Don't give up your day job ... What makes something a work of art?

No truer words 'Don't give up your day job' or as in my case, retire, until... Well, I retired anyway. In my retirement I bit the bullet! I finally confronted my fears and decided to make use of a gift certificate from a friend. It was no ordinary gift certificate for it required that I undertake two art lessons. My immediate thought that my friend was obviously just as crazy as me. What was she thinking? I had no artistic skill of which I was aware. Hence, the many months between the gifting and the redeeming. What an experience! My first introduction to the lesson was a gathering of fellow art students over coffee and morning tea. No issues with the experience at that point. However, this was followed by a group movement session where music played and we danced. Next, the donning of aprons, a selection of materials and a tall easel stood before me. Charcoal was not a medium of choice for I knew of its dusty qualities. My teacher started me with charcoal. I was confronted by an A1 sized, sheet of chart paper. I dearly desired to create something that would make both my friend and I proud. Within minutes I had filled the sheet with black lines, swirls and circles. A second and third sheet soon followed and I was surely on my way to becoming a 5 minute wonder. 
The second lesson was much more adventurous where I opted to experiment with paint. I discovered that painting outside allows one to be in touch with the elements but soon realised that the wind dried the materials too quickly for me to build the textures that I sought to incorporate in to my work. Still unfinished I took it home where I added black, oil pastels to highlight the dominant features of the visual text. Then, I remembered an app on my Ipad! Lightbulb moment! PhotoBooth! So much fun capturing the originals and applying the Photo Booth functions to each. X-ray, light tunnel, stretch, twirl, thermal, kaleidoscope and squeeze provided whimsical images of the originals. This led me to the question what constitutes a work of art? Photo Booth images are they works of art or simply outcomes of a camera lens design function?
Is one justified in claiming each as an artwork in its own right or is it failing to acknowledge the camera as the master artist when applying Photo Booth? 
The additional dimensions provided by Photo Booth presented very different texts from the originals. In fact, I believe that the thermal images were perhaps my favourite. Since the two lessons I have created other works of art and seek to expand on my very limited skills.
I have a box of implements where I store a potato masher, brushes, charcoal, cardboard off cuts, pencils, paints, a roller, sponges, a screen of florist netting and much more. I may never be a real artist nor will I be able to answer the poignant questions about what constitutes art or if I should have retired. What I will achieve is satisfaction that I have framed my completed works and they are proudly displayed in my home and for the first time not on the back of the toilet door. Thank you to my 'crazy' friend and my husband for his patience. 

