Under The Mallee Bough

  UPDATE!..The Modern Method of “Living”.. UPDATE!. . The Modern Method of “Living”. Y’know, I think I have almost got the knack of this modern lifes. . . , There you go, I was going to say “lifestyle”, but that would denote that we had a choice of what kind of life we chose to live…but no..rather, I see these times as an absurdity thrust upon us without choice or escape..so I would be better to choose the word in the title vis; “Method”…yes, I have almost got the gist of this modern method of getting by in an absurd world.. and it all came about through again my motor car. I’ll tell you… This morning I went to take the car out of the garage and I see it has a flat tyre…front drivers side..flat as a tack..bugger!…So I go to the boot to get the jack and the spare tyre out to do the job…a job, by the way any man my age has done dozens of times..you jack the car up, undo the wheel nuts and swap the spare from the boot to the car, tighten the wheel nuts...

  The Little Red Hen.. So much depends, On the little red hen, Standing beside the wheelbarrow, In the pouring rain.

  Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal. (Arthur John Trevor Briscoe..1873-1943..Sculling). Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal..#7. Epilogue. I was keen to get an early start as I expected this stretch of the river to be the final chapter in my journey..also, amongst the general conversation with Hector yesterday, he informed me that the river moves between steeper hills as it gets closer to The Murray River and I should be aware that the current may be stronger. I had allowed for just such an event so I brought along a spare rowlock that I could use on a block set in the transom at the rear of the skiff so I could scull the boat to have more direct control while being moved along with the current. I set off after the Sun had comfortably settled in the morning sky and rowed across to the far side of the waters so as to catch the deeper stream there. I had not gone too far down the river when I passed what has been recently named “Shell Hill”, as it ...

  Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal. Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal..#6. Hector Rasmus. I awoke the next morning after a grand night’s undisturbed sleep that I put down to a good meal, good conversation and the tasty beer. The Sun was still a sallow, cool light when I woke and the air was fresh and clean…just what was needed for me to stoke the ambers of the fire and get a billy on for the first cuppa of the day..This, at least is what I was thinking while still snug in my swag…the action needed to put idea into effect was the only thing missing. The impetus to arise from my camp swag was motivated by my seeing the object of the good conversation of the last night squatting on the small landing next to my moored craft…he was looking at the boat closely while smoking a cigarette, the curl of exhaled smoke rolling with a zephyr of a breeze over the brow of his head. He touched and then ran his hand along the gunwale, several times.. “Is it smo...

  Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal. (Man in a rowing boat..Henry Scott Tuke.) Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal..#5. Black Hill.  The approach to the hamlet of Black Hill by skiff on the Marne River was over a flood plain of vast proportion. Since the heavy rains of this year of 192*, a huge volume of water descended down stream from the Eastern Adelaide Hills sending the waters of the river to lap against its widest perimeters..all roads and tracks were flooded or at least sections were made impassable and diversion roads were hurriedly cut above the flood line so as to facilitate access to the isolated farms and hamlets along the river…Black Hill was no exception. So it was with trepidation that I wound my way across the wide flood plain that lay before the village. As I came near the collection of houses and buildings that formed the hamlet…I cannot in all honesty call Black Hill a “town” as it is too scattered and too small a gathering of...