It all began one Friday morning in early autumn. As the sun’s feeble glow gradually increased its intensity, the fog hanging low in the valley where the red-tailed black cockatoos roosted, began to slowly dissipate. Dark green river-gum trees, barely distinguishable from each other, progressively lost their ghostly appearance, taking on a normal everyday shape. Further down the valley, close to the banks of the meandering spring-fed river, the kookaburra laughed its welcome to the day.
I lay in bed identifying the morning calls … the magpie whistling the few notes that daily I meticulously echoed back, reinforcing the tune in his memory, until he now looked upon it as his own composition; the dull throaty drone of the tawny frog-mouth owl settling in for the day in the low overhanging gum-tree branch beyond the clothesline; while in the distance the rooster crowed a noisy ‘welcome morning’ to the world.
A noise startled me. I ascertained the sound emanated from further down the narrow graveled road. Knowing all was secure at home I ventured out onto the roadway. The mist, which had once again descended, threw a blanket over the scenery; it was almost impossible to see as far as the neighbours’ gateway. I listened. There it was again. A strange sound, quite unlike the usual animal or human sounds we were used to.
Across the road Jack, the long-haired collie, barked. He was a peculiar dog who delighted in enticing the horses into a race … Jack would bark and watch them racing around and around their paddock, hooves pounding and dust flying. The noise was not the sound of horses. They would still be in the stables waiting their morning rations.
Should I throw caution to the wind secure in the knowledge that Jack would come to my rescue if anything unforeseen occurred? But would he? Jack occasionally appeared at our back door, looking around with suspicious scrutiny before pushing himself inside. He would methodically proceed to sniff chairs, examine the rubbish bin, check out the table or bench for leftovers; yet completely ignoring my friendly overtures, slipping with disdain out of arms’ reach at any attempt on my part to pat him.
My curiosity was completely aroused. The sun had now risen above the hill but its glare, slowly building in its intensity, made looking eastwards down the road impossible. What was that noise? I walked onwards. The scrub wattle, which grows indiscriminately along the roadside, needs cutting back before it envelops the street completely, cast eerie shadows onto the verge. I listened. The sound, like a small child stamping his feet in exasperation, reverberated in the distance.
Surely our elderly neighbours were not in the throes of domestic dramas. They appeared compatible and hardworking. Never before had we heard sounds, or indeed viewed scenes, indicative of domestic disputes. Perhaps it might be best if I turned back … sometimes it is better not to know, not to be involved, than to race headlong into a situation not of my making.
No … I was not being nosey, just neighborly. Should help be required I could make any essential necessary phone calls, or even hurry to another neighbour to enlist assistance. As I neared the home next door it became obvious the noise was not of their making. All was silent, apart from the steady swish, swish, swish of the reticulation, which must be on a time switch, so regularly it began the daily cycle of setting in motion the hoses and oscillating sprays that ensured a verdant lawn, and a glorious show of flowers. Experienced gardeners advocate early morning as the correct time to water a garden … directly after sunrise before the sun’s rays can burn the foliage of tender plants.
The sun rose in the sky; the remnants of the fog lifted; and as visibility returned to normal, with blue skies and no trace of wind, the reason for the unusual noise that so attracted my attention became apparent. It was Hayward.
Hayward led a life of apparent domestic bliss, similar in style to a gypsy lifestyle. He, together with his wives and offspring shifted from property to property, depending on the season and the availability of food. Early yesterday that idyllic existence underwent a substantial and unaccommodating change. The farmer, whose stewardship of Hayward and family extended over a period that covered two generations, decreed Hayward needed his rampant breeding prowess curtailed for a few months. He was drafted from the main mob of sheep. To register a protest against banishment and loneliness he stamped his hind hoof in affront, stomping belligerently around the boundary of the small paddock where he had been confined, directly across the road from his harem that were contentedly grazing with their lambs. As he paced two and fro a liberal cloud of dust rose from his feet, spreading out across the road and the surrounding countryside to give the appearance of a dust storm. It was possible a percentage of the fog was simply dust.
