Tasmania's South Coast Track - Hell's Holiday

(Feb. 24^th-March 3^rd, 2011)

It is now a full week since we reached Cockle Creek after completing the South Coast Track wilderness walk. After a week, I finally feel a little recovered and therefore equal to the task of recording the experience, so that others contemplating the walk may be better prepared than we were.

First of all, we thought ourselves well enough prepared for the trip. We had read John Chapman’s book, checked out reports and video footage on the web, were experienced lightweight backpackers and were reasonably fit. Most reports of the walk described it as ‘easy’ while some suggested that it might challenge those inexperienced at long hikes. John Chapman’s book recorded the estimated track times as being fairly reasonable: apart from 2 long days (6-9 hours and 5-7 hours respectively) all the track times seemed to suggest a comfortable half-day’s walk. It was our trust in this document that was our undoing!

Day 1 Melaleuca to Freney Lagoon

Having left our warm beds at 2.45 am for the drive to Melbourne Airport, we were already a little groggy by the time our cessna touched down on the airstrip at Melaleuca. Despite the glowing weather forecast for the whole period of our walk, the cloud had closed in half way between Hobart and Melaleuca, and we disembarked to a light drizzle. Spirits high, we zipped up our jackets, hoisted our packs and set off for what was touted as an easy walk over a well-maintained track across open buttongrass plains.  Perhaps it might have been once….



Steve & Della at Melaleuca



The boardwalks were deceptively accommodating, but they began and ended abruptly, frequently tipping us unceremoniously into boggy patches of mud. The worst part was the wetness of the boardwalks which were, in many places, so slimy that they were as slick as ice. Only careful, ponderous steps could ensure that we didn’t break any bones on this first section of the walk. All the while, the rain intensified, and I was thankful that I had invested in a good quality ‘Event’ rain jacket. The wind whipped mercilessly across the swamp, and the eerie lack of any sight or sound of wildlife in this endless wasteland brought to mind some half-forgotten lines of poetry from John Keats: …the grass has withered from the sedge/And no birds sing.  Not quite sure of the accuracy of the line, nor of the poem’s title, but I do remember that the line was preceded by: Oh what can ail thee knight at arms/Alone and palely loitering….  The barrenness of this first day’s walk was certainly encapsulated for me in Keats’ words.  We gave up looking for a suitable spot to eat our packed lunch, settling for stepping off the track and sitting atop prickly bushes to keep our backsides out of the mud while we gulped down our food before the cold could penetrate our bodies.  Shortly before reaching Freney Lagoon campsite, we met a man heading back to Melaleuca. He had walked for 2 days and then decided to return to Melaleuca instead of completing the walk. We should have talked to him further!  The Freney Lagoon campsite was reached via a stretch of lovely (though bleakly grey) beach, and it certainly looked as if our traverse of the ugly plains had rewarded us with some better scenery. Our aim had been to push on (perhaps another hour and a half) to reach the third campsite, Buoy Creek; but evening was not far off, and our early start was beginning to take its toll, so we called a halt and set up camp.



Steve & Della en route to Freney Lagoon



Day 2 Freney Lagoon to Louisa River

Steve & Della at Freney Lagoon campsite

By the time we had broken camp, the sun was shining and our walk along the beach to Buoy Creek was lovely. 

Freney Lagoon, Day 2

Della & Steve leaving Freney Lagoon

Last view of the beach at Buoy Creek

Sadly, this was over quickly, and from Buoy Creek we headed inland again over kilometres of muddy, wet plains. At first we tried to skirt what we could of the deeper mud, but eventually we had to just wade on through it to avoid the possibility of foot injuries. The track eventually led us to a steep climb (255 metres) over the Red Point Hills: hard going, but drier.

Kerri taking a break going over Red Point Hills

By around 3.00 pm we reached the colourful waters of the Faraway Creek crossing where we stopped for a brief swim to remove the accumulated mud and sweat. Unfortunately we didn’t dally over this, which proved to be our only opportunity to bathe on the walk… The high tanin content of the streams in this region renders the water the colour of strong urine when collected in drinking bottles. In the Faraway Creek, it was a deep orange…kind of attractive, in an odd sort of way!  I may never approach Twinings Orange Pekoe tea with the same gusto again, however!

