20 Feb

My Lamb Louie – The Book!

I’ve written a children’s book about Louie! And guess what? It’s actually quite good – if you don’t mind my saying so! I’ve never considered writing a children’s book; it was just one of those things that evolved…out of frustration, more than anything.

I’ve been trying to get my girlfriend Kel to come down to Tassie for some time now. You might recall Kel was the girl who had the divorce party. Well, anyway, a couple of years after that she got over the evil ex and met Jimmy who has turned out to be the best thing since sliced bread.

I have a theory about true love: if you are introduced to the person the old fashioned way, through friends, then the relationship has a really good chance because the person’s history is open slather and neither party is likely to gild the lily, so to speak!

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for online dating agencies but I can’t tell you how many of my friends have ended up with lying lemons! People just can’t help themselves: they have to adjust their age or pretend they’ve never been married or deny they have kids – and even as they’re striding down the isle it never occurs to them that they might some day get caught out!

Kel and Jimmy now have a little daughter, Ivy, who is JUST DIVINE! And terribly smart (aren’t they all?) because she loves her Aunt Dyranda and she tells her so, frequently. For some time now Ivy and I have been planning a lovely weekend in Swansea. But our plans were foiled when Ivy’s mum became pregnant and had to cancel the visit because it clashed with the birth – a minor inconvenience I told Kel; it’s not like we don’t have a doctor in town!

I was gutted, of course, and delighted to hear that Ivy had thrown a monster tantrum and flatly refused to wear sunscreen moments before she was due to attend a beach picnic. In desperation Kel dug out Ivy’s Christmas stocking and offered it to her, months early, on the condition she allow her mother to smear on the damn lotion.

“Louie gave me a special message for you…but you can’t have it while you’re behaving so badly” Kel levelled at her two-year-old. “What do you think about that?”

“I think lambs can’t talk!” Ivy retorted.

There’s no pulling the wool over this kids eyes I thought as I was leafing through some photos of Louie to send to Ivy. Then all of a sudden I started to see Louie’s story in all the photos. And I thought: if Ivy can’t come to see Louie then I’ll make a book about Louie to send to Ivy.

I’ve been working on it for weeks now; I did a bit of research about writing for children and it’s pretty bloody complex but the trick is to make it educational as well as entertaining and, most importantly, it absolutely HAS to appeal to the long suffering parent who reads it over and over and over and… “just one more time daddy?”

When I’d finally finished, I made copies and sent it to all my friends with pre-schoolers. I was amazed at the feedback from both parents and children. Ivy, of course, adores it and reads it to her baby sister Abby who wants to eat it!

I was talking to Ivy this evening and we both think that My Lamb Louie should be available to all children wherever they are in the world. So, here it is. We really hope you enjoy it and we would adore to hear you’re thoughts. I’m pretty certain Louie would like to know what you think too but I can’t tell Ivy that; she just won’t come at a talking lamb!

Purchase My Lamb Louie now and tell us what you think!

To get the digital book of My Lamb Louie just click the Buy Now button below, follow through the PayPal checkout, and you will receive a link to download a PDF version of the book that can be read right from the computer with your kids or print it out in full color for a great bedtime story.

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , , | Comments (7)
13 Feb

My lucky star

Keithie’s a snake in the grass! Nothing less! We were all totally gobsmacked at how quiet he managed to keep his secret little back room activity; including leaving town for an entire day without anyone knowing where he was going. I gotta hand it to him though; he’s achieved a major feat in a town like Swansea where ferreting out secrets is a local sport!

Of course, it all made sense…after the event! Ever since Keithie had Louie shorn and the shearer went to the Bark Mill Tavern and told everybody about how he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a quality fleece in this region, we’d all been at Keithie about his intentions – you don’t leave a fleece like that to gather dust in the shed!

The thing is, wool is a serious business. It’s a science really. A good fleece is a combination of things like fineness, where the wool fibers are tiny and highly sought after by Italian fashion houses. And cleanliness; some farmers keep their sheep in small pens 24 hours a day and make them wear nylon coats to keep the dust out of their fleeces – I think that’s cruel; I’d never let Keithie do that to Louie.

The best wool is long wool (as opposed to medium wool, fine wool and hair wool – the latter is worthless and can contaminate the entire clip). Spinners love long wool because it is easier to spin.

And colour is also really important with white wool being the most valuable because it can be dyed any colour. Even the wool from sheep with white faces is more valuable than dark faced sheep because dark faced sheep have smatterings of the dark bits in their fleece that can’t be dyed.

