Clay Gully
Page 3
As a child I was stung several times by my grandfather’s bees and know how agonising that can be, so I watch Michael with growing admiration. Suddenly a bee is caught in my hair, and before I can set it free it stings me on the back of my head. Michael looks up when I cry out in pain and briefly remarks, ‘One got you did it?’ before returning to his work.
I stand stoically in the same spot, and it isn’t until he puts the lids back on the hives and drives away that I make a frantic dash for the house, by now desperate to find something to relieve the pain.
A few days later my son Nathaniel comes to see the orchard in all its glory. The dainty apple blossom is fully out, and so are the pink wax flowers and pretty white pincushion heads of the pimeleas. We can hear the steady drone of the bees as they move from flower to flower collecting yellow bags of pollen, and at the same time fertilising the blossom. As we wander through the orchard I stop for a moment, telling Nat how I was standing in just this spot when I was stung the previous week. Immediately he gives a cry of pain and slaps at his ear, where he too has suddenly been stung.
I’m regularly surrounded by bees when I’m working in the orchard but have never been attacked until now, so this seems strange. We aren’t close to the hives but perhaps we are intruders crossing a vital, but unseen, flight path.
It’s been ten days since Michael brought the bees. I can tell they’ve done their work for the powdery yellow pollen has gone from the stamens of the blossom. In addition to Michael’s brown striped honeybees, tiny native bees hover around the flowers, and here and there a large black bee dips its head into a bloom.
Then the steady background drone changes to a higher pitched, more urgent sound, and soon an angry swarm circles above the trees. As the noise grows louder I know it’s time to leave and I break into a run. Two bees chase after me, buzzing angrily around my head but I manage to escape them.
In the afternoon when the swarm settles on a low branching tree, I telephone Michael to let him know. He comes with an empty hive which he places directly beneath the bees. With one sharp tap of the branch the swarm drops neatly into the box as if it were a single organism, rather than a group of hundreds of individuals. Michael quickly replaces the lid and leaves the bees to adapt to their new home.
Between the house and the bottom dam there stands a beautiful red flowering ironbark, its blossoms hanging down in sweet smelling sprays. Bees fly to and fro between this tree and the remaining apple blossom. The raucous cries of wattlebirds and blue-faced honeyeaters can be heard all day long as they feed greedily on the rich nectar.
Michael gives me a bucket of honey. It is thick and rich amber. It comes from the flowers of the graceful yellow gum trees. We eat it on toast and I add its delicate flavour to my cakes.
Cold Tea Cake
Sixty years ago this was one of my mother’s favourite recipes, probably because it is so easy and quick to make. In our house it was served together with a piece of cheddar cheese and a slice of apple.
1/3 cup honey
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 cup strong tea
250 grams currants
100 grams raisins
225 grams self-raising flour
1 egg, beaten
Dissolve the honey and sugar in the hot tea, pour onto the fruit and leave overnight. Next day add the flour and beaten egg and stir well.
Put into a greased and lined loaf tin and bake at 160°C (or 150°C if fan forced), for approximately 70 minutes. Test with a skewer near to time and continue cooking until it comes out clean.
Dutch Honey Cake
This is a traditional Dutch recipe dating back centuries. It is usually served buttered and eaten with coffee. The ginger pieces are optional, but they add flavour and texture.
250 grams self-raising flour
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1½ teaspoons ground ginger
½ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
150 grams chopped glace ginger
150 grams brown sugar
½ cup + 1 dessertspoon of honey
¾ cup milk
Sift the flour and spices into a bowl. Mix in the chopped ginger making sure the pieces are well coated with flour. Add the sugar, honey and milk and stir well.
Pour into a greased, lined loaf tin and cook at 160°C (or 150°C if fan forced) for approximately one hour. Towards the end of cooking check with a skewer and when it comes out clean remove the cake from the oven. Leave for a few minutes and then turn out onto a wire tray.
There’s a black plastic box fixed to a post on the verandah. It houses the transformer for the garden watering system. Whenever children come to visit, I invite them to look inside to see the frog that lives in its dark interior. He’s been in the box for the last two years, apparently having entered through the small hole drilled into the base. His brown mottled body is quite fat, and it’s difficult to imagine how he could squeeze through such a little space.
Perhaps he has eaten too many flies or spiders inside the box and can no longer get out. I leave the door ajar for a while but he remains in his place, squatting on top of the transformer. Mostly, we forget he’s there. After a shower of rain, however, his piercing crack-crack echoes around the house and reminds us of his existence.
On the first day since winter warm enough to sit outside, I carry my cup of tea onto the verandah. A small movement catches my eye and startled, I see a slim brown snake emerging from the transformer box. I usher the dogs quickly into the house, feeling sad that our frog has clearly met his end. Then I watch the snake swing to and fro, expecting it to slide out and disappear. No more of the snake’s body emerges, apparently because its frog-filled lower section is now too fat to squeeze through the hole in the box. All day long the little snake writhes in the air, suspended, and it is not until late the following afternoon that the frog is sufficiently digested for it to escape.