Tarraleah in Winter

The wind sprung up suddenly, as if powered by a switch. The apartment lights dimmed and faded to darkness. I glanced at the clock. It was just before five. Despite the early hour winter's gloom descended like a shroud covering the room. Emergency lighting illuminated only a tiny circle of the ceiling above the door.
No sense of urgency yet. Surely, it was just a tripped fuse. Gianluca snuggled in to his blanket, oblivious to the scene unfolding across the village.
Small, red flames flickered in the firebox stationed in the centre of the lounge room. I shivered. Unvoiced thoughts considered the possibility of a long afternoon without power. The infant wrapped in his blanket was now totally reliant on that firebox for an unknown period of time.
I gathered firewood methodically from the stack, outside the front doors. Two, huge piles of the sweet, raw timber soon lined either side of the hearth. A type of insurance before darkness fell completely. At the very least if the blackout persisted a well stoked fire would ensure some degree of warmth.
Kirstie showered and dressed knowing well the challenges of running a restaurant without power. It was to be a special night where some guests had scheduled birthday celebrations whilst others booked and determined to enjoy the beginning of a long weekend.
Hasty conversations with Kirstie suggested that the emergency lighting had recently been serviced so three hours should have been sufficient for linesmen intervention and the village to be rebooted. Despite that assurance I had an overwhelming sense of foreboding and nodded my understanding trying to ignore my misgivings. 
Wrapped in a blue duffel, coat she bade farewell. She was going to see what she could do to help out in the restaurant. 
The absence of power made restaurant service especially interesting. Gas stoves supported food preparation. Chef had donned his headlamp. He resembled a miner from years gone by. The image jarred for it made no sense. What an unusual figure he presented dressed in his apron, long black pants, the whitest of coats and his headlamp. Comical, but obviously professional; Michael, not daunted to cook for thirty plus guests by lamplight and emergency lighting.
Candles dotted the restaurant. An atmosphere most pleasing to the guests who'd assembled prior to dinner. Warming themselves by the log fire with glasses of wine in hand they shared convivial banter unperturbed by the blackout.
Back in the apartment the wind seemed to be blowing more vigorously. Perhaps it was just my imagination? Somewhere a draft delivered cold blasts of air to the feet. Sadly, insufficient light to fully explore likely entry points. Certainly, the cold fingers of wind stretching for my feet demanded my attention. Surely the French doors to the balcony were the culprit for the room was cooler by their junction with the floor.
Large, beige cushions festooned the lounge. not seeking or awaiting approval they were plucked and jammed at the foot of the framed doors hopefully thwarting the icy claws persisting against their fibre.
The infant wrapped and snuggled for now would have needs later that would require forethought and planning, should the power not arrive on this coldest of nights.
A kitchen bench doubled as a change table for it was closest to the small glimmer of emergency lighting. Nappies and wipes sorted. The ingenious new, bottle-like feeding bag superior to other types but tricky to assemble in the poor light.
Only one candle graced the apartment so best not to light that until absolutely necessary. Fortunately, I made a call close to the three hour mark and lit the candle. A candle designed more for its fragrant properties rather than emergency lighting. Shadows cast by the firelight danced eerily on the walls as the tiny circle of overhead light vanished.
Sometime later, the front doors signalled Kirstie's return with my dinner. Her arrival warned of snow flurries. Snow flurries excited me rather than concerned me and for a short time I forgot my earlier misgivings.
In the candlelight I ate a delicious dinner of salmon and ratatouille. A welcome diversion. Dim lighting made for a romantic dinner for one. I was pleased that my mood and spirits had lifted despite the wind whipping gusts of freezing air at the windows.
Gianluca slept on, unaware of the snow outside. This was his first winter and his first snow experience. At seven weeks too young to appreciate the magic unfolding outside.
Quietly, sitting alone by the fire, I willed it to still be snowing when we woke tomorrow. Outside it was blacker than black making the snow flurries invisible except to the touch. Skin noted the silent flakes as they drifted on the wind.
Time for bed. Ipad screen the only lighting source back to my room. The old school's corridor in the scholar's loft apartments seemed longer than usual and strange in

the blackness. Key entry most difficult in the dark. Sense of touch as my fingers sought the lock's metal jaws. Its form unrecognisable; just memory guiding its passage to gain access.
Success. The key turned confidently in its cylinder.
Memory suggested a few steps to the staircase. Tentative, blind sweeps with my out stretched arm located the handrail to my bedroom upstairs. A smooth handrail gripped in one hand and on the other a finger poised on a small white screen directed each footfall. The last steps rushed as my foot located the bed's quilt. That huge bed calling the evening's slumber. A slumber in deep folds of warmth beckoned.
A slumber that was soon interrupted, for a storm that had been developing for hours brought thunder, more wind and snow. Thunder rumbled deeply from the mountains surrounding the village and travelled in shock waves in and about every building. Wind lashed the conifers. I peered through the glass, straining to see and trusting Mother Nature to vent this night. I urged thoughts of sleep, to drown out the ever present gale circling the village.
Not to be disappointed I awoke to a gentle rapping on my door. I had finally slept soundly and comfortably for several hours beneath the warmest bed linen for the room's electric heater no hero in a blackout.
What to wear? Every layer of clothing for my bed linen was abandoned for the day's activities.
No power yet. A persistent blackout indeed. Morning shower none. Coffee desired but that morning ritual required some minor changes. A saucepan filled and installed on the hearth for the sole purpose for delivering steaming water for that morning moment and the aroma of fresh coffee.
A watched pot never boils so I had time to survey the grounds and the results of the night's storm. Little snow remained on the ground. Snowy footprints marked my steps from the apartment to the fence line. Fascinated to see those shapes had harshly ground the gentle flakes beneath the soles of my shoes. I wondered how long they'd remain telling others that I had ventured beyond the apartment's doors. Totally unaware of the momentary reprieve and the impending snow showers that were to be chased by blue skies throughout the morning into the afternoon.
Picturesque vistas towards scholars and the camping area awed my vision.Trees robust in every limb revealed dusting's of powdery snow. Unconcerned trees that had weathered harsher winters than this provided a modicum of shelter from snow now falling. This snow was different for its determined efforts to claw back the white blanket. A blanket that looked at risk of melting a few, brief moments ago.
Rapid changes in the sky hurled large flakes down to the earth where I stood watching. No longer gentle Mother Nature marked the occasion with sustained snow showers topping roofs, pathways and even fountains with its freezing breath. Buildings and distant cottages appeared to delight in the snowy brilliance.
A vengeful dusting obliterated my earlier footsteps. Had I inadvertently angered Mother Nature? Once more the snow boasted a perfect unscathed carpet. Its soft powder not revealing early morning trekkers. Pristine once again.

