The Morisset Showgrounds proved an ideal location from which to explore the Lake Macquarie area. One day we headed north round the Lake to the regional Art Gallery where there was an amazing display by final year Art students called “First Class 16”  – no photos allowed alas – certainly I was never taught those sort of techniques at school.

Then we repaired to the nearby Cafe for a delicious if slightly pricey lunch. Afterwards we explored the grounds – the Art Gallery is in a beautiful setting beside the lake with a number of large garden sculptures. A mob of cockies contributed.  The nearby heritage-listed home was not open.

Still not quite sated with Art, we then paid a visit to Sir William Dobell’s home at Wangi Wangi.

He won the Archibald Prize three times, the first time with a portrait of Joshua Smith, a fellow artist, which some people declared was not a portrait but a caricature. A lawsuit followed; Dobell kept his prize. He also painted the wonderful portrait of Dame Mary Gilmore which I included in an earlier blog when we are at Silverton near Broken Hill. His studio was at the top of the house up some very rickety stairs, and it was wonderful. The smells immediately evoked my granddad’s studio with all his painting paraphernalia. He had tubes of oil paints everywhere, but in Dobell’s studio someone has tidied up maybe a wee bit too much! (That’s a reproduction of the Joshua Smith portrait on the easel).

My artist granddad sometimes did “blueprints”, which I had completely forgotten about until I saw this:

I was delighted to see a long discussion about Dobell’s portrait of Margaret Olley. My school Art teacher Mrs Abbott all those years ago was always telling me to look for harmonious curves in art. Dobell’s work was often used to illustrate this. Mrs Abbott was magnificent, she made sure I understood everything she said by giving me numerous notes often written on odd scraps of paper.  How I wish I had kept them.

Another view of the Lake at Wangi Wangi:

Lastly we visited the site of a WW2 Flying Boat base at Rathmines, where 2,000 airmen  and 1,000 WAAF were housed during WW2.  Over 200 Catalina crews were trained here.

“The role played by Catalina aircraft and crews has received very little public recognition because of the need to maintain secrecy….”

The RAAF Catalina Memorial is impressive. It overlooks recently-named Catalina Bay , although remains of the old ramps and hard standing are around the headland in another bay. (I can’t believe I omitted to take photos there). There are plaques for every airman, whether he/she perished during the war or long after. There were some for people over 90 years old.

This was not the first Catalina memorial we have visited in Australia. There is one in Bowen Queensland, and another in Karumba up in the Gulf of Carpentaria.

Back to camp and another lovely sunset. I have been wondering why the nearby trotting track has not been used – probably too wet – but next morning at last there were two horses doing their stuff.

On our last day in the area we caught up with Vic and Anna who we met in a camp at Cloncurry last year. We shared a rather wet experience at the Cloncurry Stockman’s Challenge and some wonderful pizza made by Anna in an old fireplace in the Cloncurry campground, then went our separate ways.  We had a lovely catch-up. They are going to head north again soon but we are going home so I can write a couple of books. That is now the fixed plan according to everyone else!

Reminiscence mode on: I was hoping to catch up with an old friend who lives in Newcastle. We shared many experiences when campaigning for increased television captioning in the late 1980s and early 1990s. The first time I saw captioning was in Bowen in Northern Queensland (NQ) in 1985-6, it had started the previous year in capital cities. I must have bought the first television with teletext in NQ and then had to wait impatiently for at least six months until the service was extended past Brisbane. At first there was very little available; the husband of one friend was disgusted to learn I wanted to rush home to watch “East Enders”, the only other thing captioned in NQ at the time apart from the late night News!!  When I moved to Brisbane I joined a group campaigning for more captioning particularly on the 7 o’clock news, and eventually ended up as Chair of the ‘National Working Party on Captioning’ (NWPC) for 2 years. Those were the days when there was plenty of money around and the Australian Caption Centre flew state representatives down to Sydney several times a year – which I appreciated as it meant I could also visit my father and aunt in their nursing homes a little more frequently.

Captioning is not subtitling, strictly speaking: the former is a visual representation of the soundtrack, (speech plus noises like music, people coughing, tapping sounds, footsteps), while the latter is translation – but the terms are commonly used interchangeably.  The very first captioned movie shown on Australian TV was “Ghost”, on Channel 9, sponsored by Toyota. At least one Deaf person was so happy he went out and bought a brand new Toyota!  The funeral of the Princess of Wales was live-captioned, a marathon effort by a few very dedicated former stenographers. Unfortunately real time captioning like that is STILL a rarity in NZ.  (Reminiscence mode off).

We had to wait a few days until Karen was free so spent the time exploring. The notorious old Maitland Gaol received a quick visit from the outside only.

