I’m sitting at the table staring out at the
mountain with the clouds behind it, while the wood heater fan hums and on the
local radio are Saturday morning footy and gardening shows. It’s been an
exhausting couple of weeks and so having the time to just sit, stare and think,
seems like some sort of luxury. The farm offers this ability to slow down, to
soak in the beautiful view and to calm down from the fuss and bluster that
normal life can throw our way.
So what’s been happening on the farm? Rain,
wind and cold mornings have started to become more and more regular. The rain
soaks deep into the soil and as the soil swells with moisture new treasures begin
to emerge. In the deep, ploughed furrows just before the olive rows begin
potato plants have popped up. Neat rows of plants, evenly spaced apart have
emerged. Much like the neatly spaced rows of grape vines that popped up, the
potatoes have appeared like magic, a muscle memory of the history of the earth
and of what has taken place on the farm prior to our arrival. And why wouldn’t
there be potatoes? This is good Irish country and as we were to discover last
night at the pub, people have Irish heritage running thick in their veins.
I mentioned in the last post that chestnuts
were beginning to fall from the tree and onto the ground, their spiky cases
cracking open. Due to the long, hot, dry summer, rather than plump, juicy
chestnuts ready for roasting, there were shriveled chestnut husks inside. So
disappointing! I’d read somewhere that chestnuts are something like 80% water,
so obviously a lack of water over summer meant that they didn’t plump up inside
their cases as they hung heavy on the tree over summer. At least we know that
next summer we will need to nurse the tree with water in order to get a better
crop of nuts come this time next year.
Next to the chestnut trees, the prickly
pear fruit has turned a deep red. The native birds fly down to peck at the
fruit and at the last few figs on the tree. Those figs too, have suffered from
a lack of water over summer and while they look okay from the outside, when you
peel them open, they are dry or, they have flooded with juice from the recent
rain, but lack flavor, the cells of their flesh plump with water but with no
time to develop properly. The birds don’t seem to mind, eating them from the
end and leaving figgy husks hanging on the stems. While neither Rohan or I are
fans of the prickly pear- invasive creature that it is- we figure we may as
well make use of the fruit rather than letting it all rot or be scavenged by
the birds. The internet at our finger tips we began investigating recipes – I
like the idea of prickly pear drops, but it was the notion of prickly pear wine
that really caught our eye and I’m hoping we’ll have time this weekend to have
a go at brewing our first batch of this wine to see how it turns out.
This week we had a -1 night and upon
waking, frost lay crisp and white in between the rows of the grove. Mornings
now commence with the mountain wrapped in fog and cloud like a blanket, and
steam rises from the fences as the day takes over from dawn. Inside the house
warms quickly with the wood fire, and we’re fueling it with palings from mum
and dad’s front fence which they had replaced earlier this year- thanks ma and
pa!
Visitors continue to come and check out
what we are both raving about, something Rohan and I both love about farm life.
Last night Dave came up with Phil, who was over from New Zealand. I got home
from an exhausting but amazing day running an embodied reflective practice
workshop at Monash Clayton to find that the boys were checking out the delights
of the Lal Lal pub.
Rohan and I had gone out on the motorbike a
couple of weeks ago and come across the Lal Lal pub, opposite the railway
station which was once a buzz of activity. According to the sign, in the 1880’s and 1890’s, 23 people were employed at
the station, servicing the goods that came from the nearby iron mine, the
lignite mine and the race course. Lal Lal falls was a popular picnic spot and
we headed up the road to check out the amazing view over Bungal dam. We were
keen to head down to see the old blast furnace from the iron mine, but the road
was more a track and our motorbike wasn’t really made for it! The pub had
caught our eye and so Rohan, Dave and Phil had gone on a reconnaissance mission
to see what it was like. Once they returned from there it was back to our
‘local’ the Shamrock, at Dunnstown. Last night we met ‘Munga’ –short for
mongrel as he isn’t good enough to be called mongrel according to him. Despite being
three sheets to the wind (has there ever been a better expression?), he filled
us on in on some local history – or the history according to him! His family,
like so many others from this area, had come over here from Ireland originally
after the potato famine and settled on land, growing spuds and continuing their
Irish catholic traditions. He regaled us with tales of his trip to Ireland and
when he discovered my family was from County Cork he said ‘you can tell a girl
from Cork as you can’t tell a girl from Cork anything’ (is this me?), and
patted me on the back as he talked about the demise of Pontiac potatoes as
‘housewives, no offence’ don’t like to wash their potatoes and don’t like
having to cut the eyes out of the Pontiacs as he asked if I knew what the eyes
were. Do I know what the eyes of a Pontiac are??? Listen Munga, I’m a girl
whose family hails from Cork – I know about spuds and I know what the eyes are!
I’m sure that we will encounter Munga at the pub again, he did promise that if
he tells the publican he knows us that we’ll get extra chips on our plate.
What’s not to love about an offer like that?
As we left the pub, we discovered that a
Britt (from Jane’s family) played for Collingwood in the 70s, a picture of them
hanging on the wall of the pub. Discovering more about that can be for the next
pub visit.
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