Warrnambool Road Trip

Greener pastures greeted the traveller as they crossed the countryside. Travellers who followed the well worn journeys of many others. Large dinosaur-like skeletons controlled the greening of paddocks. Those dinosaur skeletons rolled across the earth to deliver much needed water to nourish the parched ground so unlike that we had seen earlier on the western plains. Robust, steel, skeletons towered over their domains.
Then, finally, a sign with printed blue, iconic symbols indicated that The Great Ocean Road stretched ahead.
Tourists flocked to signed vantage points. Hostile waves each with white crests pounded the shoreline. Cliffs were silently being re shaped as people stood at viewing platforms. Some cliffs were rough and jagged like shattered glass shards. Others stood smooth and straight as if carved by a master craftsman. Delicate sediments succumbed to the will of the incessant waves. Only time revealed the relentless invasion of the coast. Rusty red hues weakened and gradually fell to their knees before such might.
Tourists cameras clicked rapidly. Cameras captured images of the tortured headlands and islands. None considered that history would only remember them in photographs snapped years ago by nameless tourists. Each lens created memories of colossal landmarks. Landmarks that inspired awe. Natural beauty not mimicked in photo shopped computer screens.
Each car park led to new vistas. Sea, water, waves and coastline reached beyond the horizon.

Pudding

Pudding, what an unfortunate name for a dog? She was a Christmas gift. There was much debate about a name with only one dissenter to the unflattering Pudding. All others argued that Pudding seemed to suit the festive occasion. Pudding is playful and friendly. At times she must be reminded that she is not human. In the past she loved to ride a skateboard at the beach near Merewether with her owner, Chris. Recently Chris had to move interstate so now she lives in a more rural setting. To be certain Pudding misses her weekly cafe visits to Derby Street where all passers-by stopped and chatted to her. Her adoring public must wonder where she is and what she is doing. Sometimes one knows when they have to leave the limelight behind and enjoy the wide open spaces of an acreage. One particular advantage of the more rural lifestyle is that the burial of bones is much easier with less concrete under foot or perhaps more correctly, under paw.

Murder Mystery Dinner

Just another fine excuse to come together with friends for dinner. The Murder Mystery theme encouraged creative dress decisions and cemented the relationships of those invited to test their skills of deduction. Each character was provided with a scripted and brief analysis of their role as the evening progressed. The only rule was that no one could lie. However, as with rules, there was always an exception and that was that the murderer was permitted to lie during the final act. I am pleased to report that while I was not the murderer I did know  'who done it.

Pasta

Stephen and I were watching the movie, A Trip To Italy last weekend. The movie prompted us to book a table at our local and favourite Trattoria, Lillino's. A quick call to Valentina had secured us a table for dinner. Having had no lunch, the images of the meals showcased in the movie had fostered a hunger for traditional Italian cooking. Later, over a dinner of shared plates, each piled with steaming pasta we agreed that we needed to do some home cooking, Italian style. When we arrived home hurried invitations were emailed to friends inviting them to join us in creating some pasta dishes of our own. Dishes that would allow us to reminisce about our travels.
Jeni, Alain, Stephen and I measured flour, rolled dough and cranked handles on a pasta machine before hanging our efforts out to dry. On a side note, the handle of the pasta machine had the unnerving habit of falling out of its socket and clanging to the floor. It was more a product design fault rather than issues due to its inexperienced operators.
A previously gifted pasta dryer was extremely helpful in drying the strips of pasta. In the past, when we had made pasta we had no fabulous plastic tower, complete with lifter and it was hung on clothes hangers about the kitchen. The completed cuisine was particularly tasty. The best fun was in the meal's creation and in the making of happy memories.

