The Green Green Windowsill of Home

Plants are a mystery to me. Their needs and caprices, what it takes to make them blossom and bear fruit, how to rid them of pests and dangers, all an enigmatic world I've not been privy to. An urban child rarely gets a chance to see a plant through from seed to harvest. True, there are trees and bits of shrub which we either climb, crash our bikes into or scratch initials on. At school, we're taught the basics - soil, water, sun, compost = happy growth. Not so, apparently - there's infinitely more to it.

Once grown up and out of the parental home, and as a low-maintenance substitute to the unrealistic dream of a pooch, it was the next logical step for me to get hold of a cactus. They're easy to keep, I'd been told. Hardly any watering, a bit of sunshine and they'll flourish, never a thorn in your side (sorry). Apprehensive but confident I purchased a specimen, already potted and looking fairly healthy.

This is an ex-cactus

Alas, the poor creature survived as long as it could, it really did. I tried watering it, not watering it, putting it in direct and indirect sunlight, talking to it - feeling mighty strange doing it I can tell you, even singing on one occasion. Although, my UB40 obsessed neighbour who habitually got drunk, sobbing heartbreakingly and loudly singing along to their greatest hits on a loop, like only a jilted man could, seemed to have only served as a contributing counter-effect to my efforts. Perhaps my cactus preferred their earlier stuff, before they hit the commercial big-time. It was a forgone conclusion that the poor organism won't beat the odds of survival, and within a year it was wrinkled, papery and very much dead.

When your masculine heart's been broken only these guys really get it.
But your cactus won't.

From that experience I'd gleaned that my fingers are as far from green as can be, and from hereon in vehemently opposed any offer or suggestion of placing a plant in my care. I would allow flowers, but those buggers are doomed from the start anyway, aren't they.

Years passed, I watched friends cultivate whole gardens and allotments successfully and, ashamed and ill-equipped, avoided taking part in gardening-centric conversations. Living in a garden flat with several flatmates, they were the ones successfully growing tomatoes, squashes and greens, keeping the bushes plump and fragrant, making our lawn look rich and fluffy, and I could not take part, lest my condemning touch debunk their efforts.

Eventually, I became a tenant in a non-shared flat - oh the joy! It was a long and passionate honeymoon - coming home every day to MY space, I can't explain it but the sense of freedom it gave me, closing the door behind me and being myself uninhibited, uninterrupted, uncritiqued - it felt like an extra dose of tingly heavenly oxygen.

Would you accept a plant
from this man?

And with that, a sense of self that was never before undisturbed - discovering who I really was, at net value. I could experiment with aspects of myself, to ridiculous extremes, falter or fail, and never worry about how the result is perceived. So when the new upstairs neighbour gave me a 'hello' potted plant - species unknown - I was delighted. I was ready to try again. After all, I'd discovered so many talents I didn't know I had, my confidence in my abilities has altered completely. I can do it! I can keep this gift of friendship and nourish it!

The sweet but chaotic neighbour lasted only a year before his young, hot and trendy lifestyle, as well as the punishing London rents caught up with him, the plant lasted even less. This time, though, I felt stoic about it, rather than fatalistic. It wasn't the right match. And when my friends gave me a chilli plant for my birthday that year - I absolutely love all things spicy - I was determined to research, learn and make it work.

And suddenly it stuck. The little plant grew, seemingly hesitatingly at first, then I was startled to realise I would have to re-pot it, so big did it grow. Seeking advice, I gently removed it from its pot, roots and soil quivering loose, placed it in a bigger pot with some fresh earth at the bottom, then added more at the top and watered it, narrating what I was doing out loud all the while, to keep it calm. Then waited with a breath that is bated for the consequences of my deed.

An experimental tentative collaborative effort. A chilli-human co-op, if you will

Soon after, the sun came out with summertime, and my little chilli plant, rather than wilting, flowered with small white blossoms. They came and went, and I saw no fruit. My friends enlightened me by explaining I essentially need to pollinate the flowers myself, as it being an indoor plant, no insects will be around to do the dirty, dirty work. 'Huh', I said, 'so I need to... get sexual with it'. 'Basically, yes', they confirmed. I used a cotton bud to dab pollen from one flower onto the others, feeling a little wrong. But, the moment of perverse conduct paid off, as within a few days, as the flowers began covering the pot terrain with their browning remains, little protuberances became visible, gradually growing into a real boy er... I mean chillies.

