44 Finishing the mansion

Gordon had run out of time but his son-in-law arrived to complete the house that Gordon built. It might take 6 months at a leisurely pace then he would return to his job as a steeplejack in Sydney. He already knew the area well but this time he started having problems with strange feelings particularly during thunderstorms.

He became aware of being watched whenever he was working outside and noticed his tools were sometimes being moved. On one occasion he rang me to ask if I had emptied their 8000 gallon water tank; someone had turned on the tap and drained it onto the garden causing a flood. Later all their apples were stolen from the tree. His working chain saw had been exchanged for my broken one. There were too many strange happenings to readily explain. I began to wonder whether my moonlight experience really was an off-world one.

This was confirmed later when a ‘sensitive’ moved onto a property a few kilometres away. She and her partner saw lights hovering over the place at night, lights that were not natural.

That season was a particularly good one for the raspberries and we were benefitting from the extra crop in the enlarged enclosure. We had our highest yield to date and one tonne of fruit seemed a real possibility. It was also a really good season for the birds. The welcome swallows had started mating early, in August, so by March there was a large flock in the area made up in part by the dusky wood swallows and fairy martins; the fairy martins had been attracted to nesting material freely available in the cement filler of Gordon ‘s decaying wall boards scattered around the garden. Our big shed and all the power lines started to be covered by hundreds of birds as they collected in readiness for migration. The numbers swelled over maybe a week.

Clearly our place had to be special, a marker node for migrating birds on a super highway.
I couldn’t work out why the birds didn’t leave, they just sat around. I soon found out. A weather front was moving in and riding that magnificently were the kings of the air, the needle-tail swifts, zooming from out of sight above the thunder clouds to almost head height. The air was filled horizon to horizon with their speed. The swallows joined the frenzy, but slowly by contrast. By next morning the super highway sky was empty and the only action was the occasional grey thrush pecking on the ground and calling in their single but melodic autumn tone.

The problems continued with the never-seen souls that watched the area. The phone started to ring at odd hours, usually at night, before telecommunications collapsed entirely. The local telephone node had been destroyed, apparently with an axe; some blamed the damage on lightning. The node was replaced but internet connections then became difficult and very variable though Telstra could find no faults with our local systems.

All these disturbing happenings, particularly the loss of building tools, had their effects on the finishing of the mansion next door which extended well beyond the estimated six months into years. This is the price paid for drinking river water and living close to granite tors. City people don’t know how lucky they are.

43 Guru flash back

The rats reminded me of when we lived in India for a bit over a year. There the rats were not cute, were huge and popped out of open drains inside our house whenever they were hungry or needed fresh air. The spooky night also took me back to floating with the mystics during that period.

My work colleagues in New Delhi had been able to work even less than usual because their guru holy-man was visiting at the weekend. He normally existed somewhere in the Himalayas but travelled around occasionally to get up to date with his flock of souls and the world generally. He was quite old, now in his third reincarnation, and guessed to be approaching his 180th birthday. He had mentioned to my colleagues while they were astral-planing together that he would like to meet me in the flesh to check whether I was a positive or otherwise spirit for his disciples. Many others had wanted to see him so a meeting place had been arranged.

She wasn’t keen but together with Jane, then about 16 months, we entered the large tent erected so as to fill the street and block any traffic. It was pretty dull inside as it depended for lighting on electricity leaked from the nearest street pole but clearly it was full of many cross-legged sitting people; a number of them murmuring words together. We three hid at the back of the gathering trying to be invisible but standing out like traffic lights.

The chanting stopped and there was complete hush as a stretcher was carried in bearing a person in deep trance. Somebody from the middle of the crowd began to speak, like a reading of authoritative words. Garlands of flowers were brought by a train of supplicants and placed around the holy neck. Then, one of my work colleagues appeared from the gloom and said in my ear that the guru would like to meet me at the front. He had his eyes closed throughout and spoke to no one so I was sceptical. She shook her head. She didn’t want to be part of any meeting.

