Diving in

You know that old platitude about feeling the fear and doing it anyway? The picture above embodies that for me.

But alongside the fear, it was a moment in which I felt intensely, joyously, indescribably happy and alive. Pretty much as only diving into a hidden, waterfall-fed pool in the middle of the world’s oldest rainforest can make you feel.

So while fear and that incandescent spark that punches you in the lungs with joy every now and then are uncomfortable bedfellows, they are fellows nonetheless. For me, anyway.

I actually did this trip to Far North Queensland 12 months ago (and yep, have been meaning to write about it since then – I am not awesome at keeping up at the moment) but as we are about to embark on another couple of trips I feel the clammy hand of fear and worry mixing with the sweet anticipation. I kind of accept that this is how it will always be for me now. Post-Bali bombings I am a much more frightened, cautious person. But if I let that go to its natural conclusion I would also be a hermit. I’m tempted sometimes.

Instead, I keep on diving in. Because I just cannot let the fear take up the whole bed. I deserve at least half the space. And all the doona.

The trip to this waterfall was extraordinary.

We usually go to Far North Queensland for our annual family holiday anyway but this time I had tagged along as a spouse on a conference handsome husband had been asked to speak at.

The conference organisers arranged for the attending partners to explore either the rainforest or the reef. I was the only one who chose the rainforest tour. Which meant I got a private 4 hour tour of a part of the world I am obsessed with. My idea of total heaven.

Coincidentally, the group booked to run the tour, Daintree Discovery Tours, was the company we have always gone out with the three other times we have explored the Daintree and my guide that day was the owner of the company, Grant, whom I had met before. So when he realised it was just me we changed all the plans (as I had already done a number of the things he had planned) and devised a custom trip instead.

The highlight of which was Cassowary Falls. The falls are on private property and access to them is very limited. We drove in through the rainforest, across a croc-infested tributary of the Daintree River and onto farm land.

I have always loved the farm land in this area. It’s such a beautiful contrast:  the manicured green pasture with the wild rainforest in the background.

It’s not all green and pleasant though. The cows that graze along this river are sometimes taken by crocodiles if they stray too close to the edge. Yep, they’re bloody big crocs.

So we drove in and then swapped cars for the final kilometre into the falls.

This was the view behind us – and you can see it’s a serious truck with those roll bars…

and this was what lay ahead.

We forded creeks, and bumped our way over muddy tracks through fields and into the forest again.

You have to walk the last 100 metres or so and then, suddenly, you find yourself in an oasis. It’s hard to describe what it’s like to stand on the rocky edge of a tranquil pool, the falls thundering down and the rainforest looming all around, lush and persistent.

And not another soul. It was pretty much a religious experience.

Grant convinced me two swim over to the falls and then dive back in. I knew the minute I saw the place that I was going to do that.

I mean, I knew it was safe to dive where I did because Grant did it first and showed me where to aim for a shallow dive. And I knew it was too high and cold for crocodiles. But still.  There are cow-eating crocs just a couple of kilometres away and, well, what if genetic mutation has bred a cold-water tolerant, waterfall pool-loving man-eater of some kind?

It’s funny, the fear is there but something else takes over: the overwhelming desire to experience, to make the most of the moment regardless of the risk – real or perceived.

The next shot gives you a sense of the scale. You can see my little head floating below, looking back in wonder at the falls. Actually I’m watching a water dragon lizard scramble up the rocks but you can’t quite make him out.

So if there was a croc lurking in the deep he did not grab me. The turtles sunning themselves on logs stayed well clear and my only wildlife encounter was with the tiny leeches that attached themselves between my toes. Again. What is it with me and leeches? Grant said he’d never come across one in all his time bringing people into the falls.  I, however, as this post attests, have now had more than my fair share of encounters with these suckers in this part of the world.

This photo makes me laugh.

I mean, any day you get to go off-roading in a zebra truck is a good day.

After Cassowary Falls we had lunch at a private spot at Mossman Gorge. Once again, a beautiful experience. And once again I got to swim in the crystal clear waters of the gorge all on my own. I still can’t quite believe it.

 

The year before when we were in Port Douglas for our annual family holiday we did a guided walk through this part of the rainforest (near Mossman Gorge) with one of the elders of the Kuku Yalanji tribe, the traditional owners of this land. It was one of the highlights of all our trips there.

I know I’m swiftly running out of superlatives but this part of the world does that to you.

