My B&B

I've become quite the hostess with the mostest since I've had a place to call my own. I've never really been able to entertain much in the past, as there has been room to have anyone stay over, let alone come for dinner. And now my pleas to "make sure you visit me!" are being heeded, my house has become a veritable B&B. 

In the past week I've had a revolving door of wonderful guests, starting with my daughter Jo, then Farmer Joe, then my friend Sam, and finally capping off a weekend with my sister Kerrie and brother-in-law Jim. It's been great, though my cooking skills have been somewhat put to the test. I'm finally mastering the art of poached eggs, though I must apologise for nearly burning my poor sister's mouth off with my extra-hot Thai green curry... 

Sam and her red wellies - they match the wheelbarrow!

But don't think just because you are my guest you get a free lunch. Uh-uh, no way - here in the Enchanted Garden you have to work for your keep. I sent poor Sam out into my garden while I was doing other work - in sub-zero temperatures, mind - while my poor sister and brother-in-law were set to work transforming my enormous, and very overgrown vegetable patch. 

Kerrie and Jim working for their keep

After clearing away mummified corn stalks, ginormous rhubarb and over-zealous dill, it appears only one healthy vegetable remains from the previous garden incarnation - spring onions. They love it, and have sprouted everywhere, even outside the actual garden in the grass. Only I can't think of a more useless vegetable to have a major crop of. 

Spring onions, anyone?

Anyone have a recipe where these tasty morsels from my own garden can be utilised?

And PS - anyone is more than welcome to come and stay here. Seriously. But gardening gloves and gumboots are recommended...

Cattle Country

When I said I was moving to the country, I felt like I was being a bit facetious. After all, this is hardly the Back of Bourke - I'm only two hours from Sydney, there are Surry Hills-style cafes just 10 minutes away and a wine bar up the road. Little Hartley is not so much a bush outpost, but more when lawyers buy weekend properties so they can get their 'tree-change' fix - you know, a few chooks, gardens to potter in and maybe a pony or two. 

Or so I thought. But so far my time here has turned out to be more country hardcore than I ever imagined. 

There's Lithgow, for starters - a full-on country town, as redneck as they come. And then there's Centennial Glen, Cass's home ... Even though it's only 10 minutes drive from my place, it might as well be in the Kimberley or the Snowy Mountains - that's how remote and countrified it feels. There are 'roos bounding everywhere, gates you have to open and shut, and cattle mooing, all under a big, wild, rugged Aussie escarpment. 

As well as being a trail riding establishment and agistment property, the good folk at Centennial Glen - who have apparently lived in this idyllic valley for generations - also run a mob of cattle. It's calving season, and the cows in the paddock adjoining Cass' are dropping 'em like flies. 

The other afternoon I arrived to find a tractor reversing into the cattle yards where I usually feed Cass. "We just have to get something out of the yard," I was told. That 'something' turned out to be a dead calf, which had been pulled from its mother that morning, stillborn. I forced myself to look, thinking it was all part of my country education. 

This scenery makes me swoon - so beautiful!

The girls bringing the girls in

Today I arrived at the paddock to find six of the girls from the stables - aged from about 12 to their mid-20s - preparing to go and fetch the herd of cows, calves and weaners from the paddock, separate the cows and babies, then drive the heifers back into other paddocks. They invited me to join them, but unfortunately I hadn't brought my saddle along (I'd ridden this morning, and just returned this afternoon to put Cass's rug back on and feed him). Which is a shame, because Cass apparently is great at cattle work and it would have been good to see him in action. 

Get on in, little dawgies!

Anyhoo ... it was still an education to watch these young girls - led by the fearless jillaroo Michelle (an excellent horsewoman who's worked on cattle stations) round up the cows, and basically get run amuck by the feisty little calves. 

I had no idea that, at this age (like, two days old), they have no herd sense, and instead of running with the herd (and their mums), they simply bolt in the opposite direction - including through fences, both barbed and electric. 

One little fella managed to escape the pen, go through two fences, join another mob of cows and avoid capture for at least half an hour. Eventually he was driven back, where Michelle's solution was to physically tackle him and lift him into the pen where his mother was... 

