Watching clouds

 Have you ever heard of people who rush towards a volcano when they hear that it's about to erupt? Well, I felt a bit like that as I drove out to the bach on the very weekend when rain could be falling.

Rain, what's that? We hadn't seen any for weeks. The whole of the north island has been declared a drought zone, and even the west coast of the south island—where there's enough rain to fill a dozen gumboots a day —was applying to the government to be declared a drought zone. And so if rain was going to fall, I wanted to be there. These clouds could be hiding what we've all been waiting for.

But by evening, the picture was a little uncertain. They seemed to be rolling away once more.

 The next morning I awoke to a new sensation in the air. I couldn't hear rain, but I could sense it in the air. And sure enough, when I looked out, there was the most gentle rainfall that you could imagine, like a cloud coming down and kissing the earth.
Would it be enough? The farmers grumbled, 'no.'
But I could see that this was perfect. The earth was being gently softened and prepared

 for what followed the next day: rain falling in streaks from the sky.

 Rain falling with a splash and a rebound, Yes, real, wet rain.
It must have revived the insects pretty fast, because the trees were soon filled with tiny fantails and wax eyes, who were happily flitting and catching their food.

My choir friend, who is a scientist, told me that I was right to feel that this gentle soaking was exactly what the earth needed. She said that when the ground dries out, its chemical structure changes and it becomes hydrophobic. Now isn't that an odd word! My psychological training immediately gives me a picture of the ground with a great fear, or phobia, of water.
But it just means that the ground has sealed itself off. In order to accept water once more, it needs a bit of retraining. I guess that's not unlike humans with phobias.

So here we are, with people smiling and saying, isn't the rain wonderful! The berries are happy, all clean and lush, and I'm sure the berry-eating birds will be happy too.

Play date at the beach

 My friend and I met when our children were still small. Now we are both grandmothers, with a granddaughter each who is four years old. For a while we've spoken of getting them together. Yesterday it happened. We met at the beach, and the two little explorers picked up their buckets and headed off to see what they could find.

The beach is full of treasure. 'Look what we found!'

'Let's go and find some more.' And so they did, while we two grannies sat and talked the talk of women who are keeping an eye on young ones, (for we also had my friend's little fourteen month old who sat and ate banana and crackers.)

 What a treat to sit, and chat and watch, while gulls plunged their beaks into the muddy fringe of the sea, herons stalked in their elegant way, and two black swans appeared. They swam in synch, just like the two little girls, who fell into the rhythm of companionship with such ease.

This golden summer, while so hard on the land and the farmers, is bringing treasure all the same.

My kingdom for a grass hook!

 My little scythe, which evidently is called a grass hook, has broken. I inherited this implement with the bach some 40 years ago, and it has done many years of trusty service. It's perfect for cutting the tough grass that grows along the pathways and steps, and around the garden. You know how it is, when you've been using a good implement for many years, somehow your body makes friends with it.

 I learned how to take care of garden tools from my father. He would oil his spade and slide it into a bucket of sand to keep it shiny and rust-free. He taught me how to tie knots, stack wood, and later, to sharpen tools.

 He would approve of my wood pile, and the way I've crawled in to the wood box, and started pulling out the back row, ready for a new lot of wood to be cut for the winter. Here we are still in summer drought, but my father taught me how to prepare for the next season.

In my forties, spurred on by feminism and the slogan, 'Girls can do anything', I asked for tools for my birthdays. Here I am with one tier of the compost bin my father gave me one year. Another time he gave me a fine carpenter's saw, and my man friend of the time gave me a yellow crow-bar.

And so, when one shop after the other informed me that they no longer stock grass hooks (because everyone uses those horrid weed eaters), you can imagine my disappointment. The grass was growing while I went from one shop to another, and in the end I had to buy this Chinese-made machete. I knew it was not well-made: the handle is not at all hand-friendly, the studs attaching the blade don't look very secure, and worst of all, I discovered that it was quite blunt. Even though I've tried sharpening it, I've had no luck. A blade made of poor metal won't sharpen well.
And so,  I'm putting out a call for a good, old-fashioned little scythe. My kingdom for a grass hook!

Little monkey writes her first book

The little monkey loves the sea, especially when it's full tide and there are branches to swing on, and the water to catch her.
Now that she's with me every Wednesday afternoon, we are making the most of the warm weather to play on the beach and have a swim. Then we come back and eat lots - and the imagination flies freely.
This time, one of her 'What if . . . ' sentences turned into a story.

 I know I'm a doting granny, but maybe you will indulge me this once, because it was exciting to see how quickly a story could turn into a book. It was a just a matter of grabbing a big sheet of white drawing paper, folding and cutting it, and writing down her words.

 To my surprise, she understood how to illustrate it. So here are the waves, with Mira lying happily under them.
MIRA SAID, 'I LOVE THE WAVES OF THE SEA AND EVEN THE SWIMMING POOL AND WATER SLIDES.'