Then on to the historical town of Morpeth with it’s cobbled footpaths, beautiful old sandstone buildings and enticing little boutiques – it must be where all the fashionable Maitland people go to buy their classy clothing like alpaca coats. Morpeth dates back to 1821 when it formed part of a land grant given to Lt. E C Close by Governor Brisbane. “Influenced by its desirable location on the Hunter river and the realisation of the area’s immense potential, Morpeth evolved from a rugged bush base to a frontier town and heavily frequented river port by the 1830s.”  There were once 18 inns in the main street. Morpeth helped lay the foundations for the entire Hunter Valley.

Nowadays the Hunter is a muddy little river, -swollen and discoloured at the time we were there due to recent rain. I could not get any good photos due to roadworks closing off all the approaches to the river and bridge.

Maitland proved a good base, not too far from Newcastle and not too far from the Hunter Valley wineries. We decided to visit one for lunch and set off with high expectations and NO map of the wineries area, so initially headed in the wrong direction. Beautiful green hills and valleys and little bridges were everywhere. But no vineyards.

Finally discovering a huge road sign with multiple wineries we headed down a dirt road but after many km could only find one with an open gateway – and a closed cellar bar and restaurant. Retracing our steps we went further into wine country but everything seemed deserted. It was a Thursday …. in Blenheim all the wineries would be busy. Here it was deserted. Perhaps at the weekends? – but we didn’t hang around to find out. The vines look quite different to NZ ones, more scraggly and untidy, on long spindly crooked legs. When we left Blenheim in early April the vines were just starting to turn autumn colours; here they are not yet so advanced, although harvesting has obviously ended.

We did much better the next day, firstly meeting with Karen – a wonderful catching-up morning which went by all too quickly.

Karen suggested we go for a drive ‘along the foreshore’ of Newcastle, so we did. The area leading to the eastern breakwater has become fashionable with lots of apartments and that means lots of little restaurants. We found one at 33 Hunter St. called simply ‘Moor’ and decorated with beautiful old Arabian tiles, where we  had a memorable lunch. Me with three large perfect fallafel with oozy cheesey interiors, green tahini sauce and Arabian salad; Dave with something less outstanding but equally delicious. A pity my photo is a little out of focus.

Then on to the rather long breakwater, no family art there as at Port Macquarie but a series of bas relief sculptures commissioned for the Bicentennary.

Nearing the end…

The breakwater was constructed from several different materials including cement-filled sacks, apparently

Rock sculpture on one of the natural rocks.

We did find this little painting on the seaward side of a large rock at the far end of the breakwater – I wonder what it is doing there and what it symbolises.

Two lone surfers braved the waves close to the lighthouse.

 About that time we discovered a crack in the windscreen, it starts right down at the bottom. As it has been raining on and off every day for ages, the first windscreen repairer we approached wouldn’t even look at it, said it had to dry out for at least 24 hrs before he could attempt anything. We decided to wait till we were at our next destination – somewhere around Lake Macquarie. Not to be confused with Port Macquarie which is some 100 km north. Morisset Showground sounded suitable and not likely to be as high priced or crowded as the lakeside commercial camps, particularly with Easter coming up soon.

As it turned out, after we’d carefully covered the windshield area with a tarpaulin one night in case there was any more rain after a lovely fine day, a repairer said it was impossible to repair as the crack started right down at the bottom. He did however drill a tiny hole which will hopefully stop the crack spreading any further. We have already used up the Jeep’s glass insurance for the year so hope we will not need to replace it just yet.

Lake Macquarie contains more water than Sydney Harbour, but does not take nearly as long to drive right around. Which we did – twice! The first windscreen repairer was in Swansea on the seaward side of the Lake, so we took the opportunity to visit Cave’s Beach and then Catherine Hill Bay, both just south of Swansea.  The caves are Cave’s Beach are only accessible at low tide; lo and behold it was right on low tide when we arrived. The rock formations were interesting, alternate layers of very hard conglomerate and soft sandstone. It was easy to see how the caves were formed.

Catherine Hill Bay is a historical mining village, of which very little remains now but an old pier. I think there were some mine remains further up the hillside but we did not go that way. The beach was practically deserted but surf lifesavers were still in attendance (their clubhouse was up on the cliffside). The main road through the township is lined with beautiful little miners’ cottages; we shot past them before I thought to take some photos.

More about the Lakes area in the next blog.

We arrived in the rain and left in the rain but in between there was one half day of brilliant weather – the morning we scattered my brother’s ashes off the breakwater, in company with some of his friends.

We checked out the breakwater the evening before. The local council encourages people to paint the rocks, with the result that many are covered with either remembrance notices, or records of family visits, sometimes over multiple years. The wind blew strongly and only a few surfers were out.

