Seville oranges

Towards the end of winter I went to look for Seville oranges at the farmers’ market. I asked every stall holder I came across, but had no luck. No one seems to plant Sevilles anymore. This reminded me of a road trip Roger and I went on five years ago.

Roger was known in the village as the marmalade man. Every winter he’d order a box of Seville oranges from a grocer he knew and then he’d spend the next week finely cutting and boiling the fruit. It was a ritual he loved. ‘I just let my mind wander,’ he’d say when I asked whether he was ever bored cutting oranges hour after hour. For him, it was a form of meditation. He made dozens of jars which he sold to loyal customers and there were always some left for family and friends.

One year, he wanted to do a trip down memory lane and take me out to the country he loved best. We headed for the Hay plains, stopping first at West Wyong and then Griffith, where he had worked many years ago. Griffith is orange country and some of the best fruit comes from its surrounding orchards. We stopped at at least six different farms asking for Seville oranges only to be told that they had pulled out the trees years ago. No one was buying them anymore.

These bitter oranges originated in Africa and were introduced to Europe by Genovese sailors in about the 10th century. Many believed these oranges were harbingers of happiness and, as such, the Moors planted them all over Spain. To this day, the city of Seville has over 14 000 of these bitter orange trees which make the best marmalade in the world. Sadly, there were none left in Griffith.

We returned from that trip with glorious memories, but no oranges. That year he made whisky marmalade using Navels. As Roger’s health deteriorated, I begged him to teach me the secret of making marmalade and the following year, when he sourced some of the elusive Sevilles, he relented.

‘Cut it on an angle like this,’ he’d admonish, or ‘that’s too thick’, but eventually he commended the efforts of his apprentice. Since his untimely death, I have continued the yearly marmalade tradition.

I went back to the farmers’ market a month ago and found a stall I hadn’t seen before. They only sold oranges and had a myriad varieties on offer. When I asked about Sevilles, the young woman said she’d ask the boss. A good sign, I thought.

‘The boss says they’re not quite ready to pick. Try again next week,’ she said. I was delighted. But the following week they still weren’t ready. After three more visits, the oranges finally arrived. In a mad bout of enthusiasm, I bought 3kg, which makes about 25 jars of marmalade.

The first batch was passable, but a poor imitation of Roger’s expertise. The next batch, however, was a perfect colour and consistency. I opened a jar for a taste test. Not bad, I thought. I fact, it is almost as good as his.

Weather Whiplash

I must have blinked and missed it. A week ago, night-time temperatures were in the single digits but today spring has arrived and daytime temps are in the twenties. Trees that seemed dormant a few days back are suddenly blooming. Not just one or two trees, but rows of trees along streets that appeared bare the last time I looked.

Officially, spring is at least another week away, yet Sydney basked in 27 degrees today. This past year has been the second warmest on record, but fortunately rainfall has been average, at the very least in the Eastern states. Luckily, because bushfire season is starting earlier each year and dry vegetation acts like kindling.

For the 16 years that we lived in the Blue Mountains, every spring brought with it that heart-in mouth feeling as fire trucks raced by. My daughter developed a keen sense of bushfires. She can smell one miles away. This is the inadvertent training young children get who live in fire prone areas. We saw the destruction around us with alarming regularity and knew several people who lost their homes. I never knew the full extent of the effect it had on me until I left.

Unfortunately, it is expected that we will have to endure more heatwaves, extreme conditions in summer and increasingly hazardous weather conditions earlier than ever before and not just in Australia. We will all have to learn mitigation tactics and put an end to being complacent about our impact on the planet. It is high time we stop talking about the weather and work together to actively improve the climate.

Fitting room fiasco

Swimsuit shopping is an ordeal like no other. You find yourself in a cramped cubicle with lighting that makes you look pallid and anaemic at best. Every blotch on your face is magnified, every fold on your hips highlighted. A bored twenty-something salesperson is on the other side of a flimsy curtain, and you’re left regretting every life choice that led you to this moment.

The four-item limit per cubicle is a cruel joke. If nothing fits, you’re either forced to wait with chattering teeth for the salesperson to come back from their morning tea, or get dressed and face the horror of starting over. It’s enough to make anyone want to avoid getting wet.

