Sky high

I have little to zero interest in Facebook, and have an account only to be a friend of my daughter, which was part of the agreement to let her join a couple of years ago. After policing her page for a while I found it was the same as listening to her and her friends wittering on in the backseat of the car - and there's been many a time I wished I had a chauffeur's window I could activate for instant, relieving silence.

I have nothing against Facebook, mind you, it just doesn't appeal. Or it didn't. Until reading the Sydney Morning Herald on our iPad this morning (I'm not a complete luddite) and found my favourite cockatoos - those who live in Sydney's Botanic Gardens and grace many a head in our family photos - have their own Facebook page.

Not just so birdophiles (I mean that in a nice way, not as people who creepily stare at pictures of birds on the internet) can be amused by photos of cockatoos, but, as a bunch of them have been wing tagged, to discover what their flight habits around Sydney are. Apparently, very little research has ever been done on this before.

Judging by these photos, I may have to move to a high-rise apartment on the off-chance the cockatoos choose to sit on my particular balcony-railing one morning. I'm off to break the bad news to my doves.

Photos via www.facebook.com/cockatoowingtags

Ides of March

I have a love/hate relationship with Typo. Every time I'm in the new Westfield I have to go and have a look, but when I do I'm disappointed. Mainly because I want it to be Muji, and it's not. It slightly reminds me of Muji, but only enough to pale into comparision and make me wish we had a Muji in Australia, let alone Sydney. It's also got that cheap Cotton On vibe, yet sometimes manages to turn up something fabulous and affordable, which is why I go back.

These stamps are a case in point. I'm using them more than the similar but smaller set I bought from Muji in London so I have to admit I actually prefer the Typo stamps. But still I pine for Muji. I remember my first taste of Muji, which was in Rome. I came out of the shop with a rather large bag (possibly two) only to be excitedly talked about a few minutes later when my logo-ed paper carry bags were noticed by a bunch of Japanese teenage girls. Yes, an Australian comes to Rome and buys Japanese stuff. Very happy I was about it too.

So was delighted when I heard some Muji products would now be available through an online Australian shop, Amasia. Quickly got Amasia on my screen and headed to its Muji section. And there was a pile of Muji stuff. Just not any of the Muji stuff I wanted.

The ides of March may not have been kind to Caeser, but I'm sure he'd be happy knowing that if he was alive today it'd only take him 15 minutes to walk from the Roman Forum to the Muji on the Via del Tritone. Or he could hop on the metro at Coloseo, jump off at Barberini Fontana de Trevi, saving precious leather on his Roman sandals.

He could even pick up some of my favourite dishcloths for me while he was there.

The ides of March have a lot to answer for.

Memory Lane

Found myself early for something today so decided to make the most of the sunshine and take a walk around a part of Balmain I haven't visited for years. So there I was strolling, when I realised I was in front of a fantastic old house I'd been to a few parties at when in high school, as it was owned a classmate (two actually, as she had a twin brother) and her family.

It was a beautiful, big old place that bordered three streets and overlooked the harbour (still does). It was fabulously shabby with an air of loving neglect and an overgrown garden. I heard it sold for several million dollars recently but, back then, it wasn't prime real estate - just a friend's house.

When I say it overlooked the harbour, that's true, but the view was very different. Ballast Point Park wasn't there yet, so the house was directly in front of the ugly old Caltex industrial site. There was no access to the water and no mothers with prams strolling about like there is now. Just lots of blokes and trucks.

It's been gutted now and, clearly, undergoing renovation. But for a moment today I wasn't walking the back streets of Balmain - I was taking a trip down memory lane.

I found this site showing the interior of the house when it was for sale, should you wish to poke your nose inside.

Twisted tale

During dinner with friends recently, I was complaining about how I couldn't find a simple hose tidy that wasn't a twee reproduction number in heritage colours, plastic or just plain ugly.

I was invited to take a look at their hose tidy as, if I liked it, they had a spare one as they had been given two by female friend's parents yet were only going to use one. Friend's husband, The Cameraman Who's Always Right, while a generous man in every other way, can be a teeny bit of a hoarder and tried to pretend it was still in storage (they'd been renovating). No it's not, was his wife's reply that came accompanied with an eye roll.

I managed to get it into the car and drilled it into the wall early next morning before he could invent some dubious reason for its return, such as using it to keep his camera cords neat.

Came from a market in Canberra (don't know which one, unfortunately) and I love it.

Scrubber

My collection of natural cleaning brushes is growing. At The Bay Tree last week, I added two types of brushes that I haven't come across before (if you don't count plastic components - if you do, of course, they're everywhere): a scrubbing brush and a thin bottle brush.

