Upperstone-Chaotic Tranquillity, an oxymoron that works in the Howarth household

Anne, Phil, Hamish, Hew, Narelle, Willow
Chaotic Tranquillity, an oxymoron that works in the Howarth household
We arrived at the Howarth household before anyone was home, only just making it through the mud on their remote driveway after a few wheel spins. Kevin was the first to arrive back home after work and he was quick to put the kettle on and make us feel at home in this nice peaceful country house surrounded by lush green hills and fruit trees. A tiny minature frog I found near my USB port We found out the Howarth’s were experienced WWOOFing hosts and had had a good twenty odd people staying with them before us, representatives of many countries, and now, with Gareth, even Wales. After a quick cup of coffee, an explosion happened at the door and Kevin’s wife Narelle, their son Hamish, 15, son Baxter, 8, and baby Hew, 18 months charged through to the dinning area in a frenzied detonation of shouting, questioning and running around and chasing. It seemed to be of little consequence that we were in their space, they simply pelted around us. From the moment the family were through the door the quiet was broken never to be heard again. The children buzzing around demanding attention, food, drink and answers. We stayed with the Howarth household for three nights. Narelle taught us about their unusual fruit trees and bushes, we tries for the first time a custard apple and a pomello. She taught us the fundamentals of a permaculture garden, everything growing together finding a niche in amongst what is their, large plants and trees providing shade for smaller plants. The soil is so rich here that everything grows, throw a tomato out of the window and hey presto you have a tomato plant baring fruit in amonst the passion fruits and herbs. Willow, Hew, Hamish and Nurelle
All the plants here have a purpose, if they are not for eating then they are grown for medicinal or practical purposes, nothing is here to adorn the garden with flowers merely for their beauty alone. Hew means business
No rest for the wicked
We spend time raking leaves to allow the grass to grow, pruning trees, removing unwanted trellises, cleaning the chuck pen, dowsing goose poo, playing with the children and passing over Hew to the boys whenever he got a little stinky. On an evening we were introduced to Australia’s answer to our Ray Mears in the big bush scout Les Hiddins.

We watched an episode of his program learning of some of Australia’s founding history and about the bush tucker Burkes and Wells missed out on through lack of knowledge.
Next we were treated to Billy Connolly’s tour of Australia, a favourite man of mine who paints a true picture of Aussie life in the cities.





Narelle and Kevin’s oldest daughter, Willow, 17 and baby Hew have 16 years between them so they are constantly dealing with hormones and baby tantrums at the same time. It has been a while since I have lived in a household full of children and it was refreshing to play hide and seek and get honest answers from heads not filled with answers others have placed there.






Back to the house and Baxter was running around high as a kite as usual, he is a hyperactive child and Nurelle gives him spoonfuls of oil to calm him down. She says there is a noticeable difference in his behaviour if he drinks coke or if he doesn’t take his oil. What I couldn’t understand is that he was constantly eating sweets full of blue food colouring! Willow and Hamish
Baxter was a vivacious bundle of trouble, a Dennis the menace in disguise and in constant need of stimulation. He provided moments of laughter for us all and gave Gareth hours and hours of exercise as he demanded to be picked up, hugged, swung round, chased and found.

Here are examples of some of the animal and insect I was introduced to in Upperstone.
A steelblue ladybird One of the gees which produced the poo I constantly had to dowse Some sort of flying leaf like insect Some sort of blue wasp or bee

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Ingham

Maggie life in the days before the new commuter ferry companies built a new pontoon and tourists landed on the island on the other side by the old pier must have had a little more character and life to it. The pier is a long stretch of wooden slats and looks toward what once would have been a welcoming strip of bars full of joviality and warm lighting. George, one man of many who believe that having the boats come in on the other side of the island has killed a lot of old island trade and ruined the magic of arriving and taking the slow walk down esplanade had designed a T-shirt with a drawing of the old Maggie life and presented us with one each. We said our good byes to George and Pen, to their organic peat toilet, the freezer full of toads, the koalas, and the crocodile and jumped on the ferry back to Townsville. The sea faring Australian flag containing the Southern Cross and Union Flag but with a red background flapped over the Cheeky Van on the lower deck and pointed in the direction of the South Easterlies which come every year.

