Pardon pardon pardon

I have decided to forgo my determination to approach my SA holiday chronologically.  It's been a busy week.  So busy I forgot Friday was Friday and missed my call from Sandrina and the Mildura Friday night after work pub crowd.  I was probably sleeping in the bath at the time.  I also forgot to book for a concert in Hobart on Saturday.  I drove in regardless.  The concert was booked out.  Unfortunate for me but fabulous for the Federation Concert Hall and the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra.  The program was the film Babe with the TSO playing the score.  It was a delight to get caught up in the thronging families making their way to the Hall.  Of course I had Plan B and finally spent some time in town and at Salamanca Market.  I was a bit relieved to be honest cos I thought I may not be tough enough to watch Babe.  I had to drag my Dad out of Bambi because it was too sad.
Salamanca was crowded but still impressive.  Having denied my ears the promised pleasure, my nose seemed particularly attuned being first struck with the smell of deep frying and then divine wafts of truffle and huon pine.
And I have just been struck by an awful realisation.  Yesterday I lunched with Madam Cyn in town at The Shamrock where I had Roast of the Day - ham.
And my title is a (snuffled) reference to Piaf.  Sunday was the French Car Rally and Market in Tribes.  I was assigned to bric-a-brac which turned out to be more fun than I had anticipated.  Doubtless all that Professional Development watching The Antiques Roadshow stood me in good stead.

Easter 2016 Part 2

Yummy Easter Sunday.  Finally the contents of the huge, beguiling bags that Heths had been seen to usher into and out of the car, could be revealed. Lovely little things that you can make a real mess with.

Delicious Haighs egg and chocolates and, non credibile,

the other Harper Lee book, hot off the press.  Of course, while we were thus entertained, Heths had to get her own breakfast.

Easter Bunny or Playboy Bunny?  The astute observer will also notice the empty wine bottles accumulating from our 'at home' meals.  Like this one.

That girl packs a mean salad

eaten, on this occasion, in our courtyard garden. There were more walks,

more running around after trains,

visits to the fabulous bookshop, deconstructed eccles, visits to the lovely dog and man who makes furniture at Dragon Dog.  Port Elliot never fails.
And what is this piteous sight?

Our last day and waiting for the pub to open.  Well, the restaurant at the pub.  We came to love this hotel.

And it came to love us.  We now have our own table there. Conveniently situated behind the Railway Station, we dropped in for bubbly / beer and seafood lunches as the occasion demanded.
Lovely, lovely Easter.

Easter 2016 Part 1

The portents were good.  Steve drove me to the airport along the river and under a full moon.  The check-in lady appeared not to see me but gave me a magnificent window seat towards the front of the plane.  As dawn broke I could see the east coast, Maria Island, then the top of Tasmania. I had a clear view of Williamstown, St Kilda and the city.  Lady Jayne and I rendezvoused at Terminal 4 which sounded vaguely ominous but resulted in nothing worse than us losing the parking station ticket.  Then, after a couple of false starts, we were on the road to Adelaide.  The joy of the open road.  The joy of driving a European car again where you use the windscreen wipers as indicators and vice versa.  We saw the Big Koala and the big something else somewhere.  We saw the turnoff to Warracknabeal but resisted.  We arrived at our overnight accommodation in West Beach where Heths fixed us the first of many memorable salads and we started to demolish her wine collection.
Next morning saw us leaving all the bedlinen and towels for Heths to wash upon her return.  We motored to Port Elliot via what has become my favourite route, hugging the beaches then on to the South Road at Willunga, towards Sellick Hill, past the giant Buddha, finally to Hindmarsh Tiers Road, Victor Harbor and our cottage at Port Elliot.

Imagine my joy at its situation next to the railway line.

Another of my life ambitions achieved.

The road signs do not lie, and on Good Friday the Cockle Train came thundering through our conservatory living area

or so it seemed.  Easter has become the time for sales so we spent Good Friday resisting buying things and walking our favourite haunts.

The days were fine and mild.  You could hear the roar of the sea at the cottage.
Saturday we took the Cockle Train to Victor Harbor which was jumping with families and markets.  There seemed to be a treasure hunt for children each of whom was festooned with a large Eastery looking paper bag.  Our next stop was Middleton where we'd intended to lunch at a mill restaurant The Beagle had led us to some Easters ago.  We were to be disappointed

but in the nicest possible way.  It is reassuring when a winery restaurant closes to go and pick the grapes.  We decided to try for lunch at Goolwa (after consoling ourselves at the Middleton Bakery).  But yet another dilemma.

Which side of the track to catch the train?  The Middleton Station is not very forthcoming.

After circumnavigating Goolwa a few times and visiting old haunts in a seafood odyssey, we graced this restaurant on the waterfront.  The food was good but the Maitre d and Madam d were graceless.
Then it was home again

to replenish ourselves in preparation for another day of pleasure.

Last things first

I went to see Panorama at the Spring Bay Mill this morning.  My camera, which had behaved perfectly over my holiday, conked out after the first photo.  And where was my phone?  On the charger at home.  This photo does not do justice to the performance.
There was a lot of walking involved which was a great way to see the Mill site.  Periodically dancers appeared to do some Stompin.  I think young people who participate in such shows are very courageous.  I think of CKB - I would never had had the nerve to perform in public as a high school student.

The stash

I did very well for beautifully wrapped birthday gifts and cleared a shelf to display them and work myself into a frenzy.  After going to the gym and eating a soul nourishing lunch of coffee, a pear and Lindt chocolate, I began the unwrapping.

Silk from Myanmar.  Gorgeous things from Curly Tree which is housed in our former River Bank in Wentworth.  And a splendid mystery box which was so heavy I thought it may contain a ball for bowls, which would be entirely appropriate to my age.  But no.

A magnificent teapot.  Which could substitute for a Kettle Ball at the gym.  But in fact is to replace my quaint but handleless current teapot.
Plus, by coincidence, a complementary Margaret Preston print card

which I can't recall ever seeing before.  The day started with light rain and birdsong.  Later it developed into a full on gale which suited my purposes perfectly.  Wood fire, banana muffins, sausage roll and a glass of red.

Time and season

I have been a little quiet because my sister-in-law Liz died last week.  Her funeral was yesterday.  It was held in a lovely little stone church in Swansea.  It is rare these days to attend a church funeral.  This church was perfect, built from local stone and filled with local people and locally grown flowers, though white lilies perfumed the air.  I was asked to read Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. and found it difficult to read without The Byrd's 'turn, turn' version going through my head.  I've researched Ecclesiastes a bit today and continue to be mystified.
Less mystifying, the weather has been cold and wet and the horse is sporting his coat.

And while it's a long way from 'blodeuog', my plan for a flower strewn garden is showing promise.

Weekend No Escape

Thursday last I went with the Walking Group to Fonthill near Oatlands.  This is the Log Cabin which is available as guest accommodation.

Then we walked to the main house

 which has some delightful architectural details

inside and out.

Gratuitous chandelier photo for Mum.

Then big adventure on Friday.  I drove to The Green Bean's chateau on the Huon River.  Ms Bean had  entered a local art exhibition and we were to attend the opening in the evening.  We pleasantly whiled away the afternoon rock hopping and gazing in rock pools.  When we returned a la maison, Monsieur Bean was hopping with excitement:  Madame's entry had won a prize.  Madame became noticeably less relaxed.

She received her prize with aplomb.

Madame is a Botanical Artist.
And here is The Artist's Studio

where it all happens.  Next morning she was back to her usual self, feeding the kookaburras.