Kapiti Island, Peel Forest – a nice conjunction


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How tidily sometimes things click together.

I started writing this in the DOC camp at Peel Forest in Canterbury, with bellbird song loud around us. There’s no comms here and I’m in holiday mode, so who knows when I’ll post whatever this turns out to be, but… here’s the conjunction.

Kapiti Island. Peel Forest. Yuval Noah Harari’s book Sapiens.

The book first. It’s an extraordinary scan over the last 70 millennia and into the near future. One of the themes is how fast our species has been able to change its culture (way of organising, belief systems, way of relating etc) over recent history.    Click.

Dry feet landings are always appreciated

Dry feet landings are always appreciated

Then Kapiti Island. With it right on our doorstep at Paraparaumu, and its birds and reputation spreading, it really needed to be seen again.

Many years back we had our Navigate family work picnic over there.   I remember that trip most for the return from the top of the hill. We’d taken the gentler track up, which left the steep one down. We ‘navigated’ that, as I recall, mainly by bum-slide, as the Duignan boys sprang past on young legs that held no fear of tree-roots, rocks or wash-outs.

I am totally converted to walking with sticks - thank you Helen!

I am totally converted to walking with sticks – thank you Helen!

This time, Helen and I opted for the tour to the North End. The trek to the top of the much smaller hill was quite enough for a late January super-hot Sunday – and we timed it perfectly for a return to the Lodge for lunch.

The thing that has stuck in my mind this time, thanks to the great info-sharing by our hosts and guides, is the timescale of the change there.

It was way back in 1870 when the need for, and potential of, Kapiti Island as a conservation site was seen – and it was reserved as a bird sanctuary in 1897.

Slowly and steadily in campaigns over the nearly 120 years since, pests have been removed and the land allowed to regenerate.

Our guide was talking about what they expect to see in the next 40-50 years, as if that time-scale is was more like weeks. So – click! At the same time as land was being relentlessly cleared, and the last huia shot, some of our farther-seeing forebears were starting the culture-change we take for granted today.

Back from the brink - this Takahe is one of a pair having a second crack at nesting this season. Obviously they know we're counting on them....!

Back from the brink – this Takahe is one of a pair having a second crack at nesting this season. Obviously they know we’re counting on them….!

So thence to Peel Forest.   From about 1855, hectares of forest were milled there. Huge kahikatea, totara and matai were ripped out.    But – we’ve just been touching trees estimated to be maybe 1000 years old.

The blip on the side of the trunk is Mani's head!  This totara is almost 3m across.

The blip on the side of the trunk is Mani’s head! This totara is almost 3m across.

Thank you, Arthur Mills. He was a British MP, visiting his brother-in-law who was one of the early settlers/landclearers, and he was so horrified at the destruction he bought 16 hectare of uncut forest, and deeded it on his death. Saved by foresight. Click!

And about touching trees… there’s a nice DOC “touch” in Peel Forest. A sign in one place encourages you to feel the bark of a totara, and consider what you’re experiencing. The texture, the temperature…

Another further along urges you to do the same with the kaihaktea. And yes, it’s cooler to the touch, scalier, quite a different energy sensation. A tactile surprise.

I’ve always touched trees… but now I’m doing it more thoughtfully, expecting different sensations.

Back to Sapiens and how little it takes for us strange creatures to add something new to our thinking. Click!


Pukeko Crossing


There is something in me maybe someday to be written; now it is folded, and folded, and folded, like a note in school.

Sharon Olds

Sometimes there’s too much needing to be done, to leave much time for the pleasure of unfolding my thoughts.  And sometimes, a story just unfolds in front of you.

It’s pukeko-chick time – and  little nursery of them came out for their road-safety training.  In Switzerland at the start of each primary school-term we see flocks of littlies lined up on one side of the road, getting their instructions in safe crossing from high-viz jacketed teachers. The littlies wear high-viz shoulder sashes on their way to and from school too.

In pukeko-land, the high-viz colours of the adults are courtesy of nature, but the littlies are dull black. Only their ridiculously long legs and big feet give their future splendour away.

So, let the pictures unfold the story…..


Look right, look left....

Look right, look left….

... and cross.

… and cross.

Waiiiiit....     There's always one....

Waiiiiit…. There’s always one….

Okay - now you hop up here.

Okay – now you hop up here.

Two up...

Two up…

....three clambering....




OK - you just need to try harder....

OK – you just need to try harder….

.. or maybe try down here....

.. or maybe try down here….

... just jump!

… just jump!

... perhaps if I come down and demonstrate?

… perhaps if I come down and demonstrate?

Oh do come on.. we're heading for the swamp.

Oh do come on.. we’re heading for the swamp.

Made it!

Made it!

..but wait. I'm exHAUSTed

..but wait. I’m exHAUSTed

And so it unfolded.  And for a while, there was nothing else to do in the world, but watch.

And then… just as I was finishing writing this…back they came past my window, heading for the lake.


IMG_2110_1 IMG_2112_1

Come on...

Come on…

Where ARE those stragglers?

Where ARE those stragglers?

Stalking Storks


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I promised storks.  I thought they could wait a while. But the  storks themselves demand telling right now.

And not the promised storks of Alsace, but the storks of Bodensee are centre and front of the story.

We were pedalling back from a herb-gathering ride, and I saw one-two-three…more… flying over the willows by the Alten Rhein (the old Rhine which forms the boundary between us and Austria).  We stopped – and so in a sense did they, pausing their directional flight to spend five minutes, maybe more, making  spirals and loops  in an ever-changing formation.  There were thirty of them.  Thirty storks!



Flight planning meeting

Flight planning meeting

When Mani was a boy, there were storks around here.  But for the first decade-plus of our summers here, we saw none.