Sadly, we had misread the track guide at this point, and confused Louisa Creek with Louisa River: a small point, however it meant that we still had a good 2- 2.5 hours’ walk ahead of us, according to Chapman’s book.  The fact that, despite a solid pace, this section took us 4 hours, created the first stirrings of unease in us…How could we possibly take more that twice the recommended time?

I had been dreading the Louisa River crossing after seeing footage of it on the web. For many walkers it seemed threateningly high and fast. We were in luck, however, and the river was only knee deep, so we struck a grateful camp, just before darkness fell, and left the crossing for the morning.

Crossing the Louisa River

Day 3 Louisa River to Little Deadman’s Bay (well, not quite)

We had always expected this to be the big day, the climb of over 900 metres straight up and over the Ironbound Range. It certainly looked formidable as it towered above us in the morning! The weather forecast before we left home had this day tagged as a hot one in Hobart (high 20’s) so we hoped to accomplish the ascent before it became too warm. The track was well maintained in this section, with much step-work to make the climb safe.  We happily completed the ascent in about 3 hours, which buoyed our spirits considerably.



Kerri & Della - the climb begins



Della - nearly to the summit

The traverse of the summit, however, seemed endless, as the cloud engulfed us and a fine sleet set in. The way was cold, blind and windy. We forged doggedly ahead, hoping the descent would begin soon. My mother always warned me about being careful with regard to what I wished for…the descent was horrendous!  Steep, plunging, muddy, heavily eroded, laced with treacherous tree roots, the descent had become a deep channel for all the water draining from the summit. And it continued for hours without let-up.  The high camp was a possible lunch stop, but the alpine weather was so bleak that we just ate a muesli bar and stumbled on. By late afternoon we were only just passing the mid camp, which was unsuitable for spending the night due to a lack of water. We pushed on further, and I started to go lame in response to the jarring nature of the steep descent on a knee muscle injury I had incurred the previous day.  By the time I alerted Steve and Kerri to my pain, and then waited for the pain killer and anti-inflammatory to ease things a little,  time had hurried on and we could see that we had no hope of reaching Little Deadman’s Bay before dark. Our only hope was the Low Camp, which had no water.  Fortunately, when we reached it half an hour before dark, there was just enough room to pitch our tents (albeit in a low, wet soak) and send Steve off to find the creek further down the track. Blessedly, the rain was not too heavy, but enough, nevertheless, to make tents and sleeping bags damp, so that we craved an earlier and drier camp the next night. Chapman’s book had this section tagged as 6-9 hours.  We took 13 hours. As we descended, another poem from my past infiltrated my brain. It was written by Robert Browning, and entitled: Child Rolande to the Dark Tower Came.  While I didn’t know all the words off pat, the first 2 lines came back to me strongly after simmering in my long-term memory for the last 40 years or so. The bleak atmosphere of the poem was well remembered too, and stayed with me for the rest of the walk.

My first thought was, he lied in every word,

That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

Askance to watch the working of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored

Its edge at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?

What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare

All travellers that might find him posted there,

And ask the road?  I guessed what skull-like laugh

Would break, what crutch ‘gin write my epitaph

For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare…

And so on the poem goes. Apart from changing “dusty” in stanza 2 to “muddy”, I think the poem applies perfectly to Chapman, with me as his bitter victim.

Day 4  Ironbound Range Low Camp to Prion Boat Crossing

Chapman had this day tagged as 3.5-4 hours walking from Little Deadman’s Bay. We still hadn’t reached Little Deadman’s Bay, so we had to add on the extra time, however long that would be. Well, the walk to Deadman’s Bay took us a further 3 hours of treacherous, muddy descent, so even without the slight delay of my sore leg the night before, we had had no hope of  reaching the camp. Good thing we camped where we did! 

And so onward: more boring, buttongrass plains, but no boardwalks now, just mud….vast stretches of it, often thigh-deep, and always unavoidable.



The track





Kerri & Della, descending through mud



  Some pretty forest sections on this day which were drier going, but all in all, 9 hours of walking without a break. The Prion Boat crossing was manageable, thanks to Steve’s capable rowing, but by then we were totally exhausted and in need of setting up camp to dry our bedding from the previous night.

Prion Boat Crossing

My favourite pic, snapped sometime before Prion Boat Crossing

Day 5 Prion Boat Crossing to Granite Beach

Chapman estimates this day as 4.5 – 6 hours: we took about 10 hours.

