19/03/2022 The Only Certainty is Change.

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The owners of our house have been away bush walking.  They have bush-walked up hill and down dale as the skies opened, torrents of water poured down the mountains, and all the low lands were flooded.

A week ago the weather cleared and they settled down to bush walking in beautiful weather, with the bush all squeaky clean and beautiful after the rain.  Then one little pebble rolled the wrong way under one bush walking boot, and now our home owners are sampling the emergency and fracture care amenities in their nearest hospital.  One has a broken ankle and the other is running around doing all the worrying and organising, as you do when a broken ankle happens a long way from home. 

"Don't worry about the house and the cat!"  We said.  "Make whatever plans you need to and we'll fit in around you."  Then we ran off in a big hurry to make plans A through to Z for cover all eventualities and now we're in limbo, waiting to hear what happens with a broken ankle thousands of km away.

Exploring can still be conducted whilst in limbo, so off we went to check out the Wittunga Botanical Gardens:


 Wittunga was originally a private home owned by one Edwin Ashby, who was ahead of his time in developing the Ashby watering system which, according to the Wittunga pamphlet, was the forerunner of today's sustainable watering practice. There were lots of pretty plants in the Wittunga gardens, and quite a lot of flowers despite the season now being officially Autumn.



On the assumption that our owners will come home earlier we have to step up our game to explore all the places we planned to explore during our stay, and of course we're still jaunting off to Fringe events for the next week or so and still have the pesky responsibilities associated with the cat and house. Roger has done a fantastic job of keeping the pool sparkling, all the while tiptoeing gently on only those parts of the deck which are supported by beams. The cat spends most of the day sleeping.  While she's asleep we hang out and do home stuff, and then we pack up and go out exploring the area.  When we come home she meets us at the door, radiating her displeasure at having woken up and found us gone.  She entirely snubs us for at least five minutes before caving and taking her self-appointed rightful place on Roger's lap. 

I need treats.  I swear my owners give me treats all day long.

 We also have a magpie obligation, of which we were warned when we started the sit.  A special tin of magpie food sits beside the sliding door in the dining room, for the purpose of treats when the magpies come calling.  We haven't seen hide nor hair (feather?) of magpies and were beginning to think that the magpies were entirely a figment of the owners' imaginations until yesterday when,  having watched us awhile to make sure that we were trustworthy, the magpies arrived.  Mum, Dad, and old-enough-to-have-left-the-nest offspring,  they warbled and caroled their little hearts out, singing for their breakfast.  Then they came back at lunchtime and dinner, and whenever one of us walked into the kitchen.  We have put magpie boundaries in place and enforced them in the face of determined warbling from the verandah railing.

 


Now I must go.  More planning awaits.


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