🚀 go-pugleaf

;rep:111,4220
>>> Continued from previous message
It has been raining a lot here, something that Australia has had a lot
of: I noticed James Bannan commenting on the rain in Victoria, and
there have been floods in South Australia, in some of the best wine-
growing areas.  "We always have unseasonable weather in summer", say
the cynics, tongue in cheek.  The rain has brought frogs around from
the nearby creeks, and so I check the pool at night to save them from
drowning.  That has almost become a Christmas custom . . .

We have Santa Claus here: just as we were leaving "nippers", Duncan
said "Oh, that's right.  There was a Santa person coming at eleven to
hand out lolly bags."  "Do you want to go back," I asked.  "No, they'll
probably get salt all over them when the Santa comes in, in the surf
boat."

It should be understood that the Santa in question is not the real one
at all, but the fattest adult member of the surf club, in swimmers and
Santa suit, smuggled out in a four-oared rowing boat, who gets robed
out beyond the breakers, and then comes ho-hoing in, standing in the
bows and waving as the boat rides the waves to shore.  These surf boats
are long, slim and light, rowed by four rowers and controlled by the
"sweep" who steers the boat, and keeps the stern to the boiling
breaking waves.

Well, that is Christmas in urban, coastal Australia.  Inland, we have
had good rain, but within a few weeks, it will be dry again, the red
dust will swirl, and the grass will be brown once more.  To outsiders,
it will seem desolate, bare and forbidding, to us it will be like home.

With luck, the sparrows will not get in under my eaves too much, for
they go there to eat the spiders.  I have fifteen species there, most
of the time, and what with the wasps eating them and the sparrows
plundering them, the spiders are having a hard time.  I resent these
feral foreign birds, which displace our native birds, as well as
munching on my spiders.

Out on the plains the brolgas are dancing, says another of the carols.
These are magnificent birds, and I have only once seen them dancing.
We will leave for the bush, two days after Christmas, and spend three
or four days in the wilderness, where the Devonian metamorphics meet
the basement of the Permian sedimentary rocks, where a single hand can
span a gap of 100 million years in geological history.  My oldest son
Angus and I are talking about collaborating on a book, so we will take
pencil and paper, we will all take our new books (maybe with less of
a Scots and Jacobite flavour to them) to read, and a couple of spare
fly sheets to shelter from the sun under, during the day.

We will explore, too, and maybe find a good cave in the area: the
prospects look good.  These "caves" are generally just rock overhangs,
but they are good for camping in, during really wet weather.  Some
years ago, my three children and I were rained into a cave for 36
hours: when the mist lifted, we could wave at the people in the cave
over the valley, and we could make our way around the cliff line to
visit the university students in the next cave, or the adults in the
other direction, or they would come and visit us.  For a wilderness
area, it can get quite convivial!

We will see no brolgas, but we will see many other birds, kangaroos
will crop the grass around the tents at night, and wombats will waddle
and crump noisily through the camp site in the middle of the night.
There will be too many invertebrates to count.

We will probably bump into any number of other like-minded families and
groups on the single-file foot track.  We will stop, each file to the
left side of the track, share a few words, discuss wood and water
supplies, and what is living where, who has the latest weather
forecast, and then move on.

That is an Australian Christmas, in my view.  Who needs snow or jingle
bells when you can soak in a river at piccaninny daylight, hoping
against hope for a brief sighting of a shy platypus?

     The north wind is tossing the leaves,
     The red dust is over the town;
     The sparrows are under the eaves,
     And the grass in the paddock is brown,
     As we lift up our voices and sing
     To the Christ child, the heavenly King.

A merry, joyous and peaceful Christmas to you all, wherever you are:
talk to you again in the New Year.

peter

 # SLMR 2.1 # I'm not schizophrenic, I'm "multi-faceted"



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