Determined not to miss out on future beach ‘fun’, I braved online shopping. My one-piece swimsuit arrived, but it didn’t fit. I swapped it for a tankini and bottoms to go with it—success with the pants, but the top was bursting at the bust. Multiple returns later, I finally have a swimsuit. It almost fits perfectly. At this stage, close enough is good enough.

At least this process was less of a nightmare thanks to a responsive online store that has a real shop front in Brisbane. But honestly, I hope I never have to do this again. Maybe I should’ve ordered two—one for now and one for ‘Ron.

To the lighthouse

Attribution: This photo is taken from the Lighthouse Art residency application form

Rarely do I receive an unsolicited email that I decide to read. This one, however, came from the Hunter Writers’ Centre and it piqued my interest. It was advertising a fresh round of residencies at Nobbys lighthouse in Newcastle. The photo was enough to make me want to apply. Imagine spending a week on the stunning Nobbys-Whibayganba Headlands looking out onto the Pacific Ocean!

No sooner had I decided to apply than I talked myself out of it. Why would they offer it to me? There were much better writers out there. Who was I to think that I was worthy of this opportunity? Luckily, I saw this chatter for what it was – a self-limiting belief that didn’t deserve the airtime it was getting. So, I shut down the megaphone in my head and applied anyway.

I was thrilled to receive an offer letter for a week in December. From 8 to 4, I will have a desk in a room with a view. Pedestrian access along Macquarie Pier is the only way to get there, and the walk is long and in parts steep. It is exposed to the elements. In Awabakal language, Whibayganba means ‘the place of the one who makes it windy’. I have been forewarned.

I am very grateful to the Hunter Writers’ Centre for the chance to dedicate a week to a final edit of my memoir. It will also be a chance to ponder what lies ahead in 2025 and beyond. Few of us ever dedicate time to profound self-reflection.I am committed to make the most of this opportunity and look forward to a week, where my only distractions will be the vagaries of nature and awe-inspiring scenery.

The National Library: A Sanctuary for the Curious Mind

Stained-glass window by Leonard French

One of the delights of living in the capital city is access to the National Library. While I can’t borrow items to take home, I can request anything from their collection which has more than 7 000 000 items. It also houses a delightful café and a bookshop that I can never resist. As a Friend of the National Library, I receive a 10% discount at both the bookshop and the café which makes it a desirable place to visit.

The National Library and I share a birth year. However, time has been kinder to the grand lady on the lake. She has grown into stately resplendence and made her mark on the landscape. Her wide steps invite us to enter a modernist cathedral built to venerate history and knowledge. This is echoed within the building by the tall stained-glass windows on either side of the foyer, which functions like a church narthex.

Once the foyer is traversed, a sentinel verifies the visitor is fit to enter the hallowed halls. From there on, a hush descends. It is one of the few libraries that still has rules about eating and drinking, remaining quiet and using mobile phones. No-one complains.

Today, I spent two hours in the library reading. I observed students, researchers, members of the public accessing the latest issues of magazines. I love that in a world of user pays, this facility is free to use and available to anyone in Australia. You don’t need to be an academic or a writer, just someone who is curious to follow a line of enquiry.

The National Library is a cultural treasure, a gift to the country. There are always interesting exhibitions; currently there is one about migration. In August there is a webinar on family history for beginners, a lecture on Aboriginal perspectives on landscape and a book launch of Australian flora, to name a few. There are collections focusing on maps, oral histories, performing arts, Australiana and Australian writers, and many more. You can access many resources through Trove, a library database owned by the National Library at https://trove.nla.gov.au/.

Road Sage: Self-Help Adventures

Image generated by ChatGPT

Audiobooks keep me sane on the road. I am a kinder and somewhat slower driver when I listen to books. It means I arrive at my destination fuelled by dopamine rather than norepinephrine. In case you were wondering, norepinephrine is the neurotransmitter responsible for emotions such as anger. Just don’t ask me to pronounce it.  

I’m a self-confessed self-help junkie on the road. Luckily, breathalysers don’t register this drug yet, otherwise I could be in a bit of strife. Like people who assiduously follow their horoscopes yet don’t believe in it, I have the same relationship to self-help. Luckily for me, there are a couple of authors in this game who are equally sceptical, which makes it fun to listen to them.