Jane could handle anything, only had to smile at any person and they melted. With her tightly curled very blond hair and blond and pink complexion she looked like a god anywhere, but specially so here. I thought with Jane to look after me, no problems, and so up I strolled nonchalantly, weaving through the crowd, carrying Jane like a trophy.

We stood in front of the guru. Nothing happened. Then the eyes opened for the first time. They were red like he had been overusing mushrooms or they had been scraped with fine sand for days. Instead of focussing on us, they cleared from red to black. The black became an infinitely large deep clear pool falling into outer space. He and I interacted in this space. After a while the black pool’s surface dissolved into the coarse unappetising red cover. He slowly took off three of his garlands like an old person working forceps at a distance and placed them carefully around Jane’s neck. The crowd murmured.

Jane loved all Indians and especially Indian men. She chuckled when they touched her white arms and pinched her on the cheeks. She played up to them.

She didn’t like the guru. She strained her head away over my shoulder to avoid his contact and tore off the garlands and threw them on the ground. The crowd murmured. The guru re-entered trance. Our audience was over.

Next day my work colleagues came around to tell me that the guru was very impressed with me. Indians in India do always like to say the right thing. He had told them that I would do good work spasmodically on the Indian sub-continent all my life and they should support me whenever possible. My child also would return. Nice story.

42 Spooks in the night

The round house wasn’t ready for living in. I had to make the fitted cupboards and furnishings, bring in water mains, build in the sinks, shower and toilet, estapol the walls and ceilings, stain and seal the floor and do all the outside painting. While we were erecting the yurt I had placed all the mains wires in the walls and roof in readiness for an electrician to do the final connecting. A plumber would complete the work we did on the septic tank and associated structures. This meant there were still a few weeks of living in the tin shed which I had aired after the erectors left.

I usually slept really well because I’m pretty deaf, but this night I was wakened up by something. It was a loud and repeated metallic banging sound. I lay very still and listened, working out an escape plan. It was full moon and so relatively bright in the shed but I still couldn’t see the threat. It had to be outside, maybe someone trying to get me up because of an emergency. I pulled on a jumper because it was frosty and slowly opened the door but kept a low profile in case there was a gun. Nothing; but the banging had stopped.

Outside it was amazing. The stars were brilliant and seemed to fill the sky to bursting despite the brightness of the moon. But it felt strange. There was a spooky feel in the air. The light from the trees seemed to effervesce with pale colours that weren’t quite real. It was deathly still and quiet. I started to think about the several aboriginal stone scrapers that I had found lying on the surface and buried down to 40 cm deep not 30 m from where I was standing. This curve in the river must have been well used over the centuries. Maybe there were a few lonely souls wandering around that night. I went back to bed.

Next night the banging woke me again. I had been sleeping lightly, maybe waiting. I turned on the light quickly and thought I saw a movement over on the stainless steel sink in the kitchen sector of the shed. The usual piece of dried up soap was on the sink but now bore teeth marks and other scratches. It couldn't be a Cunningham skink because they were awake only in summer and then during the day. It had to be a rat that was banging the soap on the sink as it enjoyed its feast. What a relief to know that I would die in bed from a giant rat tearing out my jugular rather than a sad soul.

The rats really had moved in. They sat around and tidily nibbled scraps even in the middle of the day, completely unconcerned by human presence. They were cute and intelligent. It was cold so why shouldn’t they be inside and warm.

Then things started disappearing. The table cloth went off the table, plastic bags that had held fruit and were stored for the next use disappeared, bits of paper, bit of polystyrene boxes, a dishcloth, all went. Till the table cloth the items could just have been misplaced or forgotten, but the table looked bald and obvious without its covering. All items took a while to find. They were all together neatly arranged on the compressor dome of the fridge. It was warm there and an ideal place for a nest for little pink baby rats. When the compressor ran it must have rocked the babies gently in their sleep and hummed to them.

