It’s been a while since we stepped foot in the local pub for a pint of the darkest of ales and a dinner. We used to go regularly. Can’t say that we’ve done anything wrong to mark the sudden change and now need to avoid the place. Such things can happen! And there have been a few such incidents from the days of misspent youth. We’ve all been there.
The first share house was in an area which was famously dry, probably the result of some puritanical act long ago. Anyway, by ‘dry’, that means there are no pubs within the suburbs boundaries. It’s quite a snooty area, even the street name suggested great things: Royal Parade. Hardly delivered upon by us youthful rogues. The large residences however, could comfortably house five disparate young folks.
One evening we decided to walk the couple of blocks across the suburb border. At the end of the journey, a grand old Victorian era pub dating back to around 1890’s stood before us. Those buildings have a certain ornate look to them and occasionally, there’s even a watch tower high up looking over the roof line. Us five long haired louts opened the heavy timber doors, and it was like a scene from one of those spaghetti western films. The old timers sitting at the bar as one, turned to stare at the intrusion, and then said nothing. Real friendly. What had the cat just dragged in they probably thought to themselves. Sometimes you can tell when you’re not welcome, and without any discussion, we all turned around and left. Clearly the area wasn’t ready for us.
Weird things can happen in country pubs too. Back in the early 1990’s there was no such thing as a mobile (cell) phone. A person in those days made arrangements, then stuck to them. A bunch of friends were heading bush (to my grandfathers legally dubious) camp site way out in the the middle of nowhere, which was nicely positioned on a river bend. My girlfriend was running late that night, and we’d agreed to meet at the last country pub at the edge of the forest.
So late. So bored. Had dinner. Enjoyed a glass to soothe the rattled nerves. Read a book. Spotted a pool table. Had a few friendly games against the locals which I lost. Seeking advantage, the local fellas suggested to play for beers. Why not? Alcohol opened the mind, loosened the wrist, and I began to win the pool games. All of them. Pure lucky streak, nothing more. Eventually girlfriend and company turns up many hours late. With thoughts that there’d be a lynching in the quiet country town (or nearby surrounds), the path of wisdom was to buy some beers and thank the fellas for the friendly games thus settling the uneven score. Always wise to read the room.
In a country town, the local pub serves as a third place, and that means a sort of community shared social space where you see other locals and people you know. Our culture doesn’t really encourage such spaces, although the nearby town has a heavily used recreation reserve. Cricket, football, netball, tennis, scouts and the dog obedience clubs all use that space. On weekends the place pumps. I’d even once noticed a guy walking his large dog whilst driving a four wheel drive over the grass, as you do. The clubs and local council maintain the facilities. Pubs on the other hand are a bit different. They’re a business, and they’ve gotta make mad cash, or the doors will shut for good.
Sandra and I are both accountants, and so we can’t kid ourselves about costs. Australia is nearing a federal election, and the politicians bang on endlessly about a ‘cost of living crisis’, although for all their slippery braying, they haven’t offered to take a pay cut, have they? I’d vote for that. Candidly, I’ve no idea what is actually meant by the term ‘cost of living crisis’. Does it mean that the pub pint and feed with approximately $30 meals and $15 pints is economically out of reach of the masses?
I’m coming around to the idea that the much heard phrase refers to an economic inability to maintain appearances. It’s funny what you see going on all around you. The other day I was filling up the dirt mouse Suzuki Swift with petrol. It’s hard not to wince at the AU$2.06/L ($7.83 a gallon) petrol, but Suzuki vehicles are notably cheap and cheerful to own and operate, so the bill came to about $35.
Long gone are the days when labour was cheap enough that some dude would save you the effort of filling the car with petrol, and that work paid was enough to keep a roof over his head and food upon the table. In these enlightened days, you do that work yourself. So there I was standing out in the cold weather. The small fuel tank was full up to its eyeballs. A lovely reassuring clicking noise can be heard letting you know that the petrol cap is screwed down tight enough. Donk! – the side cover locked into place. You wouldn’t want someone siphoning the petrol tank, who remembers those crazy days when such things happened? It’s a short walk into the store whilst trying to avoid eye contact with other folks. They’re all doing much the same, for no apparent reason I can detect.
Number five, mate.
The red car?
Yeah, the read car. Now feeling less sure of the petrol pumps number and taking a closer look outside.
The operator leaped out from behind the console with surprising agility. And no explanation whatsoever. A true mystery. Decided to wait and see what was going on.
