Witters from Down Under
Created | Updated Mar 4, 2009
Having moved from Scotland to Australia in 2005 to find out if she had fallen in love with the country as well as her husband a decade ago, she decided that the answer was ‘yes’ and intended to stay.
However life has always had a marvellous way of changing her best-laid plans. And it happened again. An unexpected work opportunity presented itself in mid-2008: one too good to miss.
As a result the Witter from Down Under is now coming from the land of the long white cloud - New Zealand.
Please join us and read Frenchbean’s commentary on a new country, a new city, a new job and new friends.
Responsibility
Hello Everybody 
One of the issues that I will have to face once I have my own small acreage supporting veggies, fruit, hens, a wind turbine and a dog is that of needing somebody to care for the place when I go away. That this can be problematical was illustrated recently by some locals, who had a two week holiday and asked a friend to house-, chook- and vegetable-sit. They also asked me to drop in a couple of times to pick up excess eggs and veg, to distribute in the office.
After a few days, I called to arrange a suitable time to collect produce; to be informed by the house-sitter that he was eating all of the eggs and there were no vegetables available. I greeted this information with some surprise, as there are half a dozen chooks producing an egg almost every day and the veg beds are far larger than mine (and I’m struggling to keep up with those!)
The state of his bowels was my greatest fascination at the time, although I hoped that the binding effects of the eggs were being balanced by the loosening effects of beans and courgettes.
When I eventually reached the property a week later, there wasn’t a boy lying rigid on the floor immobilised by blocked bowels as I had feared. Instead, I was ushered hurriedly into the house, where four egg boxes were thrust into my hands. Upon enquiring about courgettes, beans etc I was assured that there were none. As I was shovelled out of the door (my presence was definitely de trop) he told me that he doesn’t eat vegetables.
I departed with a distinct feeling of confusion tempered by fair relief: it was far from comfortable.
However, as I drove away I could see the vegetable patch bursting with overripe produce, receding in my rear view mirror. A few days later the returning holiday-makers met a rapidly departing house-sitter and a mammoth un-harvested crop of everything. At least they had somebody there to deter burglars and to feed the cats and chooks, but it highlighted to me just how hard it is to entrust your precious endeavours to anybody else.
For instance, Dad used to get in a rare state, even if it was one of his well-trained children caring for his garden when he and Mum went away.
One time I was incredibly privileged to be instructed, and then tested, on how to drive the ride-on mower-cum-tractor. I waved goodbye to them with his final words ringing in my ears: that on NO ACCOUNT was I to show anybody else how to drive it. Not even a brother!
He had also spent a full morning ‘walking the estate’ with me, explaining (repeatedly) all the watering times, fertiliser schedules and harvesting routines of every plant in every tunnel, open bed and greenhouse pot.
Oh, and all the crops had to be measured and recorded. Strawberries were particularly important in this regard: each pick was to be weighed (using the old red scales kept near the plants) and written down. It was definitely a Heavy Responsibility. I suspect I will be no less anxious and demanding when it comes to it.
Food is, of course, central to life; perhaps more to mine than most people’s. I constantly enjoy it: the growing, preparing, cooking and sharing. The excesses are never thrown away in my garden: they are preserved for the lean winter and early spring months when nothing much will grow. This weekend has seen the start of the end-of-summer preserving frenzy. Jars of chutney, ketchup and jelly are cooling on the work-top as I type.
Jars are courtesy of my work colleagues, with whom I have a barter arrangement. In exchange for more than three jars I will return one of them filled with a preserve. It works wonders and the trickle arriving on my desk last week promises to become a flood in the next few days.
Happy days.
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