They had to go. Unfortunately the babies were too small to skin and anyway wouldn’t have been impressive pinned on the wall or even stitched together as a counterpane.

Over the years the rats came back to nest and be evicted several times. The only sure way to dissuade them was to turn off all freezers and fridges. When the time came this could be the excuse for ending our fruit and jam enterprise.

41 Our own Merry-Go-Round

The original yurt plan had fallen through. But the Yurtworks could do us a good deal on an alternative if we wanted to proceed now. We decided that it was time to move up market from our tin shed and hang the consequences. We would have a yurt with windows right across the northern side and a few annexe modules for kitchen and laundry-cum-bathroom attached around the south. Local government regulations, new since we chose our house site, insisted we should be at least 100m from the river. This limited us because we were surrounded by river and put us near big manna gums and on a slope which would require us to have the dwelling on variable length props. This we argued positively would be safer in a flood. Before building could start, local council would have to approve the plans and the site. This could take some time as they didn’t get out our way often.

In two months our yurt arrived not on a yak but on a big truck. It was 7:30 am and minus 7°C. I had told the erecters that they might need long johns and definitely not to wear shorts if they wanted more kids. Jeez, it’s frigid said one climbing out of the vehicle. We unloaded the truck in about half an hour with them placing the components in a knowledgeable way around the site. The empty truck turned around to leave up our lane. The wheels spun and the truck drifted sideways into a fence. I’ve only got enough beds for three I said.

You got a tractor with a chain? That was the nicest question I had ever been asked. I trundled off to get the Red Dragon. Within 5 minutes, almost lost in tractor smoke, the empty truck was on its way stopping for nothing till it reached the road.

Somehow or other the rectangular sheets of plywood pinned down on joists on the variable height props turned into a flat round floor and we could sit on it for lunch in the chill wind and watery sunshine. They had to keep moving they were so cold. The walls modules were raised, arranged to complete the circle and fastened through the floor with hex bolts and held vertical with the odd plank temporarily nailed to the floor. They were thirsty.

Despite the cold they all wanted cold beer and absolutely nobody would join me in a sensible room temperature shiraz. He reckons we’re poofters said one. John and Jill had offered warm showers at their place. This was an opportunity for a yarn and a few beers. Jill made encouraging noises to stay for a meal and a beer which was accepted. About 10 pm they made their way back to the tin shed and its roaring fire. After a few beers they would go to bed. I escaped to the frigid caravan.

At 7 next morning they were already working on the roof. It was warmer. Jeez I had the shits last night said one. Must’ve been something I ate. I was delegated to go the 160 km round trip into Cooma to get some bits they had forgotten for sealing the roof and could I get another three cases of beer for tonight. They reckoned they could manage without me for a little while, at least till morning tea. I got five cases for if we were snowed in.

I got back with the goodies and some cake things for morning coffee. All but one of the roof triangles were balancing precariously on the wall modules and propped up with sticks at the pointy end. The last triangle wouldn’t squeeze all the way into the circle. Some fit perfectly, some are real bastards said the boss man. Sometimes we have to take the bastard down and start again. Out came an extremely large hammer called an enforcer and this was delicately applied to various roof sections that budged a little and progressively the cake became a whole. The steel rope around the structure pulled the circle in tight, the whole creaking and complaining. Hex bolts did the pinning and lunch was held in a good-humoured group under the big top. The boss lay down and went to sleep.

After lunch annex walls were erected, their large rooves pinned down and attached to the central circle and it all looked finished. It was time for a beer. They kindly invited me to tea in the shed. One of the guys had brought a huge and raging curry with him that just needed heating up and the rice preparing. This time the beer had a purpose. I told them to piss on the trees and not in the toilet which was flowing over from last night. I left them about 9 pm to complete their business. They still had a case to crack.

Day three was a small one, tidying up the structure and weatherproofing the roof. They left at 4 pm saying how much they had enjoyed themselves. Sadly, a few months later the cook died from a heart attack.

