A world falls apart — He’s quite a spunk!* Maggie Bullen (September 1967) Astrid’s mother, Maggie, was a dairy farmer’s daughter in Victoria’s Western District. One bright day in September 1967 a tall, shy, rosy-cheeked young Dane arrived on the Bullen farm, looking for work. He…

A girl can dream — ‘What I mean is, I might want to buy her.’ — Astrid Hansen-Moore (March 2022) The best thing about holidaying in Port Fairy was her early morning run to the island. Astrid was the early riser in her family, and relished this time alone. All the…

Reflections on a first attempt at writing a historical novel — ‘The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.’ L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between, 1953 Out of my comfort zone I grew up an Englishman on English soil. The past of the land I lived on was my past; I felt, rightly or wrongly, that I understood it intimately, intuitively. These days, I…

Photographic homage to a biodiversity hotspot on Melbourne’s doorstep — I’m going to hazard a guess that a day out at a water treatment plant is not your idea of a good time. If I invited you to accompany me on a trip to the ‘Poo Farm’ you’d probably find something else important that you needed to do. You’d be…

Forgetting — The moment Marj had clapped eyes on the thug, she had known that he was trouble. Cut from the same cloth as Bob, alright. There had never been a decent cell in that boy’s body, for all the love that she and Reg…

A soft touch — Hot. Airless. Dark. Had he been here days — or just hours? Specks of dust twirled and twinkled in the tiny shafts of light that merely made the darkness deeper. …

Tea and biccies — ‘Brought you a cuppa and some biccies*, dear.’ Reg woke with a start. ‘Oh, sorry! Didn’t realise you were snoozing. Can’t see your eyes under that blessed hat.’ Reg pushed back the shapeless old Akubra and blinked up at the familiar figure, silhouetted…

Why does Medium seem intent on breaking our community? — This is all that connects me to you in any meaningful way:

Adventures of a permaculture cat, part 11 — Day 84, morning ‘I suppose you think you’re big and tough,’ comments the mouse bitterly, ‘murdering Cedric like that.’ Its whiskers twitch in contempt. Nevertheless, it backs under the sheltering bulk of the large, black, plastic compost bin. ‘I’m not dead,’ comes a faint squeak from under my paw. …