Then – it was 2011 – we saw two (we couldn’t presume to call them a couple) regularly in the fields, and they were joined for the wondrous sight of  13 storks all gathered on the airport making their flight-plans for migration.

Since then summers here have had storks.  Up to four in nearby fields.   But this lot… breathtaking!

IMG_0995_1So now of course I’ve done my research ( I love Wikipedia), and find that Mani’s memory matches.   The last wild storks were seen in Switzerland in 1950, seven years before he “migrated” to NZ.  Then industrialisation and changes in agriculture including draining of wetlands and large-scale maize growing took them to “Near Threatened” status across Europe in 1988.

Since then preservation and reintroduction programmes have succeeded in bringing them back to “Least Concern” status. Programmes like the one we visited in Alsace have been given much of the credit – and in Switzerland there’s been a programme of release of zoo-reared storks. Success!

Well – some success.  The last figures I found were that 175 pairs were recorded breeding in Switzerland in 2000. But their breeding success rates were seen to be low.  Perhaps they’ve got better at it in the last decade, for us to have seen 30 in one flight.

A "phalanx" of storks

A “phalanx” of storks

There’s something of a moral here about the risks and benefits of cohabiting with humans.  Storks benefitted by the introduction of agriculture – they like open meadows instead of scrubland, and they liked that humans liked them enough to allow, and even encourage them despite the filth they drop, to build nests on tall human-made structures with tiled roofs that release warmth into the night air. Then changes in human activity threatened their existence, but human regard for them also supported their return. In Poland, they even uplift nests from the top of pylons and re-settle them in safer places.  The moral might be something about the benefits of being a large imposing charismatic bird  with a heap of mythological values about it instead of something small and scurrying and creepy!

The other storks, the ones I thought I’d be writing about, were more static.

The wild ones were in their nests on the towers of old buildings in Alsation towns, still feeding their young which are fully-fledged now, but not yet leaving home.

The city door at Turkheim, Alsace

The city door at Turkheim, Alsace

Why one of the collective nouns is "a filth of storks"

Why one of the collective nouns is “a filth of storks”




They reminded me of a wonderful evening some years back in Rust by the Neusiedlersee – the lake that separates Austria and Hungary. We wandered into town – me without my camera, an infrequent mistake but always deeply regretted!   That was when I discovered that Rust is famous for its storks – they seemed on be on almost every rooftop down one old street.   It was sunset – and the storks standing in their nests, or swooping in on parental duties, all had their white breasts tinged with pink.   Of course I went back with my camera the next evening…. No sunset.  Just the loud beak-clatter which they use to communicate.

St Martins Cathedral in Colmar

St Martins Cathedral in Colmar


Perhaps they've recently cleaned the tiles...

Perhaps they’ve recently cleaned the tiles…




Then there were the storks in the Stork Reintroduction Centre at Hunawihr.  By 1983, that region of Alsace was down to three nesting pairs.  The diagnosis was that extinction could follow the dangers of migration: electrocution, hunting, drought in Africa, and pesticides.  Solution: remove the  migratory instinct.

Raising young in umbrella'd comfort

Raising young in umbrella’d comfort

If you’re down to three pairs, they’d better stay home and breed!

So, they keep some eggs in the reproduction aviary, and the baby storks stay confined there for three winters.   Tough love, but by the time they’re let out as sexually mature adults, they’ve lost their migratory urge.

They stay safely in the Centre’s park or neighbouring villages and do their work of increasing the species.

Their young pop out of the egg with their migratory urge intact,  but there are enough of them now to take the risk.  By 2011, there were 600 nesting pairs in Alsace.

The Stork Reintroduction Centre's bird park

The Stork Reintroduction Centre’s bird park

Storks spend so much time preening they were used as a symbol for conceit in medieval England.  When you've got into this mess, it's a job!

Storks spend so much time preening they were used as a symbol for conceit in medieval England. When you’ve got into this mess, it’s a job!

So now the Centre is working on otters – from 1991 they’ve been releasing then regularly into the  wild.

An otter demonstrating fish-catching skills

An otter demonstrating fish-catching skills in the Centre’s Fishing Animal Show


It pays to be cute if you need to be rescued.

It pays to be cute if you need to be rescued.

I was a bit less impressed to find Humboldt and Blackfooted Penguins, and “Byronia sea-lions” ( South American Sea-lion)  in their Fishing Animal Show… but hey, they were real crowd-pleasers, and if attracting the euros is what it takes to save the local species, perhaps our Southern sealife can support the principle.

IMG_0998 tSo, what is it that has us stopping to gaze at these fine birds standing in a field, or soaring in the sky?

We’re in good company. The ancient Egyptians and  the Hebrews gave the stork special virtues. The Greeks and Romans  believed that the birds took care of their aging parents, transporting and feeding them, and that eventually a stork would not die, but flew to islands and took on the appearance of humans.  Muslims respected storks for visiting Mecca on their migration path.

Maybe borrowing from the Greeks and Romans, there was a German belief that storks’ souls were human. Having a stork-nest on your roof was also thought to be a protection against fire, so in Germany and Holland, they’d build platforms to encourage nesting. Poles, Lithuanians and Ukrainians believe that storks bringIMG_0768_1 harmony to a family on whose property they nest.


And then of course, there’s the whole baby-bringing business, which is a very ancient and wide-spread belief, and Jung and Freud both had a lot to say about that!


Two more tidbits, just because I love them.