40 The Queen visits

My mum was keen to know whether or not she had got her money’s worth. From long experience she knew she couldn’t trust what I told her, she had to see the farm with her own eyes. Despite advancing years, eighty or so, and a heart that had gone to sleep a few times recently, she would make the long haul from England, non-stop to Sydney, where we would pick her up. Dad had died a few years earlier so she was a free agent. She instructed my youngest brother, a manager at a large company, to accompany her at her chosen date.

No doubt she was tough, she had had to be growing up fatherless and then raising an unruly mob of her four sons, four sons who seemed to spend their entire existence just sprawled around on the floor watching the tiny television that had been cobbled together from ex-army spares by her all-purpose husband.

The draw of the farm was powerful. A farm in the family was a strange novelty. All the relatives had wanted to see it. Her lot were accountants, historian, artist, teacher, diplomatic and new lawyer, and mine were architect, arts history, computer development and me, hobby farmer; I was a strange person out on a strange limb. Luckily it was a hobby and they all thought not serious.

Mum was bemused and disorientated when the jumbo eventually disgorged her onto land so we rushed her off to a motel to recover her aching bits. The beachside motel had been caught in a Sydney storm the previous day and the carpets were all soggy underfoot and it smelt of mould but she was too lost to notice. Next morning it was different, the sun was shining, the sea was crashing on the shore, the gulls were making their noises and breakfast was good. Let’s get to the farm she said.

Despite being nothing like a farm at all, except there was a tractor, it was approved. Her money was not wasted. The birds were different and singing, the river was rushing, the chestnut trees looked promising, there were raspberries and kangaroos, wombats and sheep, platypus and tussock grass and the sun continued to shine on everything. The reality was pretty close to the imagined dream.

39 Broken gate

Two youngish women were coming to live at number 13. All the men in the valley pretended no interest but listened intently for news. Number 13 had been running down for years. The fences were broken, the gate posts had collapsed and the gate lay on the ground. The water tanks leaked since somebody with a shotgun targeted a nearby kangaroo. Rumour was they paid very little for it.

Neither of them was interested in men. Even Basil couldn’t raise interest. One was an artist, dabbled in pottery and had left a marriage way behind. The other was a teacher. Why did you come, I asked? They told me they were enraptured by the valley and just had to live in it. They loved its colours, moods, aspects, and its wildly swinging weather patterns, but it was still summer. I said it can be tough in winter. They said no problems. All the men were keen to provide assistance in every department. Everybody knows women are quite useless in the bush but surprisingly these ones seemed interested to learn. Consequently with all the willing male hands things went nicely and they were happy. Everybody liked them.

They were taught to split wood for their fire after one of the men, keen to curry favour, had delivered a truck load of quality material. They were lent a pump to move water from the river up the hill to their place and shown how to attach and start it. They were given a TV to help them while away the long evenings. Nothing was too much effort and they responded with enthusiasm and friendship. They bought a couple of sheep with coloured wool so they could spin and do artistic knitting and fixed up a fence with string to keep the sheep corralled.

Interestingly, they didn’t seem to learn the lessons they were taught and designed to help them live comfortably in the bush. They needed lots of demonstrations that gradually petered-out. In response to fading help from neighbours, they progressively down-scaled their lifestyles to avoid the physicality of bush life. Rather than keeping their house warm by building a roaring fire, they piled on more clothes and cuddled up; the wood piles had long since disappeared. They found they couldn’t start the pump down on the river, in part because it always seemed to be dark when they thought of it, so they bought plastic buckets and placed them carefully under their eaves. This became their water supply when it rained and when it didn’t they bought a bottle or two of drinking water in town. They used candles for light and ate meals in town. They had arrived with two cars, but one broke down and couldn’t be repaired. The girls took it in turn to hitch rides. The spinning wheel was still fine but now was unused because the sheep had broken down their flimsy fence and run away. All problems were deftly circumvented and they coped. Moth and rust were ignored.