Muddy plains, steep climbs, light forest, some beach views, no time to stop…by now I was well and truly over this walk.

Della & Kerri climbing again

Excuse my backside - this was a climb down to the beach

Surprise Bay had been billed as lovely, but the weather was grey and I was too tired to enjoy anything.  Time to heat some real lunch would have been good, but we made do with muesli bars yet again. The final stretch along Granite Beach to the campsite was across huge boulders, so easy to balance on with full packs, cold, numb, wet feet and encroaching exhaustion.

Kerri, Della & the boulders

 As we neared the waterfall cliff that marked the campsite, we realised that the tide was rapidly coming in, and the small area of rocks at the base of the cliff was diminishing. Looking for the path upward, we realised that there wasn’t one: we just had to clamber up the cliff face using hand and toe holds where we could. At any other time, I would have baulked at this and said that I could not possibly achieve it. This evening, with the incoming tide pounding threateningly at my back, I shinnied up the cliff without a pause. Marvellous what fear and desperation can do! 

Day 6 Granite Beach to South Cape Rivulet

Chapman says 5-7 hours for this day: yesterday we met two separate walkers coming in the opposite direction who said that they took 10 hours, and that the mud was hip- deep.  A day to look forward to!

We rose at 5.45 am, in order to hit the track as early as possible, as, in addition to the reported mud, we had to climb up and over the South Cape Range – a mere 715 metres or so!

The day proved to be all it was cracked up to be: unbelievable mud stretches, hard, steep climbs, scrubby forest. We spent hours walking through tunnels in the sword grass or tunnels through the tee tree scrub - like rats in a maze.

Kerri enjoying cheerless muesli bar lunch break

Kerri and Della emerging from a rat tunnel

At the top of the range, the first of 5 hail storms beset us, just as we were pausing for our cheerless jerky and nuts snack.  To quote again from Browning’s Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came…

All the day/Had been a dreary one at best/And dim was settling to its close...

…..when, at last, we came in sight of South Cape Rivulet camp.  Chapman notes that at the rivulet, a ‘deep wade’ leads to the camp on the other side. He also says, as an aside, that at high tide or after heavy rain it is best to wait for water levels to drop….

We walked the length of the estuary, looking for a safe crossing point in the tanin-brown, opaque water, and found none. The river had a wild current coursing out to sea, with 2 metre high breakers pounding inwards at regular intervals. Nowhere looked shallow enough to cross. We retraced our steps into the forest, but there were no suitable camp sites to be found. We hailed the walkers at the camp, who informed us that they had crossed earlier when the tide was much lower. Should we wait out the tide, with nowhere to camp and the possibility of further rain in the night?   It didn’t sound like much of an option, with the sky threatening and dwindling food supplies. It was grim… just like Childe Roland...

A sudden little river crossed my path

As unexpected as a serpent comes.

No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms –

This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath

For the fiend’s glowing hoof – to see the wrath

Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and plumes.

Steve, in his careful preparations, had added to his pack a coil of spectra cord, in case of dangerous river crossings. The lack of any trees on the far side of the estuary was a problem, but he tied one end of the cord metres behind us on the bank, and leaving his pack behind, waded across, waist-deep, between the assault of the waves. Timing was crucial, as it was necessary to wait for the incoming waves to flow and then ebb so that the water was not too deep, still leaving enough time to accomplish the crossing before the next crashing wave.  He then anchored the rope while Kerri and I crossed, both losing our footings in the swift current and plunging holes, and here today only as a result of the rope.

Steve finally returned for the packs while Kerri and I anchored the rope, and last of all he reclaimed the precious rope. Without his forethought and strength, I would not have survived that crossing with my limited swimming skills.

All that remained was a shivering run to camp to remove our wet clothes before we were dangerously chilled, pitch the tents, get water, check our bedding for water infiltration (fortunately the dry-bags had held good), cook something hot, and warm up in our sleeping bags. Steve and I managed to get warm by donning padded coats and vests  inside the sleeping bags. Kerri spent a colder and largely sleepless night. All of this was played out to a background symphony of wind : the raging roaring 40’s which had become gale-force.

Only half a day to go….