Our guide was Harold and he is a revered elder and a renowned medicine man who not only uses the rainforest as his pharmacy but is also used by the North Queensland police as a professional tracker in hard-to-crack cases. He uses his peoples’ traditional song lines to navigate and locate people who are lost in the rainforest.

A thick book Harold showed us at the end of the walk attests to the fact he has healed hundreds of people from all over the world. As an interesting aside, he is also Cathy Freeman’s uncle and officiated at her wedding!

Here’s a hot n’ sweaty baby Betty!

She appreciated the swim at the end in this magical place.

Harold was a superb  guide and pointed out the eleventy billion things that can kill you but also talked about all the natural remedies and tools he uses ranging from plants and berries through to the pincers of the ubiquitous green ants that can be used in place of stitches  or surgical staples to keep wounds closed.

There are berries that look so similar that pretty much only a Kuku Yalanji member could tell apart; one heals, the other send you blind. There are cancer-inhibiting plants. These are just starting to be explored by western medical interests. Happily, any profits that flow from future medical discoveries  from this area – and the potential is HUGE –  will be fed back into this community. That gives me comfort.

As we walked through dense forest the rhythmic echo of wood on wood became louder and louder. Suddenly a clearing emerged; a natural amphitheatre and there we listened to stories of the aboriginal dreamtime from this area.

I can’t recommend both of these tours enough. Daintree Discovery Tours  for a general tour of the area and a Dreamtime tour with the Mossman Gorge Centre.

I don’t know why I feel such a strong pull to this part of Australia.But I just can’t get enough of it.

Here are some of my other posts about Port Douglas and surrounds:

Our Holiday

I survived 

Far North Queensland

Summer Snapshots

Summer Snapshots 2

River Drifting 

Listen to Sir David Attenborough’s endorsement of the Daintree Rainforest over and above even the Amazon!

So tomorrow morning we head to the airport for our next adventure. One familiar place and one entirely new for us.

Deep breath. Dive in.

An idyllic weekend in the Cotswolds complete with English summer fete

A few Saturdays ago I was somewhat shocked to find myself sipping Pimms by a stream in the sunshine in the English countryside.  Shocked because I felt as though I had left Melbourne just a few hours before and yet here I was; ensconced in a vignette of Cotswold life so achingly beautiful and perfect and seemingly quintessential that I truly felt as though I had stumbled onto a movie set.

It had been, in fact, some 35 hours earlier that we had left Melbourne for this most green and pleasant of lands . But long-haul flights do funny things to your perception of time. Cocooned in the warmth and half-light of an aeroplane cabin dimmed for sleep, time seems to compress as you fly from afternoon into an ocean-crossing night that stretches for 20 odd hours.

The trip started brilliantly before we had even touched down. The sun was rising just as we flew in to land at Heathrow. Out of the window the first thing that came into view as we pierced  through the clouds was green farmland with the Thames, gleaming a dark olive in the weak dawn light, snaking in a thick band through the countryside.

I’m somewhat obsessed with rivers. Especially rivers so old and venerable as the Thames so it was miraculous for me to be able to follow this vast waterway virtually from its mouth, up through green fields until it glittered below in its familiar loop in the very centre of London itself. As the sun rose higher and gave bright colour to the landscape below, we cruised over Hyde Park and began to circle.

I literally had my nose pressed against the glass of the window as I drank in the scenes below me. Deeply green fields, mist lying in the lowest depressions and occasionally something truly spectacular like a castle with its own lake. A lake so large it had formed its own weather system and two small clouds were reflected in its mill pond-still surface. Or a small town with cathedral on a river, the white points of which reached skyward in gothic peaks.

But back to terra firma.

By 6am, my handsome husband and I were in our rental car and headed straight from Heathrow out into the English countryside.

By 7am the dulcet tones of our GPS had guided us to Bibury, a charming Cotswold village. We did a three hour loop walk through the town, the nearby woods and fields. It was utterly beautiful.

English countryside. There. is. nothing. like. it.

I confess that I cried. About 6 times. I was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty and a deep-seated sense of being so ridiculously fortunate.

Feeling pretty tired after that we decided to head for the place we were staying: Lords of the Manor in Upper Slaughter. When you are saying “Lords of the Manor in Upper Slaughter” you have to do so in a Penelope Keith-type accent. It’s the law.

On our way we saw a sign to the remains of a Roman villa from the 3rd century. We detoured. I was in heaven:  nerding out on Roman history in the middle of an Elysian setting.

