Winter Window

A few pics of a frosty winter morning. Gloves, beanie and scarf essential for morning walks - Molly still takes herself for swims in this sort of weather. Mad. Mmmm snuggly weather.

The Good Farmer

Leaf mould in the making...

Wheat-bix

Sowing is finished for the year. The wheat is in the ground and now its just a matter of watching it grow - and watching weather forecasts on the net. The Farmer will check the weather at least three times a day. If there is a strong forecast for rain, he checks it hourly to see where its falling and follows it in until we hear it on the tin roof. If there is talk of good rain in the district all those at Pine Hill seem to spend the day looking up at the sky. This year the sky seems to be remembering how to rain, and it could be suggested that there is a link between the forecasts and what actually falls from the clouds... but I'm not going to discuss rainfall too much in fear of jinxing what looks like a promising year. The Farmer hasn't been able to sow the crop this early for years - it has always been too dry, forcing them to wait for rain providing the seed with enough moisture to germinate. This year, soil moisture levels and warm autumn soil temperatures punched the little plants out of the ground and a green tinge across the paddocks came in a matter of days.

Colour Comforts

Autumn has come and just about gone. The reds, oranges and yellows of deciduous trees in the garden has been so lovely to live with - colours would bounce off the walls in the sunroom in the afternoon. There are still some leaves on the old pear tree, and a few roses are still in flower - bonica (which despite being in constant flower I fear is a bit too nanna-pink for my taste); iceberg; heritage; jude the obscure; and felicia (who has proved my doubts wrong) is having a great time in the cool weather. The burnt orange rose Summer Song, now finished for the season, had one last flower that looked so lovely beside the autumn colour of the old pear tree. I have taken some cuttings and stuck them in the ground around the one bush I have, to see if I can create more of this picture next year. I'm still removing over-excited ground covers from around the base of roses. There is talk of The Farmer filling a truck with manure from the cattle yards - too exciting for words.

The fire is burning all day and night, slow cooked beef is often on the menu, and the chooks have taken to wandering underneath the house and sitting under the fireplace -its funny listening to them chatter while I sit in the living room. Pause. Not too much chook-talk - I promised.

Am I The Mad Chook Lady?

I have possibly been carrying on far too much about these chickens, but the poor things are quite shaken up. The white one - Whitey - who earlier escaped the jaws of the fox, has taken to sleeping up a tree. I have tried for both weekends at home, to get her into the yard on dusk, but she wont go and instead chooses the highest branch of the LIQUIDAMBAR (Liquidambar styraciflua).

By Sunday night, she had coerced the remaining black chook - Blacky - to sleep up top with her. We couldn't have it. Soon there would be all six up the tree unable to get back into the yard to lay in the morning (because we now close the gate at night) and I'd be back to the days of finding eggs plopped around the garden (if Molly didn't find them first). When the chooks were fully free ranging, I used to spend entire mornings searching for where the girls were laying, listening on high alert for where their laying-cackle was coming from. Not again.

On Sunday night (before my epic drive to work in the morning) I made the call on dusk to get them down from the tree and into the yard to clip their wings before it got dark ... I must make the point, that The Farmer is so incredibly patient ... I got the chooks down from the tree, he got the kitchen scissors and we got to work trying to catch them one by one. It wasn't as easy as I had thought - I did have a chook run between my legs only to find myself arse over on the ground - without chook in hand. But we got there - all we're clipped so they couldn't fly like a bird anymore (and I do hate doing this - I feel most cruel, like I've ruined their aux natural state of being). The trouble is, they still think they can fly. The Farmer tells me over the phone (as I'm back in the big smoke finishing deadline), that they were back up the tree the next night, only to tumble from the top branches and hit the ground with an almighty thud. Blacky is a rather big foul. There was some carrying on, but I think they learned their lesson. They're so harassed. I wont be surprised if our supply of yellow eggs ceases. I'm actually still waiting for the rebel two to start laying - if we ever get there. Sorry chooks.

Safe As (Chook) Houses

He did it. The Farmer caught the fox. The crafty chook-killer was on his way back to the yard hiding under the ancient quince tree when the farmer spotted him. And got him. First shot. I went home that weekend - leaving the madness of deadline til Monday morning. While a roast was cooking in the oven, and The Farmer had finished his day on the tractor sowing more wheat, we went on a date - looking for foxes. It was great team work really. I was spotting (with a really awkwardly large spotlight while hanging out the window of the ute) and The Farmer was on the ready. Good spotting by me found a fox not too far from the homestead, and good shooting by The Farmer meant we'd saved the girls from another threat. They're free to free-range again.

And Then There Were Four

I am in the big smoke, working in the Sydney office for VL's July/August deadline. I always look forward to stepping back into the office – a chance to wear outfits other than my garden gear… And be surrounded – so to speak - by new gorgeous things from around the world. It is always inspiring in here.
While I’m away The Farmer calls me with Pine Hill updates. Sowing is in full swing with the paddock along the front drive already looking green. You can’t help but get excited when you see the wheat poking its head up in their perfect rows. Last night, after my delicious dinner in Darlinghurst, The Farmer called to say the fox had returned and that two more chooks had been taken. (With recent events, I’m not sure why one would think it a good idea to let the ladies roam at dusk, but what can you do… he did have good intentions…) At hearing them cackle and causing a fuss, The Farmer ran outside to their rescue only to see the fox running off into the saltbush. Feathers everywhere, a chook clambering to the ceiling of the chookhouse, and a headcount of only four he declared war. The villain had been identified. So he went hunting. He found it over by the sheds… missed the shot… found it hiding in a fallen tree… missed the shot… found it by Saltbush Cottage… missed the shot. He sounded a defeated man – and was clearly missing his sidekick to hold the spotlight (moi). I admit shooting with one hand, sounds rather difficult.
The phone call this morning though, had a happy resolve – the two chooks we thought were taken, were found pecking around the garden this morning. They had escaped the jaws of the fox and slept in a tree. Quite clever really. They apparently look every bit like they’ve been in a tussle – a bit featherless, but none the less alive. By running outside to their calls for help, The Farmer had saved them. A chicken hero. He’s halfway there. It aint over ‘til the cunning fox is gone for good.