Day 7 South Cape Rivulet to Cockle Creek

“We gotta get outa this place

If it’s the last thing we ever do…”

Chapman says 3-4 hours. We hadn’t matched him before, so why should we today?  We sustained our exhausted minds and bodies with images of a day in Hobart before flying home: warm motel rooms, hot showers, restaurants, shopping….we waxed lyrical over these lost delights, to make the hours pass quickly. 

Dreaming of Hobart

Della & Kerri -  more boulder-hopping

 More long stretches of boulder beach staggering, more climbing: wild craggy cliffs towering over the Southern Ocean, with gale-force winds threatening to blow us over the edge.

Our last view of the Southern Ocean before turning inland

 More boring, buttongrass swamps: (Childe Roland again – sorry!)

So on I went. I think I never saw

Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve….

…No! Penury, inertness, and grimace,

In some strange sort, were the land’s portion…

In fact, we heard a frog on this last buttongrass swamp crossing. In the entire walk, we had counted 2 frogs, 4 birds, one paddy melon wallaby, some seagulls, a dying penguin and a dying seal.  Not exactly nature’s wonderland!

Della & Kerri - and still more mud

And now for my final quote from Childe Roland…:

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair

In leprosy – thin dry blades pricked the mud

Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.

the less than picturesque button grass plains

Despite pushing ourselves to the limit, we took 4.5 hours for this last section. We would argue that it is impossible to do it in less.

We emerged exhausted, bitter, cold, footsore and in need of some creature comforts, which I am pleased to say, Hobart supplied amply.  We will return to Hobart, in particular the excellent Mezzethes Greek Restaurant in Salamanca.  We will not return to the South Coast Track.

Hobart the lovely!

Trashion Junkies

It is high time I wrote about the inspirational class I took at Geelong in September this year: Kirry Toose was the tutor, and recycled fashion was the theme. Our brief was to collect a range of op-shop clothing for reinvention as Steampunk, Flash-trash or Trashion. What to choose…??? I had always enjoyed op-shopping, but the need to gather a usable stash for heaven knows what creative masterpieces sent me on countless very fruitful op-shopping sprees. Fortunately the class filled us all with so many skills and ideas that we just may be able to use up all those wonderful bargains  one day….in the meantime, storage becomes an increasing problem! 



The Trashion Junkies (with Kirry Toose just behind my right shoulder)

 To say that we all had a ball would be an understatement:  the 14 of us who took the class were reluctant to see an end to our recycling addicton, and so we formed an email group and called ourselves “Trashion Junkies” so that we could go on developing and sharing ideas. Kirry suggested we set ourselves regular challenges, and it is the deadline for the first challenge that has finally set me writing this blog entry.

Kirry got us all started on creating with men’s suits. The first piece that most of us completed in the week at Geelong involved building a stylish woman’s waistcoat out of a man’s jacket and, in some cases, pants. While Kirry supplied the inspiration and basic pattern block, the resulting waistcoats were refreshingly diverse. The front of the waistcoat utilized one of the jacket lapels, while the back panel was cut out of either a sleeve or a section of the pants. Other design details were added from suits: pockets, sleeve buttons, or whatever seemed right at the time. My waistcoat utilized parts of three op-shop garments: 2 men’s coats and one woman’s silk jacket. To commemorate the contributing garments, I added the labels as design features.



My waistcoat




Detail of waistcoat back



Many class members went on to create amazing asymmetrical skirts featuring the second jacket lapel, but I was more drawn to Kirry’s wonderful shoulderless peplum jackets. I decided to make one featuring the sleeves of my second jacket, and spent the best part of a day strip-piecing the bodice out of fabric gleaned from op-shop clothing and offcuts. Sadly, this top section of the jacket was all that I completed during my week at Geelong, and while I had planned the peplum and photographed my layout, this would have to wait until I found time at home.



Peplum planning



Note the bird theme on the peplum: those who know me will not be surprised! 

Well, it took 2 months, but eventually I made the plunge and worked on the peplum. The delay was partially caused by my trepidation in the face of what would be my first attempt at free machine embroidery. I knew that everyone else in the class was adept at it, but wasn’t confident that I would be able to do it at all.  Remarkably, I found it not only do-able, but also enjoyable, a fact which has caused me to optimistically book into a course involving free machine embroidery at next year’s Geelong Fibre Forum! 

The neckline of the jacket proved to be too plain when I completed it, so, in true trashion junkie style, I found the remaining piece of collar from the original coat and cut it to fit my jacket neckline. Perfect solution!



