Well, well, well – just when you thought I’d dropped off the twig!

Well, well, well – just when you thought I’d dropped off the twig!

Hello y’all. It’s crazy I know – I’ve let MONTHS pass and not a word has been writ on this here blog site. I have, you’ll be pleased to know (or not, you might be furiously BORED to know) that I have instead been working on another blog site. An eponymous one – which is to say, it’s named after me. Henrietta.co. I’m not generally referred to as Henrietta.co, but you get the picture I’m sure. www.henrietta.co – not com! Anyhow… that other blog site, that mistress of mine that has got between us, is all about a whole other world of ramblings on life, the universe and everything, but most importantly, it is where I have been publishing my short stories, The Teaspoon Chronicles. I have been rolling them out at the rate of one per week, every Tuesday, for each week of summer, and for those not good at maths, I will publish #8 tomorrow. The series are all there on the site, so you’re welcome to hop across and read them and to let me know what you think! I do LOVE a bit of feedback from others – not JUST my loving mother, who thinks I’m the next J K Rowling. This is the logo for the series, but you’ll find them all under the short stories tab. But hang on a sec, read the rest of this one first!! SoCo Farm is now pretty much complete, at least it’s complete enough for it to be on the rental market. That is, unless some renters are livestock and require the lower fences to be replaced...
Bonfire of Insanities…

Bonfire of Insanities…

Tell me you missed me. I missed me!! You must all be thinking I dropped off the perch and you’d be right, I did. But I did for a good reason and now I’m back and I’ve got some news for y’all. You know how I keep going on about how I don’t know what kind of a blogger I really am? Travel? Lifestyle? Farmer? General Guru on anything and nothing?… Well, I’ve decided to formalise my undecidedness by starting a new website that doesn’t pretend to be just the one thing. And you know what I’ve called it? www.henrietta.co I’m not just the one thing – I like to be all over the shop. So now when you want to read farm stuff, that’s all that SoCoFarm.com will be about and the rest of my ramblings will spill over onto my other site. It’s almost ready. When it is properly ready (ie, when I finish doing what the queen of all things internet, Jenna Black, has told me to do so that she can fire it up), you will be the first to know and you can, if you so choose, subscribe to the site in addition to SoCo. I hope you do. I hope you don’t just abandon me out there in cyberspace talking only to myself because let’s face it, that would be embarrassing. And lonely. And who said tragic?? The new site will be a combination of blog posts, commentary, and some more creative stuff to tickle your fancy, should you require any fancy tickling. In particular, I have been working on a collection of...
Me and my Big Foot

Me and my Big Foot

The King of Terrors enlivened some interesting engagement last week – which is what you’d sort of expect, given that comforting cliche about death and taxes… HowEVER…. I find the whole realm of fear fascinating, kingly or not so kingly. So I’m going to tell you about a really scary thing that happened this week. No one had to die, nearly die, or be going to die in the making of this blog post, I hasten to add, though a morbid fear of all of the above did at times, grip me. Remember when I told you about Coolangatta Mountain? The mild HILL I can see from my kitchen window at SoCo? Well, I have a few apologies to make. My first apology is to Conrad Martens, a highly regarded colonial artist who’s depiction of the HILL looked like a serious case of poetic license. Seriously, I thought the guy must have been on drugs.   The second apology is to all Australians past and present, for my rudeness about how you guys wouldn’t know a mountain if you tripped over one, even if it sits your kitchen window sill. And my third apology is to Coolangatta Mountain itself. To all, I beg most humble pardon. Why the grovelling? Because yesterday, I went up that hill in a truck called Big Foot and it scared the freaking hell out of me.   Now my husband and children will be quick to tell you, should you feel inclined to ask, that it is not often I am wrong. I’m a bit like The Fonz in Happy Days, really cool and...
The Cross Lady

The Cross Lady

I spent the first three posts this year posing as a travel blog, and had intended the next three being a history of Berry blog. UNTIL…. my very clever and savvy daughter pointed this out to me. ‘You’re not a history blog, Mum. People get sick of history!’ Well. That there just took the wind out of my sails – I was Endeavouring to enliven the story of our past for the purpose of Enlightening the likes of exactly her! What is the youth of today coming to? ‘Well, what do you think I should write about this week’ I enquired of my bloguru. ‘Easter, Mum! ’. ‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to ‘do’ another history blog – Easter was LAST MONTH!’ With the website being down, I’ve got all out of whack, but that hardly explains India’s suggestion. I had however, prepared a blog post with an Easter theme and at the risk of losing all of you right here right now, I’ve done an edit job so as A. not to waste it, B. not to waste the bloguru, and C. because it’s a nice foreword to my great reveal – that I’m The Cross Lady. So let’s get on with Easter…. I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking how absolutely bizarre it is that at this time of year, when we commemorate the pretty gruesome murder of and consequent resurrection of someone we culturally believe to be the son of God, we give each other brightly wrapped chocolate eggs reportedly delivered by a beneficent bunny. On the surface of things, every bit of that situation is discombobulating (such...
Autumn tales of the Shoalhaven Incubus…

Autumn tales of the Shoalhaven Incubus…

Autumn. The 19th century poet John Keats called it the ‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’, which pretty much nails it for me. Mellow fruitfulness sounds so mouth watering and makes me think of plump pumpkins and slow roasted lamb and a Central Otago pinot…. And as for the mists, Berry does good mists. Actually, I do good mists too, especially after a good Central Otago pinot. Far now from the maddening crowds of a January USA, let’s go back to that south coast idyl – beautiful Berry. Everyone loves it, everyone tells me every time I say we have a farm there. “Oh, I love Berry!” But how many people know anything about its history? You know, there are a few parallels with Aspen that have made themselves clear to me in doing the research for this post. I know, no snow, more’s the pity, and no snow bunnies, or Zadig and Voltaire shops for them to shop in, no ‘the beautiful people’ jet set and their paparazzi entourage. But from its modest beginnings as a timber town, Berry, like Aspen, has in more recent years, turned from timber to tourism to turn a dollar. And, like Aspen, you need a dollar, if you want to buy land here. But like I said, Berry’s beginnings, too, were humble. That is, apart from a pretty un-humble guy called Alexander Berry, after whom the town is named. He and his brother David, that is. So who was this dude, Alexander Berry? I can tell you, reports about him differ, but the general gist is that he was a bit of...
Frock and honk; peacock ponderings.

Frock and honk; peacock ponderings.

Right. Enough humiliation – thanks for all the support re the sheep and glad you had a good laugh at our expense. I’ll recover, even if my husband doesn’t. He’s making enquiries into sheep and adult children adoption programs as we speak. As for the sheep, they appear to be making their own enquiries into alternative living arrangements. Can you believe it! (that’s not a question) As it turns out, we have long suffering neighbours – and their long-suffering-ness has only just today come to light. They’re long suffering, and because this news is new, that makes me short suffering. But it is Suffering – capital S. As yesterday was Saturday and our youngest had touch footy at the crack of dawn (don’t coaches have a life! – that’s not a question either), then had her new job as a checkout chick at About Life, (where coaches should hang out instead in the early hours of saturday mornings), it was 4.30pm when we finally got down to the farm. As it turned out, we had just enough time to save a turtle, meet an echidna, and make certain observations, not all of them flattering, about the sounds made by pretty peacocks. There was also, unfortunately, time to make a rude discovery, re the freaking sheep. So this agenda item is the one I will tackle first. Emma and James were keen to see the made-over, celebrity-ready sheep, as they’d missed the shearing debacle and will only learn of our incompetence if they read last week’s blog. Step-Mum’s the word. So shimmying we went, down the new road behind the house in...