Currawong heart

Blue mobsters

I was in the garden the day the blue wren fledglings flew the nest. 

I had watched as they built the nest in a prickly acacia right beside the path to the vege patch. A wren in the chook yard collecting feathers is a bit of a give away. Things went quiet for a while as the parents sat on the eggs, then once the babies hatched life got busy for them. That was when the rest of the mob joined in. There was a constant stream of them, catching food and delivering to the hungry mouths in the nest.   

That morning, I was seated on the deck, savouring the early sunshine and the last mouthful of my breakfast, cashews and craisins. Two tiny grey shapes flashed across the corner of my eye. They zoomed onto the verandah, rapidly followed by Blake who dived after them. One veered up and away, the other was hidden behind Blake's large furry body. I yelled and jumped up in an instant my heart in my mouth. Horror at he thought of the tiny baby disappearing down his gullet.

Blake pulled back instantly and I saw a little pile of grey feathers on the ground ... not moving. This was not looking good. I picked up the body, it was alive, unharmed, but had a tangle of spider webs ensnaring a wing and a foot. No wonder it bombed onto the ground. You should have seen the blue wren mob suddenly appear when I picked the baby up. I was surrounded by four grey females and three bright blue males all scolding me. Very unhappy mobsters. 

The fledgling felt so fragile as I carefully pulled the sticky web away. It was a delicate operation, the bird was tiny, just a few grams and the thinnest legs you can imagine. Finally free of web, I let it go, wondering how it could possibly fly at all, it had such a short tail and the bird was sooo tiny. But it was up and away onto the beams of the shadehouse. Soon the family were there beside it and normal feeding resumed.

This is the baby with a fuzzy parent in the foreground.

At long last

 There is a pair of Pacific Black Ducks that have lived here for some years.

 I have never seen them with young until now. 

Look what appeared on our dam this week.

They have manged to raise seven ducklings that are now half grown. 

 Here they are after their swim heading off in single file. 

It is fantastic to see. 

Quink quink, kik kik

For over a week I stalked Western Rosellas. They could be seen from inside the house on the Guitenotia bush, feasting on the seed pods. The soft silky grey foliage was bejewelled by flashes of red, yellow, blue and green. As soon as I walked outside they would be off flying down the paddock, not returning till I had gone back inside. I could hear their high pitched 'quink quink ..quink quink' but not see them. Despite their bright colouring they are difficult to see if they want to stay hidden. Western Rosellas tend to feed quietly in pairs or small groups. Around here that is often on the ground in the pasture or in fruit trees if they are not netted.

In the end, when there were few seeds left on the bushes, I persevered. I stayed outside and stalked them. I'd see a bird, it would see me, then take off. This loop played out over and over. Finally the above bird returned and landed on some kangaroo paws. It looked at me - shocked - when it realised I was only metres away. Something changed and it lost its caution. The Rosella flew over to the Guitenotia and ate happily while it watched me as I photographed it.

In this last week the Sacred Kingfishers have returned for their summer breeding season. The pair here called to each other 'kik kik kik kik'; one near our house the other down by the creek. This fellow hunted for food, swooped down to the ground and back up to a high vantage point before it flew down the hill towards it's mate.

Beach surprise

After an absence of several weeks I finally got to the beach today. Miske had been in season which meant we had been confined to walking in 'safe' locations: down to the dam and back or into the bush next door. Definitely not to the dog beach. Blake, the puppy we kept, had been taken to the beach a few times by friends when they took their dogs down to the beach, so he had at least had a bit of fun. Blake is now as big as his mum, much to her chagrin. She wants to be boss and he wants to be annoying. Now Blake just woofs at her to let her know he isn't happy about something. I have seen her give up a bone to him after one woof. Not a good precedent if she wants to stay boss.

The tide was way out exposing thin green slivers of water weed laying flat on the limestone rocks, the weeds occasionally raised up as an incoming wave lifted and swirled around and over then raced towards my feet tracing the moving edges of the water. Sooty oyster catchers with their distinctive red beaks and eyes took advantage of the low tide, and picked and probed a smorgasbord fresh from the rocks.

While I was photographing the ocean an immature Pacific Gull lazily drifted into my picture frame. 