The finished jacket




The sexy cut-out shoulders!




Detail of peplum machine embroidery and applique




Detail of bodice strip-piecing




Front view, featuring suit-coat collar




Detail of side front of peplum



And now to the first Kirry-challenge which was scheduled for December 31^st: Kirry had made a wonderful evening bag out of a used drinking chocolate tin, and after explaining her method of construction, our task was to create one of our own and share the photos.  After completing the jacket, I decided that it would be useful to have an evening bag that matched, and anyway, a matching bag did not necessitate any new thinking about colour and design. It also meant that the sample machine embroidery I had made in preparation for my jacket could be used as the central bag panel. Well, procrastination with the coming Christmas season was a major hassle, and I am sure you will not be surprised to hear that apart from buying the necessary coffee tin and some braid, I had not started the project by December 30^th!  So….at 4.20 pm last night, I bit the bullet.  At that point, I really wished I had asked more questions in class…but somehow, shyness had overcome me.  It all started when Kirry explained that the ends of her bag were made with 2 Suffolk puffs. Everyone else in the class said “Ah…” and nodded knowingly, so I was a little reluctant to admit that I didn’t know what a Suffolk puff was.  But being a modern, semi-computer savvy lady, I decided that if 14 women knew what a Suffolk puff was, Google would surely know too!  I was right, of course, and turned up a great little site which featured cute little Suffolk puff hair clips. (http:www.cutoutandkeep.net/projects/suffolk-puff-hair-clips).

 They seemed like a fun way to practise, so I unashamedly copied the website’s designs to make my own Christmas clips. Being a new expert on Suffolk puffs, I decided that I didn’t want my puffy bits hidden on the inside of the bag as Kirry’s were, and resolved to have double puffy ends to my bag like the hair clips.



My suffolk-puff hair clips



Sadly, though, that wasn’t the only thing I needed to ask questions about. I made my central panel and lining into a sleeve which I pulled over the core of the coffee tin. Later, after I had hand-sewn the Suffolk puffs to the ends, I found that the panel would not stay put, and really needed to be glued. Applying the glue after finishing the ends was really not the easiest task! I also realised, as the bag neared completion, that I should have sewn the lining Suffolk puffs in earlier; the small size of the bag did not accommodate my hand and a needle for intricate manoeuvres. Fabric glue came to my rescue there, too, but I am not overly sure that it will stay the distance. Nevertheless, as I have not owned an evening purse for the last 40 years, I suspect that this one will not get sufficient wear to try its construction strength! Anyway, the bag was happily finished over coffee at 9.30 on December 31^st, so I have only to email  everyone now to complete the deadline.

So, Trashion Junkies, I hope you enjoy viewing the fruits of my often hurried labours, and I hope to see the lovely bags you have all produced.



The bag, featuring suffolk-puff sides




And another view



And one day, I will do something with that lemon silk jacket you all shuddered at!

Mum's 90th Birthday

With the kids

Mum on her wedding day, 1946.

My mother turned 90 on October 13^th.  What a milestone!  I hope she has shared the gene for her good health and longevity with as many of us as possible!  We all flew up to spend the day in Gosford with her, and did lunch and birthday cake and stuff.  Much of what we did, of course, was talk…and Steve had sensibly organised to buy a new mini video camera (do they still call them video cameras, or are they DVD cameras now???). Anyway, we took heaps of footage of Mum talking about her life. For Irralee, Bryn, Merrin and Matt,  it provided many insights into the distant past that their grandmother inhabited; for Steve, it was a marvellous reminder of the bravery and struggles of our parents’ generation; for me, it was a trip down memory-lane as I relived the stories that have shaped my view of the world.

Mum grew up in London, youngest daughter of a butcher. Her tales of life in the butcher’s shop reveal a way of living long past: Her father, making his own black puddings, with his arms plunged to the elbows in a vat of warm ox blood; the preparation and cooking of ‘faggots’ and ‘pease pudding’ which were highly sought after on set days of the week; the big gas jets hidden under the wooden counter that were revealed at the end of the day to cook the dinners for the customers, who also brought their Sunday roasting pans, ready with the vegetables, to go in the big ovens. Amazing to think of homes without adequate cooking facilities!

