Category Archives: Photography

The Discount and the Little Boy in the Rainforest

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Chris and I were up at Mapleton on the Blackall Range (Sunshine Coast hinterland, Queensland) when I noticed a garage selling discounted petrol at under $1.30 a litre. I pulled in and Chris put $20 worth in the tank. I was prepared with my saved Woolworths receipt (over $30 spent) in my purse as I went up to the counter.

“Will a Woolworths voucher be alright for the discount?” I asked the heavily tanned and bearded Australian (not a lady!).

“No, sorry,” the man said shaking his head.

“Coles?” I asked. I had a Coles receipt too (it pays to be prepared).

“Nope,” he smiled.

“Well, how do I get a discount?” I persevered.

“Just spend a bit of money in the shop,” he said dryly.

It seemed he didn’t mind us leaving the car at the petrol pump while we did some shopping at the garage, which we thought was rather quaint.

“Let’s buy some bananas – they’re only $2.50 a kilo,” I suggested.

A few minutes later we returned to the petrol checkout with our receipt for a kilo of bananas (a girl served us at the grocery counter).

“How’s that? Good enough?” I asked, giving the bearded man my docket.

He looked at it and chuckled to himself.

“Is that alright?” I asked.

“Well, you’re supposed to spend $30 but I don’t suppose my boss will give me the sack – I’ve been working here for eight years,” he said with resignation.

Then the man produced a small package and placed it on the counter.

“Oh!” I said, thinking it was for me, “What’s that?”

“It’s my pie!” piped up the chap standing behind me.

Still laughing, we left the shop and got into the car, at last vacating the spot at the petrol pump.

Before long we reached  Mary Cairnscross Reserve and rainforest where first we stopped at a picnic table to have our lunch. Three bush turkeys fought for position on the area around our table and, ignoring Chris’s protestations, I answered their pleas with crackers and the fat from around the ham.

Some time later we were on a path deep in the rainforest when we met a very tall middle-aged lady accompanied by half a dozen children of primary school age. We guessed she was a child-carer, perhaps associated with a larger group we had come across earlier.

“Did you see anything in the forest?” asked a precocious little boy wearing a big sunhat.

“Oh, do you mean wildlife? I responded.

“We saw a snake,” he nodded.

“Oh no, we haven’t seen anything like that, but we were looking out for the small red wallabies we saw last time we were here. To be honest,” I turned to face the tall lady as I spoke, “my eyesight isn’t quite as good as it was…”

“Me too!” exclaimed the lady in her very deep voice. “My sight has got so bad that when I was in my paddock recently I thought I saw my little dog and I called out, ‘Darcy, come here boy. Darcy, come here!’. My daughter said, ‘Mum, why are you calling Darcy?’ And I said, ‘Because he’s there in the middle of the paddock.’ ‘No, Mum,’ she said, ‘that’s not Darcy – it’s a magpie!”

The children didn’t think it was as funny as we thought it was. On our own again a little while later Chris and I spied one of those red wallabies and a reptile – not a nasty snake but a lizard dozing on a log.

Father Christmas Scales the Verandah

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Chris and I were out on the verandah, admiring the stunning sunset, here at Janine and Brad’s house when I noticed Father Christmas climbing up the outside of the verandah. I know, he’s not due to arrive just yet but the world is a big place and he’s pretty old. So don’t tell the kids that I’ve seen him on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast and pretend that you’re simply looking at some photographs of the stunning sunset yesterday.

What’s Not to Love About a Mason?

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I was hanging out my washing when a very dashing Mason called around. It’s true that I was expecting him, however I was afraid he might not remember me after such a long time… But no, he smiled and I gushed with love, and we rushed into one another’s arms. We kissed and kissed – the feeling was entirely mutual – and then we went to the beach at Victoria Point for a bit of fun on the sand.

Like me, he wasn’t keen to walk in the sea (owing to fifty-million jelly fish at the water’s edge) so we held hands and simply enjoyed looking out to sea at the visiting dolphins. He wasn’t afraid, just sensible; he showed his bravery later when he chased off some large ibis birds. He wanted to impress me – I could tell – and soon I was duly impressed by his athleticism, his love of heights and his great skills of strength and balance.

Surely this Mason is a rarity? He is no ordinary “Worshipful Master” – he doesn’t have a funny little dark blue apron or a light blue apron, for that matter; he doesn’t have a secret handshake and he doesn’t spend lots of evenings out with “the boys”. He doesn’t give a darn about golf or crosswords. He’s not even an old boy…. Perhaps needless to say, my Mason is Roland’s four year old grandson and I love him.

