Easter in Australia is a major holiday period. Our schools have a four-term year, with the
first two terms being divided by a break beginning around (or before) Good Friday and
running through the following week. Nominally, it is autumn, but this blog includes a dozen or so species of wildflowers that were photographed, in bloom, in the sanctuary where I work on North Head, on 11 April 2017.
Our seasons are weird, as I said before. Anyhow, the first six are: three banksias and three Acacia species.
Many Sydney people will be off to the coast, or inland, or anywhere, queuing in bumper-to-bumper traffic for hours, just to escape the crowds. We who stay here say nothing about how Sydney at Easter can be very quiet indeed, for most of the remaining locals gather in just a few crowded venues.
Our seasons are weird, as I said before. Anyhow, the first six are: three banksias and three Acacia species.
Many Sydney people will be off to the coast, or inland, or anywhere, queuing in bumper-to-bumper traffic for hours, just to escape the crowds. We who stay here say nothing about how Sydney at Easter can be very quiet indeed, for most of the remaining locals gather in just a few crowded venues.
In a research plot, fenced from rabbits, the flannel flowers and wattle do well. |
Here is a flannel flower or Actinotus, called by that name from the feel of the petals. |
Australian people seem to be able to find the comfort they
need in more material things. Perhaps we
miss the symbolism northern hemisphere people get from celebrating the
Resurrection in the spring.
Lambertia sp. |
Epacris longiflora, long known also as Native Fuchsia |
In Canberra, and in the mountains west of Sydney, and in the more pretentious suburbs, their foreign deciduous trees are turning to autumn colours and losing their leaves. Elsewhere, people grow sensible Australian trees which are never bare, except after a bushfire.
The blaze was soon controlled, but it's an ill wind, they
say. During the holidays that year, I found time to poke around the burnt areas, to see what relics I could uncover of the
earliest inhabitants, whose engravings dawn many of the sandstone rock faces
throughout the bush. After a fire, many
of these surfaces become accessible for the first time in maybe thirty years.
The clean smell of bush smoke was actually a blessing, for
there had been a smell of mothballs on the bus, as woollen jumpers (our
name for what others may call a pullover or a sweater) are resurrected from
storage for yet another year. All over Sydney,
electric one-bar radiators are being pulled out and given their annual run-in,
adding a distinctive burnt dust smell to the great indoors.
Our old dog always recognised autumn.
He would lie curled on his bed in their conservatory each morning, rather than
standing hopefully and peering through the glass at us as we ate breakfast. The humans are often a little
less wise, and many of them will be swimming still. perhaps I will be among them.
Glycine, a delicate member of the pea family |
Grevillea buxifolia, the grey spider flower, is around for most of each year, |
My wife and I found a whole new series of rock engravings two weeks ago on an isolated ridge. We will work our way slowly along the ridge, following the fine smooth sandstone bed that attracted the artists.
Hakea or needle bush |
The bush tracks around Sydney are deserted right now, partly
because there are fewer flowers blooming, maybe as few as a dozen or so species
right now, and also because it is also Easter Show time.
I go to ‘the Show’ about once in ten years, and always come away swearing I will never do it again. It looked for a while as if we would be going this year, and I found myself looking contemplatively at places I might fall from, breaking a leg as I land. That would have saved me, but strategically placed rain did the job instead. Now the crowds will be too large.
I go to ‘the Show’ about once in ten years, and always come away swearing I will never do it again. It looked for a while as if we would be going this year, and I found myself looking contemplatively at places I might fall from, breaking a leg as I land. That would have saved me, but strategically placed rain did the job instead. Now the crowds will be too large.
Woollsia pungens commemorates an early Australian botanist, William Woolls. Like Grevillea buxifolia, it flowers all the year, almost. |
It would be enough to have to mill around the Royal
Agricultural Society Showground with 150 000 other people, growing footsore and
weary, getting annoyed by either dust or mud or both, becoming exasperated by
outrageous prices, and yet somehow being entranced by some of the sights and
smells that return me to my childhood.
Instead, I am at home, doing a last listen to the mp3 files version of my next book, a massive Australian history, as big as three normal paperbacks, which will be called Not Your Usual Australian Tales.
I will have more to say about that in a week or so, but here's an anecdote from the end of my foreword:
Instead, I am at home, doing a last listen to the mp3 files version of my next book, a massive Australian history, as big as three normal paperbacks, which will be called Not Your Usual Australian Tales.
I will have more to say about that in a week or so, but here's an anecdote from the end of my foreword:
On a personal note, I have another reason for doubting paper records: I was born in Queensland in the latter days of World War II. When my father, who was in the RAAF, moved north into “the islands”, my mother flew to Sydney with me as a babe in arms on an Air Force Catalina.
The RAAF was subject to inflexible regulations, and the number of passengers allowed on a Catalina was restricted. An Air Commodore on the flight ordered that I be embarked as a Gladstone bag, and that was how I appeared on the manifest, so anybody would seek in vain who sought evidence of my travels on faded, curled, foolscap sheets.
I am grateful to the Air Commodore, but according to my mother, not the most reliable of witnesses, I showed my gratitude at the time by throwing up on him. I tend to believe this, because I have always been a bit of an anarchist at heart, but posthumously (so far as he is concerned), I express my thanks to that kindly and probably slightly smelly Air Commodore.
Still, neither my travel nor the arc allegedly described by my stomach contents appear anywhere in any surviving record. There is a lesson there for us all.
No comments:
Post a Comment