The plant was transplanted three times in total - the second into an actual home - my current flat - owned and therefore mine to decorate, embellish, make an extension of myself. I had two fantasies as soon as I saw it - I saw a dining room table exactly where I would want to sit and look out through the window every morning, as I have my breakfast, and I saw a herb garden on the east-facing windowsill in the kitchen.  Soon after, both fantasies were made a reality. Gleefully and confidently I purchased some seeds, soil, and pots, and that very evening had a potential herbarium, seeds nestled in the earth, awaiting the light streaming through the window to provide the energy to grow. Within a month, my window looked encouragingly alive. Within 6 weeks, my gastronomic creations were becoming distinctly more aromatic, to a deeply satisfying degree.



A promising start

A nervous Fittonia

Echeveria Succulent

At the housewarming later that year, friends brought several plants, showing - in my opinion misguided - trust and confidence in my ability to keep these things alive by exercising what can only be described as *gulp* maternal instincts. Right, I thought, I'd better step up to the challenge and take actual responsibility in caring for them. T'internet, after all, is a wonderful source of knowledge, tricks of trade and dummy guides. I was given a succulent, which is a type of cactus, an orchid don't-you-know which frightened me, a beautiful white-veined Fittonia - also called a nerve houseplant, and another chilli plant. By now, having harvested many-a-chilli, as well as the occasional batch of parsley or basil from my indoor garden, I had learned that there is an element of a metaphysical art form to making these things flourish, a sense rather than a science. Each one has its own maintenance requirements, and the margin of error is not negligible. But if you read up, keep vigilant and listen to your gut instinct, it's possible to do good by them. My orchid loves the bathroom, with its humid misty air and filtered sunlight, the fleshier succulent Echeveria is ok right on the sill with minimal maintenace, the fluffy Fittonia seems to thrive in the living room away from direct sunlight, and notifies me whenever it needs a watering, by drooping all its leaves, then perking up like a miracle of being once satiated.

I wish I could say there is a happy ending to the story of my first chilli. Fickle it is, nature. Fickle and stony-hearted. My beautiful, mature, fertile and hardy chilli plant developed a stubborn plague of fungus gnats, lifting into a cloud of dark dots each time I approached the area, followed by a cacophony of my ill-targeted claps designed to destroy the stormtrooper-like critters. After cursory research, I decided to re-pot it. My ill-conceived yet well-meaning plan exposed the noviciate of my abilities - the plant was just in full, lush bloom, all green bright leaves and white flowers, with several tiny chillies already hatched like spearheads with a secret punch. This, as it turns out, is the wrong time to disturb or challenge an organism. When all its resources are directed at its offspring: water, sunlight, food - the whole ecosystem dedicated to inflating and stretching these little pods, green and shiny and protruding, that's when it's best to leave well alone.

But in my haste to come to its rescue, I proceeded as at the previous successful re-potting - gently scraping off the topsoil infected with larvae, turning the pot upside down and, careful as a newly ordained yogi on a bed of nails, tapping the plant out, roots and all. I brushed some of the earth from the roots, then re-planted it into a pot partially filled with fresh soil, and covered the top. I watered it a little and waited.

Within an HOUR the leaves were distinctly droopy, the baby chillies almost invisible, the flowers wilting. A quick internet search revealed that a re-potting of a chilli plant will produce a "root shock" especially if the thinnest ends of the roots are hurt in the process. They can recover if not too many have been damaged, and if the plant is left alone for a while, in indirect sunlight, without too much water other than misting the leaves. And cut all the fruit buds, exclaimed the advice at me from the monitor, as they will be the ones sucking vital energy and making recovery process harder. I would have to say goodbye to the infant chillies!


You monsters! You blew it up! Damn you, damn you all to hell!

Who knew that this loyal and resilient plant was so fragile? It survived a re-potting before, a house move, a few winters. I thought I was saving it from the pestilence of gnats. But all that's left is a shell...