So, getting back to Keithie. He turns up late this afternoon smiling like the Cheshire Cat, flashing about a bright coloured sash that declared: “Champion. Fleece of Show” and waving about a massive gold trophy that he’d picked up for Louie’s fleece at the Brighton Show.

Now, you couldn’t describe the Brighton Show as an insignificant affair. It’s one of the oldest agricultural shows in Tasmania and is renowned for its classic country feel: the sideshow alley, the baby quest and competitions galore including beef cattle and cattle handlers, stud sheep and trade lambs, fleece, wood chopping, dog competition, dog high jump, pet parade, pigeons and poultry.

Yep, the Brighton Show is one serious deal and it’s virtually impossible to covertly enter a fleece in competition.

“That’s why I got my nephew to enter it for me a few weeks beforehand!” Keithie declared still brimming with delight not only at winning first place for the first time in his family’s wool growing history but succeeding in keeping it quiet.

I took the trophy and sash out into the paddock to show Louie who promptly head butted it to the ground.

“That’s my girl!” I told her as I sunk my fingers into the fine wool on her forehead and gave her a well-earned head massage.

“First place Louie!” I whispered as I kissed that velvety soft part on the bridge of her nose. “You were always my lucky star.”

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , , , , | Comments (6)
6 Feb

A ghost story!

It’s been three months now and I haven’t had a single ghost complaint. That’s a record I’m seriously proud of because, for a moment there, the ghost problems looked set to ruin my business…until Keithie came up with the solution!

It all started about a year after we took over the business; and coincided with the completion of the makeover we did in each of the cottages. For the next six months I became aware of a growing number of suggestions, from guests, that the place was haunted.

Things reached a head when Mr and Mrs X (can’t name them sorry) from sunny Sydney checked in for two nights full of praise for the gorgeous gardens and adorable 1850s stone cottages.

“This is our home away from home!” I recall Mrs X gushing.

I glanced at her city address and felt a little nervous because in unique, historical Swansea there’s not much modern to be found.

Anyhow, the next day Mrs X bailed me up in the garden convinced she could feel the ghost of Fredrick Wagner, the original owner of the cottage she was staying in.

“But don’t worry dear,” she consoled me, accurately reading the look on my face. “He’s a friendly ghost.”

It was all I could do not to raise my eyes to the ceiling I said to Keithie that afternoon. I mean really… are peoples lives so empty that they have to invent ghosts?

All the same, I realised that I was partly responsible since I’d included the histories of the cottages, and their inhabitants, in the guest compendiums; so why wouldn’t you sip on your port, stare into the flames of your open log fire and wonder how Fredrick Wagner wiled away his evenings following the untimely death of his favourite sister whom he is said to have never gotten over!

But the next morning, when Mr and Mrs X checked out, I endured a veritable sermon about how during the night (it was windy by the way) both people had heard the back door creek open. They knew this was not possible because, as well as turning the big old key in the lock, they had slid the iron bolt across the door. And still they heard, clear as a bell, footsteps across the kitchen floor; then a sound like someone placing an object on the antique kitchen table and then retreating by the same route and [kindly] shutting the door.

The drama didn’t end there though: In the middle of the night, the light at the top of the stairs turned on all by itself!

I was telling Keithie this over a cuppa – after Todd, our electrician, had adjusted the wiring, which was a bit lose and, he suggested, may have caused the light to come on spontaneously – when Keithie said:

“I think the problem might be those old guest books you put back in the cottages after the renovations.”

“Actually Keithie, I think the problem is ‘young’ Australia; I never get English, or European tourists freaking out over a 160 year old building!”

But later I thought about what Keithie had said. Guests do have a tendency to write their ghost fantasies in the guest books and it makes sense that when you’re away from home sleeping in a strange bed (no matter how cosy) your imagination can wander. So the next day I removed all the guest books and I haven’t had a ghost story since!

“I rest my case!” I declared this afternoon.

Keithie just smiled.

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , | Comments (5)
30 Jan

Louie loses her coat

I don’t know who was more traumatised about Louie losing her coat: me or Louie. It all happened very suddenly with a call from Keithie yesterday morning:

“Can you bring Louie across the paddock this afternoon?”

“Well, yeah… I can?”

“Righto then,” Keithie said, preparing to hang up.

“Keithie, I’m not a mind reader; what do you want with her?”