Noisy miners have established a small colony in the gum trees near the road. They have grey bodies and bright yellow beaks. Honeyeaters and native to Australia, they are unlike the scavenging common mynas seen in urban settings. True to their name they make a lot of noise so I’m glad they rarely come close to the house. I only notice them when a fox or cat enters our property. Suddenly there’s a huge commotion. The birds swoop down on the invading animal, squawking and shrieking to drive it away.
One afternoon I hear their cries and go to see why they are panicking. I’m concerned there might be a cat around because a family of wrens is nesting in a low bush near the dam. Instead I’m surprised to discover it’s an echidna. He’s huge. I haven’t seen one on our block before. He’s wandering along searching for ants, and takes no notice of either me or the screaming birds. In a few minutes he squeezes under the fence and disappears. I can understand the noisy miners’ alarm at the appearance of feral animals, but I’m surprised a harmless echidna would frighten them. Perhaps they haven’t seen one before either.
Two wood ducks stand close together on top of one of the nesting boxes. They look strange. I’ve never seen ducks in trees before. Quite beautiful with their chestnut heads and pale mottled breasts, they’re more like finely built geese. The birds take it in turns to bend over and peer into the box. Then suddenly the female thrusts her plump brown body through the hole and disappears inside. I’m amazed there’s enough space. She fails to reappear, but just as I begin to wonder if she’s stuck, out she pops, and they both fly off.
My bird book tells me it’s quite normal for wood ducks to nest in trees, but I’m left wondering how the flightless ducklings manage to leave the nest safely. Although I’m delighted to have them visit, I’m not sure about them breeding far away from the safety of the dam, especially since I’ve seen foxes recently.
I don’t need to worry for by the time they return for the next house inspection, the galahs have already taken up residence and chase the ducks away. A few weeks later, as the orchard is bathed in golden evening sunlight, I see the
m again. This time they are accompanied by seven little ducklings, spreading out all around them as they wander along the rows of trees, grazing on the clover. Over the next few weeks I often see them just about sunset. Eventually they manage to raise five of their babies.
Now the white-faced heron has returned to take up his vigil beside the top dam. With limitless patience he waits motionless for small yabbies or tadpoles to unwarily swim close to his long dark legs. Occasionally, when the catch is unsatisfactory, he tries his luck in the bottom dam, flying above the trees with slow sweeping wing beats. At once a small flock of tiny but fearless birds flies up to harass him. They circle around him until he swoops down to the water again.
It’s nine years since we planted the first rows of apple trees and, at last, more than half of the orchard has flowered.
I carry a small pair of nail scissors into the orchard and contemplate the 300 trees before me. Where there was blossom there’s now fruit, with clusters of five or six apples standing close together on their little green stalks. Unless they’re properly thinned I could have a huge crop the size of marbles.
In a non-organic orchard a chemical thinner would be applied to the blossom to reduce the fruit set, doing away with the need for hand thinning. I don’t have this option. At least I can select the best fruit and choose its position on the branch. So every morning my scissors squeeze between the tight little clusters of apples as I slowly move around the trees. My legs begin to ache, the result of hours of standing, and I wonder if I could use a tall bar stool. Unfortunately four legs won’t balance on the sloping mounds.
Never mind, this is light work. The birds are singing, the days are growing warmer and the bees are humming in the clover. What better place to work could there be than this? Two weeks later I have finished. And in no time the rosellas are trying the fledgling apples.
There are good rains in the spring, and twice in the early summer thunderstorms replenish the dams. The trees, appreciative of all the moisture around their roots, have grown strongly, and this year, for the first time, we have a marketable crop.
Every day I walk along the green avenues between the trees, admiring the swelling fruit. The Tydeman’s Early Worcesters are beautiful, each tree filled with shiny red apples so perfect they would have tempted Snow White. There have been a few brightly coloured rosellas in the orchard recently, and here and there I can see where they have left a half eaten apple, its yellow centre exposed, as a welcome dinner for the ants.
A friend tells me parrots are afraid of snakes, so I buy two dozen rubber ones from a toy shop and hang them in the branches. I don’t know if rosellas are not afraid of snakes or perhaps just too smart to be fooled by bits of rubber, but they’re soon in the trees again eating the apples. This is a good crop and if the currawongs enjoy the windfalls or the parrots take an occasional apple, there is still enough for all. Nature must have her share.
It’s a beautiful morning with just a light breeze gently disturbing the upper branches of the gum trees. I think that tomorrow we’ll pick the Tydeman’s, which are always the first to ripen. Although the other apples aren’t ready yet, there’s now a soft pink blush where their faces turn to the sun.
Suddenly I become aware of an unfamiliar sound. It’s a murmuring, twittering buzz of excitement, growing stronger every moment. Now the air is filled with wings, swooping and diving above my head. Gradually the noise reduces as a hundred parrots land in the apple trees before making their way along the boughs towards the fruit.
They’ve come from nowhere. I’ve never seen them before and I am stunned by their beauty. There’s a flash of red and blue, but they redefine the whole meaning of the word ‘green’. This is a green like I have never seen; glorious, glossy, and unimaginably brilliant against the backdrop of emerald leaves and shiny red fruit. The birds, which have short blunt tails, don’t have the gracious, swooping flight of the rosellas. These musk lorikeets are more like fighter planes on a mission.