RIP?

Reluctantly cutting my losses, all that's left to do is wait. Hope for a rejuvenation. Chances are looking slim for chilli plant. However... over to the left, the new plant, amongst the purple blossom - what's this...?

Hmm this one's shot up!

Fruit! A living, dark purple, Royal Black chilli, quietly stretching out of its crown of petals cocoon. Life!

It's alive!!

My approach now is to take what I can get, be consistent, revel in results, and cut the losses. This relationship teaches awareness, responsibility, detachment, loss, resilience of nature, fragility of nature, trusting your instincts... a microcosm on my windowsill.

The gang

A Short Breather

In possession of a 24 hour park pass, I planned a full day’s hike. This wouldn't even begin to cover the huge Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair (aka Leeawuleena, or "sleeping water") National Park, as it constitutes about a tenth of Tassie. Fine, that may perhaps be a slight exaggeration. But it’s big. The longest trail would've taken 6 days to cover, and stretches 65km long. But, having already established there wasn't a bus going anywhere that day, and with firm plans in place for my next Wwoofing venture in the west of Tassie, I only had one more night at the camp before moving on the next morning. 
 

After a minor hitch, involving the Australian banking system not allowing me to use my bank card for cashback from a teller, and with no cash machines available at any of the park stores whatsoever, which meant I was devoid of money, I set off on my trek. After all, no money changes hands in the wild. Apart from a few enterprising wombats selling grass to desperate naïve hippy backpackers.

The first part of the trek involved a very steep climb 2/3 of the way up Cradle Mountain, catching me completely off my guard and unprepared. Glancing up, it was a do or die moment. Throwing caution to the wind, I grasped and sweated amateurishly, heaving myself up a near vertical rock face. At points, I didn't think I would manage it, but it would've been too embarrassing to admit defeat, shamefully making my way back down, avoiding crushing hands and heads of the other scaling trekkers. But once at the top, at Marion's lookout, ample compensation came as the magnificent vista of Dove Lake revealed itself. Sitting on a rock catching my breath, I began chatting to a German girl who happened to be my would-be dorm mate, as well as my next day's bus companion. Small rock indeed. We then parted ways as she was headed on another trek.

Dove Lake from Marion's Lookout

Tannin, anyone?

Continuing towards the lake on my own, down a worryingly steep descent, I managed to yet again pioneer an original path - not a recommended attitude for the inexperienced hiker. I slip-slid down to Dove Lake, where a convenient wooden boardwalk allowed for a much more accommodating and dignified walk for the casual hiker. It was a beautiful sunny day - a rarity in rainy Tassie, and the lake was shimmering with light as I circled it. The water in the Tassie lakes and rivers is rust coloured, due to tannins in the typical button grass the wombats munch on, and also because of the tea trees that grow everywhere. The water is a bit like, well, tea! Feeling sun-kissed and smiley, I stopped to have my packed lunch in a beautiful secluded spot on the lake, took my shoes off and dipped my feet in the cool water. This was the first time on this trip I felt truly in the moment, light and clear of heart and mind. I doubt Kraft processed cheese and oat biscuits have ever tasted as delicious for anyone before, nor will again. 

A lovely day on Dove Lake

I got back in time to have another quick walk to see the King Billy pine, a big deal tree in an ancient rainforest, taking the obligatory selfie next to it. I then returned to camp for a much needed shower - considering this was a campsite, the showers were incredible, each with overhead heating and a stall for clothes and delightfully hot, high pressure water – luxury. Yes, more to say about the shower than the ancient pine! Simple pleasures matter when you travel. Speaking of which, dinner involved some quick-cook pasta, and a glass of wine kindly shared by one of my dorm mates - a stocky medical scientist with a gruff no-nonsense way about her, which endeared her to me straight away. Having grown up on a farm up near Adelaide, she’d naturally seen quite a bit of hay action, she divulged. No doubt a city boy came to town and taught them all how to dance.

Leaving the national park, I felt sad that I didn't take more time to trek around. The whole length of Tasmania, I had heard from fellow travellers, can be hiked in a couple of weeks, and it seemed like something I would one day love to undertake.