It floated along the jagged limestone edge just in front of us before it flapped up and off further down the beach before commencing the lazy drift again. 

The last thing I expected to see down the beach this morning was a small flock of white tailed black cockatoos. They were feeding on the seeds of the wild geranium growing only metres from the sandy beach. The birds were half hidden on the ground, becoming visible as they flapped up and drifted a few metres along with the breeze, then dropped down to feed once more.

Look carefully there are five cockies in the image above.

Here they are much easier to pick out. They are probably Baudin's Cockatoo as they breed in karri country as opposed to Carnaby's Cockatoo which breed mainly in the wheatbelt. Their different bill shapes are rather difficult to determine from a distance. Baudin's has a long narrow upper bill and Carnaby's has a short thick upper bill. Their calls are different too, but these fellows were too busy eating to be calling.

Prospector and Dreamer

We found a beautiful campsite just out of Mount Magnet, beside a thicket of cool and shady pepper trees, in the ghost town of Lennonville.

We camped on the other side of these pepper trees

It seems William Louis Smith had loved it too. Under the trees in the dense shade was a plaque remembering him: 1910 - 1996, loved father and grandfather, prospector and dreamer. The camp has a freestanding fireplace and hearth; the rectangle in the picture. There are wires strung up on which to hang shadecloth, a comfy chair and tables made from heavy machinery parts.

Camp for dreaming

Above in the trees was an occupied bird of prey nest; we heard the young calling to the parents. I think they were whistling kites. My bird book describes them as scruffy gingery birds. At sunrise three birds sunned themselves in first warming rays. (And a happy camper in William Louis Smith's camp could do the same.) 

Whistling kites 

Lennonville was established in 1898 when gold was found there. In it's heyday it boasted five pubs, and a railway line servicing the population of up to 3,000 people. The Welcome Gold Mine, just two miles north of Lennonville, produced nearly 5,000 ounces of gold.  

Mining ruins

One strike there was particularly rich producing up to seven ounces of gold to the ton of ore. The story goes that a favoured Sunday outing for people was to go to the mine to marvel at the dazzling display of gold in the richest veins. I can just imagine ladies in long skirts and gentlemen in dapper duds ooing and aahing in the heat and dust. 

The only thing left standing in Lennonville

From 1905 the town and gold dwindled in tandem with each other. A fire in 1909 destroyed the main part of town hastening it's decline into a ghost town. 

Lennonville railway platform

As to William Louis Smith, we know nothing more. 

But it surely helps to be a dreamer chasing gold out here; it is a tough environment. 

Then again, perhaps all prospectors are dreamers?

Twisting vine

Firing into the night

I have been playing with clay recently something which I have hardly touched since I was still a teenager. Part of the fun this time around has been experimenting with raku and pit firing. All this has was done in the few weeks before we headed off on our holidays.

Raku firing in the rain

Flaming hot!

Looking inside the bin raku kiln

The smoking sawdust before the lid went on

Raku pot which had been thinly glazed in part

Raku pot

Raku pot which had been thinly glazed in part

Pit fire with copper flame visible

All these firings, bar one, went on into the night. A good way to keep warm in the middle of winter.

Pit fired pot which had been painted with cobalt sulphate

Pot which had been painted with iron sulphate solution

Pit fired pot which had been painted with copper sulphate

The raku pots were textured with carved lino blocks with a banksia theme and the pit fired pots were textured with pressings from banksia leaves, nuts and flowers. All this was inspired by some research I had read about. Some CSIRO reseachers had tracked singing honeyeaters to find out where they travelled. They flew up to about twelve kilometres from their normal home range just to get to a small banksia patch to feed on the blossom there. An amazing feat for such tiny birds.

This last photo was taken at Bilyuin Pool last night. Here I am doing an experimental firing and cooking up some textiles at the same time . The pool is in the background reflecting the lovely white eucalypt trunks in the evening light.

Charmed feathers

My parents stayed with us a little while ago; Dad had been invited to give a talk to a local community group. One morning he spied a heron flying overhead and remarked it looked like the flight of a white-necked heron rather than the ubiquitous white faced heron. I'd never seen them around and said it was sure to be the common variety.