That evening we discovered a super little restaurant right next to the camp. Gleefully I ordered my favourite prawns (in this case panko-crumbed, served on a slate plate with mild wasabi-flavoured mayo) … and then my favourite dessert, affogato. For once it was served correctly (at least according to the Italian lady who first served me affogato, in a tiny northern NZ town of all places) – a scoop of ice cream, a demitasse of strong coffee, and a liqueur. Bliss.

We went back again two days later. This time Dave ordered the prawns and I had something else. Not nearly as memorable. Why is it that the first time you try something new or go somewhere new, the second time is often not as good.

Next morning, after the ashes-scattering, six of us repaired to the local Bowling Club for a few hours.  We chose a quiet table in a far section but before long were surrounded by what seemed like hundreds of bowlers from all over Australia, there for a tournament. Eventually they departed for the links and peace reigned again!!

We visited the Port Macquarie Maritime Museum, housed in the old Pilot Station, a little gem with a lovely knowledgeable guide. I think I impressed him by correctly identifying a bo’sun’s whistle which had only recently been put on display and was yet to be labelled. (But when I put this photo on Facebook, immediately several knowledgeable friends piped up … (!)

There were rooms devoted to different aspects of maritime life including local shipwrecks (many!) and decorated with signal flags …..  

… early oyster farming (they used full diving gear similar to that used for pearl diving in WA) ….

… the usual early artefacts – Matthew Flinders called in here of course (no, not the museum) …

… a huge old binnacle complete with small magnets ….

… photo of a railways ferry ….

… the usual outdoors display …. and rope knotting display….

and some wonderful models of old sailing ships.  

A box sextant excited my curiosity, it’s very different to an ordinary sextant.

Port Macquarie does not have a big banana, big tomato, big salmon etc – it has big koalas. Not that big but certainly more than double life size, all the same basic model but painted in all sorts of different themes. These are three of the more intricate, the last one in the grounds of the old Court House; we didn’t manage to see them all. Some were merely in football club colours, McDonald’s, etc. I think there are 33 in all.

It was blowing hard again when we drove past Nobby’s Head but then stopped at Flynn’s Beach ….

….. and then visited Tacking Point, named by Matthew Flinders in 1802. The lighthouse remains but not the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.

There were wonderful views south along Lighthouse Beach.

A sign told of numerous wrecks in the vicinity. “Many fatal shipwrecks have been recorded along the northern NSW coast since records began before 1800, and more than 25 of those are off the coast of Port Macquarie alone. ….  Following outcry a the appalling loss of life at seas, the NSW Marine Board issued a directive to “… illuminate the coastline like a street with lamps”.”

Before leaving Port Macquarie we made a last trip to the breakwater. This time the sea was quieter and the clouds were clearing.  Also to Flynn’s Beach, this time it was  low tide.

We had several chats with my brother’s friends including his legal Guardian who was appointed five years ago, and as a result I have been able to piece together a few more parts of my brother’s life. We were very different people and did not see each other for long stretches, particularly as we lived far apart. I was glad I was able to see him last year when we dashed over to the coast from Broken Hill before heading north for the Queensland outback.

It was still raining but not so heavily when we left Tamborine Mountain, going straight to the M1 as our proposed route via Murwillumbah was cut off by flooding. We spent a night at pricey Brunswick Heads, right on the river…..

….. before shifting to Mullumbimby where we stayed wetly on a very muddy field for the next few days. I love that part of the NSW countryside, all hills and dales and green grass (and doubtless other types of grass), hippy country with charming little townships full of cafes and art and dress shops.

Mullumbimby itself is a popular haunt of weirdly dressed and dreadlocked inhabitants, and the “Information Centre” was a single stand inside the newsagents. Mysterious odours wafted from certain shops. Our tour of exploration was cut short by – you guessed it – more rain. We did manage one evening trip along narrow hinterland lanes to meet one of the babies I did knitting for during our earlier touring.

We made a day trip to Bangalow so I could see an osteopath about my recalcitrant neck; a pinched neck nerve or two occasionally makes life miserable.  Bangalow has streets lined with vibrant purple ‘something’ trees, as well as a lovely antique shop where it was difficult not to fall in love with all the old restored furniture. The whole area is a colonial furniture collector’s paradise.

By then the weather had eased a little and I had a wonderful time catching up with various friends from the days when my first husband Geoff and I ran the Bowen slipway.

We lived on board our boat “Cornelius” on which my daughter spent her first five years. Geoff acted as harbour master for the numerous boaties and fishermen who came and went in the popular harbour in the late 1970s, so we were never short of new people to meet. I acquired a few more old photos …..

It was so wonderful to see them all and visit their homes which I had not seen for many years, particularly ‘Serendipity’ deep in the bush with its abundant wildlife.