  • a Polish folk tale relates how God made the stork’s plumage white, while the Devil gave it black wings, imbuing it with both good and evil impulses   –  like dropping babies thereby causing birth defects, and like leaving a birthmark nevus flammeus nuchae on the back of babies’ heads, commonly known as stork-bite.  I have one still, and never knew why. My mother, not being raised with storks, blamed the forceps.
  • In medieval England, storks were associated with adultery. Which (perhaps!) links to the fact they often try out several possible partners, though breeding only starts when there is a stable pairing. Good practice I think!

Here’s my final joy… a list of the collective nouns for storks, lifted from, of all places, the NZ Birds website.

Storks, a clatter of
Storks, a cluster of
Storks, a filth of

Storks, a flight of
Storks, a flock of
Storks, a muster of
Storks, a mustering of
Storks, a pair of
Storks, a phalanx of
Storks, a silence of
Storks, a swoop of


 I might add – a soar of…  Both for their flight, and for what they do to our spirit.

Lest We Forget…


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How much does one imagine, how much observe? One can no more separate those functions than divide light from air, or wetness from water.

Elspeth Huxley

The storks will have to wait.

The storks will have to wait.

We’ve had a few days in Alsace.

I thought I’d be writing about wine and food and picturesque old towns with storks on towers.

But I find myself writing about a WWI battlefield. It seems appropriate for August 2014.

As Kiwis, our minds go to Passchendaele and the Somme when we think of the war in France. I lost a great uncle on the second day of the Fourth Army’s attack in the Somme in 1916 – though lost seems a strange word for something you never had. Equally strangely, when I think of Alfred William Ordish b. 1894 d. 16 Sept 1916, I find myself imagining an old man aging in pace with his brother, my grandfather. Yet he was only 22. “They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old….”

But of course Alsace, bordering Germany and France and with more German than French place names, was fought over metre by bloodied metre.

We were staying at Trois Epis, up in the hills above Colmar, and not far from the battleground of the Collet du Linge.   “It’s worth going to have a look, if it’s not raining” said Monsieur Diss the Manager of Hotel Restaurant l’Alexain, who absolutely defines the art of gracious hosting.   So we drove through forests, and past monuments, to the memorialised part of the battleground.

IMG_0554_1IMG_0543_1Entry was through the little museum, built bunker-like into the side of a hill.

In there, we were face to face with the small exhibits of personal effects, and relics of war. The sorrow, the horror, the desperation and the futility.

IMG_0542_1We moved from exhibit to exhibit, like other small knots of visitors – all French, I think. I found myself commenting in English, and hoping the others there could recognise the difference between Swiss-German and German-German conversation from our group.

The signs and explanatory material were all in French only: there was no sense that this place was intended as somewhere for both sides to come together to remember and try to understand.


So little to help with

So little to help with


Objects of art from objects of war









The other visitors DID realise we were talking Swiss-German, didn't they?

The other visitors DID realise we were talking Swiss-German, didn’t they?

A hundred years before, to the month, the Germans had moved in and dug in. For about six months, they’d fortified the top of this hill with stone-lined trenches, reinforced bunkers, protected artillery and machine-gun posts. Then in March 1915 the French started a counter-attack, fighting uphill, from scraped dirt trenches. The heaviest battles over the Linge Ridge peaks of Barrenkopf, the Schratzmännele, and the Collet du Linge were from July to October, with flamethrowers and gas attacks as well as gunnery. It all produced inconclusive gains and losses of territory – but the loss of some 10,000 French soldiers and 7,000 Germans.

Map of the Lines - so many lives, so close together. So many deaths for so little gain.

Map of the Lines – so many lives, so close together. So many deaths for so little gain.

The Germans stayed in control of the ridge until the end of the war.

German trench - well engineered and built of course, over several months.

German trench – well engineered and built of course.

French trench - improvised during their attack.

French trench – improvised during their attack.

So we walked through the conserved part of the battleground. The signs showed where the front lines had been from time to time – within a stone’s throw of each other – let alone a bullet’s range. The unevenness of the battle was clear in the unevenness of the terrain.

IMG_0570_1_1Some blasted tree trunks still stood, but whereas the rest of the ridge has been reforested, here the trees have remained cleared, and the bony structure of the land still releases the occasional skeletal remains of a soldier.

Small crosses mark where remains were uncovered during the conservation of the site, and signs warn of areas where there may yet be munitions.

And through the coiled barbed-wire and on the edges of the trenches, wild-flowers grow.

Tender blues and pinks against the blood-tang of rusted steel.













And the only word I could repeat was “why?”.

The strategic “why” was clear when you stood at the end of the ridge and saw how it commanded the valleys below. But the larger “why” remains ultimately unanswerable no matter how many histories one reads. Why leaders of nations should think that war is a solution – and why people should willingly or unwillingly throw their bodies into pursuing that..? (On this topic, the best thinking I’ve read so far is Steven Pinker’s “The Better Angels of our Nature”. When you have a spare week, read it! )

But the hopeful thinker in me came away from that once-was-battleground still hopeful.   If we can stand in these places and contemplate… If we can remind ourselves as we look at the current world conflicts, that once it happened here too…  Perhaps that’s what such places are for.

To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.  

Arundhati Roy


The Oyster-lover’s Guide


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I know of a cure for everything: salt water…in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.

Karen Blixen

We’ve had the sea. The entirely different smell of salt water, and the movement of tides. Bodensee – Lake Constance – is beautiful and large enough to be constantly changing on the surface with the movement of light and wind – but I miss the deeper pulse of the tides.

Brittany was our fix. And not just the sight of the sea, but the taste of it. We’ve been eating oysters. That understates it. We’ve been gorging on oysters. Pure concentrated taste of the salt sea.

Let me state my position up front. I firmly believe there is no better oyster in the world than the Bluff oyster. But I am prepared to go to a lot of effort to test that belief.