Best of all, at Orange Grove markets on Saturday the stall that sells my beloved natural dishmops was back - but without the dishmops as she'd sold out. This stall is a bit like Brigadoon - you never know when the mists will part and reveal her wares to the human eye. Luckily, though, she takes orders.

Next time I see her I'll also pick up one of the Tumut Broom Factory's millet brooms she carries. I didn't have enough money on me on Saturday - they're $45 - as fruit, veg and a bunch of eucalyptus was my priority.

Now I have to use my scrubbing brush rather than just admire it.

Life's a beach

We're attempting to do something most mornings of the holidays so we can justify doing nothing in the afternoons. A favourite something is a swim in the Pacific at our Sydney beach of choice, Clovelly.

Coming round the bend of the aptly named Ocean Street always puts a smile on our faces.

Past Clovelly Bowling Club, which must be the best-situated bowling club in the city.

We had a rock-star park right at the top of the path that leads to our favourite spot at the beach, only possible midweek. Usually it's The Husband's job to drop us off here while he scours the area.

For anyone who doesn't know Clovelly, it's an almost paperclip-shaped bay with sand at one short end and open to the ocean at the other. To the sides, the rocks have been concreted over to form platforms that make the water accessible to all. This was done during the Depression to provide jobs for the unemployed.

The result being Clovelly Beach is like a huge ocean pool where the water reaches the concrete edges like an infinity pool at high tide and you can dive straight in. At low tide, there's lots of ladders to help. The sandy end is mostly used by families with very young children and the sides by everybody else.

To the other side of Clovelly Bowling Club is Waverley Cemetery, which has got to be one of the best-positioned in the world. Standing here gives an idea of the shape of the coast, as you can see the sand of both Bronte and Bondi Beaches to the north.

Have a lovely weekend. x

Dad Camp

It's time for The Husband's column...

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while you’ll be aware camping has become somewhat popular in our household.

Very civilised and amusing friends are keen campers and described the many and varied joys of sleeping rough in nature’s splendour with only a campfire and glinting glass of shiraz as comfort.

The Author was intrigued by this but also not a fan of being cold, dirty or uncomfortable. Crocheting on the couch with The Cat is more her thing.

However, discomforts countered by clean shower blocks and warm duvets and a morning coffee brewed over a flame by yours truly, we now have a tent, a natty camp stove, some chairs and a table that folds out and various baskets filled with campy stuff.

Camping has indeed proved a rare pleasure and we’re very grateful for being introduced to it.

Last weekend, The Child and I went camping with the usual suspects … well, not all of them. The Author did not come on account of The Cat being very unwell and, suddenly, when other female members of the camping posse realised they could didn’t have to go, they ducked out too, citing attending the Finder’s Keepers market at Sydney’s Carriageworks, as well as a weekend without kids and husbands, as more appealing.

The female members of the camping posse are also the foundation quorum of The Little Marionette Coffee Club, where many a grand plan takes flight, many a candle-making evening planned and many a husband’s less than exemplary behaviour dissected.

Suddenly, it was just dads and teen kids on an expedition, a prospect everyone was very pleased with. “Sa-weet!” said The Child, “We’ll be able to do whatever we want!”

We went to the gorgeous Mill Creek, near Wisemans Ferry in NSW. It was stunning, our own little paddock with a barbecue, fire pit, goannas and wombats ambling out of the towering bush.
So it was just dads – The Cameraman Who’s Always Right and The Truth Sayer and me – as well as four kids aged between 12 and 15. What could possibly go wrong … ?

Engulfed in a Ball of Flame
The Truth Sayer has a camp stove which he alleges is a family heirloom. No wonder none of his ancestors have any eyebrows. On the first morning I fiddled with its various sticky knobs, admittedly while holding a lit match, when I was suddenly in the middle of an explosion. The Cameraman Who’s Always Right, who has worked on Mythbusters and knows about such things, says the correct terms for the experience is Engulfed in a Ball of Flame. The Truth Sayer, attempting to show how safe the stove of death was, also become briefly engulfed in a somewhat smaller ball of flame. How we laughed.

