Loo with the (Hilton) View, cont'

Last post I shared our little outhouse and its sweeping paddock views.

I think I should point out that this is not actually our HOUSE toilet. I know we live in the sticks, an' all, but we have actual indoor plumbing here at Granite Glen. It's amazing but true. Actually all the folks I know have indoor plumbing in these parts. Hot running water and microwaves too. Some places even have air-conditioning. (A fact which shocked and horrified my father for many years. He's acclimatised to the 20th century now. The 21st century is a whole other matter!). We also have a widescreen TV, but that is another story ... and we really need to get back to the outhouse/thunderbox from Wednesday.
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SSB and I invested in a small local holding just before moving to Granite Glen. It is only a few kilometres from our house, and is a very interesting place. The previous owners believed strongly in enjoying their workplace. The father of the bloke we purchased it from was a very talented builder. While no-one lived on site(during their ownership) he constructed a shed with an attached open-fire cook-hut where musterers gathered to quench their thirst and sleep over.

Bunks lined the corrugated iron room, with its concreted floor, pantry and 'porch'. It was christened (in typical Aussie humour) The Hilton.

Note the 'No Vacancy' sign.

Our block therefore offers far more advanced facilities than any other paddock on our family property. Smoko time while working anywhere else on the place, requires you find a comfy-looking stump, set up your esky and thermos and take in the view. If you need to relieve yourself, then find a tree and go about your business. Those with foresight might have some paper in their tuckerbox. (It's one of those circumstances where hindsight may be 20-20, but it could also extremely uncomfortable. You get the picture.)
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The Hilton-builders, however, did not believe in such spartan mustering facilities. They believed in going the whole hog... at least as far as one could without laid on power and plumbing. So the shed not only boasts a semi-open shower (with bucket-fed rose system) set within a small tank, but also a solar-panel powered light...

...And a thunderbox.

Thunderboxes are the colourful term for outhouses or toilets. It's how we referred at the glamorous toileting set-up (only slightly more tidy that this one) used at our tiny one-teacher school in the 70s. Our Hilton loo is set facing away from the shed some 20 metres from the 'main building'. At some point the door fell off and no-one saw the need to restore it to its original position.

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'Cause really, the cows and kangaroos and snakes and goannas don't care whether your pants are 'round your ankles or your waist.

They think you look weird and strange and freaky regardless.

Talk about people in glass houses...sheesh!

Wordless Wednesday - Loo with a View

No-one ever bothered shutting the door... so we left it off!

BB

I love (Happy) Damp Endings...

Things have been a little full-on here at Granite Glen over the last week. It's school holidays here in Queensland and we have had visitors galore. I adore having people to stay, but drive myself to a standstill preparing to have them (read: attempting to de-clutter and de-dust and de-mice the place). To say I undertook a major transformation would be an understatement. And I nearly got there. As you shall see.

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Our first batch of guests were Salina and Jeanie. As you may know, these guys are pretty regular here so they don't get the full benefits of the GG makeover prior to arrival. Sorry Jeanie! Beds were made and rooms cleared in general, but the ironing and laundry piles were still mini-Everests in my living and laundry rooms. Salina played hard with Dash and TLW and vanished regularly with Pagi, mustering up a storm on Yvette (S won a promotion, with poor Lacey suffering a sore eye).

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Jeanie slaved her little heart out sorting cattle on our computer (tricky, you say, but I am of course speaking metophorically...I think!). She is a genius, and was a sight to behold conducting figurative symphonies with TWO laptops in front of her at our kitchen table.

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My city SIL and three children plus one 17-year-old nephew arrived a few days later. Now my SIL's in general are a rare breed - gorgeous, fun, domestic goddesses. Cows. No, really, I love 'em but just one dag among them would have been nice. To keep me company and all. Anyhoo... P and I had planned their little Granite country sojourn well ahead. Maps were faxed. Directions dictated. Travel times estimated so no night-time driving would be needed. Appropriate clothing and footwear discussed. Progress calls dialed in on schedule.

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Then, as I prepared for State of Origin (football) night whipping up pizzas for a few more guests (I am a glutton for punishment), I got a call from SSB's brother (not the one that is P's hubby).

BIL R is a bit of a prankster and had been on a social bull inspection trip with a mate (translation: regular pub-stops at various small country towns) when he said:

'P's broken down, I've just come across here south of the Springs'

(The Springs are a good two-hour drive from his home)...

Well, call me cynical but I just didn't believe him.

He insisted. I asked for details. He stood by his story.

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Apparently, P's very flash 4WD wagon had come to an abrupt stop 350km into their journey. She had popped the hood to indicate to passing traffic that she needed help. No-one stopped. She called on the two-way radio. No response. She was shocked - this is in the country where everyone is supposed to help everyone. But no. Lone woman with kids does not attract Knights in Shining Armour. Then a car finally pulled up and her brother-in-law stepped out. Surreal. And so BIL R dashed off, White Knight-style, and got some oil and called me.