In the morning, my German dorm-mate and I got on the bus to Strahan, which snaked through a mass of increasingly green wilderness and a whole lot of absence of humans. Whatever "towns" we went through, such as they were, consisted of a milk bar and a community house of some description, with perhaps a few rickety houses. The two actual cities we drove through, Zeehan and Queenstown, looked straight out of a Spaghetti Western and I half expected a wagon to lazily creak past at any moment. But it didn't.

Queenstown, yee-haw



West Coast Wilderness Railway

In Queenstown, a gold and copper mining town, we stopped for lunch, and I wisely ordered deliciously sweet scallop fritters and chips, which would necessitate a definite repeat if I ever return. And the town may not have had a wagon, but it did indeed have a steam train, which tracks through the world heritage untouched rainforest conservation area, and was in the past used to carry the mining spoils through the rainforest, all the way to Strahan, my actual destination. However, for us pauper travellers it was startlingly expensive to go on. So we opted to take a couple of photos of it rolling into the station instead.

Owl aboard! (cause it's a forest geddit?)

Leaving Queenstown, the driver picked up a gaggle of schoolchildren. My companion and I spent the rest of the journey checking for gum in our hair and sniffing the occasional suspicious burning smell. A small child asked to take my photo "for the next bus journey". I'm pretty sure the camera was angled towards my cleavage. Cheeky monkey. Then, just before the end of the journey, drama! A water bomb had "accidentally" been "dropped" by one of the kids, startling the elderly passengers and injecting extra oomph into the driver's gas-stepping foot. Thundering to our final stop, he stood up and gave an Oscar-worthy psychotically angry finger-wagging performance, featuring such gems as 'who's gonna clean this mess eh?!' and the all-time favourite 'this is your last warning!'. The seemingly shamefaced pupils got off the bus, then proceeded to make obscene gestures upon exit. The driver turned to us couple of passengers left and asked if we thought he'd scared them. I confidently assured him he did not.

Strahan

My next Wwoofing hosts were a couple, based in a quiet suburban house in Strahan - an inaccurate description really, as the whole town is a sort of suburb. Located on the Tassie west coast, harbour access from the ocean is via Hells Gates, so named not just because of their tiny near impossible proportions, which caused quite a few ships (and a whale, apparently) serious navigational kerfuffle, but also as a reminder of the notorious Sarah Island situated just within them. Here, convicts were taken in the early 1800s to build ships in the baking heat, or just be locked up in the small penitentiary. Little did they know that the hardships they endured were only small-scale compared with the conditions on Port Arthur down in the south west, where the worst of the bunch would eventually end up. In fact, according to my trusty guides, Sarah Island gradually turned into a resort-like camp, which some of the prisoners were reluctant to leave.

My hosts sent their other Wwoofer to pick me up, and I stood looking out to the harbour waiting for him. All I knew was that his name was Leo.
   

Is Might Right - A Reflection

I actually started writing this a few weeks ago, and it really took a lot out of me. I wanted to get it right, to make sure my thoughts come across clearly, and that I have a unified message. But as the weeks went by, and I added more and more information and reflection, and the world was showing signs of getting madder and more absurd, particularly following recent events in the UK, the increase in explicit racism, and news of slaughter and degradation from all over the world, I realised I could never get it totally right, and it can't possibly have a definitive form, this post. It can't even have a proper end, really. It's just a momentary contemplation of our nature in regard to force and its application. So i'll just get it out, and hope that for those who read it, it simply triggers their own reflection, without judgement because nobody has a definitive answer to our challenges (or if you do, please come forward!). But what we can do, is stop and think, and nourish our awareness.

We are part of a species, for whom survival is still an innate biological motive. Power and dominance, therefore, are a supreme value, which probably explains the majority of the world still living under oppression. Power is also the construct of basic population control, and is used by government, religion, any establishment where one person has charge of another - military, prison, schools. But power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Whenever one person is physically superior in size and/or strength¹ , temptation to surrender to base instincts proves too much all too often. This is why specific legislation has to be in place to try and minimise abuse of rights of the vulnerable.² Because there is an accepted paradigm that with great power SHOULD come great responsibility.