“I’ll put her in with the others….keep her dry.”

“Dry from what?”

“The dew!”

I took a deep breath and wondered if it would be easier if I just invested in a crystal ball. Then, the penny dropped.

“Is the shearer coming?

“”Mmmm, tomorrow…I was wondering…would you make some sandwiches?”

I called Louie over to the gate at around 4pm; fastened her purple dog collar and clipped on a bright orange piece of rope that my husband had created to tether her to the veranda post: it was just the right length, allowing her to munch the lawn and the low hanging leaves on the apple tree but pull up just short of Brucie’s rose bushes.

Together we moseyed across the paddock, through the gate and up Keithie’s driveway into the yard. I’d seen him with the dogs an hour earlier rounding up the flock; Louie (who still doesn’t consider herself a sheep) had watched on and the dogs (who continue to be baffled but know better) had left her alone.

But as we appeared in the yard the bloody dogs set to barking and by the time Keithie had called them off Louie was spooked out of her brain; my hands had rope burn from trying to keep her from bolting back into the paddock and there was no way on earth she was taking another step into the yard.

Brucie, who’d been hanging some new curtains for Keithie (he’s a man of many talents our Brucie: he buys second hand sofas and reupholsters them in his garage of an evening, and makes matching curtains) came over and spoke soothingly to Louie as he scratched behind her ears. I was amazed at how she responded to him as he gently coaxed her straight into the shed with the other sheep.

This morning about 10 I took a platter of ham and tomato and egg and lettuce sandwiches over and popped them into Keithie’s kitchen. I could hear voices over a blaring radio in the shearing shed so I wandered over and poked my head through the door. I realised immediately it was a mistake. Shearing is serious men’s business: women aren’t welcome. I yelled to Keithie, who all but ignored me, that the sandwiches were in the house and, before shutting the creaky wooden door, I took in as much of the scene as I could. There were no surprises: one man shearing, everyone else sitting around providing the entertainment.

For the rest of the day I kept watch on the paddock. By 4pm I was convinced something had happened to Louie. I’d seen most of the cars leave Keithie’s place about half and hour earlier so I knew they’d finished shearing. I was about to go inside and ring Keithie when all of a sudden Louie appeared wandering toward the back gate.

I raced out into the paddock and called to her. She stopped short of me and backed off as I approached. Poor Louie. She looked humiliated without her magnificent fleece. In fact, I was shocked at how much of her had been fleece. I snipped a few rose cuttings and tried to interest her in one of her favourite treats; but she’d have none of it. Eventually she wandered off toward the Willow tree and I decided to leave her be…and settle my anxiety with a chilled glass of the Springvale chardie!

“I thought you were going to tell the shearer to be gentle with her?” I accused Keithie over the phone earlier this evening.

“They all get nicked a bit… doesn’t hurt them.”

“What are you going to do with her fleece?” I inquired, knowing I was fighting a losing battle.

“Dunno…might knit a scarf!”

“Ha ha!”

“But you know what Dyranda?”

“What Keithie?”

“It’s the nicest fleece I’ve seen in a long time.”

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , | Comments (6)
23 Jan

Called to higher service

My husband cried today. We all did. Even Louie was distant; spent most of the day hanging around under the Mulberry tree not hollering at the back gate every time someone went by.

The day started out like any other. After breakfast Wally took up residence at his cat door and set to harassing me to let him out while Bertie hung back in the shadows as usual. I let them both out 10-mintes early since the sun was well up and the nightlife had melded into background nowt that the day was underway.

I had four cottages checking out this morning, so I was single minded in my commitment to the strict routine: strip out each cottage; get the laundry in the machine; make the beds; clean the bathrooms and kitchens, vacuum and sweep. I had just come back inside from hanging out a load of washing when the phone rang. It was Georgina, our local massage therapist. She’d had a baby a few months previously and I hadn’t spoken to her in a while but I knew immediately, form her tone, that this wasn’t a social call.

As I replaced the receiver I felt my blood turn cold. I knew there was an outside chance that Georgie could be wrong; she had said that she couldn’t be sure. But in my bones I knew she was just trying to soften the blow.

I opened the back door and walked briskly along the sandstone veranda. I jumped clean over the three steps and by the time my Blundies hit the lawn I was running. At the front gate I crossed the highway and sprinted along the fence line. I knew it was Wally before my eyes could even focus on the stiff white body resting in the long grass.