One last evening we shared a meal with Pete and Dee sitting in the near-empty carpark at nearby New Italy, it being far too hot and humid to be in the caravan, especially since I had the bright idea to make a salmon quiche in the oven! (We nearly didn’t have it anyway as the oven went out  at an early stage, fortunately discovered in time).

The Pacific Highway has certainly become wider since I used to beetle up and down it in my little VW in the 60s.  But the narrow opening bridges are still there.

An important side trip was made to Evans Head, near which my Great-Uncle George lost his life at sea when the SS “Cahors” ran aground on Evans Reef in 1885. The reef cannot be seen from the shore, but here are views looking in the general direction, plus views of the modern-day breakwater.  George’s story is told in detail at https://nancyvada.me/sailing/george-johnston-sailor-boy . 

A shop spotted in Evans Head:

On to another beautiful camp at Yamba, with a  small pool where I did morning laps, something I sorely miss in NZ…

 … and another long-time friend to meet and hug and swap reminiscences with. Dave has met most of my friends over the years so was far from feeling  left out.  Kay and Peter’s home is right on the river, oriented just right to catch the sunsets.

Like Evans Head, Yamba has a huge breakwater where the enormous Clarence River enters the sea. Pilot’s Head furnished wonderful views.

Here’s the vista looking the other way into the extensive estuary. Aboriginal art  gives some idea of the size.

A lasting memorial (with a little camellia tree) overlooks the breakwater. It was obviously somebody’s favourite spot.

The lighthouse….

And the former pilot’s house, now restored and the home of the local radio station.

Two local inhabitants. The second one has lost part of his/her tail.

The views from beside and on the Yamba breakwater. Decorating the rocks seems to have become the in-thing. 

The Yamba Historical Museum is well worth a visit, with lots of well-presented exhibits. We learnt some more about the lighthouses we visited the other day…….

….. and Dave also chatted with one of the researchers who had written about the “Cahors”, and an exchange of information resulted. It has been some time since I first researched my Great Uncle George, and lots of new information has come to light via on-line old newspapers.

Spooky Beach (yes that’s it’s name) just south of the breakwater. The rock pools were formed after quarrying to build a railway -there’s a piece of railway line sticking out in the bottom photo.

Yamba Prawns are justly famous. Dinner one night was simply prawns, home-made seafood sauce, fresh bread rolls and some NZ Sauvignon Blanc.  We should be drinking Aussie wines and we try to do so but all too often they are priced well out of our budget. We’ve heard the Aussie market is flooded with NZ wines and the growers are angry, yet in NZ some growers are importing Aussie wine and bottling it under their label!!

Cyclone Debbie caught up with us the evening before we were to leave Yamba. We made a rain-sodden dash 250 km or so south to Port Macquarie without mishap and are now in a small camp high on the cliffs. My brother’s ashes-scattering ceremony is tomorrow.

We’re on the road again. The last few weeks have been busy and as usual I am way behind with this Blog. I started writing this on top of Tamborine Mountain south of Brisbane, not too far from the state border. It was pouring rain, just like on our last visit there about 5 months ago. It was the first time it’d rained there since then, so of course when we went to the Information Centre and mentioned that, they wanted to keep us here. I don’t mind the rain, it cools things down beautifully. So long as it doesn’t manage to find a way through the overhead ventilator and onto our bed… (which of course it did). 

Even the scrub turkeys were looking a little bedraggled. Most birds were sheltering from the rain but this hopeful kookaburra hung around.

It was wonderful to catch up with my dear friends Ian and Leonie and Bobbie, my “Brisbane family”, in their beautiful homes with the rainforest right in their backyards.

But back to the beginning ….. We were very fortunate to find the perfect foster family for Penny just before we left Christchurch, and have received various encouraging messages and some photos since then. The latest was: “She is very very good she loves my (dog) grooming clients too – new visitors with different news!!”

We went straight to Nic and Mick’s on arrival in Queensland, well sort of straight, via the efficient overhead monorail from the airport then a train to Caboolture where we were met. Our very grand Jeep Gand Cherokee which had been languishing under cover since last October was fine, the battery had been kept charged by a small solar panel. 

The dogs gave us the usual lovely welcome and the cats were sightly less frosty than before, so we were soon all set to do some serious house and animal sitting for five days while Nic and Mick took off for some much-needed R&R and a birthday celebration.

The two calves Brie and Cracker only needed feeding from a bottle once a day and only three of the ten or so horses needed supplementary feeding, the rest were off in the far paddocks with the cattle.

There were the usual beautiful sunsets.

Dave had fun trying to mow the “lawn” early one morning before it got too hot …..