Leech Attack
Reeking of burnt hair, we set off on a bushwalk that was 11km and marked on the map as strenuous. We did not tell The Teens this. About 4km in, I heard The Child screaming rather enthusiastically. I was hiding behind a tree, getting ready to leap out and scare The Teens but eventually backtracked to find out what all the fuss was about. I was confronted by the sight of The Cameraman Who’s Always Right scraping a leech off the, er, upper rear thigh of The Child, who, with good reason, was fairly uncomfortable with the situation. Her ankle was bleeding from where he’d got the other one. Closer inspection showed our socks, boots, and in some cases, legs, were writhing with leeches. We turned back, rather than brave the wall of bloodsuckers. Later, I attempted to put a dying, dusty one on my thigh while The Cameraman Who’s Always Right filmed the experiment, but screamed and mashed it instead at the last moment.

Angry Possum
Possums will take revenge if evicted from a roof cavity by coming back in the night and pushing over pot plants. This is true. We caught a possum in torchlight, climbing a tree and laughed at its angry little face and glinty eyes as it glared around the trunk at us. He jumped down and ran away. Then he came back and did it again, looking even madder. We laughed at him even more.
In the night he came back and pushed the stove of death off the barbecue, gas bottle and all.

Stick in The Eye
One teen, the Apprentice Graphic Designer, fell over and a fairly decent stick poked him in the eye. He snapped his head back, as you do, breaking the stick off. With his eye! He removed the remnant and a swoosh of water rendered him (dad medicine at work) … not blind.
Snapping a stick off with your eye was looked upon as a pretty cool thing and was described in tones of awe as “fairly Ninja”.

I’m So Cold, Dad
The Author offered me various duvets to take with us, all of which I declined, unaware the start to this summer is the coldest in 50 years. When I went to bed on the first night, The Child was hunched in a foetal position, barely breathing, whispering “It’s so cold, dad,” through her little blue lips. The application of most of her clothing and all of the towels fixed that. The next night she had a spare duvet, an extra blanket, and a “space blanket” supplied by The Cameraman Who’s Always Right, the sort of chap who actually owns things called “space blankets”.
I cleverly utilised a picnic blanket to avoid death by hypothermia myself.

Is That Yours?
When it came time to pack up, no-one had any idea who owned what cutlery, except for The Truth Sayer, who puts a red dot on everything he owns, including his underpants. That didn’t stop him trying to steal my good tongs, while I bagged a nice jar of homemade blackcurrant jam.
To sort out the mess we plan to deliver a box of assorted and badly washed cutlery to members of The Little Marionette Coffee Club to sort out.

Dad-camping. What could possibly go wrong?

Street art

Caught the ferry over to Cockatoo Island to see the street art exhibition that's currently on. I don't even like street art much but I do like ferries so the highlight for me was sitting at the back and watching the harbour open up around me.

Getting a bird's-eye view into some of the waterfront homes isn't bad either.

The industrial setting of Cockatoo Island is perfect for the exhibition. Whether wandering through the tunnels, taking a break at the open-air bar, dodging toddlers at the ice-cream stands or just rambling around the site, there's something for everyone. Even nature lovers.

Seagulls nest on a rocky cliff, which they don't seem to realise is bordered by a fence. A fence that's there to stop people falling off. Drawn to the view, you find yourself right at the fence only to be shouted at by birds who are nesting centimetres from your toes. Clearly, it's egg time and the birds got very shouty. The only reason I knew there were nests was because of all the screeching.

As soon as we realised what was happening, we backed away and left them alone. You can see some of them here all lined up, beaks open and blasting, which is fair enough. We left.

Back down at water level, we watched them swoop warning crowds below to keep away. Crowds which weren't remotely interested in them so they were getting worked up about nothing. But that's seagulls for you.

Fascinating to watch them acting naturally rather than how I usually see them, which is harrassing people for chips at the beach.

My kind of art.

Mugged

We like good deli things at our house: cheese, olives, that kind of thing - and Norton Street Grocer is close to where we live so we're lucky. Certainly on the pricey side, but it's a lovely shop. Thanks to last month's issue of Feast magazine, though, I've discovered a new-to-me-but-been-there-for-millennia deli - Lamia Super Deli, as it's grandly called. It's a little further away, but not that much so who's quibbling? Not me.

Lamia Super Deli certainly lives up to its name. You can barely see the Greek owners and employees behind the long counter as its stacked with stuff. Luckily, there's a few vantage points where they poke their faces round the side so you can speak to them. It's the olives I go for. We eat a lot of them in our house and after seeing a pic in the mag of huge tins of kalamatas and every other olive under the Athenean sun with the lids ripped off, I was there. No dainty upmarket decanting of the olives into little containers - and all the better for it.