Notable oyster-excursions have included our 2010 NZ Far North tour.   I wrote then for Helvetia magazine:

Doesn't everyone do this in a Paris hotel room?

Doesn’t everyone do this in a Paris hotel room?

“Oysters seem to be among the things that firmly divide people’s opinions – up there with religion, politics, and sports teams! […]  

But yes – we’re in the “oysters are the food of the gods” camp.   The highlight of our weekend in Paris last year was not the art and architecture – it was the oysters from the street-stall.

So, you can imagine our distress when we realised that leaving early for Europe this year will mean we miss the Bluff oyster season. Compensation: each oyster opportunity has been a “must stop”.  

The best oyster eating place so far [was] Totara North on the Whangaroa Harbour.   It’s where my great-great grandfather’s family had a kauri timber mill – the last one to operate once the kauri trade finished.     The Lanes built ships there too – indeed the last time I was back there was twenty years ago when we took the scow Te Aroha ‘home’ for her 80th birthday.

Hunting and gathering rock oysters at Totara North

Hunting and gathering rock oysters at Totara North

There’s not much remaining now – just the huge sheds breaking down in the weather, and some rusting machinery.  

Industries change as our lives do. Boat building and timber milling have disappeared from the Whangaroa – but – oysters! The new industry of oyster farming means spat are plentiful in the harbour. Heaps of them have colonised the piles of the old wharf buildings at Totara North and grown into gorgeous oysters. We gathered, opened, and ate, until we’d had enough, then stayed the night on the wharf in Feierabend and did the same the next day. The cuts in our hands have healed now – but the flavour lingers in our memory.”

Feb 2010 – Helvetia


Jane demonstrating the perfect slurp at Frontignon
Jane demonstrating the perfect slurp at Frontignon

2010 ended up being a vintage oyster-eating year in Europe too. We drove through Southern France en route to Spain, and discovered Frontignan. A small town, with Muscat wine vineyards and an oyster stall in the tiny central square where they’d open a dozen and put them on a plate with a lemon for 5 euros. We revisited that paradise on the way back up with Jane and Peter.

So – there was the challenge for Brittany.   Could the oyster-experience measure up? I’d noted the famous oyster areas in my pre-research, and off we went with our mouths watering.

First attempt, in the Bay of Morbihan – disaster! Waterfront restaurant out from Arradon: “Oysters please.” “Sorry – we have none. It’s spawning season and they’re all milky. No oysters.”

The Point at Arradon. Picture perfect, but - no oysters!

The Point at Arradon. Picture perfect, but – no oysters!

No oysters – all this way and they’re too busy having sex? The Gulf of Morbihan is Brittany’s oyster nursery, with spat from here being sent out to other parts of the Breton coast to mature. So oyster sex is serious business here.

But.. it must have just been those particular oysters. Next day, a little further round the bay – oysters for lunch. Later after sampling many others, we rated those as too small. But at the time, there was the particular joy of the first. And perhaps the only, if all round the rest of the coast the others were too busy ensuring future populations?

Yes!  There are oysters for eating...  Port Navalo

Yes! There are oysters for eating… Port Navalo


But.. it must have just been those particular oysters. Next day, a little further round the bay – oysters for lunch.

Later after sampling many others, we rated those as too small. But at the time, there was the particular joy of the first. And perhaps the only, if all round the rest of the coast the others were too busy ensuring future populations?

No such worries. The next morning we were in Carnac, where they’ve been farming oysters since the 1880s. Currently they count around 80 farms there.

Paradise beckons

Paradise beckons

IMG_1232_1The Sunday market was huge – everything you could imagine to eat and drink and wear – and a group practising Breton bagpipes – and oysters! My breakfast was a dozen huge oysters, shucked by the man on the stall, packed with seaweed and lemon, and slurped down on the side of the road before we went hunting megaliths.

Onwards… I’ll write about the megaliths and menhirs and Breton villages and the hydrangeas (truly) later.. but let’s follow the oysters.

Now we’re on the northern coast of Brittany, where the rocks are pink granite. The market at Treburden had oysters, but there the stall-holder couldn’t/wouldn’t open them.. but she would sell us an oyster knife.

I thought about my old faithful opener

The round flat ones are the indigenous variety.

The round flat ones are the indigenous variety.

still in the drawer in Kapiti, and bought another. Essential equipment really.  We chose a mixture of the “hollow shell” oyster that we’d been eating, and that look pretty like our Pacific oysters, and the indigenous “flat” oysters. The latter have been badly affected by a parasite – perhaps similar to bonamia? – and so it’s mainly the hollow shell that are cultivated.

Resistence is futile. Man(i) the tool-user.

Resistence is futile. Man(i) the tool-user.

Out of town, around a marsh (with a menhir standing the middle), and to a small bay where the tide was on the way out.

We settled ourselves on pink granite rocks, and watched the bay empty of water and fill with families gathering seafood…. and ate oysters. That evening I had to have lobster instead.

Picnics don't come much better.

Picnics don’t come much better.

Over the bay and foraging families, to the oyster farm.

Over the bay and foraging families, to the oyster farm.

The sea-midden.

The sea-midden.

Just one more oyster stop. They say, “Mention Cancale to a Frenchman or a foodie and the instant response will be ‘oysters’.”   So – down to the port, seafood restaurants galore. But we’d got to like our “do-it-yourself” dining, and found the cluster of oyster-sellers’ stalls.  Such choice:  I settled for the “Huitres sauvage”.  I know it means ‘gathered from the wild rather than farmed’ – but couldn’t resist the mental picture of savage oysters!