When the fan belt of the ride-on mower broke we drove to nearby Esk for a replacement only to find the last one had been sold about an hour earlier. We consoled ourselves with lunch at “Nash” then drove to Toowoomba.

I felt that the long drive justified spending more than 5 minutes getting a new fan belt, so bought some knitting wool and a pattern and also a new Western-style canvas hat. I was surprised that the local Lincraft was so relatively poorly stocked compared to NZ. We all know the art of knitting has declined but is having a resurgence in NZ; obviously not in Australia though. Well it is a bit hotter here. Also HUMID.

We collected the caravan in Caloundra without mishap, it had been well stored and smelled good, even if the cover was a bit torn. Bad weather, they said. The storage people (who had supplied the cover) tried to get us a replacement from the manufacturer, but no go. Still, courtesy, efficiency – much appreciated.

Grandy was taken down to Banyo near Brisbane airport for repairs to the rear bumper bar, which someone had run into just before we left Aust. last October. Our insurance company insisted we use their recommended place in Banyo and I was stunned at the efficiency of the whole operation. Arrive at the appointed time, drive into one of two reception bays, welcomed by a smiling lady and in no time an assessor was looking at the car. 2-3 days, he said. They paid for a taxi to the airport to pick up a hired car, we drove back to Toogoolawah, then the very next day they phoned to say it was ready. Back to hand in the hired car, free taxi to the repair shop, here are your keys, sign here ….

By then I was craving some Queensland prawns so after a hunt we found Morgan’s at Scarborough (not Redcliffe as I had thought) where many years back we would go to order a huge Christmas seafood feast; and enjoyed some prawns in their outdoor area, surrounded by the local birds.

We left Toogoolawah with the usual regrets, it is a very lovely piece of country; fortunately they’ve had some rain since our last visit. Some local roos were lining the drive to wave us off.

First stop en route to Ipswich was Lake Wivenhoe, source of Brisbane’s water supply.

We headed for the Ipswich Showground where we camped for a few days while we caught up with friends and Grandy acquired a new set of tyres. The Showground actually had a welcome kit – first time we’ve received one. There was even a biro. The facilities were excellent. There was a huge old tree nearby, actually only the remnant of a larger one, a stump can just be seen on the left.

Then off again heading for Tamborine Mountain. And the aforesaid rain.

We had such a lovely time homesitting at Rarangi Beach near Blenheim in a glorious beach house with two friendly dogs and some chatty neighbours. The same place we homesat over two years ago. it was almost like coming home.

The dogs Nunny (Valhund) and Dudley (Standard Schnauzer) obviously remembered us and Penny too so the transition was very smooth. We all enjoyed the daily beach walks. 

Blenheim is always interesting, the rows and rows and ROWS of grapevines occasionally become monotonous but the colours are always changing with the seasons. This time it was late summer, almost everything was still bright green, the variety of ‘haircuts’ was interesting, and the bridal veils for keeping birds off the ripening grapes were only just being brought out – we saw huge rolls sitting by the side of the road waiting to be placed.

We had lots of visitors including Dave’s sister, so we had an excuse for several vineyard lunches, the only problem being which one to choose. Brancott Estate was first, because of its location, with sweeping views of acres of vineyards. The grapes were just starting to ripen.

Brancott has a small falcon breeding facility, their two birds are unable to fly due to injuries but there’s nothing to stop them doing other things and eventually their progeny will help protect the vineyard from avian grape robbers.

Another day, the weather not being so good we decided to forego a long drive towards Kaikoura and the Peter Yealands vineyard, instead opting for one of our favourites, St. Clair, where the huge Tastes of Marlborough platter is always excellent. Huge green-lipped mussels, local olive oil, artisan bread …. and so many other delicacies.

The new people next door wanted a couple of ancient pine trees felled, they cast too much shadow over their new Natives garden. The first few came down Ok but the last one needed prolonged discussion. Our house owners were expecting their woodshed to be a fatality but the tree came down perfectly.

I have long wanted to experience the Marlborough Sounds mail run to various outlying settlements, and at long last we managed to fit one in, albeit only a half-day run in a fast hydrofoil rather than an all-day in a small launch. Penny was allowed along and thoroughly enjoyed it, particularly as we stayed on the top deck and she could lord it over the dogs which occasionally ‘met’ the mail boat, probably eager for the dog biscuits which the helmsman/postie kept handy.

Penny was not allowed ashore at Ship Cove which Captain Cook visited several times, the only place where we humans were allowed ashore.

We took Dave’s niece Viv for a long drive to Cape Campbell, north of Kaikoura. There is a caravan/motorhome camp nearby at Marfells Beach, which we inspected for signs of the recent earthquake damage (nothing much obvious) ……

…… and then continued to Ward Beach where the seabed has very obviously been raised several metres. The road to Kaikoura was blocked a little further along. No fishing is permitted along quite a long stretch of the coastline, until marine life recovers.