Recently, I discovered Jon Acuff with titles such as ‘Finish’, ‘Soundtracks: the surprising solution to overthinking’ and ‘All it takes is a goal.’ Like all American authors writing in this genre, his books are padded with stories and every step is broken down into micro steps to reach the word count of the book. At the heart of each book, there is a good idea that’s explored which, if acted upon, has the potential of significant benefit. However, these authors know that good intentions rarely make it past the starting block and so they write a new book to motivate the reader to have another go. At least Jon Acuff sees his own flaws, makes dad jokes and puns, which keep me amused as I hurtle down the freeway. And there’s always a gem or two to hold on to.

One exercise in his book is to make a list of your best moments. There are a few reasons he suggests this. First, when you see all your best moments, you can’t help but be grateful for all the wonderful things you have had in your life. It also focuses your mind on what you value and what you would like your life to be like. He then asks the reader to categorise these best moments into experiences, accomplishments, relationships and objects. Whichever list is the longest will let you know where your values lie. For him it was achievements, for me, experiences. Rarely, if ever, do you find people whose best moments centre around objects. This makes sense intuitively, yet Western culture is predicated on convincing us to consume more.

Here are a few of my favourite moments in random order.

  • Laughing with friends
  • Writing
  • Walking the dog
  • Drinking a cup of hot tea
  • Helping others without them knowing
  • Playing board games with my family
  • Going on a retreat
  • Visiting good friends
  • Coming across cows at the bus stop in Switzerland
  • Listening to birds
  • Falling in love
  • Finishing my memoir
  • Smelling the pages of a book
  • Snow crunching beneath my boots

What would make your favourite moments list?

Moonlit reverie

Photo by Michael on Unsplash

The moon is pregnant with celestial fire.*  Her belly is full, round and luminous. I can’t stop looking up, admiring her ability to put on this heavenly show every twenty-nine days.

Yet the full moon messes with some people’s minds. Sleeplessness, sleepwalking, and feeling emotionally overwhelmed are some of the negative effects people can experience at this time of the month. It is no surprise that lunacy means madness; people believed the moon was its cause. As is often the case, there is a kernel of truth in this folklore. Recently, a link has been found between symptoms of bipolar disorder and the phases of the moon.

Luckily, I don’t suffer from any of these negative consequences. I am an unashamed Selenophile and could spend hours admiring the moon’s beauty. In ancient times, the Greeks venerated Selene as the moon Goddess. Her name means moon, light and brightness. Had I been born during the Antiquity, I would have worshipped her at every full moon, standing in a field with my hands raised to the heavens. Instead, I signal my adoration by tilting my head towards her belly and let awe course through my body with soothing calmness. I never tire of her beauty or mystique.

However, my fanciful flight into metaphor and personification only works in languages where nouns have no gender or where the moon per chance is considered feminine, such as in French. Had I been writing this piece in German, where the moon is masculine (der Mond), I would have imagined him as a lover, a sentinel or my nighttime companion who would inevitably leave me every twenty-nine days.

*  Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray

The gift of friendship

‘Come and stay whenever you like,’ I tell my friends. And this week, I had the pleasure of four friends at my doorstep, each having come a long way to see me. I know these women from different times of my life and and their loyalty is astounding. I have moved hundreds of kilometres away but we still stay in touch.

They are all outstanding educators of one kind or another, yet I’m not sure they’d have much in common other than their teaching careers. I guess if they met, they would talk shop. However, I have a much deeper connection to each of them. I find a different side of me emerges in their company, not because I am trying to impress them, but because they speak to a part of my personality that resonates with theirs.

Michelle and her friend Claire’s visit brought out my rambunctious side. We could speak without a filter, mercilessly tease each other, drink gin, and laugh through the night without a care. There is something to be said for letting your hair down without worrying about the consequences when you know your friends have your back. Spending a night with them was like stepping into my carefree early twenties. Years and cares melted away. Yet they too have their share of hard times, but we can forget these for a while when we get together.

Lizzie was the next to arrive. I have known her for over twenty years, and she has been a loyal friend through jubilation and sorrow. Thousands of cups of tea have infused our friendship. Although her children are older than my daughter, we have shared our struggles and joys of motherhood, marriage and work life. I have always admired her loyalty to friends far and wide and her ability to find time to produce quality teaching resources, which she freely shares. There is also a deep spiritual side to Lizzie, which connects heart to heart. Her friendship has buoyed me over the years, and I feel blessed to be counted among the people she loves.