The instructions were clear. “We’ll open them for you, but you must sit over there on the harbour-wall to eat them, and throw the shells into the sea.”  “Mais oui Madame!” (by now, the French was coming more readily to my tongue). But we’d had a good breakfast, and it was only morning tea-time, and I could manage only half a dozen before I – I couldn’t imagine myself thinking this – I couldn’t eat another. Sated! Surreptitious tipping of remaining oysters into a plastic bag, and away. The rest were lunch, as we started our inland-facing return journey, taking the taste of the sea at least a little way with us.


Wherever you go becomes a part of you somehow.

Anita Desai

Living as a Linden Tree


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Not that I want to be a god or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.  

Czesław Miłosz


The linden leading into our little road att Altenrhein

The linden leading into our little road at Altenrhein

And right now – the tree I would be is a Linden.


I wrote that thinking of their grace, all year, and fragrance, right now.

The last few weeks, Rorschach has been awash with perfume. There’s a row of linden trees down by the wharf, but their fragrance was still dense a couple of streets back, drifting over the old stone buildings, joining up with the perfume from those in the redeveloped square –  and taking me back to the first time I ever smelled linden.

That was in the old part of Warsaw, the part totally demolished by the Nazis, and painstakingly rebuilt after the war. Somehow that fragrance is intertwined with my feelings of sorrow and awe of that place. Not just the tragedy of it, but the triumphant valour of the decision to restore it while there were still craftsmen capable of the old decorative arts.

The trees line the Wharf, by the old Kornhaus (Granary) in Rorschach

The trees line the Wharf, by the old Kornhaus (Granary) in Rorschach

And it had me thinking about the linden blossom we gathered a couple of years ago to make tea for Werner who had a cold, and whose ashes we buried a couple of weeks ago. Sorrow, and joyous memories.

And then, as one does, I went googling.

Now I know the tree I would want to become is a Linden. Mine wouldn’t be the first such metamorphosis: As Ovid tells the old story of Baucis and Philemon, Zeus changed her into a linden and him into an oak when the time came for them both to die.

It can be a very long life thereafter: linden trees can last hundreds of years, some are even said to be over a thousand.

As a Linden (aka Lime, Basswood, Tilia), I could

  • Make music.

The wood is fine, light, and easily worked, with good acoustic properties. You’ll find it in guitar bodies and necks, recorders, drum shells…

  • Make art.
Tretyakov Gallery - Mani treading off....

Tretyakov Gallery – Mani treading off….

Especially in Germany, linden was the classic wood for sculpture from the Middle Ages onwards – you see it in many elaborate altarpieces.

In the Slavic Orthodox Christian world, it was the preferred wood for panel icon painting, because it could be sanded very smooth, and, once seasoned, was resistant to warping. Wikipedia references the icons by Andrei Rublev, including the Holy Trinity (Hospitality of Abraham), and The Savior, in the State Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. When we saw them, I was looking at the surface.   Now I’d be trying to see beneath!

  • Bring Justice and Peace – and dancing!

Way back, the tree literally and figuratively at the centre of a village would be a linden. There, the community would gather not only for festivities, but also to hold their thingjudicial assemblies and courts to restore justice and peace. It was believed that the tree would help unearth the truth.

Right up till the 18th century, verdicts in rural Germany were frequently returned sub tilia (under the linden).

So the central linden tree could be both a Tanzlinde “dance linden”, and a Gerichtslinde “court linden”.

Last year - our "route-planning-council" of Margrit Roman, Margrit and me gathered under a very old linden at the old border-post at Gaissau - the Austrian side of the old Rhine

Last year – our “route-planning-council” of Margrit, Roman, Mani and I gathered under a very old linden at the old border-post at Gaissau – the Austrian side of the old Rhine. I’m sure our decision-making was enhanced.


  • Heal.
"Our" linden tree has the wondrous long seed-wings, now piling up in drifts across the road.

“Our” linden tree has the wondrous long seed-wings, now piling up in drifts across the road.

The flowers, leaves, wood, and charcoal are all used for medicinal purposes. The flowers include flavonoids (which act as antioxidants)and volatile oils.

Linden flowers are used in herbalism for colds, cough, fever, infections, inflammation, high blood pressure, headache (particularly migraine), and as a diuretic, antispasmodic (reduces smooth muscle spasm along the digestive tract), and sedative. Now it seems the flowers might also protect the liver.

The wood is used for liver and gallbladder disorders and cellulitis (inflammation of the skin and surrounding soft tissue). That wood burned to charcoal is ingested to treat intestinal disorders and used topically to treat edema or infection such as cellulitis or ulcers of the lower leg. 

Branches used to be cut and brought inside if there was an ill person or animal – but only then. Nobody was supposed to break or cut the tree unless they really needed its help.

  • Delight the bees
Bee business

Bee business

The linden blossom is a favourite for honey-bees, and the pale richly flavoured honey is a favourite with people.

  • Protect

Many folk believe the linden to be a holy tree. Slavic people used to plant linden close to churches, houses, and important meeting places. They believed that lightening would not hit the holy tree, so people hid underneath it during thunderstorms.

  • Be useful round the house

Linden wood makes great window blinds and shutters, and the inner bark provides fibre which was used by, among others, the Ainu people of Japan to weave their traditional clothing.

  • Lend my name

Everywhere, pubs, streets, and towns are named for the Linden. But it’s also the name for the month of June in Croatia, and July in Poland, and in Croatian currency, the cent-equivalent is called a lipa (Croat for linden). Even more – the tree is a national emblem for Slovakia, Slovenia, the Czech Republic and Serbia.

  • Make perfume

And wouldn’t you know it… my summer-daily perfume, Lacoste Femme, has linden blossom at its heart.

  • Look after lovers

In German folklore, the linden tree is the “tree of lovers.”  Perhaps it’s the heart-shaped leaves…

Walther von der Vogelweide (c. 1170–c. 1230) starts a poem….