Concurrently and conflictingly, we are taught the way to get ahead - in life, in business, even in love - is through ruthless determination and the subjugation of others to our will³ , a bullish idea constantly reinforced by capitalism - might is right.^4;5 If we don't comply to these standards, we're considered unsuccessful.

However, do might and dominance bring us peace? Does control over people put our fears to rest? Or does it just feed them further⁶ ? Our genetic makeup is to survive and procreate, for the benefit of the species. But shouldn't over-population have caught up with our evolutionary need by now? We've pretty much beat the odds on the species survival worriment. Surely we can let that go! Why is survival of the fittest still a factor? Why is our first defensive impulse a choice between fight or flight? Could there not by now be a more sophisticated option, one of compassion, understanding, empathy?

Here's a situation - a young girl had been abused. It's affected her her whole life. She shares her trauma with her friend, who keeps her secret and is agonising over the emotional and psychological damage it's done her. Years later, he's confronted with the assailant. The friend is now frustrated by not being allowed to respond on her behalf, retribution is not his to be dished out. But, one has to consider, is his need to even the score a need to exert dominance? Would that too be an expression of the innate urge to overpower and dominate? And would it indeed restore the balance? Would it repair the damage? Could it also be an expression of his feeling of dominant possession (albeit protectively so) over her too? Even our loving, protective feelings, it seems, are channelled by territorial or possessive primal urges.

Here's another - A pre-teen boy is on the train with his friends. He is the unofficial alpha of the pack. They've had an afternoon of minor delinquency and feeling cocky. The boy sees a woman on the train standing at the doors as they're all about to disembark. As he passes her he calls out 'move, bitch'. To him, she's not a person but a thing, an object to assert dominance over, an aid in his assertion of leadership. It never is a straightforward situation, complicated relationships with parents and siblings, patterns of behaviour observed and reinforced, humiliation experienced over time - these all culminate to the moment being what it is. But the fact is now he has become a synthesised aspect of humanity. A cellular pulse, a binary digit, an on-off. He recognises the moment to overpower, and he takes it, regardless of context, outcome, impact.

Women, generally speaking, being the physically weaker of the sexes, are the one half of the world which is by and large controlled by the other. They are still viewed as a toy to satisfy men, an object to be observed, coveted and possessed. They have no rights in a some men's minds. Here to meet needs, not to have them. As John Lennon brutally pointed out - woman is the n****r of the world - referring to the term in its most intended derogatory sense, expressing the ease with which basic human rights are not acknowledged. Forced marriages, sexual slavery, and human trafficking are still the most widespread practices in the world. The latter being the second biggest criminal industry, with women comprising 49% of the victims, children not far behind. And the highest recorded numbers of slavery as a whole are recorded in countries where human rights are at the lowest levels.

It's not only women, it's any vulnerable demographic - in fact, as soon as someone's rights are removed, they are viewed as weak, the temptation to dominate them becomes strong. Our musings on such matters in progressive thought indicate that society is measured by its treatment of its most vulnerable members (Aristotle, Ghandi, Carter, Johnson, and various other leaders and thinkers). Unfortunately, in the main, what primal instincts control us in private when we're in a position of power, can still override those we display in a group with progressive empathetic norms. And those affected by a group baying for blood override the individual's strong conscientious predisposition.

It's even been recently discovered that, overall, only the Neanderthal female genes remain in today's species, but no males. It's theorised that the females interbred with the homo-sapien males, as the Neandrethal males suffered from a genetic defect in their sperm causing low success rate of breeding. However, it's difficult to ascertain whether the homo-sapiens were carrying out atrocities to wipe out male Neanderthals and take charge of the women, or whether Neanderthal women got rid of their own men in order to breed. Either way, this implies that as a part of society exhibited inadequacy which was deemed as weakness, the other part exerted dominance, either by males or females.

In light of recent events in the UK, it is clear we are far from having evolved out of our fear of tribal extinction, still controlled by strong irrational impulses to reject the foreign as a threat, and keep our tribe perceptibly familiar and safe by minimising "foreign" surprises. This is apparently more easily achievable through fear-mongering towards homogenisation, using manipulation, propaganda, and sheer violence.