The last friends to visit were Kath, her husband, and their gorgeous Labrador, who simply wanted to play zoomies with my standard poodle. We don’t see each other that often anymore, but whenever we do, we feel nourished and affirmed by each other’s company. I worked with Kath for two or three short years, and they were the best years of my working life. She is thoughtful and generous, always inclusive, and gives the best hugs. Kath works harder than anyone I know and has made many personal sacrifices to run a high school with its fair share of complexities an hour and a half from where she lives. I have so much respect and admiration for her resilience, and I count myself lucky that she finds time to see me.

Seeing this many friends in a week is very unusual. As an introvert, I can get quite overwhelmed when I see too many people in quick succession. I was quite surprised that I didn’t feel drained at all. In part, this is because I have been on holidays, so I don’t have to juggle other commitments whilst having visitors. However, the other reason is that my friends have been so nurturing and aware of my needs that it hasn’t felt like hosting visitors at all. Each, in their own way, has filled my cup to the brim and beyond with love and warmth. My hope is that we can keep enjoying these precious times for many more years.

A bubbly legacy

For 20 years, I didn’t drink a drop. Then, out for dinner with a man who would grace my life for four short years, I succumbed to a glass of red. It was delicious. Tart, intense and astringent, I enjoyed every mouthful.

I have never been a heavy drinker. Admittedly, I went through episodes of binge drinking in my early twenties, but that was mainly to overcome social anxiety. Once inebriated, I took advantage of my impaired control and began to enjoy parties, rather than be the wallflower hanging out in the kitchen counting tiles. But that was a long time ago.

When I began to drink again, I would only do so at dinner and never at every dinner. Then Roger introduced me to the glass of champers on a Friday evening to celebrate the passing of another week. His philosophy was simple – celebrate if you have had a good week and celebrate if you made it through a tough one. Either way, you are a winner.

When he ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’, as he liked to quote, I was left with an unusually large glass vase filled to the brim with champagne corks. It was years’ worth of good and not so good weeks he had lived through, with and without me. I neither wanted to keep them, nor throw them away. In the end, I reached a compromise, took a photo of the full vase and kept perhaps 30 of the corks. They remind me of a life well-lived.

Now I carry on the tradition, at least most weeks. I can’t drink a bottle of bubbly on my own, but I can enjoy a piccolo, which is 200mL or almost two standard glasses. It is a perfect amount. I raise my glass and salute Roger, and the passing of another week. Cheers!

A capital fog

Canberra is located at the foothills of the Snowy Mountains, within the Great Dividing Range. Its altitude is 577m above sea level, which may not seem like much by South American standards where cities often sit above 1000m, but it is quite high compared to other cities in Australia and Europe. In fact, Canberra’s elevation is 168m above that of Zürich.

The elevation and the fact that it is a relatively sheltered valley near mountains, allows cooler air to sink and the warmer air to form a blanket above it, especially when there is little or no wind. These are perfect conditions for thick fog to occur. On average, there are around 20 heavily foggy days in winter.

I relish these foggy days which give the city a magical air. I love walking in it, not knowing what is in front or behind me, just focusing on one step at a time. I don’t even mind driving in it, although I admit that I prefer driving in fog when I know a route well. But then I have had years of experience driving in the Blue Mountains, where fog can envelop a valley even in summer.

Canberra airport was built on one of the lowest lying areas in the city. The result is that many flights are delayed and cancelled, especially after 10am when incoming flights can’t land due to the lack of visibility. It does seem like a huge oversight to have located an international airport in one of the worst affected areas in town.

Where I live is only 9km from the airport and it shares its propensity to fog. There are mornings when I can only see shadowy outlines of the trees across the road. When I walk the dog, she disappears ahead of me, and I can confuse markers ahead for people coming towards me. It is a strange, fairy-tale landscape where both time and space seem to conflate. It is muffled and eerie, yet stunningly beautiful and comforting at the same time.

When I worked at Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, I often watched the fog roll in like hay bales on a farm. One would roll up the main street and gather moisture and momentum as it shrouded everything in its path, white as a freshly washed sheet. I’d look out onto the playground and play a game of ‘now you see me and now you don’t’; 350 children there one moment and gone the next.

Fog is an enormous doona spread over the city to make all of us more aware of our senses, to hone our navigation skills and to remind us of the things we can’t control.

It is also a lesson in awe and wonder inviting us to pay close attention to our surroundings. Fog is the winter coat I wear gladly. Wrapped around me, I feel peaceful and lovingly enveloped.