Jacaranda Tree, Jacaranda Tree

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I was out cycling at the time, on the nineteen-eighties fold-up bicycle that Bill bought from a garage sale and dismantled, derusted, re-painted and put together again especially for me, when I had the urge to go home – back to our old house at Wynnum. Lota isn’t exactly home territory but my homing sense led me in the right direction up the hill toward Manly and the little red bike seemed to know the way of its own accord. Beyond Manly, I was going up another hill (not too far from our beloved Mountjoy Terrace) when I had to stop at the sight of a most beautiful jacaranda tree ahead.

It’s the season for jacaranda trees – October and November. The fallen blossoms cover the ground beneath the trees with “a carpet of blue” and the air is filled with beautiful perfume.

Many moons ago Joseph, my Hungarian boyfriend, wrote me a song called “Jacaranda Tree, Jacaranda Tree” after we had fallen in love one October night when the city was ours and the streets were magically blue. And the memories come back. They came back today and I had a few tears. Joseph died on June 2nd 2014 – a friend of his found my letters and broke the news.

I got on my bike and easily found my way home to Mountjoy Terrace. There was a new facade and a new fence – a high fence to ward off previous owners. A dog barked behind the fence.

“It’s my old house, I was here long before you,” I said gently but firmly.

The dog seemed to be rather empathic – for a dog – and it stopped barking. I heard his paws on the concrete behind the fence as he withdrew and left me to my childhood memories. Once again, I had a few tears and after a while I headed off on my red bike and passed under more jacaranda trees with the blue blossoms and scent of love.

Back at Henry’s place my younger brother suggested we have hamburgers for lunch at Lota, but this time we went in the car… and a very nice lunch it was.

Bursting With Love

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Sometimes, don’t you just feel like you’re bursting with love? Lots of things can cause it – like holding a new born baby, or being told the most wonderful news when you had dared not hope for the best; or it could happen when you’re out with your husband or lover on an unpromising day, weather-wise, and the sun comes out for you, filling your private little world with the golden shades of autumn. In the latter case you squeeze each other’s hand and say, “Isn’t it beautiful?” and “The sun came out especially for us!” .

I remember a time many years ago when Chris and I took our girls to a Dartmoor beauty spot called Fingle Bridge. The girls had gone off on their own to explore and Chris beckoned me to sit beside him on a very friendly looking log for two. From our comfy vantage point we had a beautiful view of the river and the sun playing on the trees on the other side, but, best of all, we felt it was for us alone.

“I’m bursting with love for you,” said Chris.

No-one had ever said that to me before and I nearly burst with love back.

Last weekend, after having a lovely visit with our son and his wife in Brighton, Chris suggested that we return to a pretty little spot called Friday Street; it’s a place filled with pleasant childhood memories for Chris – his father loved it there. We parked in a forest car park and walked the rest of the way although it wasn’t really necessary to use the car park as we were the only people there apart from the dwellers of the handful of quaint cottages – puffs of smoke from chimneys informed us of life within.

The day had begun misty but, as we emerged from the dark of the tree-lined lane, the sun came out and lit up the forest behind the lake ahead, and the golden green forest reflected on the water like a painting. Still holding hands, we entered the forest paved with gold and we both felt it – we were bursting with love.

A Tempest

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Summer is over, it’s official; the October gales are here. It’s hard to believe that just a few days ago we were out in our shorts, sweltering and slathered in sunscreen, as we painted the house!

Feeling chilly last night, I replaced the summer duvet with a winter one and slept “as snug as a bug in a rug” (and felt like a cocoon). Meanwhile something was brewing outside.

This morning I drew back the curtains and was greeted by a boiling sea with huge waves crashing against the sea wall below. Some of the waves pounded the wall with such a force that they escaped their normal bounds and flew high into the air as if reaching for an ephemeral ecstasy before dropping and being drawn back into the cauldron. Other waves didn’t reach the dizzy heights and, thwarted by the wall, returned back angrily to their brethren behind them and beat them in mid-air. Thankfully, the newly repaired seawall held fast.

Funnily enough, tomorrow night (5th October) we’re going to see “The Tempest” by William Shakespeare at the Pavilions in nearby Teignmouth. The play is on for one night only so secure your tickets soon or you may miss the opportunity. If the gales still rage there will be a tempest outside and a tempest inside at the same time.

One Good Painting Deserves Another

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Thank you Hugo (aged two) for the wonderful painting you sent me. And thank you Alex (his beautiful mum) for sending the prettiest and nicest smelling flowers ever!

The Whaling Wall

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The first I heard of it was when our visitor Clare asked if we had any binoculars because her husband Phil thought a boat had overturned out at sea. I couldn’t see anything in the dim light of approaching evening. A little later my friend and neighbour Caroline messaged me with news of a dead whale being carried in with the tide.

