Winter is here, friends. There is no mistaking it's calling card. Freezing nights followed by mornings so cold that our feet hurt. The loooooong Spring is over. Hmmm, wonder where Summer got to this whole time...
Anyhow, the last week has seen a brief cessation of rain to allow some mud to dry out. We ordered in some crushed rock for the car parking area so that we wouldn't have to wallow in the bog getting filthy just to get to the cars. I even got to ride Dante! Well, just along the road - no lovely paddock rides, because there are no lovely paddocks...they're ankle deep in water because the hills have taken in all the water they can.
The cold brings with it some very lovely sights, though. Mornings greet us with dense fog that reveal grazing steers, one by one, hour by hour, until the fog lifts over the hills and we have visibility again. Dusk sees the fog descend into our valley and over the creek line, like a fuzzy, white and sleepy dragon.
Yesterday afternoon, during my venture with Dante, I rode out of our road to see a haze over the hilltops that hadn't moved all day. I rode as far as the neighbour's, and by happy coincidence she was home and about to ride her own horse. I took my tired boy onto her arena (having been four weeks since the last riding opportunity), coaxed some nice work out of him before he just ran out of puff and convinced me to take him home. The neighbourly escort half way home was very welcome. One round and elegant Clydie cross, one fine and alert pony with their riders made for pleasant company. As we clipped and clopped softly down our road, after parting ways with my neighbour and her daughter, I could see it closing in on us and creeping back towards the creek bank. Ambling around one corner I peered out to the paddock on the other side of the creek and recognised a ghostly collection of slender eucalypts, as the white mist hovered over the pond those trees oversee; it was quiet all around and I failed to imagine The Brickyard Flats full of life, teams of navvies working on the railway cutting, the boarding house and numerous bark huts that once filled that section of Crown land. I just couldn't, it was far too peaceful.
As I approached the shed, I noticed the fog was encroaching on the road itself and I could barely make out the caravan. I saw a long shape move out to the road's edge, and two shorter shapes calling out "Mum!" following closely. It must have been a magical thing for the kids to see horse and rider materialise from the misty shroud, and I felt a pang for all the words, all the paintbrush strokes, all the shutter priorities that could never capture that moment and do it justice. The memory of the moment will have to suffice.
As the horses have been moved to a more grassy paddock further down the creek line, I continued down the road and around the bends at a trot, with Dante calling out continuously for his beloved Nook, to let him know of his imminent return; "Fret not, friend, I return from the mists of time!". Sure enough, rounding the bend that comes out to the waterfall, Nook's anxious bellow filled the thick air, and black legs in an elevated trot were all I could see first through the saplings and bushes, as he paced along a flat section, stopping at the fence line and pacing the other way after a neat little turn on the hindquarter. Again, all art would despair to depict the sinewy passage of a black horse through scrub and mist, in sweaty anticipation of the return of his paddock companion and best friend. I do believe only Peter Weir could execute such imagery!
So, my ride at an end, I untacked my beast, brushed him down and let him out with the others, who were glad to have their equilibrium restored, their herd at full number. I packed my riding gear onto the back of the quad bike and rode back down the track to the shed, thinking it was getting very late to be starting on the dinner I had planned. I brought my saddle bag into the shed to unload it later and the aroma of a hearty meal filled my senses...ahhh! Osso Bucco, ready for a set table and some eager consumption by all, accompanied by a soft and creamy potato mash.
A perfect ending to a day, that first one of official Winter; our first Winter in residence at The Farm.
Anyhow, the last week has seen a brief cessation of rain to allow some mud to dry out. We ordered in some crushed rock for the car parking area so that we wouldn't have to wallow in the bog getting filthy just to get to the cars. I even got to ride Dante! Well, just along the road - no lovely paddock rides, because there are no lovely paddocks...they're ankle deep in water because the hills have taken in all the water they can.
The cold brings with it some very lovely sights, though. Mornings greet us with dense fog that reveal grazing steers, one by one, hour by hour, until the fog lifts over the hills and we have visibility again. Dusk sees the fog descend into our valley and over the creek line, like a fuzzy, white and sleepy dragon.
Yesterday afternoon, during my venture with Dante, I rode out of our road to see a haze over the hilltops that hadn't moved all day. I rode as far as the neighbour's, and by happy coincidence she was home and about to ride her own horse. I took my tired boy onto her arena (having been four weeks since the last riding opportunity), coaxed some nice work out of him before he just ran out of puff and convinced me to take him home. The neighbourly escort half way home was very welcome. One round and elegant Clydie cross, one fine and alert pony with their riders made for pleasant company. As we clipped and clopped softly down our road, after parting ways with my neighbour and her daughter, I could see it closing in on us and creeping back towards the creek bank. Ambling around one corner I peered out to the paddock on the other side of the creek and recognised a ghostly collection of slender eucalypts, as the white mist hovered over the pond those trees oversee; it was quiet all around and I failed to imagine The Brickyard Flats full of life, teams of navvies working on the railway cutting, the boarding house and numerous bark huts that once filled that section of Crown land. I just couldn't, it was far too peaceful.
As I approached the shed, I noticed the fog was encroaching on the road itself and I could barely make out the caravan. I saw a long shape move out to the road's edge, and two shorter shapes calling out "Mum!" following closely. It must have been a magical thing for the kids to see horse and rider materialise from the misty shroud, and I felt a pang for all the words, all the paintbrush strokes, all the shutter priorities that could never capture that moment and do it justice. The memory of the moment will have to suffice.
As the horses have been moved to a more grassy paddock further down the creek line, I continued down the road and around the bends at a trot, with Dante calling out continuously for his beloved Nook, to let him know of his imminent return; "Fret not, friend, I return from the mists of time!". Sure enough, rounding the bend that comes out to the waterfall, Nook's anxious bellow filled the thick air, and black legs in an elevated trot were all I could see first through the saplings and bushes, as he paced along a flat section, stopping at the fence line and pacing the other way after a neat little turn on the hindquarter. Again, all art would despair to depict the sinewy passage of a black horse through scrub and mist, in sweaty anticipation of the return of his paddock companion and best friend. I do believe only Peter Weir could execute such imagery!
So, my ride at an end, I untacked my beast, brushed him down and let him out with the others, who were glad to have their equilibrium restored, their herd at full number. I packed my riding gear onto the back of the quad bike and rode back down the track to the shed, thinking it was getting very late to be starting on the dinner I had planned. I brought my saddle bag into the shed to unload it later and the aroma of a hearty meal filled my senses...ahhh! Osso Bucco, ready for a set table and some eager consumption by all, accompanied by a soft and creamy potato mash.
A perfect ending to a day, that first one of official Winter; our first Winter in residence at The Farm.