And the war!  Mum’s tales of life in London during the Blitz are riveting. Her dressmaking apprenticeship set aside, she worked as an engineer making bombs for much of the war. Somewhere in there was a stint in which she was employed to sew snow-suits for the Russians. 

Mum told of life with the routine of nightly air-raid sirens as darkness fell, and the rush to the air-raid shelter in the garden where the family slept each night. One night my mother was a little late home from work, and entered the house to find the family ready and waiting to go down to the shelter. “Come on”, said my grandmother, “just leave your coat and let’s get down to the shelter, quick!”  My aunt Hilda was the last into the shelter, and as she attempted to pull the wooden door closed after her, it was ripped out of her hand by the force of a bomb blast making a direct hit on the family home. Everything gone. My mother has always regretted the loss of the family photos. Her father had died of TB before the war, and all she has to this day is one photograph of him as a young man. The part of this particular story that touched me most as a young child was the fate of the family dog, a Pekinese called Wendy Fou.  Wendy Fou always refused to go down to the shelter, preferring to hide under the legs of the kitchen stove whenever the bombs started to fall. Miraculously she survived the bomb hit: the stove was one of the few items left standing. Sadly, though, she did not survive emotionally. Thereafter, she trembled uncontrollably every night as soon as the sirens started. She could even hear the bombers approaching well before the sirens, so good was her hearing and so great was her fear. Of course, she had to be put down…

And the morning my mother encountered one of the first ‘buzz bombs’ in London: she was returning home after a night shift at the bomb factory – the only passenger on the early bus. Glancing out her window, she saw a fiery missile flying parallel with the bus. The conductor saw it too, and spent the next few minutes desperately trying to gain the driver’s attention in his cabin. Finally he succeeded, and the bus pulled over. Not far away, the buzz bomb wreaked its destruction.

There was also the tale of the hundreds of people who died at the end of my mother’s street, an area now called Bamford Hill. The basement of a block of shops was being used as an air-raid shelter, and while the shops had received a direct hit, the authorities believed the people to be quite safe due to the minimal damage to the upper stories, and so did not act immediately to rescue them. Sadly, the bomb had damaged the gas and water mains, and so the people succumbed to the gas and the rising water.  Local folklore told the tale of a well-known singer who was trapped there. With his child held high on his shoulders, he sang to calm the people until the water covered him and he could sing no more. The basement was later sealed up as a mausoleum; it was impossible to get the people out. The site is now a memorial gardens to the many hundreds who died there.

Through all the horrors, however, life went on. My mother’s humour remained intact, and we heard of the ‘parcel’ that my father sent her from Algiers where he was stationed as an air force radio operator.  All that my mother received from British Post was a piece of wooden box on which her name and address were written. It seemed that the ship had been sunk, and the addressed piece of wood salvaged from the wreckage. British Post always delivers!  Mum wrote to Dad to ask him what the parcel had been, and ages later received the information that it had been a box of lemons. During war time rationing, such a gift would have been greatly prized!

There were many other stories too: I saw Bryn’s eyes widen in amazement as Mum told of the house they lived in after their’s was bombed, and the uncle who haunted it. It seemed that he used to enter the bedroom each morning and sit in a wicker chair beside the bed for a while, before getting up and going out the door again! I always loved this story when I was a child, and Mum used to tell it with all the embellishments!  And my mother’s foray into the Jewish quarter to buy fabric for her wedding dress after the war ended…Rationing was still in force, and Mum did not have nearly enough coupons for fabric of any sort. Fortunately my grandmother was Jewish, although this was something she did not admit to during the war, for obvious reasons. My grandmother took Mum to the Jewish markets, and although Mum had no coupons, one look at my grandmother’s appearance was enough to have the market people offering Mum whatever she wished, no coupons required!

These are some of our family stories, the stories that define who we are, where we come from. But they are also stories to share, as they have much to teach us all about good times and bad.  Growing up in the post-war boom, I am fortunate to have no stories of hardship and struggle to pass on to future generations. May it remain so for our children too!

I hope that Mum enjoyed her 90^th birthday as much as we did!