Under der linden 

an der heide,

dâ unser zweier bette was,

dâ mugt ir vinden

schône beide

gebrochen bluomen unde gras.


Under the linden 

on the heath,

where we two had our bed,

you still can see

lovely both

broken flowers and grass.


(I’ve left the medieval german in for those of us who love to see how language moves.)

Now for a chat with Zeus about what it would take to persuade him to turn me into a Linden. Or then again – perhaps not – knowing Zeus’s preferred proclivities!


Play on….


, , , ,

If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week.

"Are we lined up?".  Starting position for bands is feet in ballet first position!

“Are we lined up?”. Starting position for bands is feet in ballet first position!

Charles Darwin

 Poetry…hmmm…better head to the bookshelf. But music… that has been simply presenting itself!

Two weekends in a row, it’s been wind and brass. The first was planned:   there was a regional bands competition up the road, so of course off we went.   First, the marching bands. They assembled down the road. Band by band, they came up to the start line, lined up, were inspected for their starting order, then – whistle, count in, and march off playing. The judge marched backwards in front of them to check their file, then stopped and watched them pass to check their rank.


Funny how these words reorganise themselves in your mind when the origin of the saying is stepping out in front of you. It had me wondering what children think when we say “I don’t give tuppence!” – or perhaps most of us have forgotten the idiom with the coinage.

But back to the bands.  They were from all over, small towns, and big. Well-funded in tailor-made uniforms, and make-do in “ so long as it’s a black jacket and black pants, we’ll match okay”. Some had the works – a director marching on the left point, a flag-waver marching on the right, and a baton-twirling leader stepping out in front. Others… well one leader was what they could enrol and that was that.

Smart as paint - and coordinated with the road-markings.

Smart as paint – and coordinated with the road-markings.

Then there was the band, a bit small and scruffy, but with a woman in a purple satin evening dress and megaphone marching in the rear. And their marching tune was “Happy Days are Here Again”. Huh? Then they got to mid-point of the track and the tune. Up came the megaphone. She belted out the song. They did fancy tattoo-style formation marching patterns, criss-crossing and circling, almost in tight order.   They made me think of our Village Strummers ukulele band. Sometimes enthusiasm and joy in performing outweighs precision and perfection.




At least the risk of ukulele-injury is slight: Mani and Margrit were reminiscing about the mouth-injuries Mani in his youth, and Margrit’s son in his, had suffered when you hit a hole in the paddock with a trumpet at your lips!

A truly supportive friend helps out with the drinks tray

A truly supportive friend helps out with the drinks tray

Uniform rebellion - at least in the interim.

Uniform rebellion – at least in the interim.










After lunch, we abandoned the marching bands for the concert hall. Here the brass was joined by the wood-winds, and a permissible percussion section and double-bass… and we were into seriously good wind orchestral playing. Each orchestra played one piece of their own selection, and one set-piece; the judging panel rotated, and so did the audience, as the friends and relatives of each group of players followed their fortunes.




All that marching is tough on the feet....

All that marching is tough on the feet….

Then, next week’s dose – serendipitous music! Hans and Inge had found a country pub they wanted to introduce us to. It’s one of umpteen along the country-side roads and walking and cycling tracks – the benefits of a population large enough to be in constant movement through the countryside and in need of refreshment.

So – in the late afternoon we’re at the Grüne Baum, eating, drinking, and noticing some of the people at the next table were wearing music logo’d shirts. Aha! They were members of the Reuthi Musik-Verein (club) – left-overs from a gig the band had done at the pub that morning, who’d decided that there was no better place to be on a Sunday. And yes, they’d been playing at the Diepoldsau competition last weekend.


By this time, they knew Mani and I were from New Zealand, but more importantly, that before he “out-wandered” Mani had played first trumpet in the Rheineck Music-Verein.   (Auswander is such a wonderful verb – much more about exploring the world than emigrating.) In solidarity, out came their instruments, and in trio, quartet or quintet depending on who had the music books and who had the beers, these remnants of the band entertained us.

 Next to music, beer was best. 

 Carson McCullers

IMG_9933 tMVI_9952




Reuthi is a little town down in the valley. I don’t know how big the Music-Verein is, but to make up a marching-band, I reckon every second house down there would need to contribute a player. So, alongside the local choral groups, yodelling groups, folk-bands – because every town seems to have those too – there must be no getting away from the opportunity to make music, and the happy duty to provide an audience.

IMG_9929_1IMG_9941_1Happily, we did our part, again.

A little dance seems to be the right farewell....

A little dance seems to be the right farewell….

Something Old – Something New


, , ,

The blog banner photo has changed. That can mean only one thing: we’re in a Swiss Spring.

 The spring is sprung

The grass is riz

I wonder where the boidies is?

The little boids are on the wing.

No that’s absoid – the wings are on the boid.

 Thank you Ogden Nash – or someone! I see this Bronx Spring Poem’s authorship is disputed. 

Actually – the birds are  all here, in our little garden. It took no more than two minutes after we’d hung the birdseed feeder up before the Meisli (our great friends the great tits) and sparrows had discovered we were back in residence.

These are the familiar old rituals of settling in. First the welcome banner, stuck up by Roman and Margrit before they came to the airport to pick us up. Then a decent pause while we got the water and gas on, took a little nap, got the bird-feeder up, and suddenly the gang’s all here.

and so it begins... and so it goes...

and so it begins… and so it goes…

Next step – get mobile. A Christmas gale had whipped the covers off the car, even though we had wrapped it tighter than a parcel all tied up with string – so we had a slight worry that it might have taken cold and not want to start. You know that kind of background niggle that you don’t express for fear of making it real? No worries! Mani connected the battery, turned the key, and the little old Rio started as if it were not seven months we’d left her standing there. There’s a great system here: when the car’s going to be off the road, you take its number plates off and hand them in to the insurance company. Insurance suspended. You get your plates back when you want to put the car back on the road – and a refund for the unused portion of your insurance premium.