Continuing on along tiny country lanes lined with stone walls and flower-filled hedgerows we arrived in Upper Slaughter.

It is a tiny little town.

As we turned into the main street  a sign read “Upper Slaughter summer fete – today 3-6pm.” I looked at Andrew in disbelief. It was too good to be true. “If there is British bunting and a church jumble sale, I will die” I said.

Then I died.

And then I died again because in addition to the above there were rubber duck races along the rush-lined stream, a Pimms stall AND Morris dancers.

So you’d forgive a lass for sitting in the sun with her Pimms and pinching herself. And you’d forgive her if she shed another little tear at the sheer perfection of it all.

The next afternoon we wandered down to the stream again. In Australia you would see the grass strewn with cigarette butts and crushed beer cans. Of course in Upper Slaughter, all that remained was this:

a neat pyramid of empty Pimms bottles.  LOVE.

I have a few more UK posts coming up. Stay tuned to see whether Loooords of the Manor was as frightfully as it sounds, a little more of the stunning Cotties plus a quick trip to Bath (where I again totally nerd out on all things Roman),  and then on to London.

But first, tomorrow I’ll be posting a quick craft tutorial. It’s been a long time between crafty drinks hasn’t it?

Spring crafts with fresh flowers

One thing I really notice about bringing our kids up in an urban environment is the lack of flowers you can pick. Growing up on the bush outskirts of Melbourne we always had flowering plants somewhere in our huge yard and we picked them as we pleased. In retrospect, possibly  not as my mum pleased though.

On  our walks around our local area I feel like I’m constantly saying to the kids “don’t pick those flowers” or “they belong to the person who has grown them” or  “leave them there so everyone gets to enjoy them.”  Every now and then we sneak a cheeky daisy where the flowering is so prolific that no one is likely to miss it, but that’s about it.

So when we spend time at my parent’s place on the Gippsland Lakes, it’s as though they’ve been let loose in a veritable flowering garden of Eden. And while I do subscribe to the theory of leaving beautiful things be for everyone to enjoy, there’s nothing like gathering a big bunch of flowers from the garden, feeling the stickiness of stems and sap, the velvet touch of petals against your fingers and inhaling the scent all to yourself.

After a recent gathering spree we dissected some flowers . Well, not so much dissected as simply reduced them to their constituent parts. It’s remarkable just how many tiny bits and pieces make up a seemingly simple flower.

The inspiration to pull our flowers apart came from this post to which a  lovely friend recently linked me after tipping, correctly, that I’d love it.

Another flowery craft that harks back to when my mother was a whippersnapper, is this gorgeous plate of fresh blooms.

Sophia made that one and it lasted with all the flowers in pristine condition for four days next to our bed. Such a beautiful thing to do for guests who are staying.

You simply lay cotton wool balls on a plate, spray them (generously but not so much that they are saturated) with water and then layer your petals, or indeed whole flowers, on top.

And yes, as you can see, you can draw a cheeky face on a rose bud to make your plate that much friendlier.

Other beloved Spring activities are running through sprinklers…

and playing EXCITING ball games.

And yes, thanks for asking, I am actually thinking of a career in digital graphic design after such a sterling effort on Olive’s little top there. The more I botched it the more it made me giggle and so the more I did. I think the scalloping is an especially subtle touch don’t you?

And here’s the patch we got the daisies from. I call this photo “I am smiling, mum”.

The baby Bettys in the Children’s Garden at the Melbourne Royal Botanic Gardens

Spring is really springing here and we’ve had a few days of really gorgeous weather. But, because this is Melbourne, they are predicting hail and gale-force winds with patches of 40 degree Celsius heat tomorrow. Well not quite but you get the unpredictable picture.

With the warmer weather my mind is turning to picnics and one of the best places to spread your rug in Melbourne is at the Royal Botanic Gardens.

These photos were taken in the Children’s Garden at the beginning of last Autumn  – right before it turned wear-your-socks-to-bed cold.  It’s such a great space; I really  love it. As do the Baby Bettys. Which is a always a bonus when you’re dragging them somewhere for the morning.

There are so many different colours, patterns and textures, not to mention hidden spots to explore and, well, hide in but all pulled together in a somehow tranquil way.

The stream is a highlight – perfect for sailing leaf boats down and paddling in  – and there’s no stopping them, no matter how cold the day. So I don’t even try.