Musings of a Natural Dyer

I am posting an article I wrote for the Victorian Feltmakers' Magazine ("Feltlines")  a couple of autumns ago. As I will be teaching a class in natural dyeing for the Victorian Feltmakers next weekend, I hope that this article will inspire my students in the run-up to our busy day of dyeing.



natural dyed scarves


The morning sun has already chased the last of the dew from the corners of my garden as I slip outside and reach for my Blundstones.  This March day promises to be warm and dry, and I have much to do outdoors before the heat intensifies. “Tiny”, my son’s Jack Russell, barks frenetically as I stuff some old supermarket bags into my pockets – she knows that when my farm boots go on, adventures are in the offing. She is joined by my daughter’s more staid West Highland Terrier as we cut through the vegetable garden, under the quince tree groaning with its furred and fragrant load, and into the open sheep paddock.  “Tiny” barks excitedly as she runs ahead and the sheep turn to give her baleful stares before retreating to a safer distance. From the roadside hedge I hear the unmistakeable cho-cho-wee of a grey shrike-thrush calling to its mate and my mind trickles back to the joy of watching them raise two broods over summer in a niche of our mud-brick-walled house. As we near the natural bushland on the perimeter of the property Tiny’s exuberance puts up a pair of pippets from the dry grass and they scramble and leap into the air in a whirring panic.  The dogs vanish through the sagging wire fence into the dense tree-cover beyond as, temporarily dazzled by the change in light, I gingerly cross the threshold into cool, flickering shadows.

The dogs are only a memory now; snuffling their way into far-off wombat holes and dancing in search of lizards and snakes, they are all but lost to me.  I skirt around a large pine tree and remember how deliciously its needles coloured a piece of my felt in gentle shades of olive and sand. Purposefully I duck under some black wattles which I remember gathering many years ago to produce a dark brown skein of knitting wool. They are prolific here in this young regrowth, jostling each other for shoulder-room but outstripped by the sturdier blackwoods which are badged with lichen.  I must dye again with this lichen: Lichen umbilicaria – when soaked in ammonia and water it releases a strong purple dye to produce shades ranging from pink and lavender to plum. I seldom work in these shades, but the colours are so riotous and unexpected that the thrill of looking in the dye-pot is all the reward needed.

Today, however, I head straight for the native cherry trees – alias Cherry Ballart (Exocarpus Cupressiformus).  Their fine, pendulous branchlets range from olive green to a luminous lime in their new growth, reminiscent of the beautiful green shades it bequeaths us in the dye-pot.  This is my target plant this morning, and I fill my two shopping bags to overflowing with the stripped needles, taking care to spread my collecting across a few different specimens. Reluctantly I retrace my steps towards the fence; further exploration would be fun, but the dye-pot calls.

As I push my bundles through the wire I hear the dogs return.  Panting and tongue-lolling they grin as they rejoin me for the dash back to the house.  Impatiently they stop at regular intervals until I catch up, then they surge ahead once more while I contemplate my dye-pot.  My felt, already pre-mordanted in alum (aluminium sulphate) is curing in a plastic bag.  I run through my sketchy plans for this piece of work – a panelled jacket, 3 panels of which will be resist-dyed in green using modern hardware items to create the impressions.  I smile to think of my horde of interesting metal washers, air-conditioning vents, clips and clamps.  The ancient Japanese shibori artists little knew how their art would be adapted! In homage to their work, however, I plan to dye the contrasting coat panels using traditional shibori techniques, hoping to achieve a marriage of the old and the new. As I enter the house garden, my mind slips off to a contemplation of the pomegranates ripening on the bush before me.  The rosy skins are beginning to split on the larger fruit, exposing jewelled beads of intense red.  They are almost ready to eat, and I have read that their skins produce a good, fast dye - this year I will boil up their skins to see what mystery colours they can produce!

Once inside I chop my cherry ballart into the dye pot, cover it with water and set it to simmer for 45 minutes or so. This allows me to pause for a cup of tea (also an excellent natural dye) and then it’s a quick scoop-out of the leaves and in with the felt. In about 40 minutes I have my first colour – a slightly lime tinted yellow. This will be a perfect background for my resist dyeing. After removing the felt, I apply my first resists – using as many of the washers and hardware thingy-bits (I don’t know what they are called – they just look useful!) as I can clamp onto the pieces. Then it’s back to the dye-pot, this time to simmer for 10 minutes with a teaspoon of copper sulphate added.  Untying the bundles is the best part – and I am pleased with the marks I have made and the bright lime of the second colour.  The next stage is to re-clamp the pieces with different hardware thingy-bits and put it all back in the pot with a teaspoon of iron sulphate for a final 10 minutes. Out of the pot…untie it…and wow! Third colour is a deep olive.  The pieces are just what I want!