And then it rained ...

The empty wine bottle fell into the recycling bin, along with the torn pizza packet. I looked skyward as the bottle struck another at the bottom of the bin. It chimed, like only glass can.
I was so disappointed. This is not what I wanted. Rain tapped gently on the tiles. I could already hear water flowing into the tank at the side of the house. The gravel and brown earth barely wet but obviously enough rain to make its way from the tiles to the newly painted gutters and then into the tank's thirsty mouth.
I wanted a storm. A storm with torrents of rain heralded by thunder claps that rattled windows and shook foundations. There was something about lightning bolts that cracked and shattered the night sky with their silver fingers of crazed light that tantalised. Lightning tongues that licked the earth I willed to come.
I wanted to raise the blinds to the tops of the windows and look out through the dark, waiting for the rumble to be followed by an eerie light show that would momentarily illuminate the neighbour's yards. The need to see the waters rushing across the grass, then across the road drains at the bottom of the hill. Drains that could not be seen for they were so troubled with weeds.
To stand and wait for each explosion of colour to bring relief from the blackened sky. For rooftops and trees to shine where wet rain had drenched their features. To see the neighbour's storm water creating jets like burst water mains pouring onto the lawn.
Instead I lazed briefly on the lounge, restless for the storm to bring closure to my day. Feeling unsettled I roamed the hallway looking into every room. Searching for something to challenge my interest to bring about a break in my weather.
In the first room the treadmill stood silent in one corner. No feet had walked its panels for months or maybe even years. Opposite it a sofa couch designed to provide respite for the exercise enthusiast. Bright cushions punctuated it's grey fabric. Soft furnishings to entice and to stimulate energetic participation in walking to nowhere had not met their target. Foliage of every hue outside the windows suggested the inside merged with the inner world, framed by this room.

A second room had its agenda firmly designed for sleep. Black, iron, bars welded to an arc at one end was festooned with no fewer than six pillows. Each precisely placed and plumped for restful slumber. Tall bedside lamps with velvety, green shades sat on each side of the bed. Small metal and wood framed tables with glass tops allowed me to see through to the carpet underneath.
My walk had not yet injected inspiration and nor did the final bedroom from this hallway. This hallway was no substitute for the storm I sought to rid myself of a nightfall malaise.
With tempered steps I returned to the lounge. I soon drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow I knew that I would wake with promise.

Today is my tomorrow. It brought me to lunch at a local restaurant in the vineyard, just a short drive from home, along the highway to Lovedale. Lovedale, the area where tourists first meet the rows of trellises. Some vines still clinging to bunches of grapes long past picking schedules. Now waiting to wither, dry and fall back to earth from whence they grew. Others had proudly offered their bounty before summer storms rendered them useless. Roses bloomed at the beginning of each row. Their job to alert the vigneron to possible disease. The same roses had not been able to prevent the hail that harassed the delicate grapes into submission one summer afternoon.
Matthew and I seeking a light lunch turned into the drive of a once favourite restaurant and parked with ease. We were a little early for the Sydney visitors to be crowding for tables so it was a quiet and relaxed dining experience. Choices there were many. Today's fare a mixed platter of smoked duck breast, chutney, chicken terrine, thinly sliced, air dried beef, pistachio salami, smoked cheddar, rocket salad with a side dish of Cajun potatoes. Our wine was a local Chardonnay that supported the variety of flavours in a most pleasing manner.
Conversation over lunch noted the success of casual dining and the creation of platters when entertaining. No banging of pots in the kitchen, stirring mixing or plating when platters had been prepped before the arrival of guests. Mental note to self to do this again soon with a group of friends where we could all sit and enjoy banter without the intrusion of watching over a hot stove.
Across the table I watched Matthew as he made his selections from the platter. As a couple this platter worked well for it allowed each of us to partake of preferred options without due conflict. Shared meals where another cooked was a pleasure. Matthew savoured the variety that a charcuterie platter offered. Terrines, one of his personal favourites.
While I sat and typed I yearned that in writing this I could find a perspective that resolved thoughts and secured them whence there could be no return. To put them in a vault where no key or the biggest storm would open the box of memories.

A Memory - Marysville

A memory. 