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As dark fell, our city visitors nursed their car the final 150km of their 500km journey with BIL shepherding them. SSB went in to escort them the final 20km on our dirt road.

Poor P couldn't see a thing in the dark and dust - she thought she was driving into the depths of bumpkin hell, I'm sure.

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She finally pulled up at the gates of Granite Glen, and piled into the warmth of our living room, already crowded with people and home-made pizzas.

The fire was blazing in the fireplace and the State of Origin blaring on the TV. Without even asking, I poured her a well-earned chardonnay. I've never seen anyone so grateful for a cool drink in my life! The very least I could do was have a glass or two with her... I may not be a great housekeeper, but I know this part of being a good hostess!

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The following days were packed with horse and pony rides...

Bullseye... is that you under there?

... and bull feeding...

(Trust me, they P is enjoying all that hay in her shoes. Really!)

We also did paddock tours, more cooking, catering for more family members and a couple of very late nights into the following 48 hours. With 11 people sleeping over, and another 28 visiting for night-time gatherings it was slightly chaotic but lots of fun.
And exhausting for little possums...

While cousins L and E were all smiles after dark, TLW was gallant but bit the dust in front of the TV at night.

And through it all, with people whirling through a big old house, cyclonic-fashion, with food-making and raucous conversation thrown in, Jeanie was still tapping away silently on her laptops in the eye of the storm. Her focus was something to behold.

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P and co seemed to enjoy their bush bash... although I am not going to discuss the various 'Ooohh, you stood in poooo!' conversations... or the dead mouse discovered by cousin J's mattress as we packed up. We are all still recovering from both the sight of the still-warm rodent carcase about three inches from J's pillow and Cousin L's screeching reaction to it. (I could have said something about the many dozens who had already been cleared from the general vicinity before their arrival, but decided against this tack. The mental images might have done them in.) And, like I said, I am not discussing these issues any further... you can't make me.

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The aftermath of having visitors is always a weird stillness. And piles of laundry. And lots of smiles at mental images gathered during our rellies stay. Of kids sliding around on trotting ponies, tentatively holding out sheafs of hay to belching bovines, and the startled expression on my weaner bulls faces at the technicolour get-ups brought by Dash's cousins for yard attire. Our city visitors certainly assisted in my weaner-quietening endeavours. Purple paisley holds no terrors for them anymore, that's for certain!

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As I take stock, my chardonnay levels are looking a little low. My laundry powder seems to be down to the last scoop. And my waistline almost completely vanished. But it was sooooo worth it. Thanks for Braving the Bush P and co! Looking forward for the Real Deal at Christmas!

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And thanks Jeanie for proving again, you have the best set of mental blinkers of any individual I know. Your blood is totally worth bottling! And I mean that sincerely.
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And now there is one week of holidays to go. Bullseye is happily recovering from teaching city kids to ride, and enjoying the steady drizzle of rain that arrived as our guests leave.

But the kids are cooped up and missing their cousins and the Big Question is:

Can BB and co survive rainy holidays at home?

Only time will tell.

Wish me luck!

Hugs all

BB

And the Answer is...

Well, there were a few decent (and a couple of quite imaginative) attempts to guess the Mystery Photo from my last post. (I always feel like blowing mournfully on a bugle when I say that, can't think why?).

In the search through my enormous number of respondents (hello you five! Thanks for dropping by) I did learn that not everyone's mind dwells in the gutter. Which I thought would be the obvious response when confronted with the above image. Apparently that's just me.
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I actually became quite informed in my investigations through the comments box. I learned that geoducks are some form of hideous-looking edible creature which lives in America (of course!). Roots and root vegetables seemed to feature also. Alas, that BB print remains in situ for a little while longer. You guys were warm but not exactly burning it up...
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So - in the name of actually answering the Miss-Ter-Ree (as Dash and TLW would say, two fingers vee-ing across their eyes dramatically, 'Hi-5' style) - here goes.

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I was walking along one of Granite Glens dirt roads with TLW and her lipstick-lovin' cousin R. We were waiting to give SSB a lift back from his tractor to the house. (I sometimes wonder how much of my life is spent waiting for people and things... then I snap out of it. Sure way to a meltdown of TLW proportions!)

Anyhoo, R spotted a strange thing happening on one of the gum trees we passed in our trek.

She called us over to experience her 'find'.

Her little fingers pressed questioningly into the semi-soft, toffee-like substance.

It was quite beautiful in the afternoon light, all crazed and reflective...

"Mummy!" TLW shouted as she stood back to look at this phenomenon...

"The tree is bleeding EVERYWHERE!"

And she was right, by golly!

The sap was 'running' down this gum from a missing branch higher up... so thick in places it formed these bizarre sap sculptures.

And R's auntie thought,

'Heaven's THAT looks a bit suspect. I wonder if my readers will think it's something rude?'

And the rest, as they say in the classics, is history.

Good to know I have high-brow readers whose minds would never sink so low as to head down the 'male appendages' route that someones was travelling.

Just testing.

Bush mystery... naughty or nice?

What is it?

C'mon. Don't be shy - it may not bite!!

Let your mind be free.

