the few modern (with plumbing so they actually flush) pissoirs still in existence, due to the perceived sexism. Women are asking county councils why men are provided with pissoirs, while they are expected to just ‘hold on’.

Here in Australia it’s now Australia Day and our Gentlemen’s Pissatorium is on its third bale. After a few weeks of use, it takes two of us to lift out the bale to be replaced, but the sugarcane absorbs all the liquid and odour. We collect valuable nitrogen, among other trace elements, while saving four litres of water for every toilet flush.

In the future, our fruit trees will thank us. They’ll produce many limes, some of which will be sliced and placed in bottles of Corona, consumed on the back deck, a respectable walk from the Gentlemen’s Pissatorium.

And so, natures cycle continues its flow.

The season of green and black

‘The fire only made it as far as your boundary,’ the real estate agent confirmed, indicating some fence posts with blackened crowns. She painted pictures in our minds of our prospective new home being a safe haven, an untouched oasis.

Not fully trusting her vested interests, we looked closer and found charring on trees up the gully, above the dam and nearer to the house. We learnt a home further along the road was lost in the Black Summer fires of 2019/20, which devastated almost the whole of the Australian East Coast.

But we bought the property and made the move to the country, making an informed choice, aware of the risk of a future fire. The risk is not particular to this property, but almost any. Here we know some of the surrounding land is cleared for grazing, most of the closest trees between us and the state forest are in our orchard and probably less predisposed to fire than eucalypts. We’ll buy a slasher to keep the grass short. We’ll put in more water tanks and pumps. A friend admitted that after those fires he’s now obsessed with pumps and backup pumps, generators and backup generators.

During our first day at our new house, we received our first mail delivery – from the NSW Rural Fire Service. Welcome, and a reminder to get bushfire ready. Welcome to the country, and the responsibilities of owning a property.

What it was like, back on that day of the fire, here on our not-so-untouched haven and oasis? Were the previous owners bushfire ready? They left us two pumps in separate pump houses down at the dam. The smaller one irrigates the orchard, the larger supplies flow to the fat fire hose, coiled and mounted in a shiny red casing close to the house. When we started this pump, water sprayed in an arc halfway up the hill toward the house, where the plastic transfer pipe had melted in the fire. At the very time it was needed, the fire hose was rendered useless by the fire itself.

If you’ve driven any part of the Australian East Coast over the past two years you may have seen land struggling to heal. Much of the bushland I’ve seen is fire-affected, but with some new green growth sprouting from the charred black remains. It’s the season of green and black. But where the fires burned too hot, trees are faded to grey skeletons, the ghosts of gums that will not recover.

Communities also are struggling to heal. Local councils still employ coordinators to assist recovering residents and communities, and seasonal workers camp at rural showgrounds as contractors to replace fencing for property owners with disaster recovery funding.

During that terrible firey season, 5.5 million hectares of land was devastated, 2,448 homes destroyed, and 26 lives lost. Many native plant and animal species are now extinct or endangered. Cossetted in my city home I wanted to do something. Thoughts of injured and suffering kangaroos, koalas, wombats, and birds plagued my nights. Like many people, I sewed ‘koala mittens’ and ‘batwraps’, donated money to WIRES and community fundraisers.

I’d like to think those fires were an anomaly. I’d like to think it will take years for the regrowth to sustain another large fire. I’d like to think that we’ve had recent rain and there’s no immediate danger. That we can get on with fun and exciting activities like house improvements, establishing a vegie garden, planting a food forest, buying chickens and maybe goats; instead of preparing for a potential bushfire. But I know this thinking may mean we’re not bushfire ready when we need to be.

We need to replace the melted hose pipe and bury it deeper underground. We need to learn what the ‘SWS’ (Static Water Supply) sign affixed to our front gate means – presumably, we need to provide easy access for an empty fire truck thirsty for our water tanks and dam. If a fire does come, where will we move our vehicles to? Which of us will look after our pets? How and when will we decide whether to defend our home or evacuate?

I’m here to live closer to nature, more in tune with her cycles. Summer and bushfire season is part of that cycle. It’s summer now, but we’ve had lots of rain. The dams and tanks are overflowing, it’s lush and verdant. Now is the season for appreciating the rich colours, the abundant growth. The season of green (and black). But this is Australia, so now is also the time to prepare for future seasons.

Note: photo is not our property, thank goodness.