This story is dedicated to the people of Marysville. Some time has passed since Black Saturday, February 7th, 2009 when the town was devastated by bushfires. Bushfires that killed 45 residents and destroyed approximately 90% of Marysville's buildings.

Marysville was a town of around 600 permanent residents. Its town’s people experienced the most catastrophic fire storm. Fires so intense that it spared neither human nor historic building save a few. The bakery, the lolly shop, the post office, the tourist information centre, the church where Taj was christened, a motel, a cafe and the odd house, Bruno’s Sculpture garden, all passed before many people grasped it had arrived.  The expected sirens were never sounded.

The cooling Steavenson River that ran through town no match for the tornado of flames that descended with its supreme power so determined to wreak chaos and havoc.  The shared telephone messages between people assembled at Gallipoli Park where all were aware that many might perish. Too many to save given the fire’s ferocity. Some must attempt to make a break and that is what they did. Under escort, a convoy of cars raced along the one road out of Marysville that had just been cleared; albeit temporarily; and that was for the briefest of minutes not totally consumed by flames and smoke. Few escaped to Alex for the road soon succumbed once again to the inferno as vegetation and cars were incinerated.

Steve, your unselfish abandonment of all your most valued possessions to drive another. Leaving your home to the mercy of that tsunami-like fire, knowing that when you returned that everything you owned would be lost to the searing flames. To Grace, who evacuated Marylands and its guests to the expected safety of Gallipoli Park. I hope that your face cream and hair wand remind you of happier times that we all shared at Marysville. To Alex and Helen at Snobb’s Creek winery who made your home available to many friends when all around was under siege.

To Kay who served us breakfast, the lady who owned the bikie bar, 'In Neutral' and the girl who allowed me to shop at Lit.  

A special thank you to Kay and Nora who cared for my daughter when she lived in Marysville. I commend your courage, your resilience and your determination to rebuild. 

Secrets

I have a secret. It is not a big secret. But as secrets go it's best to keep this secret. 
You see, one Saturday morning I was happily working in the garden when I took a call on the telephone. The caller asked if I could come for a visit as she had a little problem. The caller knew my secret. What the caller wanted to know was it possible for me to pack my secret costume and to come for a sleepover. I considered the offer. What payment or enticement was the caller offering for my services? How many people would be in attendance? Did the caller have any specific requests while I wore my costume? Next problem, what would my husband think? How would he feel about the request? He was aware of my secret costume sitting in its plain, brown, paper bag in the wardrobe. Would he accompany me and make the three hour journey to the mountains so that I could wear my secret costume? Did he want me to say no, not this time? When I asked him he smiled a knowing smile and said, "Tell her that we are on our way. We can be there a little after lunch."
My secret costume has travelled far and wide since that first time. It has been to Queensland, to my workplace, Katoomba and even a local hotel. Another Christmas. Another occasion to wear my secret costume.

Surprise visit ...

I like surprises and last week I surprised my daughter, Kirstie and arrived to knock at her door in Tasmania. Only two weeks prior, Stephen and I had made a sudden decision to make the trip to Tarraleah. How exciting it was to knock on the door to her apartment well after all other guests had checked in for the night. Believing that it was a late guest she opened the door tentatively to see us standing there. Tears and hugs all round. What a greeting. A greeting that showed me that all of the secret planning had been well worth it. It was a visit of firsts in that we made the walk to discover the newly created forest site for weddings. A site in its bush setting under a canopy of trees. Ferns and wild flowers grew beside the bush track leading to the forest chapel. I could imagine excited future wedding guests and bridal parties making the same walk.