News travels fast in small places and, as a result, all day long people made their pilgrimages to pay their respects to the stricken whale; from our terrace I watched people go to and fro along our sea wall to the beach by Red Rock. I wasn’t sure if really wanted to see the huge creature in deathly deterioration at close quarters but eventually Chris and I were drawn by the same impulse that brought out everyone else in the town and surrounding districts. We met friends, neighbours, family members and acquaintances; the ones leaving wanted to stop and talk longer, and the ones arriving were eager to be on their way, as you’d expect.

We were glad we went though I can think of a happier occasion when a pod of healthy dolphins stopped off on our beach by the breakwater not far from our house – that was day I went swimming with dolphins. Rumour has it that I rode on the back of a dolphin but, in truth, I think they were a bit wary of me in my wet shorts and they circled me in a rather concerning manner.

None of My Business

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I know that’s a strange title for a very innocuous blog post about apple-picking but you’ll see the point when you look at the pictures.

There are few things more enjoyable to do on a sunny late afternoon in September than picking apples on Rosie’s farm, if you like the simple pleasures in life, as my sister Mary and I do. After a nice cup of tea, and catch up with Rosie, we took the dogs, Inca, Malachi and Sasha with us over to the orchard by the original farmhouse: and after sampling the eating apples lower down in the field we wandered up the slope to the Bramleys – the cookers, which we prize above all other apples because we’re thinking of baking apple pies and apple crumbles.

The larger dogs ran around as if they were in Heaven before settling themselves in the shade of the apple trees so that they could best delight in the views on such an evening, while sensible Sasha, the tiny Yorkshire terrier, took it upon herself to guard the apples we had collected into carrier bags.

Soon we were joined by Ian, a nice chap who brought Rosie a file containing information on Internet banking (how incongruous when you’re in an orchard!); and naturally, he tried some of nature’s bounty, and didn’t mind having his photograph taken. Unfortunately, whilst I was photographing everyone I stepped back onto the file which had been left on the grass… I say “unfortunately” because there were some sheep droppings near the same spot… Oh dear!

“Oops, sorry Rosie, I apologised lifting the soiled file, wiping it off and handing it to her.

“Not to worry,” Rosie smiled, “it’s all about ‘Business Telephone Banking’ anyway!”

Real Tasty Guy-sers

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“J’espère…J’espère…” I said, appearing to be full of hope but painfully aware that I was without hope.

“Tu espères?,” asked the gorgeous French doctor called Guy (pronounced Ghee).

“Oui, j’espère…. I hope…” I said, slipping into my native tongue.

“En Français,” Guy urged.

He was so handsome and he looked at me so encouragingly that I didn’t want to let him down. Unfortunately, neither my French phrase book nor my English/French dictionary were of any use at all; the first being inappropriate because I had no wish to talk about the weather or the direction of the railway station, and the latter because the print was too small, and besides, it couldn’t help me with sentence construction. Quite early on at the party held by my brother-in-law Glyn and his wife Roly who live in Le Conquet, Brittany, I had realised that the French contingent would not be enthralled by my conversation in school-girl French for I remember little more than the nouns concerning ceilings, floors, crockery, cutlery, tables, windows; and the verbs “to be”, “to put”, “to play” and “to go” (and I’m not even too sure about those).

“J’espère… tu ne pense pas que je suis la fou,” I said.

“Tu,” Guy corrected my pronunciation (apparently I said “two” not “tu”, which is altogether different).

“J’espère… tu ne pense pas que je suis la fou,” I said again, this time attempting the correct pronunciation.

“La fou?” the good-looking doctor’s brow furrowed in bafflement.

“Oui, la fou – you know, mad,” I said, making a circle with my index finger in the air beside my head.

“Ah, la fou – mad – yes,” Guy recognised the words but seemed not to understand my meaning (by which time I had forgotten what I was trying to say anyway).

A silence followed.

“Tu es tres beau,” I resorted to the first thing that came into my mind.

“Moi?” he smiled and kissed me on both cheeks for about the tenth time.

“Sally, ca va?” another Guy (this time Portuguese rather than French) came up beside me and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Ah, Guy-two (ghee-two, to distinguish between the two Guys),” I said delightedly, “Tres bien.”

Guy-one slipped off to slip his arm around another waist while Guy-two slipped an arm around me.

“Parle moi en Francais (speak to me in French),” handsome Guy-two said, looking dreamily into my eyes.

“Il est le plafond et le plancher,” I laughed pointing to the ceiling, then the floor.

Guy-two seemed inordinately pleased at my prowess in speaking French. Meanwhile my husband Chris beguiled the doctor’s wife Gael, and Clementine and Laurence, with his schoolboy French to similar effect. We had a lovely weekend in beautiful Brittany.