Peace and calm down on the farm

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It's amazing the contacts you make working in a pub, so it's not really any surprise that after a few weeks working at The Port I was invited to help out at a plantation owned by a couple who drink in the pub. It has to be said the 6am starts did not appeal, but I was bored of watching daytime tv all morning before starting at the pub at 1pm so I figured it would be a productive way to pass my time in sleepy Carnarvon and a good way to get some fresh air and exercise. When the air became as fresh as 7 degrees I had second thoughts about getting out of bed but the frosty air was combatted with every item of clothing I owned, a cup of tea and a camp fire while watching the sunrise.

Working at the plantation turned out to be one of the most enjoyable and peaceful jobs I have ever had:

I am hidden between the rambling rows of beans and chillis. The soft morning sunshine shimmers through the dark green leaves, highlighting the delicate spindles of spiders' webs and turning the dew to drops of gold. I plunge my arms into the dense leaves and pull out pert, glossy chillis or lush green beans. They drop into the bottom of my bucket with a satisfying thud. Down the rows the gentle thump of other buckets being filled can just be heard. The red globe of the sun springs up above the grapevine nets and casts languorous shadows down the lines. A flock of cockatoos rise from their roosting tree and cross the field on their way to breakfast, squawking early morning greetings to all their neighours. Parrakeets swoop between the bean stakes, their vivid green plumage camouflaging with the lush vegetation. The stark scarlet of a ripe chilli winks from the depths of a bush. The smell of woodsmoke drifting on the breeze is a reminder of the chill start to the day, soon forgotten now the warmth of the new sun strokes your back. Rhythmically hands clasp vegetables and snap stems. Thoughts pass through my mind like the high wispy clouds floating across the sky, evaporating into each other before they can take substance and distract. Each full bucket load mounds up in the crates.

Minutes blend, another bucket emptied, another crate filled, another full sweep of the clock completed. Out to the top paddock. Here spread-eagled zucchini plants form a clumsy line-up. As you walk the rows with your bucket you can almost see the zucchinis expanding like an inflated balloon, turning to monstrous marrows while the sun sleeps. Big, beautiful, bright yellow flowers boldy thrust skywards, making me salivate for sunshine-infused Greek food. Next door the button squash look like minature suns against the fiery sunset red earth.

Another morning, another task. Bent double, fingers clawing into the warm, soft earth beneath the black plastic. A handful of pink seeds the size and colour of pills. Plop, plop, two beans into the hole and into darkness as the soil is pulled over them to form a cosy germinating quilt. One step forward and the process is repeated, on and on down the rows, it is the slowest 100 metre race to reach the end and stretch upright. Looking up a tractor is rotary-hoeing the weeds on the neighbouring plantation, flattening the straggling stalks and blending the leaves into the soil in its wake. Diesel, the farm dog, is cartwheeling and pirohetting dizzily infront of the tractor in a canine fit of madness. Perhaps he is doing a warning dance to the weeds, informing them of their impending doom. Behind the tractor several hawks hover in formation, eyes keen to the ground and the fleeing rodent inhabitants of this devastated weed empire.

The seeds are tucked up in their beds. The bushes have been stripped of their weighty crops. Time to make the produce pretty for market. Time to make the beans and chillis and cucumbers sing 'Eat Me!' Bath time for the vegetables. A scrub for the cucumbers, exfoliate them of their itchy white prickles. A gentle dip for the beans and a quick rinse off for the chillis. Then out into the warm sunshine to dry off and a quick buff with a towel for the larger veges. The beans and chillis are tumbled out onto the kitchen table to be graded. The lucky ones will pass the test and be neatly stacked in the firsts box, rewarded for their length and poker straight growth. Others are bunched in a medium box, too small to win the prize but highly commended for their effort. The losers are flung in the seconds box, too curly, too bent, too small. The fate of the deformed and blemished is even worse, destined for the floor and a rapid return to the earth, they can comfort themselves that as compost they will help future vegetables to grow big and strong next season.

The end of the day. Aching muscles and the evening chill are eased with a hot shower and a sip of Stone's Green Ginger Wine. The camp fire crackles back to life. Diesel crunches on discarded bones from the barbeque. The Southern Cross emerges from the darkened sky, accompanied by a million neighbours, and another day slips away.

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Photos

Tea cups at dawn
Tea and a campfire waiting for the sun to bring some warmth

Diesel begging for biscuits
a dog needs a sugar hit before chasing tractors all day!

Fresh picked Rosella flowers
almost ready for market and a glass of champagne!