All too soon it was time to pack up yet again, the sunset that last evening was softly beautiful.  The dog owners tell me that Nunny kept on checking our bedroom for me each morning; he was in the habit of jumping on the bed if I was not up by what he considered a suitable time!

We’d heard our geocache at Blackball was full of water again and needed a new container, so we headed that way, stopping for coffee at our favourite little roadside wheelie cafe in the Wairau Valley and then for diesel and some purchases at a small farmers’ market in Murchison. The road is beginning to show obvious signs of the great increase in traffic since the Kaikoura quake. We spent the next two nights in the Ahaura Domain near Blackball, a pleasant place with free showers at $5/night. A trip to Greymouth for a new container, then up to Blackball. It being around lunchtime when we arrived of course we had lunch at the Hilton! (For non-Kiwis, this old pub was grandly renamed the Blackball Hilton some years ago, then when the Hilton Hotel chain heard about it and threatened to sue, the name was changed to “Formerly the Blackball Hilton” which it retains to this day.)

And so back to Christchurch via a less frequented road which took us around Lake Brunner (not actually sighted), Arthur’s Pass (nobody told us a new straight road is being constructed there, Dave is not happy, he likes the curvy bits!), the beautiful road beside  the Waimak, a stop for a cuppa, excellent pies from the Sheffield Pie Shop on the way, and  so to our usual haunt in the chestnut orchard. We have just two days to go as I write this, before returning to Australia for three more months. We have found an excellent dogsitter for Penny, she should be happy there in the company of two other small dogs and two cats.

One evening recently I found an email on my computer from the Port Macquarie (NSW) police. Dave phoned for me next morning and as expected it was sad news about my brother Barry. He had died peacefully in his sleep on 29 January. Nine days earlier. NINE DAYS.

He’d had bad emphysema, two strokes and a heart attack in previous years, so the news was not unexpected. He was in a very pleasant, caring Retirement Village complex near Port Macquarie, which Dave and I visited last year. At that time we made sure they had all my contact details, both at the main office and the Hostel where he was living.

But the Retirement Village ‘lost’ my contact details. When contacted they claimed to be “unable to explain” why my details were not still on record. They pointed out that if my brother had expressed a wish for me not to be listed as a contact, then they would have been required to honour that. I do not believe that this happened. We were on good terms, plus I doubt he even knew they had my contact details. Two strokes and a heart attack play havoc with short-term memory. He knew me, he introduced me to members of staff as his sister (which eventually helped the police to find me), but once Dave and I left his room I was most likely “out of sight out of mind”. He had named a friend as a contact person, but no mention of next of kin (he also had three grown children), no nothing. The Retirement Village would not release any information to this contact person. They did however get him to remove all my brother’s belongings! They would not recognise him as an executor, hence the police involvement.

The Police Constable was kind. He said they had tracked me down via a number of ways including a member of staff who remembered me, and the NZ Consulate. Still not the best way to receive the news.

So now as the officially recognised Next of Kin I have forms to fill in and cremation arrangements to authorise. Fortunately the police gave me the contact details for several of my brother’s friends who we will meet when we return to Australia in March. We will have a little scattering-the-ashes ceremony then, as Barry verbally requested his friend to organise.

We enjoyed the homesit at Leeston with all the animals.

The dogs and the demented guineafowls kept us highly amused with their antics; the chooks, vegie garden and berry patch kept us well and healthily fed. With so many eggs to play with I had fun making custards, floating islands, souffles and three raspberry chocolate cakes. Dave did some work on the caravan including getting an auto brake system installed, we had one in Australia and it made driving so much easier. He also tinkered with the farm bike and did various other jobs around the place.

One evening there was the most fantastic sunset, starting with an incredible glowing golden light. Facebook ran hot that evening with all our photographic friends displaying their best efforts. We had to make a hasty trip down the road to find a clear spot for panoramas as we were hedged in.

The Little River A&P Show was wonderful. Very well organised (they’ve been going for a long time!); the whole showground one big gorgeous sward of bright green grass. There were all the usual Show exhibits:

Too soon the Leeston homesit was over and we were off again, first stopping at the Vet’s for Penny’s annual jabs. Who should be in the car parked next to us but our two cats and their wonderful foster family! They’d also been for their annual Vet visit, the cats that is. I had to be content with talking to them through the doors of their carrying cages but it was a joy to see them looking so well and content. I do miss them. Although I try to find homesits with a cat or cats, too often it is just other animals.