Putting the CD George had given us of Magnetic Island Beats we realised only then and there that it was a compilation of music put together by residents of the island just recently and that George had not only contributed to many of the songs but that he had written some and was singing one of them. What a surprise, we had no idea George was so full of hidden talent, a newspaper editor, a permaculture enthusiast, a lantana weed eradicator, an artist and a singer-song writer. Just Stay Awake, one of George’s songs, has become quite a frequent vibration through our speakers, we sometimes find Gareth singing it to himself as he work or potters around the van, for those who are interested in Magnetic Island music, please feel free to email the editor of Magnetic Island News by visiting Magnetic Times. Back on the main land we made our way slowly to Ingham, stopping at Rolling Stone Road house where Gina and Duane Davis informed us that they didn’t have any work but donated $20 (13.5 litres) of fuel. Thanks guys!!! We had a little time to kill before our next WWOOFing hosts were expecting us so we decided to take a look through a book we had borrowed from the library 1015 things to see and do in Australia by Bruce Elder and found that there were a few things recommended around the around the area, one of which caught our attention was the Italian Cemetery so we went to see how Italian bury their dead. Ingham, which is famous for having a large Italian community, preserving the old Italian ways so much so that linguists have come to study old Italian dialects which have died out in Italy, now surviving in this part of Australia alone, imagine that. I had never seen such elaborately tiled mausoleums before. Many of the immigrants, who came over to work on the cane fields here buried side by side in their brightly decorated tombs, plaster flowers adorning the boxed tiles and birds of song flittering between the angels and iconic religious busts. There was an immense calm among this vibrant cemetery, we each walked down a few of the rows of mausoleums, taking the time to look at the faces of those long gone but not forgotten, with fresh cut flowers in vases around plinths, it was a happy place to be, the sun shining although the clouds dripped rain in light showers giving the air a dramatic summer calm. I couldn’t help stopping at those tombs build for two, only being occupied on one side, the other side bare, ready in waiting for the reuniting of a separated couple. How strange it seemed to me to see a vacant space in this busy town of the dead, and how impenetrable the tiled box seemed, to be to have opened again, allowing for the coming together of soul mates once more. I never thought I would say this but it really is a truly wonderful way to find peace, spending half an hour with the Italian dead.

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Warning Beach Closed Croc Sighting

On the very outer edge of the beach at low tide, we hovered around the big yellow signs exclaiming a crocodile sighting
‘Beach Closed Warning Crocodile’
I was taking pictures of this unusual message when a moustachioed Humpty Dumpty, donning a leopard skin water bottle and shin holster with the countenance of a man who worried about nothing pulled along side our Cheeky van to say that we should probably not be on the beach if there are crocs around. We were just about to get back into the van when he pulled out his knife and slowly slipped it into his shin sheath with purpose.
What you been doing then? Been stealing my oysters? he said.
No no. We were just taking pictures of the sign, trying to catch a glimpse of the croc.
You shouldn’t be on the beach if there are crocs around. He said. They have some speed on them and they come at you before you even know they’re there.
Oh, yeh. Right. So what are you doing then?
I’m off to get my oysters, the croc was caught this afternoon, didn’t you hear on the radio?
Oh, well do you mind if we watch you? I’ve never seen anyone collecting oysters.
Go for your life. He said as he strutted along the beach, leopard skin water bottle swinging over his shoulder, belly making shade over his feet from the sun .


First showing us how to collect oysters from exposed rocks on the beach we then waded waist deep into the water and it was Phils turn to have a go. Finding it tricky at first he soon got them open and was necking oysters as if there was no tomorrow. The first ten possibly making him a little horny the next ten eaten out of politeness to the man brandishing the knife certainly made him feel queasy.



Whilst gulping down oysters himself he regaled us with stories of all the dangers present when around Australian animals, and continued with stories of near fatalities pointing to the corresponding scars on his skull.

Before waddling off into the distance he divulged the fact that inspite of having no black fella in him his skull was 45% thicker than your average fella’s cranium.

Talking to locals later that day we learned that the croc was still at large and in bed that night wondered if he genuinely believed it had been caught or just fancied doubling his chances of survival whilst scavaging for his favourite seafood.



A sandworm





Hermit crabs leave small balls of sand outside their holes
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But..you see.. he was just so fast

Moan, moan, moan, harping on again like the proverbial porkchops Alf Stuart so derided and set in righteous flames. The The Whinging Poms just can't help it. Blame it on the moonlight, blame it on the good times, blame it on the boogie if you want, but really, it's their own bloody fault. Some people you just can't make listen can you?..... Read a cheeky bit more!