Each end of the stream leads to a different world: one to a tiny rocky island with secret paths through child-tall reeds,

the other to a slightly weird and lumpy fountain. The spouts of which the littlest one delights in stopping with her finger to freak out her big sister with the threat of a sudden soaking.

It’s a special spot within the greater Gardens) and I am making a vow now that this year I will do a proper picnic there one weekend. And when I say proper I mean one with  pink lemonade or, – as I like to call it – Moscato.

PS: Click here to go to my guest post during the Northern Hemisphere Spring a while back on The Salty Pineapple blog for the how-to for my ultimate, portable picnic dessert: trifle in a mason jar.

Fork the garden

So very many potential  jokes to be made with the word “fork”  that my head is spinning. But I shall attempt to refrain. Well, I’ll do my forkin’ best anyway (I believe that is what is referred to in hilarious circles as a “forkin’ fail”). BOOM TISH – I’ll be here every night this week folks.

I ordered these lovely forks from Made It seller me2 as the final touch in my upcycled wooden planter I told you about in this post.

Melanie was a delight to work with and happily agreed to my request to stamp exhortations on my pretty forks rather than names of herbs.

The thing I just love about these forks is that as well as looking really pretty and glinting in the sunlight in a most fetching manner, they can be used for actual gardening. The baby Bettys just love using them.

So if you are planning on going and getting yourself forked in the garden (and who doesn’t contemplate it at some stage or another) I can recommend these lovely tri-pronged tools.

Ooh err, missus!

Afishionados

We went to get two goldfish and came back with a heater, a lamp, water conditioner, water buffer, live brine, a scoop, cleaning thingies, special dried fish food and two temperamental but very beautiful Golden Balloon Rams which are not, despite their name, of the ovine variety. They’re fish.  And thank goodness, really. It took a little bit to convince my handsome husband that we (ie, he) would love cleaning the tank every week. I think bi-annual shearing would have really been stretching the friendship.

They really are the funniest little fish. They’re territorial but they do chat to each other if they happen to meet in the tank. And when they do, the iridescent blue spots on the back half of their bodies and fins light up. It’s pretty amazing.

I love this next photo because if you look carefully on the far left, you can just see Lucy’s head in the reflection of the tank wall. She spends a lot of her time hiding behind her jar. While if you squint at the right hand jar, you can just see Lucy suspended inside hers. Hiding. Or so she thinks.

Oh yeah, did I tell you they are both named Lucy? Yep. They’re both named for our beloved Lucy who looks after the girls two days a week while I’m working. So now we have three Lucy’s in the family. And we feel very lucky indeed.

Scenes from our summer holiday

It just wouldn’t be summer without…

golden twilights on the deck,

at least one bloody huge Huntsman spider in our room (the kids’ screams alerted us to its presence),

thongs,

dreams of crayfish caught if not the actual crustaceans themselves,

spectacular sunsets,

sandcastles; this one for mermaid fairies complete with mussel shell swimming pool,

shrieks of joy running under the sprinkler (which was running in strict accordance with all applicable water restrictions I hasten to add).

I hope everyone had a lovely start to 2011 and I’d like to wish you all a safe, peaceful and joyous 2011 full of good stuff.

I’d also like to say a HUGE THANK YOU to all of you, my treasured readers. And a special thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment. Your encouragement, feedback and just plain kindness is paramount in keeping me krumping in time with the music. Because, let’s face it, some people have the confidence to krump it up in the middle of the dance floor all by themselves, but most of us prefer to dance with someone else. So I’m very grateful to those of you who twirl along with me in this jig.

My weekend: the pool, pins, some planting and a party. Perfect.

Last weekend was a long weekend here and we managed to fit in some lovely things.

I am consistently guilty of trying to fit too much into our weekends (like waaaaaaaaay too much) but for once I managed to get the balance (almost) right.

We start every weekend at 8am on Saturday with swimming lessons. Getting up and out the door to be in the pool by 8am is not the most relaxing way to start the day but we’re always happy once we’re there.

We swim on the site of some historic old sea baths and it’s a unique place because not only do the floor-to-ceiling glass walls provide a spectacular view of the beach and bay just outside, but the water in the pool is actually filtered water from the bay. I don’t know of many pools (indoor pools, anyway) where you can actually look out to the beach and ocean beyond as you swim. You can see Tasmania on a clear day. Well, almost.