I howled like a two year old as I carried him back home. A log truck passed me as I crossed back over the highway and I became aware that the driver braked, then slowed and watched me for a moment through his rear view mirror before accelerating. I felt angry and grateful at the same time.

By the time Keithie arrived I’d laid Wally on the back lawn between the house and the dry stone wall and covered his heartbreakingly still body with a towel. His eyes were open but I couldn’t bare the story they told. In fact, I had known the instant I looked at him that he hadn’t seen it coming; he’s been focussed on his prey (probably a rabbit), obsessed, in control, most likely ecstatic – Wally seldom missed his mark. But the life was gone and there was no denying it when I looked into his eyes. So I covered him over.

Keithie set to work digging a grave. I was deciding which of Wally’s toys to bury with him when my husband arrived. I knew I was going to lose it so I went inside and got us all a drink. It was as I handed him a glass of red (weird I know, red wine in the middle of the day but that’s what I poured and no one seemed to think anything of it at the time) that I thought I saw a tear roll out from behind his sunglasses. He muttered something about Louie being irritable with Wally who’d recently started taking his afternoon nap in her cubby house; the thing was that, unlike the lambs, she would never try to head butt him out. Instead, she’d just stand there stomping her hoof while he stretched out like Madame Muck showing her his tummy.

It’s late now and Greg has just left. He came by to deliver the most beautiful piece of Freycinet pink granite. He’d spent the afternoon engraving it with WALLY in gold lettering. We put it on his grave. I know I have to let Wally go and accept that his number was up: let’s face it he lived hard and he’d more than used up his nine lives. But I just can help wondering if the day would’ve ended different had I not have let Wally out 10 minutes early.

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , | Comments (11)
16 Jan

Bertrand for President!

“You can’t tell me that Swansea doesn’t have the most eccentric mayor in Australia!”

I was opening some fresh Flathead Keithie had wrapped in an old copy of the Mercury and there, directly beneath the tail, was a half page photo of Swansea’s Mayor, Councillor Bertrand Cadart, accompanied by a story about his latest movie role.

“That’s over the fence!” Keithie declared peering over my shoulder with that half smile that could be either a joke or a death knoll. “He’s supposed to be working for us!”

“What do you think this is?” I said, holding up the soggy newspaper which promptly tore in half. “The first sentence says: ‘Mayor of Glamorgan Spring Bay, Bertrand Cadart…’ you can’t buy that sort of publicity.”

“That’s not work!”

“It’s not? So, was Arnie Schwarzenegger working for the state of California when you kicked back and enjoyed his cameo performance in The Expendables (alongside with Sylvester Stallone and Bruce Willis) last week?”

“That’s different, he’s an actor!”

“No he’s the Governor of California you said so yourself when he turned up on the screen!

“It says here it’s all filmed in Bicheno,” Keithie said, skilfully avoiding an argument.

“That’s my point Keithie, how many feature films get made in Tasmania? I agree Bertrand’s weird; trading in the official mayoral vehicle for a motorbike like the one he rode in Mad Max; his penchant for bright coloured blazers and poker dot bow ties; and that thick French accent…not to mention the moustache! But, he’s worked his butt off and he’s put the spotlight on us like never before and that’s what this tourist-driven municipality desperately needed.”

After Keithie went home it occurred to me that we’d all be voting in the council elections later this year and Bertrand’s job would be up for grabs. In a town like Swansea political upsets can come out of left field (I suppose they can in Canberra and Washington too) and as I was doing the pressing I made a mental list all the things Bertrand has done for the town over the past year. Then I rang up Keithie:

“We’re going to campaign for him Keithie; we’ll use your gold Ute and dress it up in all his bright colours plus the French flag and we’ll make slogans and wave placards get a megaphone and drive down the main street on election day telling people to keep him on!”

“What do we want to do that for?”

“Because we need him Keithie! Remember when all the mayors across Australia went to the Council of Australian Local Government Summit in Canberra and the ABC interviewed just one of them: Bertrand. And what did he do? He asked for a chunk of $300 million to build new roads and medical facilities for us; remember that visit here from underprivileged students from New Caledonia? Well Bertrand arranged that and a French TV channel made a documentary about it and now we get more French tourists than ever before! He’s a top bloke Keithie!”

“He’s got a dog”

“So, by association, he’s got a heart too”

“OK then,” said Keithie. “But the dog rides up front with me.”

“Mate! You’ve got a deal!”