Thirty-six Panes of Glass

The blue scape was in itself entrancing but soon one was mesmerised by the unchanging vista and the mind wondered to other things. The sea blurred and distractions consumed thoughts whereby the vista was no longer of consequence. Seated by the open window, framed by its thirty-six panes of glass the pattern of daydreaming was firmly established.
Thoughts, not bound by doors, walls or roads, took me back to the recently visited estate overlooking the harbour. The homestead hedged and gardened with lawns sweeping across the cliff top, jarred the historic relic to times past. Was it secretly yearning to connect with an uncertain future?
Haunting sobs from the upstairs bedroom reminded one that real, living people once walked its hallways and scampered across the grass and pathways braced against the wind's biting tongues.
Had the sheep grazing in the distance noticed Julian's mother slipping into the garden? Still chiding herself that so simple a pleasure could end in tragedy.
Silently now, she stood and gathered her cloak to her cheeks. Her cheeks revealed her anguish. Tears shed wearily would not change the cold hard earth that embraced Julian. The white marble headstone etched with few details to explain the laughter, life and energy now lost. Two years, eleven months and fourteen days. The little hands and face that so trusted a much loved hound, silenced.
Grim reminders that life goes on. The children returned from their morning lessons.
Overhead a seagull cried. Eyes sought the here and now. Once again the blue scape craved attention. The past forgotten. Yellow sands called.
Yellow sand rimmed the bay. Rocks balanced and stacked to protect the shore. Footfalls left no trace. Shells crackled and shattered with every step. Matted brown, seaweed clumps carpeted the edge of the tidal litter. Skeletons of tiny crabs dotted the surface.
A parched stick of driftwood upended one corpse. No visible signs to show reasons for its demise, to justify its fate. Along with numerous others they lay, some face down while others suggested preparedness to scuttle at a moment's notice.
Sun broke through the cloud. For the first time there was a realisation that the sand was the brightest white. Not yellow. Cloud cover deceived perception. Warming strides invited further passage.
Stones rounded and smooth sparked in the growing sunlight. Bending to grasp a small black stone; a stone that had presented itself. It appeared to be pasted with glitter by an unknown hand. Over one shoulder we looked back, the nut rose. Its strength obvious. Its girth bold. There was no comparison between the two.
The silence and warmth of the walk was enjoyed by my companion and I. Not remarkable but invigorated by the shared activity.
Suddenly and unexpectedly from a sandy side track a couple emerged. Hands in pockets, hooded heads hastened towards us. Perhaps their daily ritual? There was a familiarity in their task. A small yappy dog was unleashed. It ran in circles along the sand. The white sands could not compete. We withdrew. The magic broken.
Returned to those thirty-six panes of glass coffee was poured. Sun showers drifted along the bay. Tiny droplets gave way to splashes of rain that licked the glass. Warming coffee sipped and once again there was a reacquaintance with the vista.
Gathered thoughts. The cycle repeated. Imagined journeys ...Sometime during that cycle one submitted to human elements. Eating, drinking, dining, partaking, all acknowledged the basic need of man to consume food. Food chosen or selected from a plethora of options. Intermission scheduled and concluded. 
Satiated we returned to the window.
Night replaced day. Stars replaced the sun as one sat by those thirty-six panes of glass. Bay lights twinkled more brightly than the stars. Red and green buoys instructed water craft to safest journeys. No moon shone.
Movement below. A tuxedo dressed fairy. Had I daydreamed from day to night? No blurred blue horizon. Jack blackness where the street lamps lights failed to illuminate the ground between the land and the sea.
Strained eyes stared into the gloom. One little fairy, tentative in its evening's feeding darted in and out of my view. Seated quietly by the windows one couldn't help but will it, one little fairy, to move closer to the arc of light.
Surely nervous of predators or man had cautioned its movements. Dim light prevented accurate tracking. Imagined loneliness in its solitary feeding habit too soon it vanished. One little fairy left. It had moved on. I had wanted more from our brief encounter.
A plover called below. It was not a fairy. I had guessed wrong. I had imagined a relationship with a fanciful creature. Unexpected. Disappointed. I left that window.
Timed meetings. Timed relationships. Some longer than others. Closure. I left those thirty-six panes of glass.
Time to explore new vistas. Time to sleep. Tie to dream.
Awakened and compelled to search glass panes once more. Looking skyward and to the horizon. Shades of grey painted both clouds and sea. 
I had a duty to sit and watch. Glass so easily shatters. Take care. Be selective in what you choose to view.

