K.I.

 

South Australia is a pretty stunning place, generally, but after a short vacation on Kangaroo Island, I think I've discovered the jewel in SA's crown.

 

We stayed here, in a 100-year-old light-keeper's cottage, maintained and prepared by Parks SA. There was no television, but there was Jenga, Mahjong, and numerous visitor's books to keep oneself occupied during the cold, windy evenings.

 

In four days we managed to traverse 800km of an island that, at its longest point, is barely 200km across. We saw the lighthouses (of which there are a few!), Remarkable Rocks and Admirals Arch, Flinders Chase National Park, as well as West, Stokes, Emu and Vivonne Bays.

 

We got up close and personal with Australian sea-lions, New Zealand fur seals, KI kangaroos, Tammar wallabies, and a couple echidnas - all in the wild. (We were not lucky enough this trip to see koalas or platypus, but that will keep for another time).

 

K.I. is a truly awe-inspiring place, a bucket-list kind of place to visit. Nothing disappoints, not even the wintery weather (which is, on average, ten degrees warmer overnight than the Flinders Ranges, and a couple degrees warmer during the day - even with the "roaring 40s" raging in!).

 

 



 

1) Cape Willoughby. 2) Snuggling Australian sea-lions at Seal Bay. 3) Seal Bay.

4) Cape du Couedic. 5) New Zealand fur seal (scratches an itch). 6) Cape Borda coastline.

7) West Bay as dusk. 8) Stokes Bay. 9) Silhouettes at Vivonne Bay. 10) Remarkable Rocks.

11) Sunbathing K.I. kangaroos. 12) The only platypus we saw! 13) Karatta Cottage, Flinders Chase NP.

14) Inside Karatta Cottage (entrance hall). 15) Inside Karatta Cottage (bedroom).

16) One of the many visitor's books. 17) Weir's Cove. 18) Admirals Arch.

Anzac Morning

 

 

Today is Anzac Day, so we were up early to watch the sunrise. Then we decided to drive out to the Mount Brown Conservation Park to enjoy the early morning quiet before the tourists found their way out there.

 

We walked over two kilometres before returning home to complete the household chores in time to watch the Anzac Day service broadcast from Villers-Bretonneux in France (something that has become a tradition in our house).

 

The early morning walk, and then later watching the sun rise over French fields on the television, made me think that Mother Nature is truly at her most beautiful first thing in the morning.

 

Autumnly.

 

Right up until Wednesday it still felt like summer. This time last weekend we were complaining about the seemingly never-ending heat.

 

Not so this weekend!

 

The weather is wonderful and so very autumnly: Plenty of sunshine and clear blue skies, but with a hint of coldness in the air, a promise that winter is just around the corner.

 

Autumn is my favourite time of year in the Ranges. The colours contrast and work well together: The evergreen foliage, the red tinge to the dirt and stone, the pale blue sky and the purple hue of the mountains.

 

Yesterday it was far too nice to be indoors, so we took a mini-adventure to a local gorge, and then out past the Willochra and into what I (sarcastically) refer to as "Death Valley"- an endless expanse of saltbush plains and stark mountain outcrops, completely void of trees.

 

Then we returned home for a cuppa and an afternoon snack, sat outside under the veranda, listening to the birds and the buzz of the town.

 

How are you enjoying the season?

 

Dirt Farmer.

 

Today, I show you my dirt.

 

When we first moved back here in 2008, after having spent a decade in the city, it was the middle of autumn. The days were clear and sunny, the nights cool and crisp. There'd be dew in the mornings. The signs of a hot summer were slowly being overgrown by the promise of winter. Perhaps it was just the excitement of starting something new, or the awe of all the wide open space that made me completely oblivious to the dirt.

 

People in the neighbouring towns call us "Dirt Farmers". Our town is situated on flats between the mountain ranges, surrounded by farming and grazing land. Rocky outcrops dominate the horizon, with creeks that are bone-dry most of the time, and saltbush plains that stretch for miles and miles... People plough and plant the same fields every year, keep too much stock and let them overgraze. I thought "Dirt Farmer" was a pretty clever observation, but I never thought it would be a term I'd apply to myself.

 

 

Let me tell you about the dirt: It's everywhere, and not just outside. It's evident not only in the garden or out of town. It is everywhere, all of the time.

 

It doesn't matter what season, or what direction the wind is coming in from. It doesn't even matter if there is no wind at all, or whether the house is open or closed-up, there will still be dirt.

 

It is dirt that covers every surface and finds its way into every corner, nook and cranny. It sits on bricks, stores itself on windowsills, between doors, and on flyscreens. Every time we walk on the hardwood floors we kick it up, move it around and stir the allergies. I can clean it away, but the dirt will be back the next day, making it look as though I've not done a thing.

 

Dirt Farmer.

 

I have developed a new understanding of that term, in its full context. If dirt were worth a dime, I'd be rather well-to-do right now.

 

 

 

Torrent.

 

 

Okay, so last week I was complaining about being stuck inside because of the heat. Well, today I've been indoors on account of the rain, which is something you'll never hear me complain about (L-O-V-E the rain!), but it never ceases to amaze me how quickly, and how dramatically the weather can shift here.

 

Yesterday it was 41*C.

 

Today it's 25*C with torrential downpours.

 

The pictures above were taken during a rainstorm that lasted, at most, fifteen minutes. Within that time, the front yard, the back yard and our street became a raging torrent of water.

 

...Okay. Maybe not a raging torrent, but as close as you'll ever get to one in these past.

 

There was thunder, and lightning, and so much water it set the fire alarm off (yeah, I'm not sure how that works, either).

 

Then the rain stopped and the water promptly soaked away. In half the time it took for the rain to fall, the yard and the street were back to normal.

Sunned in...

 

Today we have a one day reprieve from the sweltering temperatures the south-east of the country has had to endure these past few weeks.

 

At 32 degrees Celsius, and with a southerly breeze, it is a nice change from the 45 degrees we reached yesterday. But the wind today is also pushing the smoke from the Bangor bushfire in our direction, so we are blanketed in a grey, smoggy haze.

 

Tomorrow begins yet another heatwave, with temperatures expect to soar back into the 40s for at least another week.

 

I spend a lot of my time in the early mornings and evenings in the garden, watering the plants as the soil is extremely dry at the moment. I am in need of more Lucerne hay for mulch: The sun is fast disintegrating what is left.

 

We have started putting the sprinkler on in the evenings for a few minutes on the back lawn, and all the birds (including up to ten magpies at any one time!) come swooping in to cool off, take a drink and search for bugs under the spray. We watch them from the kitchen window, in the comfort of an air conditioned house, where indoor activities are all the go.

 

We don't get "snowed in" here; we get "sunned in" instead.

 

How's the weather at your place?