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Comments (6)
9 Jan

The head butting affair

“We’ve got a real problem with this lamb!” I told Keithie this afternoon.

“She’s not much of a lamb!” he declared, as he spread the fibres of her mature Merino fleece and whistled at the quality of the wool.

Our neighbour Michelle (who lives up on the hill just passed the big Oak tree near Alfie’s place), had been over earlier with a load of cuttings from her garden. She’s a seriously big heart Michelle. She started bringing giant garbage bags of fresh cuttings for Keithie’s sheep during the drought, to help supplement their feed, and has continued the practice. The sheep love it; they crowd around her as she distributes, luscious fistfuls of “green things”, as she calls them, moving through the flock and ensuring that everyone, particularly the lambs, get some. She spends hours, beforehand, chopping the bigger leaves into bite sized pieces before loading it all into the bags. We love Michelle!

And Louie loved Michelle too. I use the past tense because when she was little Louie would accompany Michelle across the paddock like a puppy and push her head into the bags and dash excitedly about the paddock (without a shed of interest in the feed). But in recent months she’s become seriously proprietorial, to the point that she has taken to charging and, on occasion, head butting Michelle the moment she starts to distribute the treats to the others!

“She wouldn’t want to do that to me!” Keithie threatened.

“That’s my point Keithie, she wouldn’t dare do it to you because she knows you’re the boss. So, somehow we need to teach her that anything that enters the paddock on two legs, with the exception of an Ostrich and a chook, should also be considered the boss!”

I couldn’t seem to get Keithie interested in the gravity of the problem; he was completely absorbed with Louie’s fleece working it like a Baboon grooming a kid. And he was oblivious to the fact that Louie was gently butting his knees as he assessed her market value.

There’s no doubt about it though, Louie’s diet of Brucie’s hand reared roses; Willow leaves; Pine Needles; Mulberry leaves (and berries, when they’re in season), accompanied by the occasional blade of grass, when there’s nothing else going, has indeed help produce a magnificent fleece.

“You know Keithie,” I persisted, gazing over to the back paddock where Keithie’s ram Rupert was quietly grazing. “I think Roo is a bad influence on her.”

Rupert is unique in Keithie’s flock, and in Swansea too, because he has survived to adulthood, and beyond, due to his uncommonly good nature. That’s not to say he doesn’t get stroppy from time to time but he has managed to avoid the fate of most Keithie’s rams, which have been ‘sent to market’ (code for: “wound up on the dinner table next to the mint sauce”) following a head butting infringement.

Recently, Louie has been hanging around the fence that adjoins Rupert’s paddock and Rupert has made a point of NOT head butting her away, as he does with all the other ewes. While their affection for one another is very sweet, it seems that Louie has decided everyone, not just the ewes, is fair game.

“She’ll be right Dyranda!” Keithie said shutting off any further discussion about the problem.

“I hope you’re right Keithie,” I said feeling ignored. “Because I didn’t break my back raising her so you could have her for lunch!”

We both laughed and went indoors for an early evening beverage.

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments (4)
5 Jan

A culture fix

On his last day in Sydney Keithie was determined to pack in as much as he possibly could. I was determined to show him a bit of culture. We fell in with the throngs of camera ready tourists at The Sydney Opera House. As we clambered up the forecourt steps and approached the massive ‘shells’ Keithie kept pausing in awe of its sheer size and architectural beauty.

We went in and asked to see inside the concert hall. The volunteer, who wore a badge saying ‘friend of the Opera House’ (Keithie couldn’t get over anyone wanting to be friends with a building, even one this impressive), explained that there was a concert playing but that we could watch it on the screen in the foyer. She gave Keithie a brochure and pointed out the debut visit this year of Italian opera star, Cecilia Bartoli. Keithie considered the brochure then handed it back saying: “I don’t really get in for that sort of singing… but thank you all the same.”

Our next stop was the Art Gallery of NSW. We walked along the concourse and passed a shimmering silver matted statue of a clown that appeared to suddenly move. Keithie jumped clean out of his skin. I burst into laughter. The statue remained deathly still. “Stand next to it Keithie and I’ll take your picture,” I offered and Keithie obliged feeling a little silly and as I lifted the camera to eye level the statue took hold of Keithie’s hand. Well, that was nearly the end of Keithie. We gave the statue a donation for his talent and moved along about 50 yards to a couple of painted black fellas, in traditional Aboriginal dress who beckoned Keithie over for a photo with their boomerang.