We made it to Reefton in worsening weather and went straight to our usual POP on the heights above town. There was a reasonable amount of traffic on the road, considering it is currently the main route to the north. You always know when you are in Reefton, the smell of burning coal pervades the place. Actually I love the smell, it takes me back to my childhood and riding the steam train to the Blue Mountains outside Sydney.

A day trip to Blackball gave us a 100% weather change, from spitting rain to brilliant sunshine, such is NZ weather. The Salami factory was closed but the wee shop opposite had a few salami so we were content. The Hilton has had a facelift. A drive round the back streets is often rewarding.

We visited the old mine site where we maintain a geocache ……

……and on the way back spotted a new sign on a previously nondescript building which suddenly became interesting – it was the old bathhouse.

On the way back Dave decided to revisit one of his old haunts, somewhere down the Moonlight Range. The track went on and on and although we eventually reached a bridge, It STILL went on and on …. so eventually with the light about to fade we thought we’d better head back. 

We need to be in Blenheim by early next week so after 2 nights in Reefton headed for Westport. The low-lying cloud which farewelled us persisted for many km and so did the on-and-off rain.

We headed for another POP where we had stayed about 2 years ago. Amazingly the owner not only remembered our faces, but our names! Yet they may have up to 20 different motorhomes/caravans staying each night. We had a pleasant time catching up with some Christchurch friends who have made their home in Westport. A quick visit to Tauranga Bay and Cape Foulwind paid dividends, there were lots of seals to be seen. Also a lone weka. it still amazes me that Abel Tasman anchored off this Cape.

Penny enjoyed a run on the beach. I do find it odd that it is called Tauranga Bay – very confusing.

Beautiful red wildflowers seem to be everywhere at present – the West Coast’s equivalent to Tekapo’s lupins. Fiery even in the rain.

Rain, rain, rain – well it WAS the West Coast. By then we were both well covered with very itchy sandfly bites. So we packed up and set off for Blenheim cross-country, through Murchison and the Wairau Valley. I love the long run alongside the Buller with the one-way stretch under the overhang … we were behind a large tourist bus and could just imagine the scary looks on the passengers’ faces!

We stopped for lunch somewhere on the way but deferred a coffee until we reached a little highway stopover, just a small food truck really in the middle of nowhere, which we visited two years ago and enjoyed really good coffee plus bacon and egg butties. It was still there with the same chatty Vietnamese lady who remembered us too!!! They are very busy now with all the additional highway traffic re-routed away from Kaikoura.

Three nights at the Blenheim Racecourse ($10/night, must be fully self-contained) and tomorrow we head for beautiful Rarangi Beach and our next homesit. We paid them an early visit to check for caravan access – they have lopped a few tree branches – and were given a very warm welcome. The dogs all remembered each other – and us. I’m looking forward to the next fortnight.

Happy New Year!

It’s been a while since I wrote anything. Christmas has been and gone, a highlight the annual Secret Santa with all Dave’s family, and all the usual over-indulging which accompanies the season.

We moved from the Maniototo homesit to one at Swannanoa, about 25 km NNW of Christchurch, just before Christmas. What a contrast. There we were surrounded not by mountains but by towering runs of poplars – they could hardly be called hedges. We were in a comfortable farmhouse surrounded by a lovely extensive garden and our new charges were one placid old sheepdog, three heifers, two chooks and seven goldfish.

Going for a drive around the district meant kilometres along the straight Tram Road or similar roads with their multi-height hedges and rather luxurious houses. Cust, Rangiora, Oxford … they were our new destinations when not popping down to Christchurch.

Dave took the opportunity to give the caravan carpet a good clean with the water blaster. What a difference it made. Penny enjoyed helping him mow the grass. I enjoyed the freedom of a large kitchen and the time (and space!) to complete two large jigsaws.

This property boasted a magnificient cherry tree, absolutely dripping with bright red fruit.

We picked some judiciously, waiting until the fruit was fully  ripe. Just before New Years’ I picked a big bowlful, but by New Years’ Day we needed more. Full of anticipation I went out with a huge bowl, to be met by a large GREEN tree, not a hint of red to be seen. It had been utterly stripped! Holes in the netting indicated it was the work of a rat or rats rather than humans. It was amazing – not a single cherry to be seen, even unripe ones, and no fresh pips or bits of half-eaten fruit on the ground either. Nearby is a spa with a wooden surround and when Dave checked inside there were hundreds of dried pips. So that was the end of our cherry season.

But there were still raspberries, strawberries, even some boysenberries. (memo to self, if we ever grow raspberries, make sure the canes are in an elevated position). Plus zucchini, lettuce and some kale and other vegies.

All too soon it was time to leave, the family came back from their annual camp all suntanned and smiling and relaxed. Lovely people. That was the second year we’d homesat for them at Christmas.