Tarraleah - It Came Again Last Night

Our cottage was nestled on the escarpment with views to the mountains opposite. Five symmetrical, silver pipes hugged the very edge of the mountains until they disappeared from sight. Strong and steadfast, their purpose to serve the valley below and those who lived beyond its reaches.
The warmth of the fire had filled the cottage and provided a welcoming atmosphere. Unpacking was hurried. Bedrooms chosen for their views. Provisions stored and refrigerated. It was time to explore the village.
Rain fell but it did not daunt the eager tourist. The rental was parked and my companion and I dodged the first drops of rain. Village pubs have their own unique charm and this was the case with the Highlander. Polished timber floors, subtle overhead light fixtures with lamps placed in strategic locations.
Chairs and lounges designated conversation hubs for guests. A log fire set to divide the room understood its dual role. Quietly and efficiently its glow and flickering flames ensured the traveller that they were invited to take their time and enjoy this space.
Stools lined the bar but none were occupied for guests had already begun to reserve the comfy lounges. Drink orders taken and filled; the friendly wait staff ensured that nothing intruded on the harmony. Each group relaxed, unwound, were prepared to linger over their pre-dinner drinks.
Somewhere Chef was prepping for the soon to be sought restaurant orders. No need to rush as one surveyed the seated guests, none pressed for menus or dinner orders yet. The wait staff had read guests well and appreciated that no diners were impatient for dinner.
One gentleman read his paper by a lamp near the window while his wife completed her crossword. No conversation or banter disrupted each from their task. White wine was sipped and beer savoured.
Another couple seated themselves at the far end of the bar away from the door. The male had chosen a beer. The woman seated beside him was distracted from her glass of red while she sat attending to an electronic device dressed in its leather jacket. She tapped icons and screen opened in rapid succession before the red wallet passed between them.
In the exchange, the outside world returned. Upon entry to the pub it had been raining.
A delighted cry, "I think it is snowing!"
Roused, the companion looked up from the on screen text to check the snow claim. He had been too quick to judge, for a flurry of flakes had indeed passed the windows.
Interest piqued, the last of the red wine was finished hurriedly. The couple rose to leave. Snow was an obvious highlight as afternoon slipped towards evening. As warm and cosy was the pub it could not compete with the draw of the snow.
Outside, flurries of snowflakes landed on scarves and wraps. The pair excited by the prospect of snow now determined to partake of its character. The flakes were unexpectedly large and clearly visible against the background of the blue jacket. Not offended by the arrival of snow they seemed to share a common need to celebrate its appearance. Oblivious to the temperature they walked slowly to the car savouring the event.
With few streets or roads to pass the cottage option was chosen with vistas in mind. However, the snow had provided a new dimension to the stay. Vistas would be replaced and lost in the snow's blanket.
Within the cottage the lounge area had been positioned appropriately. Large expanses of glass windows allowed the couple to watch the snow. Snow that they had just walked in as they made their way to the parked car and then from the pub, back to the rented cottage.
It was a cottage of generous proportions for it housed two master bedrooms and another, a single room off the sun verandah. A dining room and full kitchen facilities ensured that guests could choose between restaurant and home style meals as desired.
An outside picnic table dominated the yard's attention but it was not required on this occasion for the snow had diverted guests inside. Banter suggested the likelihood of further overnight falls.
One guest woke to crystal clear skies. Orion's belt steadfast in the sky above, momentarily disappointed, one guest in particular. She had woken and crept to the lounge to capture a secret viewing of the much anticipated snow falls.
She had not fully understood the pattern of nature in this area. For has she known she would have realised that the stars were only brief visitors throughout the night.
The lounge's log fire insisted on further refuelling. It was restocked and the guest sat to wait and to watch. Large pillows cushioned the wait and soon the voyeur slept unaware that more snow was falling. Snow fell across the valley. In another room, her companion slept heavily. His pattern of snoring indicated that he could slumber knowing that he would see the snow later. There was still time to sleep.
Morning light brought solver white clouds sweeping across the valley. Peaks disappeared and reappeared. At times the hillside was draped in curtains of snow. Silhouetted sun struggled to banish the flakes that had gathered on the lawns. Lawns that were dotted and edged with brilliant, yellow daffodils.
Village pavements were damp but accustomed to the changeable weather so an easy stroll to the Teez Cafe was deemed fit but first a wonder up past the lodge before circling back to partake of breakfast. 
Others had already eaten or ordered breakfast as my companion and I entered. A fireside table beckoned.
From the table diners scrutinised the newly hung pictures. Pictures that claimed wall space reflected local history and someone's sense of humour.
A personal favourite, a lady clad in fashions from times past, studying closely, a manual, explaining unfamiliar technology.