But most societies are periodically visited through history by ameliorating influences, morally progressive political and cultural leaders, however brief that affect may be. Progressive efforts shine with the likes of occasional crusaders such as Canadian Prime Minister Justin can-do-no-wrong Trudeau. However, even the self-proclaimed feminist and social reformer has recently stumbled, reacting with force against provocateurs in the House of Commons, when discussing a bill relating to assisted dying. How can power and progressiveness be reconciled? Can one be both forceful and progressive? It may be that the key lies with that balance exactly - the two sides of existence, yin and yang, masculine and feminine, softness and power. In which case, gender equality would be a definite step towards reform, and the reason to keep pushing for this more than ever. Because using softness as a force, instead of stubborn blind forcefulness, is a much more sophisticated way of achieving results.

Martial arts is a great example for how that works, as it takes the base atavistic need for power and aggression, and with guided awareness raises it from the gut level up to the heart level, via an artful skill. It teaches mind-body connection, the true consequences of power, basic discipline and responsibility. Through these comes compassion, and a sympathetic joy in encouraging and helping others in their practice, and a friendly

competitive delight in a safe environment to train and hone your skill. On the other end of the competitive spectrum, we have the fight clubs - those connect the participants with the base level aggression only, our primal selves, but do they elevate our humanness to a higher level? Could it be possible that through allowing aggression out in a consensual fashion, comes human connection and a channelling of that aggression using a positive outlet?


Internally, control over another human being seems to stem from a need for connection - with our own kind - whatever we consider "our kind", with the person we are trying to control, with feelings we are not able to fathom and may be scary to face. In any case, our need for dominance is surely at as stage where it does more harm than good, we have outgrown our use for it and must strive to evolve beyond it, transcend to empathy and love instead.

Some sources:

1. The Breakdown of Nations / Leopold Kohr, ch. 2 The Power of Aggression, 1957

2. Anti-Discriminatory Practice 3rd ed / Neil Thompson
3. Addressing Violence, Abuse and Oppression: Debates and Challenges / Barbara Fawcett, Fran Waugh
4. Might Is Right (The Logic of To-day) / Ragnar Redbeard, 1896
5. The Economic Institutions of Capitalism / Oliver E Williamson, Yale University 1985
6. Applying Political Theory: Issues and Debates / Katherine Smits

 

The Gates of Hell, Complete with Devils

More Art by Susan

We arrived at the charming town of Wilmot, just south of Devonport, not far from Cradle Mountain - a World Heritage Area - entering a pleasant little cottage with a bountiful garden, clearly lovingly cared for. Susan explained that as far as she was concerned, Wwoofing is not only about work, but also about learning, a philosophy I could not disagree with. As I discovered - at first to my delight - she  meant it , and as the next few days progressed, she instructed me on correct weeding, wrapping trees in wire and mulching, and I got down to some hard graft.

 

 
Alas, the balance was quickly disproportionately tipped as I was listening significantly more than working. Susan talked NON-STOP, albeit enthusiastically and knowledgably - on Tassie's disappearing indigenous forests and wildlife, the problems of logging and mining, and rather a lot of general tree chat. But more than that, acres of talk of her past ailments, of being hounded by the local farmers angered by her anti-pesticide and anti-forestry propaganda, who would throw dead wallabies over her gate, and of dejected berserk lovers setting fire to her front porch.

Still, Susan was a genuine hippy with the best of intentions. She was a true believer in community, a non-dual universe and accountability for each other, forever exploring ways of improving the environment and helping others. We had some bonding moments of warmth and kindness - after I'd suffered bad sunburn at the end of the first day's work, with the UV index being clearly harsher than in Victoria, she provided a soothing rub with her aloe vera plant, which certainly saved me from several agonising days.

This was also where I'd  encountered the first hint of Tassie's strong link to spiritual practices, in particular influenced by indigenous ritualistic paganism and shamanism. On the bookshelf in my room I found a Book of Shadows of disreputable and mysterious origin, and I was so fascinated and delighted with it, Susan offered to give it to me. However, already aware that her gifts invariably carry a hefty price tag in various unexpected forms, I declined, a decision I regret to this day. It was quite a special book.