For my contrasting panels I want a rich, chocolate brown – and walnut hulls produce the perfect colour.  Having no walnut trees of my own, I have arranged to collect some hulls from a friend’s tree, but as it is chestnut gathering time on her farm, I know a visit won’t just entail picking up walnut hulls!

The sun beats hotly on my shoulders as I walk down the hill to join my friend in the chestnut orchard. She has raked the nuts into piles and it is pleasant to sit under the broad, leafy trees and twist the fierce chestnut-porcupines apart.  We fill two large buckets with plump nuts while chatting, and then I am free to examine the walnut tree.  Alas, the season is later than I thought, and although there have been many nuts falling, rodents of various descriptions have plainly been coveting the soft hulls too.  Together with my friend I half-fill my trusty supermarket bag with what we can find under the tree (staining our hands black in the process!) and I prepare to leave.  English ivy cascades over the garden wall next to my car, and remembering my unfilled supermarket bag, I stop to gather a load of leaves.  These will be my dye experiment tomorrow!

Back home I transfer my black, earth-smelling hulls to a bucket, cover them with water and leave them to soak for three days or so. Their odour is of leaf-mould from a primeval forest floor, I muse…must be either an ancestral memory or an over-active imagination!  I have already dyed my felt with blue-gum leaves to produce a background colour of light tan.  The next few days will be spent in applying stitched and tied shibori resists to these pieces in the traditional Japanese manner before boiling up the walnut hulls and adding them to the water.  Sadly the quantity of hulls is only about half what I needed, so I will likely get a mid-brown rather than the richer brown I had envisaged – but that is the joys of natural dyeing – you never get exactly what you expect!

So, if life seems a little hectic and predictable to you, take a ‘leaf’ out of my book and experiment with natural dyes on your felt – you will be surprised.

P.S. The ivy leaves were a great success – they yielded gold, mid-olive and dark olive!



Detail of the finished felted jacket



Maggie

Maggie & Merrin, Jan. 2007

Merrin’s Maggie: September 1997-October 5^th, 2010.

Maggie:  the guru of ‘Good-O’ games, the fluffball of foolishness, the tailwag of tummy rubs, the mascot of Merrin.

We remember her first foray into motherhood: …..Merrin was away on school camp but the puppies would not wait. Maggie gave birth on Merrin’s bed, then ran to waken Bryn and spread the good news…. And the night one of her fat little pups drank so much milk he had a belly ache:  After trying for ages to settle him, Maggie came and appealed to us in desperation, the distraught new mum at 2.00 am!  Steve cuddled the puppy on his chest, as he used to do with our colicky babies, and with Maggie and the other pups beside him on the bed, we all went back to sleep.

We remember Maggie proudly enjoying the limelight at Merrin and Matt’s wedding: until the heat and the crowd became too much for a 10 year old dog.  I can still hear the shrieks of alarm from the hired help when she discovered “the dog in the food tent”.  In search of somewhere cool and quiet, Maggie had snuck in and curled up in a basket under the table – containing the bread rolls!  They must have made a frightfully lumpy mattress.  I explained that it wasn’t just any dog, it was Maggie, the bride’s dog, and so everything was OK.  Later, she was found asleep on Merrin’s wedding train at the bridal table.

We remember halcyon holidays camping and canoeing on the Wonangatta River. Maggie loved holidays even more than regular car outings, but best of all she loved the canoe rides. Balanced on the front of the boat, she was both figurehead and lookout. Unconcerned about the slippery surface of the plastic prow, she occasionally fell in, but was readily scooped out by her collar when Merrin came level with her dog-paddling dilemma.

We remember lazy walks along our creek: Merrin’s doting shadow, Maggie helped with the photography, the pesky ducks that needed chasing, or the wombat dens that needed a good barking. In later years she often waited to be lifted over logs, and sometimes just wore out and had to be carried back.

We remember 13 years of companionship and love, with never a cross bark or a nip – while some of us grew up and some of us grew old.  In the twinkling of an eye, our frolicsome fluffball became our dozing doorstop and all too soon we were uttering our stricken goodbyes and casting forget-me-nots into her grave.

Sleep peacefully in the sun, our Maggie. You are part of us all.