Jillaroo extraordinaire, Michelle, in action

All in an afternoon in the country ... even in country that's only two hours from the Big Smoke. 

Love this place.

War of the Roses

I always thought gardening was a genteel pastime, pursued by little old ladies in sun hats or buff young men without shirts ... mmm, gardeners .... sorry, lost my train of thought there! 

So on a glorious afternoon like this, my mind turns to my own little patch of heaven and its upkeep. What better way to spend the last hours of daylight than pottering in the Enchanted Garden? 

Unfortunately, my property has been a little neglected of late, what with the previous owners moving out and me moving in. And it seems the whole 3.5 acres has been choked in thorns. 

A rose is a beautiful flower, but rose bushes are hideous, voracious, vicious beasts that consume, strangle and maim everything that comes near them. Including me. 

I don't know much about gardening, but I do know you are supposed to cut back roses at the end of winter. So I've been attacking these nasty thorny creatures with the secateurs, then dragging the evidence down to a huge pile behind the shed, creating one mighty pile of scary thorny shit. I'm not even sure some of the prickly bushes are roses ... a rose by any other name is still a bastard ... but if it's prickly, I've been attacking. 

And unfortunately, being attacked back. Even though I've been wearing gloves, the thorns have slashed through the leather, torn my jeans, my tracky dacks and my skin. I have red angry scratches all over me, irritating, painful and uncomfortable. In fact, as I sat down to write this, I actually pulled a prickle out of my arse... ah, the inspiration of nature!

Here is a picture of the fruits of my labour. Some of that pile is the conifer I cut down last week ... but the rest are rose stems. All I can say is, it's gonna be a hell of a bonfire!

The Leaking Tap

This is a story not so much about country life, but just home ownership and the associated responsibilities and costs. A cautionary tale for all renters, particularly those lamenting their under-privileged position in the real estate market. 

When I went to connect my washing machine hose to the laundry taps, I discovered that the hose didn't actually fit the wall connection; so I headed into Bunnings, explained my situation and bought an adaptor for the fitting. Problem solved. Except I discovered that that particular outlet was, in fact, hot water, not cold - and I prefer to wash in cold water. 

When I went to set up the cold water hose, I discovered a similar problem - the hose didn't quite fit the outlet, and was leaking water everywhere. Another trip to Bunnings, another adaptor bought. 

But despite all my efforts, sore hands and wrenching, I couldn't get the hose tight enough and it still leaked water everywhere. I managed to squeeze in two loads of washing, but knew that the situation wasn't ideal. Next time I had a bloke over, I'd ask them to fix the leak - after all, isn't that what male friends are for? 

My dear Uncle Alan was the bunny who scored the job. He came prepared, with a boot full of tools, washers, wrenches, you name it. When Alan does a job, he makes sure it's done thoroughly. 

I explained to him what I had done, and told him I just needed to get the hose BACK off the tap (I had put it on so tight, I couldn't budge it), and it probably just needed some teflon tape to stop the drip. "Leave it to me," he said. 

Several hours later and a flooded laundry later, he said he'd fixed the problem. He also said he'd connected the cold tap to a central tap, which would control the flow. Whatever, I thought, as long as the drip is fixed. 

That night, an hour or so after Alan and Elaine had left, I turned on my kitchen tap to wash the dishes. I had no cold water. None in the bathroom, or the laundry either. 

I called Alan, left a message - he was still travelling back to Sydney. After speaking to him later that night, I figured if I had both the hot and cold laundry taps turned on, I could in fact get some cold water to the other pipes. Weird, but OK. 

In the morning, however, I discovered that I actually had no hot water. And that the cold water taps were running hot, and weakly at that. Something was clearly wrong. Alan and Elaine had set off on holidays, so I knew I couldn't ask him back. My only option was to call a plumber. 

Turns out that whatever Alan did - and I'm not blaming him at all, it was just one of those things - cross-connected the hot and cold water, and somehow blew the water pump. Like, totally fried it. Kaput. 