Under the kiwifruit vine, the Lane Patented Compost Maker

Under the kiwifruit vine, the Lane Patented Compost Maker

Next step – beautify! Refresh the soil in the pots and get planting. Compost-making here is a breeze: the winter does all the work.

While we’re here, the kitchen and garden scraps go into the improvised compost-maker, which is just a couple of metres of weed-mat inside a piece of old wire fencing. Come the end of the season I tuck it up with a nice layer of fallen leaves. In spring – voila – compost!.

Tip it out onto a tarp – add last year’s pot-soil and a bit of fertilizer – mix well… and get planting again.


But – amongst all these familiar rituals, something new!

IMG_9869_1A squirrel has discovered the bird-feeder. It’s a little red squirrel, and it is making itself at home.

I’d only seen squirrels as a furry blur streaking up trees as we bike through the woods, so when this one appeared, sashaying out on a branch of the gingko and reaching for the source of the sunflower seeds, I was tiptoeing and whispering to Mani to come and see.

No need. This is a squirrel that knows what’s what, and wants what’s to be got.

Easy pickings are the seeds the birds have dropped on the ground. Equally easy – being such a delightful surprise that friends and neighbours rush off and get walnuts and peanuts to add to the banquet. But when the easy pickings are done, it needs to go out on the limb, and try to extricate the seeds from the feeder.   IMG_9856_1


Or knock the lid off the feeder and try to reach inside.

Or knock the feeder off the tree and spill the goodies on the ground.IMG_9881_1

We got mean. We rewired the feeder on a wire much longer than the squirrel’s reach, so the birds would get their share. They’ve got demanding young to feed. I watched yesterday as our furry friend tried several paths of attack: out this branch – out that. No – it couldn’t reach.   Yet today when we came back to the house, the lid was on the ground. There’d been no wind.

I suspect a leap from branch to feeder. This is going to require some serious deck-chair time, watching.

People are not a problem... except when they're more interested in a book than offering food!

People are not a problem… except when they’re more interested in a book than offering food!

The ingenuity of little wild things amazes us. A couple of winters ago, mice got into an outside cupboard where we keep the sunflower seeds. As we uncovered the bikes in spring, we found Mani’s possum-skin bike-seat cover had had some fur plucked. Then we found a number of sunflower seeds under the bike-seat cover. Imagine… a mouse climbing up the frame of a bicycle – not many claw-grips there – and smuggling a supply of food up inside an elasticised bike-seat cover. And not once, but several times. I hope it had a totally luxurious winter, snuggled in possum-fur, supping on sunflower-seeds. It deserved to.

First visit ... and realisation that this visitor wasn't going to rush off without getting what it had come for.


Mellow Fruitfulness


, , , ,


“Share, dear, be nice.”   “But muuuuum, they’re my favourites.”

Generosity is one of my core values. I live by it nearly all of the time. But not when MY fruit is ripening!

IMG_8890_1Out comes the bird netting, tied in elaborate festoons over the grape vine.   Strung over the raspberries. Fully enclosing the fig tree.

In a total failure of a tepee over the blueberry bush. Even in an attempt at an upside-down-umbrella to catch the feijoas before they reach the ground and the gathering beaks of the pukeko.

They’re mine!

Ripening... tantalising... disappearing!

Ripening… tantalising… disappearing!


Earlier, I’d flung the netting over the weeping mulberry tree. Each year, it’s had a few tantalising fruit. I watch and wait. And they disappear. Perhaps I’ve managed to eat half a dozen in a season.

Mulberries are the taste of childhood. On the old farm we had a monstrous black mulberry tree in the backyard. It had been planted by my great grandfather, and it was huge.

Now, remembering that tree I think I know why I’ve been losing my mulberries. The fruit drop when they’re ripe. We could never have reached the branches of that old mulberry tree. Instead we – and the chooks – scratched around in the dirt and grass beneath, to get our share.

And yes – it was the same when I found an avenue of white mulberries in Italy – the fruit was thick on the ground. I smelt them before I saw them, and was instantly back fifty years and half a world.


So – the mystery of the disappearing mulberries may be simple – and nothing to do with the birds.

This autumn, the mulberry will come out of its pot where the ground is obscured by French sorrel, and into the open garden … and I’ll find another way to net my share!

IMG_9761_1Now, imagine how I felt to head away on holiday just when the grapes were blackening, and our first ever watermelon was soccer-ball size but not ready to pick.

“Share, dear….”

Solution: neighbour Rosalind (bless her yet again) undertook to monitor the informal orchard and distribute its largesse around the neighbourhood.

Then, reconciled to returning to a passionfruit vine that had dropped all its purple pleasures, and a grape-vine reduced to a few late bunches, imagine my joy when we got back to find that time had stopped! The watermelons were still there. Rosalind had diligently tapped them, and determined that they were not ready to pick. She had passionfruit aplenty waiting in a basket. And yes -the grapes were only really truly ripening!

Passion fruit flower - with admirer

Passion fruit flower – with admirer


It has been a wonderfully fruit-ful season.

The passionfruit started producing at the end of January, and only now has dropped its last ripe fruit. But wait – there’s more! Eight large green globes are hanging there from a late flowering. Are there yet enough warm days to come to ripen them?