The photo at the top is Olive and I at that beach a couple of months ago. She’s a reluctant toe-dipper.  And, ummm, despite the fact it might appear from this photo that I have a hump on my back, I don’t. As far as I know. (Note to self: check back for hump).

You can see the building the pool is in the background here.  And check out the chubby legs on that person on the bottom left. Edible.

The other benefit is that the therapeutic value of sea water is well-known and although it stings your eyes  (and back of the throat if you’re unlucky enough to get a mouthful) it has far less chlorine and other irritants usually found in the water of traditional pools.

Here’s Evil Knievel powering down the pool.

The rest of Saturday I spent working on some cherry brooches (I only used the word “pins” in the title because I was on a “p” kick) and butterfly hair clips for a  wholesale order I had from a lovely online shop in South Korea.

On Sunday we finally got around to putting in a small vegetable garden.  This is something I  had on my “to-do in 2010” list and it was great to finally see it realised.  If I’m honest I think I enjoyed finally ticking it off my list as much as I enjoyed doing it. Yes, that does make a profound statement about my character.

When one of our enormous olive trees suddenly fell over for no apparent reason 6 weeks or so ago (could have been a disaster if anyone was in the courtyard)  I cried.  Then we found the silver lining: not only did we get to collect all the ripe olives from its uppermost branches that we would otherwise never have been able to reach, but we also ended up with the perfect little square space for a small vegie plot.

Here’s the space after my husband (handsome and hardworking) prepared it with some organic compost.

The olive trees to the left have since been well and truly lopped, basically cut in half, by a handsome arborist. The same arborist to whom, when we were arranging which date he would be coming, I sent a text which I inadvertently (force of habit) ended with “xxx” ie “kiss kiss kiss”. Mortifying. Not least because after I tweeted about having done it (because although mortifying I also thought people might find it amusing) a twitter account called “Builder’s Crack” (sexy) picked it up and re-tweeted it to thousands of tradesmen. So now they know twirling betty is a potentially desperate housewife.  But I digress.

Both girls were very excited to be involved. Sophia got the ball rolling by tickling her nose with the chives.

Olive enjoyed taking as much of the carefully prepared soil as she could and chucking it around the courtyard.

Here’s Sophia reverently planting the climbing pea  that she germinated from a seed at kinder, raised to a seedling and then brought home for planting.

We planted a couple of kinds of lettuce, silverbeet, some swiss chard, broad beans (which I hope will poke their little heads through the spoil, see the trellis, and make for it with glee), and my all time favourite, cavolo nero:

Sometimes called Tuscan black cabbage, this is so yummy and nutritious and reminds me of many delicious winter soups and stews we ate in Italy.

Later in the season we have grand plans for strawberries and tomatoes and perhaps another raised bed with carrots and cucumbers. And herbs. And we might pop in a coffee plantation while we’re at it.

I sourced some of our seedlings (and plan to get the strawberry and tomato seeds) from Diggers Club. This is a fabulous place just outside of Melbourne where you can buy heirloom seeds and seedlings. The owner is committed to the preservation of heirloom and rare varieties and putting CO2 back into the earth. He’s quite inspirational, and although I haven’t been yet, apparently the gardens at Heronswood, the estate he lives on, are spectacular.  I sense a day-trip in my future.

The only problem is, other than nurturing a thriving vegetable patch one season many years ago in Canberra, I do seem to have a bit of a black thumb. That is, I kill plants. Inadvertently, mind. Thankfully, my mum has a spectacular green thumb. So although she’s given up giving me plants, she does come around and provide wise counsel when things get desperate in our tiny garden.

In order to maximise our chances of success (what me? results oriented? never) I wanted to read all the books, consult all the charts, make all the lists and then start planting. Andrew, as is his wont, said “let’s just chuck some in and see what happens”. He’s cool like that.

So, it’s been a week and so far all the plants are still upright and green! And, touch wood, uneaten by pests. I read somewhere that sprinkling crushed eggshells around the perimeter of your vegies will keep snails and slugs away. Does anyone else have any good chemical-free pest solutions? I’d be grateful for any and all advice.

And so we come to the party bit of the weekend.

On Monday morning I hosted a small morning tea to celebrate the fact my father was awarded a Member of the Order of Australia in this year’s Australian honours list. To say I’m proud is an understatement. He was only one of 10 Victorians to receive that level of honour this year!