Once inside the art gallery, we decided to start our tour with the 19th Century European Art and took our time absorbing the detailed and often highly emotive scenes and settings. Keithie lingered for some time on “The Widower” by Sir Luke Fildes, an oil painting showing a father surrounded by his four children who have lost their mother and who look certain to lose their sibling who their father is nursing. It occurred to me that Keithie has seen some tough times during his life. We moved on to the 20th Century Australian Galleries where we lasted about one minute: Keithie was singularly unimpressed with the modern art. The deformed people with weird expressions left him cold. And since it was time to make our way to the airport, we took our leave.

I was staying on a few more days so I had a chat to the QANTAS hostie about keeping an eye on Keithie during takeoff. By now though he was feeling pretty confident in the pilots having watched about 20 planes thunder down the runway over the previous 30 minutes. “He’s very compliant,” I told the hostie as she led Keithie down the gangway and on to the plane. I watched the giant machine push back from the terminal and begin to taxi. Then I called Charlie’s wife, Kate, who was waiting to collect Keithie at the other end. Almost two hours later Kate called back: “Well, you might have put him on the plane in Sydney Dyranda,” she said. “But he didn’t get off at this end!” I laughed thinking she was kidding then realised she wasn’t.

Later that night and safely back in Swansea Keithie fed the dogs and checked the new lambs and explained to me over the phone how the hostie had told him to wait until everyone was off the plane and someone would come for him. Keithie obliged, of course, and didn’t move from his seat. And someone did finally come! I think it was the cleaner!

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , , , | Comments (5)
2 Jan

Meeting Mr Shuffles

About six months ago Australia was transfixed as Luk Chai, one of the elephants at Sydney’s Taronga Zoo went into a long and difficult labour that ended with the Zoo staff tearfully announcing the baby had died in utero. Keithie and I, along with the rest of Australia, were devastated. And then, two days later the mother delivered a very weak but breathing baby elephant. We had to wait almost a day to see video of little Mr Shuffles (a nickname the groggy baby earned because of the way he shuffle along for the first few days of his life) who instantly found a place in our hearts – especially Keithie’s.

We took the Sky Safari to the information kiosk and discovered we had two hours to kill until the elephant trainers would be showing off little Mr Shuffles along with his cousin and aunts. So we decided to work our way toward the elephant enclosure via some of the main attractions. Keithie wasn’t so interested in the koalas or the wombats or the kangaroos, which was understandable since he sees them all the time at home, but he loved the illusive but impressive Komodo Dragon, the Sumatran Tiger, the majestic lions and the Pygmy Hippo – that Keithie thought might make a good pet! We stopped a while and watched the elegant Giraffe eat their lucerne, and as we were making our way toward the Aquarium Keithie loudly exclaimed: “That’s over the fence!”

“What is Keithie?” I said facing him. “All those fat people … look at them they can hardly walk up the hill!” I guided him out of earshot but had to agree that the deep fried fish and chips they were consuming as they struggled along was probably not the best diet in their condition.

Finally it was time to make out way to the female and baby elephant enclosure. I selected the most direct route, which involved a shortcut through the food hall. As I stepped on to the escalator I remembered that Keithie just didn’t seem to be able to navigate escalators … it’s something to do with the rhythm which eludes him because each time he attempts to step on board, he hesitates then steps and almost always ends up precariously perched on the edge of the step threatening to topple at any moment. I deftly stepped in front of him and pulled him on board just as a new step emerged.

We spent a full 40-minutes entranced by Mr Shuffles who played blissfully in his tire as he chewed on a leafy tree branch the trainer had given him; he was intoxicating in his cuteness and love of life. Afterwards, I was ready for some retail therapy and there, right next door to the female elephant enclosure was a gift store. We lasted just over five minutes: Keithie does not have a retail bone in his body. Absolutely nothing in the store caught his attention. “You’re so boring!” I accused. So finally he purchased a heart shaped lollipop for Camilla. By then Keithie has seen what he came to see and it was time to head back across the harbour for our big night out.

We got off the train at Kings Cross Station just as it started to pour with rain. “You never get any warning of a storm in Sydney Keithie,” I said just as the lightening forked, and the thunder crashed. I noticed Keithie turn pale like he did on the plane so I dragged him along at a fast pace and we ducked into the Sydney Swan’s Club Rooms and sat out the storm at the open window. Keithie ordered a Pure Blonde for him (of course he did) a cocktail for moi! We used the time to call Charlie to check on the sheep.