See if you can pick it.

First to guess right gets their choice of Bush Babe 8 x 10 print posted to their very own homes. (Or the home of someone they really like.)

:-)

BB

Brothers and Sisters...

Sometimes, the stars align at Granite Glen...

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That moment when my feng shui and karma and my generall goodwill to mankind (OK this last bit might be a bit of overkill) all come back to me in the form of a little glimpse of heaven.

When the hours of washing and office-work and hours spent on the phone to automated responses and difficult mealtimes and dusty roads and dirty dishes in the sink kinda fade into the far echoing recesses of my mind.

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Sound like fantasy... like I've gone a bit potty in the wilds of the Queensland bush?? Well I actually managed to capture a tiny glimpse of this real life Ta Da! recently.

At (of all places) the dip yards.

In the hay shed.

With my kids.

Now I need to note that my two little ones aren't angels.

They grapple and gripe.

They argue and whinge.

They are quite normal siblings.

But sometimes, sometimes they click.

Their world shrinks down to just the two of them.

And it's a sight to behold...

TWL adores her big brother. Or as she would say "Her big brudda".

She very nearly worships him, and puts up with quite a bit of attitude when he is less that interested in her "little girl" stuff. And he will demand she give him some space, provoking a hissy fit in his sister to make your hair curl. Other times he will realise she is his main (and often only) option for playmate and demand she participate in some very physical boy game (generally involving Ninja turtles or dinosaurs), and she draw the line (in no uncertain terms) at an imaginary battle where she is (yet again) the nominated baddie.

But sometimes, they hit a sweet spot in their relationship.

It's a beautiful thing to see...

And despite all that detergent and angst that can come with being a parent, this sort of moment makes being a mum worthwhile.

And that's why you (or at least I) need a Nikon.

So I never, ever forget it!

(And if, by chance I ever do, please, please send me back here. Pronto!)

May the (black) road rise to meet you...

We have been here at Granite Glen for pretty much exactly 18 months now. And in that time, we have been reminded time and time again, of the similarities and differences between city life (which had been my life for two decades) and country life.

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Things like how much I dislike the cold (same here as there). Home-cooked penne arribiate tastes the same, as does a cold chardonnay. My friends are just as welcome in my home; mice just as despised. Rugby just as closely (and energetically) followed.

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The 'different' list is long and varied. And would fill a blog entirely on its own. Among this plethora of differences is 'stuff which rings yer bells' or 'that which makes your skirt fly up' (apologies to PW).

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For example, all it takes to get me excited is that moment when I know the tanks are full after a heavy shower of afternoon rain. When the groceries are unpacked, the pantry and freezers are full and I know I don't have to go to town for at least a week. Getting a crisp clear photo of a sunset or smiling brown eyes.

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Soon after we arrived out here something happened that not only rang my bells, but those of the entire neighbourhood. Frankly, this one event had symbols and chimes and bells of Big Ben proportions ringing through the hills. And we all know it had nothing to do with any recent elections Down Under! So what was it?

Can you guess?

It has something to do with this...

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The action started about one km from our house, at the bus stop where Dash waits for his little while school-bound chariot with the arrival of this sexy little rig...

Shiny, shiny! Ooohhh, look at that reflection.

The photographer in me couldn't resist.

Sorry. Where were we? 'Shiny' distracted me for a second there...

Anyhoo, a nice group of men then gathered in various vehicles and implements (a little Mad Max-ish, without all the pent-up aggression!) and started doing this...

to our very dusty red gravel road...

You need to understand just how much dirt we drive on - and how much of that vibrant colour makes its way into every crevice of the cars that drive it. The novelty of country roads, when you are attempting to remove its evidence from the carpet and door seals, wears mighty thin my friends! As my Dad used to say, as the tyres of our white Valiant wagon hit the the bitumen almost 20km from home:

"Aaaahhhh! Gotta love that black stuff!"

And as picturesque as dirt roads may be, the sight of a strip of sparkly blue metal stretching through our hills, well... it sure made this skirt fly up!

Even the smell of steaming liquid bitumen was somehow sweet... and exciting...

And you have to trust that I wasn't the only soul wound up by the roadwork activity... here comes my uncle in that ute to the left of this photo. It was his birthday, the day the bitumen went down... and he took it as his very own personal gift.

(Sure it was a gift he had significantly contributed to. We all had. But the timing was immaculate! Happy Birthday T!)

Go you good thing!

Nice clearance I must say - those old rodeo knees were feeling NO PAIN this day. And Bon Bon's still got plenty of lift in those slender pins! Go girlfriend!!

And for many weeks after that fateful day last October, the two-way radios in these parts were abuzz with bitumen-inspired conversations...

"How's that road of mine looking today?"

"You're not driving bloody dirt onto our new road, are ya?"

"Gotta love that black stuff, mate!"

Sure, it's a strange things for a city chick to get excited about... it's not a sale at the upmarket clothing outlet, or a Robbie Williams concert, but I'm back into the swing of things here. And my bells were a'ringin!

What rings your chimes??