Dad has always devoted at least 50% of his professional time to charitable works. He’s chaired more charitable boards than I’ve had hot dinners, has mentored hundreds of youths and contributed to Australian business and enterprise in myriad ways.  We were so thrilled to see him, an extraordinarily modest man, formally recognised.

So I threw a little tea party.

We had chocolate and coffee eclairs, apricot and pistachio tart, macaroons and a chocolate chip Viennoise from a lovely local French bakery and my mum made some delicious little savoury tartlettes  – some with smoked trout, some with roast duck and caramelised onion.

Most of those gorgeous doilies, the table runner, platters and cups have all come to me from Betty, my Grandmother, and many I think came to her from her mother and even Grandmother.

I totally embarrassed Dad by pinning the announcement in the newspaper to our front door – with the relevant bit highlighted.

I also made him this temporary medallion as he doesn’t get his until September when there is the formal presentation ceremony at Government House.

I’m pretty sure it’s quite similar to the official one he’ll receive on the day. Wouldn’t you think?

And finally, this ceramic hat/vase of Betty’s is really a little Pollyanna for my tastes but, being the nostalgic thing I am, I can’t bear to part with it.  And I do love that the brim is designed for fresh flowers. This was the perfect opportunity to actually use it and I managed to find fresh violets to decorate it.

So, my lovely friends, that was our long weekend. Have any of you got up to lovely things on your weekends lately?

Before I finish, I also just wanted to say that I am extraordinarily grateful for the lovely, supportive, encouraging comments people left on my last post about twirling betty visors being in Small Magazine. I appreciated each and every one more than you could know. I tend to a balk at blowing my own trumpet (which is what it felt like I was doing in that post) but was so excited I REALLY wanted to share the news. So I pressed “publish” last week with a little trepidation and was really so touched by your responses.

You guys rock. Let’s krump!

A short holiday

My very handsome (you’re going to have to take my word for it) husband recently got a new job. Hooray. He starts Monday week and we’re taking advantage of his one week of unemployment between now and then to take a short family break on the Gippsland Lakes.

This is a part of the world in which our family has lived and holidayed for 100 years so it holds a pretty special place in all our hearts. Not least because it is where my beloved Grandmother, Betty, for whom twirling betty is named, spent all her childhood holidays and all of the last 25 odd years of her life.

So I’ll be taking a little break from blogging – so short it will be barely noticeable I think – but I just wanted to let you know that’s the reason I won’t be around for a week or so.

If you need me, I’ll be walking on this beach.

My previous life

Redhead II

Back in the olden days I was a lawyer.  Yep, in the early 2000s, I wore chic suits, had my own beautiful office with a view to die for and was surrounded by fascinating, clever people. Now I often hang around in my pyjamas until midday, run my business from our dining table and sometimes go days on end without talking to anyone older than 5.  Ahh, the olden days.

Wave 1

To be honest though, I don’t miss it. I was never really cut out for the stresses of it.  I was extremely hard on myself and took even the tiniest of setbacks very hard indeed. Coupled with this was the fact, as an old boss once told me, that  my sense of justice was far too finely honed to ever be a really good lawyer. He did have his tongue planted in his cheek when he said it (I think?) but there was, I think, more than  grain of truth to what he said. To this day injustice makes me incandescent with rage. Hardly the cool-headed approach required for a commercial settlement.

Surfboard 02

That same boss was (still is) a very good lawyer.  And, more importantly to me, a very good human. He basically  taught me everything I know and helped me go from being a bundle of graduate nerves to an okay lawyer with enough confidence to at least fool some of the people most of the time. I’m not meaning to get all To Sir with Love on you here but I was lucky to have him as my boss, and I’m still lucky to have him as my friend.

A couple of years ago he began sculpting.  Just out of the blue. With large pieces of metal. And found he could make them into amazing, flowing forms that reflected the bushfire scarred rural environment around his farm. Unsurprisingly, John’s had a great response to his work. I think they’re beautiful.

Arc

John’s work is being exhibited with the work of 3 other artists near Canberra on May 16th and if you’re nearby you might like to go and see it. It looks as though it will be a really beautiful exhibition. Here are the details.

If you had told me 8 years ago when John and I were in a conference with clients that less than a decade down the track he’d be exhibiting his sculptures in Canberra and I would be sewing headbands on my dining room table I would have laughed.  Guffawed.  Sniggered.  Snorted. And yet, here we are. Life rocks that way.

All photos (c) John Topfer.