Potato Point (July 11-12)
Sometimes – very occasionally – I like to walk without photographing. But never without my camera. Otherwise I might miss a sand encrusted mystery balloon, green and sculptured, or big webbed footprints. A pelican? A swan? When I summoned Joe for consultation I had to yell “It’s not a weed!” to pre-empt disappointment.
Weekends are always full of new interest. The first walk is in the dark, and a mild state of Friday night inebriation: “Have you got your shoes on? Come on. I want to show you something.” So we fumble around the front of the house and stop at the water tank. “They must think it’s a cabbage” he says as he shines the torch on tiny clusters of cabbage butterfly eggs, neatly placed on a rib high up, netted in a little white bag. “They’ll get a surprise when they try to eat it.”
When I go out next morning for a photo shoot, I’m impressed by the handiwork of the crow-bar, levelling the ground for one of the replacement tanks, and also by the flowering in the weed garden.
Then somehow we get involved with bulrushes. Are those feathery things at the creek just down from the bowlo a phase of bulrushes? We stop, scrutinise and decide not.
Our eyes are drawn to the other side of the road and some robust fluffy things, with a spike poking through. And through the fluff, rich reddy-brown remains of what we can see was once the brown cylinder of a bulrush.
The rain clouds are gathering and the sea is a stunning clear green against a backdrop of purpley-blue. but you don’t reach the sea these days without a weed and grass pilgrimage on the sand at the mouth of the desiccated creek.
That’s Joe’s pleasure, and mine in part. But he doesn’t share my liking for beach architecture, and goes over to his sitting place at the boat ramp to remove shoes and roll up trousers.
Aha. Finally the sea.
As we proceed along the beach he looks out to sea through the waves: my eyes are more often turned down to beach treasures. Suddenly I’m seeing more of the butterfly-shaped pieces of chiton armour, rare on the open beach.
As we leave the beach, back through the warrigal greens, I glance up and see an exquisite shell mobile hanging from the casuarina. I love the occasional appearance of creativity by people visiting my territory.