After diner at the famous Fountain Café (Keithie’s such a good boy he had a piece of fish, steamed rice and some greens; I had nachos!) we wandered slowly down Darlinghurst Road seeking out all the sleazy nightclubs where the drug lords did their shady and dangerous deals. It was hard not be swept up in the vibrant, pulsating, speedy atmosphere which got crazier as the evening wore on. As we rounded the corner at the Sugar Mill bar we came face to face with three surly Kings Cross coppers! Keithie immediately asked them if they’d seen the baby elephant and judging by their startled looks they must have momentarily thought he meant it was loose in the Cross! Then he told them how it was his first time in Sydney and that our copper, Charlie, had made his visit possible by offering to keep a close eye on his sheep.

“Wow!” The Sergeant said, “That’s a big job for a policeman.”

“Yes, it is,” Keithie earnestly agreed.”

And with that we headed back to our hotel.

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , , | Comments (6)
29 Dec

A harbour experience

Before we left Swansea, one of the things that Keithie kept banging on about was going for a ride on a Sydney ferry. It became such an obsession that he made an appointment with Camilla (Keithie doesn’t need much encouragement to find a reason to visit our pretty, vivacious, blonde GP) and in the course of the consultation Camilla discovered Keithie couldn’t swim. But she reassured him that Sydney’s ferries were “as safe as houses”.

We left the hotel early this morning and took the train to Circular Quay. We walked along the foreshore through The Rocks to the base of the world famous Sydney Harbour Bridge. I told Keithie about a book: The Body in the Clouds, a true story about a man in the 1930s who watched a bridgeworker plummet about 450 feet into Sydney Harbour and live! Keithie placed his hand firmly on one of the concrete and granite pylons and slowly craning his head up and tilting it as far back as it would go. He whistled in awe: “The Coat Hanger aye?”

Then we wandered back through the growing mass of tourists, who seemed to come at us from all directions, and brought tickets for a round trip on Sydney’s harbour. As we waited for our ferry to dock Keithie struck up a conversation with chap who was wearing a t-shirt that read: “New York City” in great big bold letters. “This is my first time in Sydney!” Keithie announced proudly. “Well, how about that,” the bloke replied in a broad Bronx accent. “It’s mine too.” Then Keithie proceeded to tell his new buddy all about his sheep and I made a mental note to call home this evening and get a report.

As we boarded the “Charlotte” (the catamarans are named after nine of the eleven vessels in the First Fleet that sailed into Sydney Harbour in 1888) Keithie announced that there were a lot of black people in Sydney. “Don’t say that too loud Keithie,” I said, guiding him away from the frowns. Clearly over his fear of sailing, Keithie opted to sit out on deck. We glided passed the Admiralty House, the Sydney residence of the Governor General of Australia, and Keithie marvelled at her gardens: “She must have at least three gardeners, and they’d have their work cut out for them,” he frowned. Then we passed Kirribilli House, the Sydney residence of the Prime Minister: “Look!” Keithie pointed excitedly, “She’s [the Prime Minister] home, her flag is flying … can we go and have a cuppa with her?” He was serious!

We spent the afternoon exploring Sydney’s eastern shores. Keithie was desperate to visit The Gap because he’d seen an episode of Australian Story about an attractive young woman who had thrown herself off one of the cliffs along The Gap walkway. We weaved our way along the concrete pathway frequently stepping aside for, mostly Asian, tourists coming back down (each time hoping Keithie would refrain from further loud observations about the other toursits). At the southern end we stared down at the angry swell and as the waves crashed into the rock Keithie satisfied his macabre self that, unlike the Sydney Harbour Bridge, once over the edge there was no return.

Neilsen Park was our last stop before a sumptuous seafood dinner back at Doyles on the Beach at Watson’s Bay. I explained to Keithie that because Sydney’s waters are so much warmer than Swansea’s we put up shark nets so that folk can go swimming without fear of being eaten up. At dusk we watched the sea planes take off and land from nearby Rose Bay skilfully flying over the top of the little keel boats darting across the bay. We watched families picnicking and felt pangs of hunger as the seductive aroma of a nearby sausage sizzle whet our appetites. As we headed off to the restaurant Keithie said to me: “Dyranda, I really like Sydney.

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By Dyranda | Posted in Louie's Story | Tagged , , , , , , | Comments (3)