As time progressed their lives became increasingly green and carbon neural, a beacon for others.

Somehow they faded away until one day they were no longer there. People had different speculations. They had been seen in Bredbo, Cooma, Jindabyne, but always in the distance. Someone else came to live in number 13. They now had their chance to fix the gate. But that’s another story.

38 Wombat-proof enclosure

To avoid similar problems in the planned new and improved enclosure wombat holes trafficable by other things had to be disallowed. I sought advice from Rural Fire Brigade colleagues.

You can borrow my exterminator said Paul. This was a loaded shot gun mounted vertically over active wombat holes with the trigger attached to a trip wire. You just move it between all the holes around your place and have 100% protection. I have no wombats now he said.

Alan had a different and quite green solution that he had used. The method was to let the wombat make its hole. Wombats aren’t interested in raspberries so you can let them in. You then frame the hole in timber and fit it with a top-mounted but heavy swinging gate. The wombat can come and go freely through this adapted hole while weak things like rabbits and birds can’t move the gate. Good in principle but wombats don’t always go out the hole they enter by. My own solution, the least innovative and least exciting, was to drop the wire-mesh side walls of the enclosure 30 cm into the ground so hampering the wombat digging process. That was the plan I followed.

Digging a slot 30 cm deep around a site 100m x 20m is hard work. I called on Ben. This was to be a father-son bonding exercise like watching Pale Rider together and listening live to touring jazz musicians at local clubs. It didn’t work out that well. I wasn’t sure why until I recalled a similar interaction with my dad. He wasn’t a great gardener, usually restricted in his activities to making borders of bricks around garden beds. These bricks were slanted upwards on their edges for classy effect but also inflicted maximum damage on falling children and tripping old people. Mum was the natural gardener. Dad liked to treat the garden as a route march with compass. You start, you do, you finish, preferably in minimum time. Repeat after a year or two.
His vegie garden hadn’t been dug over for a couple of years. It also hadn’t produced anything in the interval except chickweed, dandelions and grass. The plan was to dig it over to two spades depth thus releasing the deep bound up nutrients and allowing good root penetration. We started but it turned out he had urgent exam papers to mark and lessons to prepare for Monday so could I finish it before going off to rugby. We continued to buy vegies.

Ben and I dug half the length of the slot and because we were trapped in the bush nobody could go anywhere else to do pressing business. It was a good interaction for me. The following week I worked out a much quicker way to dig the remaining slot with less muscle, but by that time I was alone. Ben had learnt nothing except it’s cold at the farm.

The design was brilliant. The 120 cm high fence with 30 cm in the ground was chosen with a mesh that small birds could fly through easily. They were birds like superb blue wrens, bush wrens, diamond firetails, red-browed finch and European Goldfinch and pollinators like eastern spinebill, white-cheeked and white-naped honeyeaters and the chattering New Holland honeyeaters. These were mainly local residents that were joined in summer by yellow-cheeked honeyeaters. It was good to see them foraging at various times. The mesh excluded the larger crop-damaging birds like the sulphur crested cockatoos and crimson rosellas.

Above this strong fence material was hung a 2m wide metal bird mesh which was fragile but very cheap at the time and the roof would be a woven nylon bird net that wasn’t cheap. We had a local timber mill that supplied the 3.5 m treated pine poles that would support the whole structure. Total cost was around $2000 which we could cover in jam sales in a month or two.

I had previously foolishly bought 100m of nylon bird net at a very low price, primarily because I can’t go past a bargain. It was single strand nylon rather than the woven finish. I put some of it up to see if it worked. After three days it had caught and hung three rosellas. They tried to force their bodies through the mesh which stretched but not far enough to free them and in their twisting around they had become hopelessly entangled in other nylon cells. It worked well in the fashion of the shotgun on the wombats. I took it down and put it in a locked cupboard.