We returned to our usual haunt the chestnut orchard, where the flowering season was well under way. These are the catkins, the ground was littered with spent ones which were constantly fluttering down in any breeze.

Mrs. Google tells me that the same tree can bear both male and female catkins.  Some catkins have both pollen-bearing flowers and small clusters of female or fruit-producing flowers. Two or three flowers together form a four-lobed prickly case (calybium) which ultimately grows completely together to form the brown hull. Another interesting fact is that the seeds do not become dormant as with most other plants but start to germinate upon falling to the ground in autumn. The seeds lack a coating or internal food supply so they lose viability soon after ripening and must be planted immediately.  Another fact is that chestnuts have very little protein or fat and no gluten but plenty of carbohydrate which compares with that of wheat and rice. They are the only nuts that contain Vitamin C (which decreases by about 40% on heating).

We went for a walk along the Waimakairi River a short drive north of the orchard…..

… then did a little off-roading while following the river towards the mouth. As we were leaving Dave thought he could hear something odd. He checked all the tyres – nothing. But a little further on, he stopped again and this time we discovered that one of the front tyres had been sliced and wrecked  by a piece of metal, probably part of a bearing. A perfectly good  tyre ruined.

 Another day we drove to Sumner Beach and then Taylor’s Mistake, which we have not visited for some time. There is nowhere to stop to take proper photos on the very narrow twisty road down to the Mistake. The Port Hills were looking very dry.

Then it was time to shift to the next homesit near Leeston. So different again. Our charges are one lovable young dog, a friendly horse with a penchant for carrots, an even friendlier sheep, and a number of peacocks, peahens and chooks. There is an extensive vegetable garden and a totally enclosed berry patch – strawberries, raspberries, blackcurrants – the latter two well-staked and trained so it is a joy to pick them without stooping over. (Another memo to self – grow them in a netted enclosure with a high ‘roof’.) The chooks produced ten eggs the morning after we arrrived – I don’t know what we are going to do with so many.

Homesitting is an absolute privilege. After a couple of email exchanges and sometimes but not always a preliminary visit, perfect strangers are willing to allow us to live in their private home, to a great extent literally living their (non-working) lives. All we have to do is care for their pets as if they were our own and, usually, do a little gardening, watering and/or lawnmowing. We have time to explore the surrounding district in a way not possible with a casual day visit. We always try to leave a property in a better state than we found it. At the Otago homesit, Dave reduced much of the waist-high jungle around the house to a far more manageable level. Here he has just taken off to tackle some Scotch thistles (!).

We made  yet another excursion to Alexandra for the Friday market goat’s cheese and venison sausages, and this time I took some photos of the famous MacTavish’s miner’s hut near Ophir, now restored and privately owned. So lonely and isolated. Modern cars thunder up and down the nearby hill; I wonder what McTavish would have thought if he could stand in his doorway now.

We did not linger in Ophir this time but headed back home via the backroads north  of Omakau, part of the Dustan heritage trail, through newly-mown fields and acres of golden broom and gorse, some of it now changing colour.

They build strong letterboxes in Otago.

Matakanui at the foot of the Dunstan Ranges was once known as Tinkers “…. a name possibly derived from the tinsmiths who it is said abandoned their trade of repairing pots and pans and instead used them for washing gold. Another explanation is that when miners were asked how they were doing they responded “Just tinkering about”.”

The original school with its bell tower .

Most of the remaining buildings are mud brick, in various stages of disrepair.

Antlers mark the boundary of a nearby deer farm.

At Drybread there was even less to see, just part of the old hotel now used as a farm building. The legend goes that the name came after a wary prospector, when asked how he was doing, replied “Dry bread, seldom better”.

Disappointed that there was so little to see, we thought we’d visit the Drybread cemetery, some way off the road.

It looks rather highly populated…

. .. by sheep! So many in fact that we did not venture past the gate. We could see some quite recent graves as well as obviously old ones.

Back ‘home’ again, another lovely sunset ….

… and too early next morning, outside the bedroom door wanting to come in, were the dogs who’d already been let out for their early morning run.

Everywhere around us farmers were hay making, making interesting patterns in the fields.

We paid another visit to the Oturehua shop (Gilchrists General Store), it’s a wee bit  famous for its decor. Nevertheless it’s well stocked with modern groceries (not shown). It is also now a B&B, very convenient to the Rail Trail and opposite the Oturehua Tavern.

The nearby abandoned Golden Progress Mine 91868-1936), what remains of it, was also visited.

The entrance was down an avenue of ancient trees. 

Not much remains.

Back home again the chooks decided they were tired of foraging and lined up hopefully outside the back door. Or were they trying to tell us something?

That evening, our last at the homesit, it was c-o-l-d. In the morning there was snow all over the distant ranges. But by that evening most of it had gone.