Most serendipitously, Susan showed me a letter of introduction she had received from a fellow Wwoofer, which made rather an impact. Sent to all hosts in the Wwoofing community, this initiative was unprecedented and very old-worldly. It carried a certain gallantry and consideration I was impressed with. The person's name itself struck an intuitively familiar chord, such that I knew we would have a significant connection, despite the chances of us bumping into each other, or being at the same location at the same time, being entirely negligible. Leo was out there, and his presence vibrated through the molecules of air, and gently mingled with mine.

There was no doubt Susan's immense expanse of knowledge was illuminating, as it turned out she was also one of the first permaculture instructors, working with Bill Mollison, the "Father of Permaculture", and teaching it for 14 years. However, the incessant chatter was growing more and more controlling, with any attempted input from me completely shut out and unwelcome. She began following me around, criticising things like my method of preparing an egg, or arguing - with no one in particular - about the basics of a band setting up their instruments for recording, me having mentioned I played in a band. Any work I attempted in the garden was scrutinised to an inch of its life. Basically I could do no right.

She also grew erratic in her expectations. She cried a lot. She told me to have time off then huffed at me about how she'd been working non-stop and what have i been doing. It was getting difficult, in particular as I depended on her for making contact with my family, trying to keep track of how things were progressing with my sister, as she now had a treatment plan and was shortly due to begin chemotherapy.

The idea behind Wwoofing, as previously explained, entails working for your host 4-6 hours per day, and, depending on whatever was agreed, you get a bed or shelter and 3 meals a day in return. Supposedly you work about half a day, which leaves the other half for exploration and, well, for making the most of your stay in the area, as essentially this is an ethical and pan-beneficial way of travelling. If you're at all unhappy, or the host is being unreasonable, you're only required to stay a minimum of 2 nights. 

Thankfully, despite all of her manoeuvres and attempts to control my whereabouts, I did manage to go on one fantastic hike to the local falls, off the Forth River and through a beautiful rainforest. Setting off trepitatiously on a trail not far from Susan's house, plenty of wallaby, rabbit and wombat rears were spotted disappearing into the thicket upon hearing my clumsy footsteps. However, it was mainly the eerie silence with the occasional bird squawk and man-sized ferns growing amongst the gum and pine trees, which made it a memorable experience. It was really just me and the animals, and i kept having to reassure myself that i was still on the right track. My marks were bright pink ribbons tied to a branch every so often. There were several occasions where I experienced anxious rapid heartbeat, and i kept expecting to stumble upon those fabled snakes, having been warned about them so many times, but no - none were to be seen. I suppose my stumble through the forest was making enough noise to scare them off. Or perhaps THEY NEVER EXISTED.

The walk took me past Lake Barrington and eventually, at a crossroads, I mistakenly took the upper route viewing the Forth Falls from the less frequented vantage point above them, rather than the conventional water's edge. Not the intended destination, but a beauty spot nonetheless, I chose not to regard this as an accidental pioneering attempt of unchartered territory, but mark the expedition a success.

Forth Falls

On my third day at Susan's she informed me she was going to nearby Sheffield - the town of murals, apparently - to pick up her alcoholic lover, Colin. I was welcome to tag along for the ride, but she was only going to be there a mere half hour. Happy to get out of the house for however short a time, and with the prospect of an extra person around the house to take the pressure off me, alcoholic or not, i agreed. I had a quick wander around town - yet another mysterious oddity of a place with the main street decorated in wall sized outdoor murals, western-style, on the walls of the shops, featuring scenes from a bar, a stable and other 19th century imagery.



 

The olden days, Sheffield, Tassie

It also had, for some unknown reason, a completely out of place specialist Scottish café, complete with an in-house bagpipes player, demoralising and irritating the customers, and a world weary waitress, both dolled up in tartan. Hmmm.  We collected Colin and his aggressive dog, Rock, and hurried back. But my oh my if for a moment I thought things were going to improve. The atmosphere was intense, every word the man uttered was hissed at and belittled. It wasn't pretty. I really felt for the poor chap. I went to bed early, leaving them to their charming dynamic, not before I'd been coerced into watching a sort of Aussie music revival festival on TV, featuring stars of the 60s 70s and 80s making a spectacle of themselves in overly tight sparkly leotards and smeared tired makeup. Needless to say none of the songs were familiar. That is until Leo Sayer appeared on the screen. That man is a truly hard working guy. 

