James and Trish Parker live on the Tasman Peninsula. They have lived there so long that they are woven into the area's cultural and environmental fabric. In this gentle life, shaped by the patterns of the seasons, James Parker is no different from most residents of rural Tasmania – except for his great skill in writing about it.
Late October, 2023
It’s a very worrying time. Readers may remember that Trish and I were worried about our magpies not coming for the meat scraps. Well they’ve just completely gone away. Jocularly, I say that went to Melbourne for the grand final, but I really worry.
And, I haven’t seen our green rosellas for a few weeks either. I suppose they’ll be back when the fruit trees start to ripen, and I’m determined to net a couple of trees this spring. On the bright side, our, newly resident grey thrush has been calling for weeks, and I think he may have finally attracted a mate. I heard him calling – with all sorts of variations on his straight call – the other day and I heard a response. I think he’s found a mate. I saw him today gathering leaves, presumably for a nest.
Hope springs eternal, especially as I spotted a pair of “cranky fans” this afternoon. The birds are endemic Tasmanians, but I love the appellation “cranky fans”, very old-fashioned Australian language that has held on longer here than in most of Australia.
Rodney the rogue rooster has turned into a major pest. Apart from waking us up when we don’t wish to wake, Rodney has taken to scratching out a flower bed just near the bedroom, and, being a rooster, he’s just about undermined a well-established geranium bush. I have mounted various assaults on him – trying to corner him, and throw a blanket over him, but I’m getting nowhere. I confessed to Trish that I haven’t caught a chook since I was about five, I think it was done with fencing wire. I’m hopeless; I’ll have to get help.
The resident possum – which I also can’t catch – seems benign just now, but I’m sure he’ll roar into action the minute my back is turned. I have revived the herb garden in pots which the possum destroyed but it has already been attacked. I have erected a mesh cage which has been referred to as Fort Knox by my step-son – smugly. He has an extraordinarily productive veggie garden in a tiny plot in South Hobart which seems immune from marsupial attack without any serious protective measures.
Our garden here is Trish’s garden, and what you can see of it above the rye grass is a rhapsody in blue at the moment – every shade of blue from the deep purple of the lobelias on the verandah and the rampant pride of Maderia, to the vibrant hue of the irises to the more subtle blues of the borage, forget-me-nots, blue-bells, kangaroo apples and an unidentified triffid.
The pride of Madeira is also known as the bee plant. Never a truer name given that, on a warm afternoon, they positively buzz.
The blossoms have been sublime. We have a weeping cherry which is white, and lovely but not pink. I got into a lot of trouble for that – it was supposed to be pink and I got it wrong. The crab-apple is coming out, finally, and it will be the most spectacular and most long-lasting of all the blossom trees, but the quince is possibly the loveliest and most fragrant of all the blossoms – it is sublime. The trouble is, you then have to deal with all those quinces. Quince jelly, whilst I wouldn’t be without it – I’m absolutely dependent for it in my cooking – requires a great deal of work.
Of course, at this time of year there are all sorts of weeds to deal with, and then there’s the grass, and the whipper-snipper has broken down!
But we soldier on. We will have a cricket competition this year. It was a close-run thing as one side was short of players, but the other sides agreed to share juniors. Good for the juniors and good for the comp. We just spent $2,500 buying the balls. That’s an act of faith.
Previous Down on the Peninsula columns:
1. A ramble through the seasons
James Parker is a Tasmanian historian (but with deep connections to Sydney), who writes and talks on mainly colonial subjects – especially convicts, women and the Tasmanian Aboriginal people.
