Early Sinclairs

When you read this I will be high above you flying back home.  Or depending on time zone you are reading this, sitting waiting on the tarmac; tucking into something with bubbles; or rewatching The Martian on my small tv screen somewhere over Asia.

This has been both the longest time in Australia for many years. And also the longest time away from my farm.

I had a bit of a pang when I was rummaging through my photo folders for these watercolour shots.  I came across my steep bank of eragrostis grasses above the swimming pool.

Are they mine? Is that enormous garden all mine?  It feels so surreal to see the pale shades of a French winter in the landscape after this brash harsh Australian light.

I mean, really.  Does it have to be this blue?

No filter on my little Nikon digital camera. This is the squinty moment first thing when I open the curtains at Seaforth.  Perhaps I ought to take to wearing sunglasses.

Or perhaps I ought to go back home.

The wake for my father was just wonderful. We had a fantastic day with a gathering of around 70 friends and family. And I must say that the highlight was meeting up with friends I haven’t seen for almost thirty years.

I would have recognized Angus and Jilly anywhere. But knowing they have come all the way from near Goulburn to send off Archie was very touching. And it made me want to race back to their homes at once.

Dare I say that it is a particular lemon verbena bush outside the back kitchen door at B’long (I’m not going to disgrace myself by trying to type Burrungurralong without pausing for ages and trying to do a ‘u’ check) that made me want to have a garden of my own.

I can vividly remember smelling it when I walked out their door on our country visits. So sharp and citrussy in the heat of an Australian summer’s day.

A few leaves always went into my pocket. And they still do now that I grow them myself.  I must ask Angus if he can take a photograph of the plant. I recall it was taller than I was and substantial in girth.

My poor plants have to be hauled indoors in winter as they die from cold. So they are doomed to live their lives in pots.  But the flavour is just as intense, no matter where you grow them.

These pictures are from Archie’s watercolour sketchbook in the 1940s.

I’m not bringing the originals – just photos to remind me of some Australian scenes.

And for a laugh, a photo of the painting that still sits on Archie’s desk after over 50 years.

It’s a painting of a Maori in New Zealand and if you look carefully at the text you will see why he loved it so much.  It bears an uncanny resemblance to my father as well. Minus the tattoos. But he did smoke a pipe.