The next morning I woke up feeling suffocated. Susan was already pottering around passive-aggressively, commenting out of the corner of her mouth that 'maybe you should have the day off' but didn't seem convinced about it, and I sensed a definite angry rant in the works if I had. I knew I had to get out, for good. The plan had been to spend a week or two at Susan's, visit the Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair National Park for a couple of days, then head off to the next Wwoofing spot, which had already been tentatively arranged, pending confirmation of exact dates. But this plan, as it stood, was clearly not going to work out. I made some excuse about going to the nearest shop - 1.5 miles away, where I sought advice about the quickest way out of town. They seemed very sympathetic over my predicament, and said I could easily hitch a ride out of there if I just hang around outside the shop for the next hour or two, as there'll be plenty of people stopping for petrol on their way to Cradle Mountain. Very kindly they offered to ask about a lift on my behalf.

I went back to the house and warily informed Susan i was leaving. In response I got a vicious snarl and was manipulated to hang on till after lunch, despite me mentioning the time factor - Wilmot is not a place you can easily get out of after dark. The bus service runs twice a week. I rushed the meal and our awkward goodbyes, and headed back down to the shop, to make it just in time for a sweet Goth girl in a tiny red Fiat, who happened to be a staff member of the Cradle Mountain Lodge, walking in for a can of Red Bull on her way to work! Well, that extraordinary bit of luck couldn't be ignored, and I knew I was making the right decision after all - I did feel a bit bad things didn't work out at Susan's, and I was wondering if I should've grit my teeth and bore it just a few more days. But no, all signs pointed out and away! 

A sign of good things to come

Baby Echidna

The Tassie Goth Melanie drove me all the way to the Cosy Cabins campgrounds at the Cradle Mountain resort, a stunning national park in the north west, where I got out of the car and immediately encountered an alive and well echidna munching some button grass around the campsite welcome plaque - another sign!





I registered at reception with the most cheerful and remarkable George Dubbuya Bush doppelgänger, and spent the rest of the afternoon at a presentation about the all the park had to offer, followed by a feeding demonstration at the Tasmanian Devil centre.



‘Devils @ Cradle’ managing director, Wade Anthony, and devil keeper Nicole Dyble with Ossa and BJ

Here I went mad taking photos of these odd animals running around with bits of rabbit in their mouths, chasing each other and screeching, a most amusing display. I even got to pet one, although the handler seemed unnaturally attached to the creatures, in particular to the female - we could touch her " but only on the back from the waist down please!". To be fair though, he was very passionate and dedicated, and as such, great to listen to speaking about them. These animal have become endangered due to the spread of an extremely nasty disease known as DFTD (Devil Facial Tumour Disease), at first thought to have been a type of genetic cancer, several affected animals having been first spotted in 1996, but has since been discovered to be a transmitted viral disease, impacting only this species. The causes are still speculated on but may have something to do with carcinogenic flame retardant materials, perhaps linked with various detrimental industries around the forests. Susan's calls for environmental injustice rang in my ears! There has been a campaign ever since to preserve the species, with a strategy of developing an insurance population in captivity. Cradle Mountain National Park was one of the spots where this was in place.

A Demanding Devil

I ended the day with a lovely light evening's walk, where I saw a wombat for the first time - probably the sweetest creature ever and a close relative of Winnie the Pooh! Or perhaps an inspiration for the much maligned Ewoks.  Saw some wallabies too.

Winnie the Wombat

Wallaby Scuffle

I enjoyed to an unnatural measure a bowl of pot noodles and bottle of beer, more so than all the healthy hearty meals I've had at Susan's put together, and knew once again I was finally on the right track. After some light chat with the other travellers at the communal kitchen I went to bed feeling positive for the first time in days.