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.

Shiners and The Shining

Today I bought an axe, or more correctly a 'log splitter'. I wasn't too sure what one was until yesterday, when the guy who delivered a load of wood gave me the lowdown on fibreglass versus wood, and how to wield it. And because he'd delivered ridiculously enormous pieces of wood (rather than nice chunks which would fit into my slow combustion heater), I decided that this would have to be my next (expensive) purchase.

So here I am, walking down the main street of Lithgow carrying an axe. And sporting a black eye.

No one blinked an eye, of course. This is Lithgow, after all. The fact that I have all my teeth is probably more cause for staring and pointing.

Two days ago, I moved to my country dream home in Little Hartley, just over the Blue Mountains. It's a beautiful part of the world, rolling green hills set against a dramatic rock escarpment. My patch of paradise is just over three acres of divine gardens, a ramshackle collection of rare and exquisite cool climate trees.

Which would be awesome if I knew anything - anything at all - about gardening. The truth is, I've never managed to keep a pot plant alive before this, and have pretty much lived in city apartments all my life. Now I am living here, on acreage, alone, with a wonderland of trees to care for.

And until I bought the axe - sorry, log splitter - this morning, I didn't own a tool. Next on the agenda is a whipper snipper. Ooh, maybe a chainsaw. And I should probably get a ladder and a wheelbarrow.

I guess you're wondering about the black eye. Well, it's not a result of country living, just general inadequacy. I stupidly decided to put together my four-poster brass bed on my own. All well and good until a whopping great metal pole falls on your head. Needless to say, I'm still sleeping on the floor. 

Hopefully this will be my last moving-related injury. I have no wish to be an amputee, so intend going very carefully with that log splitter. I'll let you know once I give it a whirl.