A few days after Mum and Dad had left I saw a strange large white necked bird down by our dam. Hmmm. Perhaps Dad was right after all.

Yesterday I saw it again and grabbed my camera and stalked it from bush to bush as I headed down the hill towards our dam. The bird knew I was there, staring at me, and moving slowly about it's business. It's long white neck waved from side to side, a bit like the cobras being sung to by Indian snake charmers. I don't know if the snakes really do sway from side to side, but it is how I remember them being portrayed.

The bird in turn was stalking things in the grass, perhaps looking for tasty frogs or grasshoppers. But why it had a swaying neck - it's head stayed steady - is still a puzzle.

When I was too close for comfort it flapped over to the other side of the dam. The bird eyeballed me again then came in closer for a drink. The double row of spots on the neck are sported by juveniles. The neck is all white on adult birds. As the birds grow up to a metre in height they are quite impressive.

This bird is sporting plum coloured breeding plumes. I think it looks magnificent. In the south they generally breed in spring to early summer, building a nest in a mature tree near water.

Finally it had had enough of me snapping pictures of it from behind a small tree. It gave a harsh guttural croaking call and slowly flapped off up the valley. 

Languid

The afternoon warm was warm, the air still, lazy. The distant blue waters of the inlet mirrored the sky, occasional soft breezes skirmished the surface. A whipper snipper buzzed down the not so lazy kikuyu that sprang up in the late autumn warmth. A kookaburra claimed his territory.  High in a karri tree a ventriloquist magpie sang the songs of magpies, wattle birds and kookaburras. I wondered if the kookaburra I heard was really the ventriloquist. I don't know.

Then I spied a magpie hanging upside down, its claws clenched onto the tips of a karri branch, swinging wildly. It pecked at a cluster of leaves held together with webs - the hidey hole for some tasty morsels. Swinging. Leaves fluttered to the ground.  With the parcel secure in its beak the maggie arighted itself on a nearby branch to feast. Parcel clutched in the claws of one foot, the other clung to the branch. Peck, peck: it feasted then dropped the leftovers. All the while the ventriloquist sang.

Autumn days like that are just beautiful. Relax, soak up the sun. Watch the puppies gorge themselves on milk, then sleep and get fat. They've certainly got their priorities worked out. I sat in the sun and sketched blue wrens and fire tail finches as they flitted and fed around me.

This was the moon that night - a couple of nights ago. I've been trying to capture the moonrise as it hangs suspended in the last rays of the sunlight but I always seem to miss it. By the time I see the moon through the trees it is way up in the sky - just because of the lie of the land around here.

I remember a few years ago we were travelling up north near the Gascoyne River in the middle of winter. The rising full moon and setting sun both hung suspended above the horizon for what seemed like ages as the sky changed colour from gold and green to peach and pink then indigo that slowly arced across the sky. It was so beautiful.

A flash of gold

I can't believe how time has slipped by - it's nearly a month since I last posted. We've been having plenty of rain and cloudy weather but today we had some lovely sunshine which enlivened the birds in the garden.

A special treat was hearing a male golden whistler calling insistently from the bush next door. I grabbed my camera and hopped through the fence. There he was, up high in the marri canopy, flying from branch to branch and whistling loudly - presumably trying to impress the female who was much closer to the ground.

Female golden whistler

The female was much happier to get close to me - but the male kept his distance - hence the less than wonderful photograph. But isn't he a wonderful colour - his voice is equally impressive.

Male golden whistler

Another fascinating find this weekend was the nest pictured below. The nest had been hidden under a dead banksia and was revealed after I burnt the bush to encourage the banksia cones to release their seeds. It was made of densely woven grasses and looked fairly recent. On looking around I found another older nest under a nearby shrub. It seems that it may be the nest of a banded rail, which is amazing as the site is close to the house and quite a distance from the creek line (dense and damp bush being their favoured habitat). 

So the buff banded rail I saw back in January was probably nesting. Fantastic. Apparently they have a clutch of six or so young that leave the nest soon after they have all hatched.  

Finally, a new holland honeyeater in the sunlight on one of their favourite shrubs at the moment, a beaufortia. The birds fly in and swing off the tall slender branches as they chase the nectar. Their necks are as wispy as the feathery red flowers.