Farewell 2013

A Moroccan themed New Year's Eve dinner saw everyone don the most amazing apparel. There were some fortunate guests who had genuine items of Moroccan fashion. Then there were others, like myself, who had ventured to the creative side. We dressed in something reflecting the tone of the night. Quite possibly some of us lucky to be escaping the ire of the Fashion Police. Commencing at 9:00 pm we were greeted by our hosts where opportunities abounded to discuss individual attire. One guest had sought the aid of the digital world to ensure that he had arranged his head wear according to authentic practices. What would such occasions do without YouTube? After twelve viewings Gary proudly displayed his newly discovered skills and techniques. Yet another guest had recycled a Nativity costume from his past. Mike had a biblical take on the occasion. Stephen bravely pulled on a caftan purchased on his travels to Africa. All I can say is that we were all fortunate to have once again been invited to a New Year's Eve event of international proportions. Luckier still that none of the guests were pulled over for RBT. The alcohol reading was not the issue but rather how the establishment would have viewed the less than standard party attire of those making their way home.

Ceviche

Ceviche was served at a recent Locals' Dinner at Calais Estate. On the lawn, on a very hot afternoon, the ceviche was refreshing. Wait staff offered platters of ceviche and so impressed were we that we endeavoured to replicate the taste and flavours. We have twice savoured the home-style ceviche and on each occasion it has been a little different from the initial sampling. As we continue to experiment with flavours and textures this Summer should prove to be interesting for there are so many variations of this dish. One home diner requested that her ceviche be heated. A twist, yes. No problem. It worked for her palate. Chef Stephen continues to please and surprise.

Christmas 2013

When all is said and done Christmas is about family and friends; not the gifts beneath the tree. Christmas Eve was shared with family and friends. Kind weather allowed us all to gather under the pergola. Under the pergola people sat or stood to share conversation, wine and the newly discovered Bibina offerings. Several family members had travelled great distances to to be there. This festive season was special for new friends and old came together. Absent friends were remembered. Candles and coloured lights created an ambiance of good cheer. I hope the gathering on Christmas Eve continues and becomes a tradition where family and friends are welcomed.

Lunch at Leogate - Villa Du Pays

If you loved the Member's Dinner then you will also love the lunch menu too. The restaurant's dining area accommodates diners both inside and out. The daytime setting allows the guest to partake of the views to the ranges or the courtyard. The shared platters, individual meals or the gourmet burger provides a fine selection of menu options. I think that the burger is fast becoming a personal favourite. A word of caution. The portions at this restaurant are particularly generous. The restaurant's decor clearly establishes that the diner's experience will be as memorable as the meals. It was therefore, not surprising that at recent lunches we have noted that we are not the only diners who are making return visits.

Dad's Birthday

Dad chose to have his birthday on a day when the heaven's decided to open for one almighty storm. Torrents not puddles ran across roads and pavements. The lake hosted an amazing storm front. Umbrellas no match for the downpour. Despite the weather family gathered to celebrate Dad or Pop's big day. Lunch at the restaurant then candles and cake at Lesley's. Wet but wonderful day.

Dressed Up

How pleasing it is to see family members dressing for special occasions. Different weddings on different days. Each has their own take on fashion etiquette. I recall when ties were frowned on and suits were for old people. Do the ties and suits now mean that my children are old too?

Tarraleah and Whisky or is that Whiskey?

In the lounge, at The Lodge, Will hosted a Whiskey tasting event. I had never attended a whisky tasting so it was not only informative but it also surprised the taste testers that the differences were so pronounced in each of the varieties poured. A line drawing, created by Will, assisted the uninitiated to grasp the process of whisky distillation in one easy lesson. Colours, ageing, barrels, whiskey with and without the e were examined by those present. I discovered those who have ice and those who take water with their whiskey. Water if taken, is measured in fingers and ice in cubes. So much to see and learn.

Stolen dessert recipe, a movie and wine ...

What more could a girl want? On the Saturday night of an election when every media channel realised that no one would be watching anything other than the results. My alternative? Wine was poured. Strawberries, kiwi fruit and banana were sliced. The sliced fruit and was plated in a waffle cone. Blueberries were added for colour and texture. Cointreau and custard gently bathed the fruit. To finish; a serve of Limoncello-yoghurt on the side and a dusting of icing sugar. A recipe borrowed or perhaps stolen, from Lillino's Trattoria.