A moment of joy and delight is swiftly followed by the realisation that these little beauties are attacking my apples. Rushing towards them, I wave my arms frantically, shouting, screaming and expecting the whole flock to rise up in panic. Nothing happens. As I hurl myself like a whirling dervish at a tree under attack, the parrots casually flutter into another one farther along the row. When I follow they just return to the original tree. They are treating me with derision. They just don’t care. To think that at one point I considered putting a scarecrow in the orchard. Ridiculous! Not even a living, breathing, screaming human being is going to deter these birds.
The next day they are gone and all is peaceful. I expect the ripe Tydeman’s to be ruined, so with some trepidation I walk along the rows surveying the damage. For a moment I feel a flood of relief, for the trees are still full of apples. It’s only when I look closely that I realise a tiny piece of flesh has been removed from each one. Even those not yet fully ripe have been carefully assessed by an experienced avian eye. In each apple a little hole has been pecked in the very centre of that first small area of pink blush. There will be no crop this year after all. I collect the remaining apples which, though imperfect, are fine for sauces and chutneys.
Apple Chutney
Good to eat with cheese and biscuits, this chutney is fruity and spicy but not hot.
120 grams onions
4 cloves garlic
15 large cooking apples
500 grams brown sugar
1800 millilitres malt vinegar
2 teaspoons ground ginger
250 grams raisins
50 grams mustard seed
1 tablespoon salt
15 grams chilli powder
Mince the onions and garlic together. Peel, core and slice the apples. Boil the apples and sugar together in the vinegar until they are soft.
Add the other ingredients and simmer gently for 15 to 20 minutes. To prevent the mixture from burning, stir frequently with a wooden spoon. Allow to cool before bottling.
Red Cabbage with Apple
This is a lovely sweet and sour way to cook cabbage.
50 grams butter
1 cup water
½ teaspoon salt
600 grams red cabbage, chopped
2 cooking apples, peeled, cored and sliced
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
pepper
Place 25 grams butter together with the water and salt in a saucepan. Add the red cabbage, apples and ground cloves. Bring to the boil and cover. Simmer for about 40 minutes or until the cabbage is soft, stirring occasionally. Add the sugar, vinegar, pepper and remaining butter. Simmer for another 5 minutes. Stir and serve.
Apple Sauce
This is good with Granny Smiths but brilliant with Bramley’s Seedling.
4 green apples (preferably Bramleys) peeled, cored and chopped
50 grams butter
1 tablespoon water
a strip of lemon rind
approx. 50 grams caster sugar (depending on the variety of apple used)
Put the apples, butter, water, lemon rind and 20 grams sugar into a pan and cover. Place on a low heat stirring occasionally, for about 15 minutes or until the apples break down.
Remove from the heat. Break up any lumps with a fork. Add more sugar to taste and heat through again.
Early one morning there are rabbits running between the apple trees. As responsible landowners I know we should keep them under control, but I couldn’t face killing a rabbit (nor even a spider for that matter). In any case their burrows aren’t on our block. As soon as they are disturbed they race up the hill beyond the dam and disappear into the bush. They’re the usual nondescript brown rabbits, but then one morning I spy a beautiful golden one—perhaps someone’s escaped pet.
Over the next few months I see this rabbit more and more often, until it occurs to me that I’m probably also seeing his sons and daughters; possibly even his grandchildren. Now
the small plants in the front garden are disappearing, and I can see that this influx is going to become a real problem. Then upon waking early one misty winter morning, I see a family of foxes just in front of the house. Two young cubs are chasing each other up and over my little stack of straw bales in the pale dawn light. And it isn’t long before the rabbits are gone.
Last season the majority of the apples were ruined by the parrots, but those we managed to salvage tasted wonderful. Unfortunately some had the telltale hole indicating codling moth damage. This moth is responsible for the famous ‘worm in the apple’ and the well-known question: ‘What is worse than a worm in your apple?’
Answer: ‘Half a worm.’
Non-organic orchards are repeatedly sprayed with chemicals to control this pest. Instead, I hang traps in the trees which tell me if the moths are flying. When I catch a few, I order trichogramma wasps from Queensland. These tiny creatures use the moth eggs as a breeding site and in so doing, destroy them. The wasp eggs arrive in little squares of cardboard which I staple onto the apple leaves. I also buy 1200 ties to fasten onto the upper branches of the trees. These little pieces of plastic carry female moth pheromone which confuses the male moths, making it difficult for them to find their partner for mating.
I can hear a steady tapping coming from the shed. Our young Slovenian friend must be here again. He has recently arrived in Australia and speaks only a little English. He’s extremely slim with pale skin and dark hair, and is easily the tallest person I have met. Good with his hands, he makes letter boxes, house signs, and small sculptures out of copper. He uses our shed for this purpose because at home his neighbours will not tolerate the noise. To return the favour he repeatedly offers to help me in the orchard, but I’m pruning and like to do that myself.