I was hoping to put up a nice long blog yesterday but was locked out of my website for several hours. Have remedied the problem today by text chatting to a couple of on-line helpers. I find this much easier than speaking to someone in person. The writer in me perhaps?
This past month has been productive. Little by little I am making headway with clearing superfluous stuff from my farmyard. Tonnes of scrap metal have been moved out. I would not have believed there was so much – tucked away in every nook and cranny of the property. Four big trailer loads – so far. Warren was always fabricating things, repairing things, welding, and I can remember him fossicking amongst his off-cuts, remnants, clearing sale oddments, for just the right piece.
But life is different now. Easier. The farming is but a memory. The new man in my life is also very capable, and resourceful, but there is no longer a need for all the farming requisites. He has been a great help to me and we enjoy working together, but it is important too, especially at our age, to enjoy leisure time.
We took the scrap metal over to Simms Metal at Roseworthy last Friday. Then onto the Roseworthy pub for lunch. I love a good country pub and its characters. As a people-watcher, I find the scene thoroughly entertaining. There was a table of ‘once were farmers.’ Lovely old blokes who probably come in for lunch and a yarn every Friday. Dressed in their good work pants, checked shirts (some with braces), dubbin-ed Blundstone boots, hats on the backs of their chairs, and pale foreheads that the sun never reaches. Gnarly hands, a bit of a hobble about some of them, bodies work-torn from heavy lifting. I bet they still help their sons with odd jobs most days. No need for men’s shed stuff. Still plenty of scope for that on the farm. There were eight of them at this table. Subdued and serious – their chatter no doubt about the lack of rain, late seeding, the price of lambs and wool, and their sons’ expensive machinery.
Over in the corner was a table of three – also farmers, but more likely in their mid-fifties. A different lot altogether. Moleskin pants, RM Williams boots, better checked shirts, sleeveless vests with the collars turned up – a wise practice in farming as it helps keep the sun off the backs of their necks. Their conversation would have been different. A sense of urgency about them. Not as relaxed as the old blokes. Maybe Friday is the day they come into town to stock up on farm requisites from Elders, and grab a quick bite together.
We had a lovely meal and a couple of beers as we chatted and took in the ambience, the essence of the room. At base between us is a lovely friendship. We never run out of things to talk about. He is new to the Valley, and loving it. So much to show him.
Another thing we did last week was to visit David Franz Cellardoor. Housed in a very old stone building on a hill on Steltzer Road in Tanunda, it commands amazing views across the Valley to the Barossa Ranges, and my land up there. The cottage has been restored to an absolutely scrumptious state. I love sitting in here, by the fire at this time of year – good music (often jazz) a constant – obviously important to David. There is a platter menu that diners can tailor for themselves, but each weekend David cooks up an amazing hot pot – usually slow-cooked for many hours. It comes out steaming – meat falling off the bone and delicious with home grown vegies and flavours to die for.
David came out of the kitchen as we were eating and sat beside us next to the fire, wanting to know what we thought of the meal. Of course we gave him the accolades it deserved. We got to chatting. David is a passionate Barossan. Third generation at least. We talked about what he believes constitutes a Barossan. There are two factors, he propounded. One is to be at least three generations into the place, and/or to be passionate about the history, the traditions, and to contribute to the important sustainability of the region. David is one of those people with a charisma born of his passion and complete immersion in the ethos of the Barossa. He is not very well at the moment but despite this, manages a sh.t-load of work – managing his vineyards, his cellardoor, making beautiful wine, and much more I’m sure. People like this are so valuable. We appreciate you Dave. Get well.
My fella loved everything about the experience and told me we must frequent David Franz Cellardoor. Of course we will.
We were in a Japanese restaurant in Glenelg one evening last week. In the biting cold night air we had taken the short walk from our apartment to the restaurant. Once inside – jackets and scarves on the backs of our chairs – we looked through the extensive menu. We’d been here before and were looking forward to trying some different little fukusai and shusai. We ordered a crisp white wine and sipped and talked as we waited for the food we’d ordered.
I noticed a couple sitting at a table across from us. She was in her late fifties, he probably mid sixties – both of European appearance. Her looks were arresting – a touch of Italian – shining, dark wavy hair caught back gently and falling onto her shoulders, and over the soft fine fabric of her loosely hanging expensive white blouse. A fine gold chain finished in the notch below her neck. To see her photo in Vogue magazine would not have been surprising – a picture of simple elegance. Her dark eyes sparkled with what could only be gauged as happiness. She loved the man she was with, was focused, communicating quietly, intelligently I could tell. He was as disinterested in her as she was interested in him. A good-looking man but there seemed to be no-one home. He looked past her when she spoke. Not a smile, not a flicker of enjoyment. How could he not see her worth? How could he not appreciate her, feel proud to be out with her? What was causing this detachment?
One could make up a story to answer these questions. Hah! Now there’s a clue. Perhaps I have the start of a short story. Something to ponder.
Sorry folks that this is a little late – but only by a day.
Take care.
Warmly,
Sue
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