 'WHAT IF THE CLOUDS CAME DOWN TO THE SEA?'

 THAT WOULD BE FUNNY!

 AND THE CLOUDS WOULD TURN INTO CLOUD BOATS

 AND MIRA AND GRANNY CAN SAIL IN THE BOATS . . .
AND SOME CLOUDS COME DOWN INTO THE SEA TOO

 AND MIRA AND GRANNY GET OUT OF THE BOATS AND THEY GROW BIGGER AND BIGGER UNTIL THEY GROW INTO THE NORMAL SIZE AND WALK ON THE SAND . . .
WITH CREATURES UNDERNEATH.

Thank you, little beach monkey.

You are so at home in nature and to see this makes my heart sing.

What's that sound?

 Let me take you back a few days, to Sunday morning at the bach. I awoke to an unexpected, and almost unfamiliar sound. Could it be . . . ?

 Could it be . . . . . RAIN?

 It was. Drops settled like jewels on the grateful garden plants. The gentle shower turned the invisible visible . . .

 and created magic in the space between verandah posts.

Yes, rain had fallen —not for very long, and not enough to fill the tank —but without a doubt it had fallen. Did I dream this event? The paving stones, the spiders and the tomatoes all say no. Those clouds, under whose cover I walked only the day before, had at last delivered something.
It wasn't long before the fierce sun returned and the land was dry again. Three provinces are now in the process of being declared drought zones. The land is panting for moisture, up and down the north island.
So all I can say is - there was a tiny change, and I NOTICED. To notice is to encourage, it is said. I noticed and appreciated. Every little bit helps. Thank you clouds.

Walking barefoot under clouds (2)

 The rest of our walk has a little story. First I must show you the floating fence. Fencing a sand-dune is not an easy proposition. But when the farmer whose land bordered 3/4 of the lake decided to sell and make this a public reserve, the farmer on the right held on to his little corner. This meant that no-one could walk right around the lake. Of course, some tried; hence the fence. Most of it was quickly buried by sand. Some was raised up by the farmer's son, who took over after his dad died.

 Shortly before the son died, he came to an arrangement with the Council, to provide access to this beautiful little corner of the lake, in return for a sum of money.

 On last week's coastal walk to my friends' place, we sat around and shared local gossip, as we do. That's when I found out that this long-forbidden track was now open, and much improved with board walks and gravel paths.

 I thought you might like to explore it with me. But shoes on now, because even though our feet are cool after the swim, they wince at some of the concealed sharp stones.

 Here, the native toe toe still grows. In many places it's been displaced by imported pampas, which tends to take over. The toe toe has a delicacy that I love.

 The nikau grove reminds me of being in a cathedral. Hush. We are on sacred ground,

with the nikau's arms stretched out to the heavens in worship.

 The lake looks different with every turn of the path. The shady part is over, and from now on there will be little protection from the sun which is breaking out from time to time.

Time to pause and look back to where we came from. Time to sit and open a packed lunch.

                              

And now we are on the walk back. You might just be able to glimpse the sea, over on the left between the pine plantation and the slope of the hill. The sand is beginning to burn now as the heat of the day builds,

 so we will definitely be walking back along the stream, rather than the sandy path.

Aah, cool again, and the sound of splashing. So soothing. Thank you for coming with me.

Walking barefoot under clouds

 I'm glad it's cloudy today. First, clouds are closer to rain than blue skies, and we do keep hoping for a very wet overnight rainfall. Second, I wanted to take you inland today. Even though the west coast beaches have reopened after a man was attacked by a great white shark, the thought of that tragic death is still with me, and I don't feel like cavorting in the surf today.

So — are you ready? Shoes off, and down the steps we go. And thank you for letting me know how much you enjoyed our bare-foot coastal walk. This next one has some surprises.

First we walk alongside the stream. The path is sandy, and pleasant underfoot.

It takes us to a big open space. This sand-impounded dune is one of the largest in New Zealand. It was formed over a long time, as the wind blew sand up from the beach and almost completely blocked the Wainamu stream, which was innocently gurgling its way down from the bush-covered Waitakere hills (now Centennial Park).

 We are walking over ironsand. I know how this can burn the soles of the feet, which is why we are taking this walk on a cloudy day, and starting out in the morning, before the heat has built. Can you imagine a point between the slope on the left, and the one on the right? That's where we are going to discover . . .

yes - it's still here, and if we just keep walking we will soon see more. . . 

 There—Lake Wainamu, a large deep freshwater lake, which is now mostly a reserve.

These hot feet need cooling, so in we plunge for a delicious freshwater swim. 

In the next blog I will take you to a special part of this reserve, which I haven't been able to visit for many years - and I'll tell you why. For now, I leave you swimming in the lake, refreshing yourself. This post has taken one hour and 40 minutes to complete, using my laptop on dialup from the bach. So I think I'll wait till I'm back in town before finishing the story. Thank you for your company; it's good to know that you are out there.