The absolute last - for this vine, this season

The absolute last – for this vine, this season

Yesterday I picked the last of the grapes, scraping off the drunken drowsy wasps sucking the juice out of the berries that they’d managed to breach. A thrush scolded me: it was probably her who’d discovered how to fly up under the net, and get out again stuffed with sweetness.   But, I was happy to share. There had been enough for her, and friends, and neighbours, and the gardeners, and the recycling man, and, yes, the wasps.

IMG_9750_1 There are still a couple of green figs on the tree – but I’ve uncovered that now. Lesson for next year: make some kind of a cage to put the net over. Birds worked out how to perch on the twigs and press the net onto the fruit. Peckable!   I’d look out and see some figs just about perfectly coloured. Tomorrow’s treat. Tomorrow… well, another lesson in sharing. One for Mani, one for me, and one already half-eaten!

Forced to choose only fruit to eat for the rest of my life, would it be grapes (real grapes, from the vine, not the supermarket), or feijoas, or figs? I wrote about my love for figs way back.

And now – thanks to Helen and a large plastic bag from a friend – I’ve discovered green (as in unripe) figs, and a way to preserve them.

Sikalaki Gliko - green figs in sweet syrup

Sikalaki Gliko – green figs in sweet syrup

The last half watermelon is still in the fridge… we swear we’ve never eaten sweeter.  And now the grapes are gone, it’s the fragrance of the feijoas coming from the bowl.

Mexican Guavas - how can something so small perfume the whole garden?

Mexican Guavas – how can something so small perfume the whole garden?

Ah, fragrance!   The tiny Mexican Guavas – the ones some folk call New Zealand cranberries – are ripe too. They announce their readiness by making the whole garden smell as if someone is cooking jam.

Last year we tried making a liqueur from them. Problem.    Like quinces, the juice is determined to set. We have bottles of gloriously alcoholic jelly – some quince, some guava.

But nothing is ever totally disastrous: think of poached pears and icecream, with guava jelly liqueur shaken from the bottle… that works.    I suppose if I were really organised I could warm and decant it and re-set it in a jelly mould. Or I could just keep shaking the bottle, and call it exercise!


Things turn out the best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.

John Wooden





, , ,

Sunrise at Kairakau, the sun blazing a space between sea and cloud.

Sunrise at Kairakau, the sun blazing a space between sea and cloud.

The windows of my soul I throw

Wide open to the sun.”  

John Greenleaf Whittier

Sunrise…Sunset…    So we pace out our days.

Kairakau, sunset walking.

Kairakau, sunset walking.

Each sunrise carries in it that sense of possibility – especially when you’re travelling.

Each sunset carries reflections of things seen, experienced, felt, pondered on…    So here are some sunrises and sunsets from our recent jaunt up the East Coast of the North Island and back down the West.

A hint of autumn - morning mist rising from the river at Ohiwa

A hint of autumn – morning mist rising from the river at Ohiwa



Feierabend is designed for catching the sunrise.

Our bed lies across the back of the bus – which we strategically park pointed to the view. A perspex inner window shuts out the road-dust that could sneak in through the double-doors on the back, but opens up the whole panorama out the back, and the windows either side mean that whichever way we lie we can see out.

As soon as the light goes out at night, the blind across the back goes up – and the night sky is ours.

Eventually, when the sky starts to lighten, the dawn sneaks into our slumbers and nudges us awake. So far, so peaceful.

But, if it looks as if it’s going to be glorious, comes the rude bit of awakening! I clamber over Mani, knees and elbows avoiding sensitive spots, throw on a robe, grab the camera, and am out there, watching the glory unfold.

Following which comes the next joy – crawling back into bed for the “pensioner-sleep”.

If you’ve not yet had the pleasure – here’s how the pensioner sleep goes. You wake at the time you always did, ready to face the day.

Then you think “no! No train to catch. No sitting in traffic. No breakfast meeting. No early appointment.” And you turn over and have the sweetest sleep there is.

Being on holiday, and waking for the sunrise, and then dozing off again is the perfect rehearsal for the pleasures of the pensioner-sleep, if you’re not yet quite of an age.

Ohiwa.  We'd parked by the river-side, in the shelter of old pohutukawas, on a blustery evening. Morning dawned calm through the branches.

Ohiwa. We’d parked by the river-side, in the shelter of old pohutukawas, on a blustery evening. Morning dawned calm through the branches.


Pikowai.  The sandhills in the foreground host rare banded dotterels.

Pikowai. The sandhills in the foreground host rare NZ dotterels.

Pikowai.  The Norfolk pine branches hold the last of the moon

Pikowai. The Norfolk pine branches hold the last of the moon

Comes sunset… the perfect bookend to the day.

We sometimes assume we’re going to get the best sunrises on the east coast, the best sunsets on the west … but some special places, some special days, the light and the topography combine to give us both. Kairakau and Pikowai obliged beautifully.


Sunset is of course best appreciated with drink in hand, and head lifted from the book or chessboard that has had your late-afternoon attention. The reflection of a sunset in a wine-glass is the cameo of perfection.





Kairakau - sunset viewing

Kairakau – sunset viewing

And then… sunrise… sunset…




Anzac Bay by Bowentown. Recently made available for overnight camping by self-contained vehicles... and a gem.

Anzac Bay by Bowentown. Recently made available for overnight camping by self-contained vehicles… and a gem.

Look to this day! For it is life, the very life of life.

For yesterday is but a dream

And tomorrow is only a vision

But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness

And tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day!

Such is the salutation of the dawn.”

Kalidasa, Sanskrit poet


The "Welcome Home" sunset. Home safe and sound before Cyclone Lusi was supposed to hit,   Feierabend unpacked,  and this sunset over our little lake.

The “Welcome Home” sunset. Home safe and sound before Cyclone Lusi was supposed to hit, Feierabend unpacked,
and this sunset over our little lake.



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