Turns out the bloke in the expensive European SUV on the other side of the petrol pump from me, had told the console operator that he was driving the Suzuki. And then paid for my bill, as you do when it costs $140 to fill up his much larger vehicle. A new and interesting way to reduce costs!
Sadly for him, the younger girlfriend ruined the scam, because she’d delayed their departure. Some toilet visits can’t be rushed. With the proverbial tail between his legs, the vehicle owner was dragged back into the store to settle the account. Tensions were high. Smarmy eyes peered out serenely at the world at this sudden injustice and misfortune, and then he said to me:
You could have paid it for me. That’s a level of confidence I can’t muster.
In such situations it’s best to look menacing, so the arms were crossed, whilst the head leaned forward towards him, all the better to engage with him if necessary. And words of pure poetry and sheer elegance befitting an educated man were delivered in a cutting one liner: Screw that! Look, it was the best I could up with at short notice.
To my surprise, the cheeky scamp apologised for his chutzpah. He settled the difference, and left the shop. Maybe he read the room? He was out in the country after all, clearly not his natural turf. Watching him leave the store whilst the operator sorted out the administrative computer mess he found himself in, gave me time to look more closely at the European SUV. Noting some of the dings in the expensive vehicles body, I read from that interaction he was suffering from an economic inability to maintain appearances. Hmm.
It’s been another odd week of weather. Firstly wet, then warm and dry, then very wet for days. During the drier weather, we continued digging the flat site for the two new water tanks.
It will be many months before all of the existing water tanks are full, so there’s no great hurry with this work. The excavations are done using an electric jackhammer to break up the clay into clumps. The scary old rototiller then breaks apart those clumps into fine easier to move soil particles. Those are then loaded into a power wheelbarrow using a shovel. Easy, but also physically demanding work.
The power wheelbarrow allows us to move the soil back uphill. Excess soil is a very useful material, and always in short supply. This week the soil has been put to use creating a flat site near to the front of the house. The intention is to place a steel round raised garden bed there.
The existing rocks were rearranged and then soil was dumped onto the site.
Most of the soil loads were used in the above project, but we dumped one load on the continuing rock wall project where the long line of water tanks sit.
Five or maybe six loads of soil were dumped on the new flat site, and it now looks very different.
We removed heaps of soil from the area where the two new water tanks will be located. When you’re digging slowly, the work can be quite neat. The water tanks will sit back into the side of the hill. There’s still maybe another foot of soil to remove.
The area we’re digging in has a lot of floating rocks. Any rocks here have some sort of use, in fact there are more uses than there are rocks. Believe me folks, Peak Rocks is real – you heard it here first.
In order to add more soil to the area where it’s being dumped up near the house, we had to install the remainder of our large rock supply. We’ve now again run out of large rocks and will have to split some boulders over the next few weeks.
The area is now ready to take some more soil.
From the underside looking upwards at that rock wall, you can see just how much soil was dumped in that spot.
The rocks are placed carefully so that there is no movement, and also that soil can’t fall between any joins. It takes a lot longer to carefully place such large and heavy rocks so that their stability is assured. We did have to deal with a 5.9 earthquake a couple of years ago.
This week’s video shows more details of the project:
Burn-off restrictions were lifted at midnight last Monday, and us landowners are now free to burn off forest materials. Sunday afternoons it’s something of a rural sport to set off bonfires. In the next image you can see the storm arriving.
And the digital tachometer device was repaired. For some reason the machine had a battery which was soldered onto the circuit board. The impression I was left with from that arrangement, was once the battery was dead, the device was meant to be chucked out. Being the crafty and resourceful dude that I am, a computer CMOS battery was placed on order, arrived in the mail, and then soldered onto the circuit board. The machine now works perfectly again. Those are not cheap devices and the disposable arrangement troubled me.
In breaking produce news:
The pumpkin vines are succumbing to powdery mildew, and look worse every day. Given the warm days and nights recently, I’d have to suggest that the plant is no longer enjoying enough daylight hours.
Inside the greenhouse, things are different, and perhaps more optimal.
The greenhouse is the most productive growing area during the colder months of the year. The subtropical fruit Babaco survives in there when it would have zero chance of getting through the winter outdoors.
The radish and beetroot seeds are also growing speedily in the greenhouse.
Over winter, the only available fresh fruit will be from the citrus trees. And each year those trees produce a little bit better. The Pomello’s which are a yellow grapefruit, are very tasty in breakfast. They require continual feeding to keep producing at such rates.
Onto the flowers:
The temperature outside now at about 10am is 11’C (52’F). So far for last year there has been 178.8mm (7.0 inches) which is up from last weeks total of 151.0mm (5.9 inches)