When I first moved here, another friend had said to me his biggest concern living here would be the water pump. A prophetic concern, as it turned out. 

So now I have a brand new water pump, new taps on the laundry wall and no leak. And it only cost me $700. 

The offending tap. So innocent...

I've also decided to buy a whole new hot water system, which will set me back another $3500. The one in my loft bedroom is a dinosaur, and as the plumber said, if that goes, it will flood everything downstairs and be a disaster. Better to bite the bullet now and get a whole new instantaneous gas system. 

My scary hot water system, lurking in the loft..

So that's what has been on my mind the past few days, Facebook...

Time Management

Gosh look at that, 5pm already. How time flies when you have shitloads to do. Almost time for my wallaby friend to pop by. And yes, in case you're wondering, I have cracked open a bottle of wine... 

This country life is frigging exhausting, let me tell you. My arms ache, though I'm not sure if that's from gardening or hauling heavy stuff, which I seem to do a lot of these days. I have prickles in my sweater (I'll explain below, keep reading...) And those halycon days of living out of a suitcase, having no responsibilities or time commitments (other than maybe 15 minutes to feed the cat) seem so far away... 

In a place this big, and with so much to do, I have to be more disciplined with my time management. 

I'm still unpacking, and I probably will be for the next week or so, which at the moment takes up at least an hour a day. Slowly slowly, just a few boxes a day. Today I unpacked all my books. Which means I have a home at last :) 

I also need to spend at least an hour in my garden a day if I'm going to keep it under control. Which it so isn't at the moment. Today I decided to tackle a rampant rose bush which was choking my lemon tree. I like my lemon tree, it has nice juicy lemons, so I don't want it strangled with thorns. The rose bush, however, has gone insane, its evil tendrils choking everything around it, including my sweater as I hacked into it. I spent at least an hour snipping away at the rose today, barely making an indentation on its relentless march. But I will prevail... 

That's a pile of rose thorns in the foreground, lemon tree at rear.

OK, then I seem to spend a good hour of the day dealing with my fire. It requires constant feeding, a bit like my screaming cat. Mornings are the worst, when the fire fairy hasn't come and I have to haul myself out of bed in subzero temperatures to get it started from scratch. Brrrr, what a way to start the day! 

Then there are the regular trips into Bunnings. Ah, my new favourite shop. Don't believe everything you read about Bunnings, however - Lithgow Bunnings is NOT, I repeat, NOT full of hot men and tradies. Just toothless people. And shop assistants who don't have a clue... Another hour gone, wasted. And my laundry tap still leaks...

The most pleasant part of my day is the time I spend with my horse. If I'm not riding him, that's an hour or so ... more if I'm riding, like today. Bliss. And I'm predicting more and more time will be spent doing this as I get used to him and the weather warms up...

Cass doing what he does best. Dinner.

Oh hello, baby!

OK, so how much time does that leave for work? Oh yes, I have to pay the mortgage, need to keep writing, don't I?! Goddamn.

Just counted, at least six hours of my day are taken up with my new life. Which leaves ... not much time for work. Sorry eds, I have better things to do...

Best Behaviour

Gotta love it when the planets align, and it seems your world is on its best behaviour. 

That happened today when my friend Ali visited from the 'big smoke'. I think my new home did a fine job of impressing her, with everything from the weather (most of the time, at least) to the flora and fauna on its best behaviour. 

As we were sitting indulging in cheese and red wine as the sun was going down, we spotted a little wallaby grazing in my front garden. As you do. The sweet little thing seemed to have a joey in her pouch - we could see a little something in that vicinity. She stood there posing for our cameras; we didn't even have to leave the comfort of the lounge to get a good shot. Nature score #1.

Earlier, Ali and I had been to see Cass at his new home. I was a bit nervous about this, as it was my first time catching and riding him as his "real owner". But my cheeky baby also turned on the charm, coming to greet us (with the lure of a carrot - thanks Ali!) then being an absolute angel as I saddled and rode him in the round yard. I only worked him for about 20 minutes, but that felt like quite an achievement since it was the first time I had ridden without his previous owner on hand. 