I lay in bed identifying the morning calls … the magpie whistling the few notes that daily I meticulously echoed back, reinforcing the tune in his memory, until he now looked upon it as his own composition; the dull throaty drone of the tawny frog-mouth owl settling in for the day in the low overhanging gum-tree branch beyond the clothesline; while in the distance the rooster crowed a noisy ‘welcome morning’ to the world.
A noise startled me. I ascertained the sound emanated from further down the narrow graveled road. Knowing all was secure at home I ventured out onto the roadway. The mist, which had once again descended, threw a blanket over the scenery; it was almost impossible to see as far as the neighbours’ gateway. I listened. There it was again. A strange sound, quite unlike the usual animal or human sounds we were used to.
Across the road Jack, the long-haired collie, barked. He was a peculiar dog who delighted in enticing the horses into a race … Jack would bark and watch them racing around and around their paddock, hooves pounding and dust flying. The noise was not the sound of horses. They would still be in the stables waiting their morning rations.
Should I throw caution to the wind secure in the knowledge that Jack would come to my rescue if anything unforeseen occurred? But would he? Jack occasionally appeared at our back door, looking around with suspicious scrutiny before pushing himself inside. He would methodically proceed to sniff chairs, examine the rubbish bin, check out the table or bench for leftovers; yet completely ignoring my friendly overtures, slipping with disdain out of arms’ reach at any attempt on my part to pat him.
My curiosity was completely aroused. The sun had now risen above the hill but its glare, slowly building in its intensity, made looking eastwards down the road impossible. What was that noise? I walked onwards. The scrub wattle, which grows indiscriminately along the roadside, needs cutting back before it envelops the street completely, cast eerie shadows onto the verge. I listened. The sound, like a small child stamping his feet in exasperation, reverberated in the distance.
Surely our elderly neighbours were not in the throes of domestic dramas. They appeared compatible and hardworking. Never before had we heard sounds, or indeed viewed scenes, indicative of domestic disputes. Perhaps it might be best if I turned back … sometimes it is better not to know, not to be involved, than to race headlong into a situation not of my making.
No … I was not being nosey, just neighborly. Should help be required I could make any essential necessary phone calls, or even hurry to another neighbour to enlist assistance. As I neared the home next door it became obvious the noise was not of their making. All was silent, apart from the steady swish, swish, swish of the reticulation, which must be on a time switch, so regularly it began the daily cycle of setting in motion the hoses and oscillating sprays that ensured a verdant lawn, and a glorious show of flowers. Experienced gardeners advocate early morning as the correct time to water a garden … directly after sunrise before the sun’s rays can burn the foliage of tender plants.
The sun rose in the sky; the remnants of the fog lifted; and as visibility returned to normal, with blue skies and no trace of wind, the reason for the unusual noise that so attracted my attention became apparent. It was Hayward.
Hayward led a life of apparent domestic bliss, similar in style to a gypsy lifestyle. He, together with his wives and offspring shifted from property to property, depending on the season and the availability of food. Early yesterday that idyllic existence underwent a substantial and unaccommodating change. The farmer, whose stewardship of Hayward and family extended over a period that covered two generations, decreed Hayward needed his rampant breeding prowess curtailed for a few months. He was drafted from the main mob of sheep. To register a protest against banishment and loneliness he stamped his hind hoof in affront, stomping belligerently around the boundary of the small paddock where he had been confined, directly across the road from his harem that were contentedly grazing with their lambs. As he paced two and fro a liberal cloud of dust rose from his feet, spreading out across the road and the surrounding countryside to give the appearance of a dust storm. It was possible a percentage of the fog was simply dust.
Sighing slightly I turned around, and headed homeward. The excitement for the day was over; an early morning cup of coffee was high on my agenda.
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