I called it quits before he got bored, and having achieved what I set out to. Baby steps. 

The only thing that wasn't really co-operating today was the weather. It was freezing out at Cass's paddock, and we ditched him before he'd even finished his dinner, claiming it was too cold to stick around. But driving home, we looked back across the paddocks form the top of the hill and saw the sun hitting the escarpment of the Blue Mountains - a sight to truly make your heart soar. So freakin' beautiful.

See you tomorrow, Cass! Stay warm, baby!

love this shot so much. Thanks Ali!

PS - fully intended getting a photo of Alison a) with my horse and b) at my house. Too much fun and red wine was had, so no go. Sorry Ali!

Cass's New Home

Today I took my horse Cassidy to his new home, a beautiful big paddock at Centennial Glen, under the dramatic escarpment of Blackheath. From the top of the mountain, it's a steep 20 minute drive ... but I can access it from Little Hartley via a sneaky shortcut, through private property and a locked gate - and it's only 10 minutes from my house!

My handsome boy

Although I've owned Cass now for nearly two months, he's been living with his former owner, so I haven't had to really take responsibility for him yet - LeeAnn's been feeding and rugging him, while I just occasionally turn up and give him a carrot and take him for a little ride. But now he's all mine, and it's up to me to take care of him. 

Mind you, he wasn't too keen to leave his old home; it took quite a few goes before he'd finally walk on the float. But he seems to like his new paddock; after I let him off his halter, he galloped off to meet his new neighbours, before coming trotting back to me once he realised I had some food for him. Bless him and his insatiable appetite. 

You mean there's food?

Dining room with a view

Observing his new domain

After he'd been fed and devoured another carrot, I turned him back out and he charged off to say hi to his new paddock mates. I left him galloping around and playing, seemingly very happy. 

Cass playing with his new paddock-mates

Can't wait to actually take him on trails around this beautiful part of the world :)

Just do it...

"I hate that tree," I say to my friend Dougald as we sit having a cup of tea on the front porch of my house. "It blocks the view and it looks like a snake pit." 

Two hours later, I step outside only to find the tree half gone and Doogie up to his armpits in conifer branches.  "What the hell have you done?!" I say. 

"You said you hated it, now it's gone," he replies. 

"Yes, but I was going to think about it for a while..." 

"Nah, you just have to get in there and do it." 

Country wisdom. 

My friend Dougald is a farmer from Wagga who very kindly drove for five hours to deliver me a load of wood. He also said he'd give me a lesson in using my new axe, I mean log splitter. 

Doogie in action

Watching a strong country bloke sever a log with one fell swoop is quite sexy, all grace and precision. Watching a weak city chick attempt to do the same thing is just a comedy act.

I never was any good at eye-hand co-ordination. My golf swing sucks, my polo swing sucks, and I can't hit a tennis ball to save my life. I also can't place an axe exactly where I need it, my pathetic little blows just glancing off the log. 

Oh dear...

Despite Dougald's best instruction (particularly the part about keeping my legs spread so if I miss the log, I won't amputate my leg) my log splitting lesson was an epic country fail. I did, however, do a fine job of stacking the wood, and I even got distracted and pruned back an annoying rose bush. 

A little more stylish, but the axe is actually stuck IN the wood....

So now I have a stack of beautiful logs that should keep me warm for a month or two at least. And I have a rather hideous stump in my front garden, the remains of the conifer that once blocked my view. 

I ended up finishing off the job myself once Dougald hit the road, and actually proved far more adept with a hacksaw than with an axe. I've found my weapon of choice.

The view beyond the stump...

The view is indeed glorious now - it looks better already, even with the remaining stump. And my thoughts about the dense foliage being a snake pit weren't too far off track - it actually hid a stinking rats nest! 

So today's Country Clueless lesson is twofold: Don't say you don't like something in your garden to a country bloke, because he'll take you at your word and get rid of it before you know it.

And secondly - don't procrastinate. Just get in there and do it. 

I'm f-ing exhausted now.