Half the price of what I'm used to paying and no extra charge for the Greek music that's always tinkling away in the background. An elderly Greek customer was dancing when I walked in today. I kid you not. It's my new favourite haunt. Particularly as there are spectactular Asian supermarkets in the same strip. And here I was going into Chinatown when I needed serious supplies. Should give myself a face-palm, as the The Child would say.

Marrickville is close to where I live but it's another world away in atmosphere. It's like spinning a globe and jabbing your finger at it. You'll never know where you'll end up or what you'll find.

There is a connection to the mugs, if you were wondering. I popped into an op shop on the way back to the car, something I rarely do as central Sydney offers pretty slim pickings. Thought Marrickville might be different. Not much, to be honest, but there were these sweet little mugs twinkling at me from among the surrounding crud. I bought them to add to the picnic/camping basket but they seem to have found their way onto the kitchen shelf instead. At $1 each, I might have to go back and pick up the two I left behind.

Have a lovely weekend.

Camping

We arrived at our South West Rocks campsite and a group of kookaburras watched us unpack. We would find out why later.

We walked about 20 metres and watched humpback whales breach, which is when they leap out of the water, and tail slap while making their way back south.

This happened every day and you could hear them loudly and clearly. If you've never heard a whale before, which I hadn't, it sounds something like a low, incredibly loud, long lion roar. Definitely not the pretty underwater whale-song stuff. They actually woke The Husband one night.

We swam. This beach was about a minute's walk from our tent.

We ate well - and so did the kookaburras. I wish I had a photo to show you how well they ate on one particular evening but it happened too fast. We were sitting around putting together our barbecued hamburgers when I moved away from the table to get something. Clearly this was the moment the kookaburras, who were sitting around watching us, had been waiting for. Our circle had been broken. One swooped down, briefly hovered like a helicopter and pulled the meat out from between a bun. And these birds are big. The sheer audacity and skill required to pull this move off in a small space was immensely impressive. Any one of us at the table could easily have reached out and touched it. That's the element of surprise for you.

It then flew up to its mates who were waiting in the trees and they all went into the grass and, in clear view, split the meat between the four of them. The swoop was magnificent and exactly why they are kingfishers was made abundantly obvious.

Still from the comfort of our campsite, we watched kangaroos box.

Was worried we were witnessing bush violence but it became clear these were just friendly practice sessions.

Kangaroos, many with joeys, were everywhere, and weren't bothered by us whatsoever. In fact, one night, I was making my way to a toilet block by the ocean, which is creepy enough in the dark with the sound of waves cancelling most other sounds out, when I came across a rather large kangaroo blocking the path. Not sure that an 'excuse me' would cut it, I stopped not really knowing what to do. I decided to turn back just as it leapt off into the bush.

It's a weird experience wandering around at night in a National Park as kangaroos are often just standing around in the dark doing nothing. After all, it's their territory, and they're comfortable. Several times I walked within a metre of one, standing completely still, before I even knew it was there. It's a bit like being the only moving piece on a nocturnal chessboard.

No dithering about what to do for this mother. A quick check of her watch was all that was needed to know that it was baby's bedtime.

The school holidays are now over. Sniff.

NB: I didn't do any fiddling to the top photo. The sky really was that blue that day.

Armchair travelling

This time last year was our first trip to Europe as a family and, so, each day I've been telling the others exactly where we were one year ago. (Today it's Positano.) This has The Child slapping her forehead declaring she's jealous of her one-year-younger self.

As that sort of trip is far from our normal holiday fare, I'm dabbling in a bit of armchair travel instead this year, and picked up these two new books from the library yesterday. I actually considered buying both of them last week but am glad I didn't. I haven't delved into the Stephen Clarke one yet, but I'm pretty sure it's one I'll enjoy at the time but not feel the need to hang onto.

While A Family in Paris is entertaining because I like the sensation of someone conjuring the city up for me again, it's just that I'd rather not have the author along for company (more the problems an ex-pat faces than joys of the city, for my tastes). That's travel for you, though, can't always choose who you sit next to on a journey.

I also get the feeling that the two-year Paris stay was quite a while ago as while some of the photos show receipts and tickets where the currency is shown in French Francs rather than Euros. I'm pretty sure I spotted one with a 1999 date on it as well. There's also been at least one 'NB' after a piece of copy, where the author explains that smoking is now banned in cafes.

Smacks a bit of the publishing company, rather than the author, jumping on the Australians-abroad bandwagon.

All that doesn't detract from the feeling of being in Paris again, but it certainly would if I'd paid $50 for the pleasure. So I'll just enjoy the free ride.

In the meantime, I'll remember the view from the restaurant we ate at last-year's tonight with people whose company I always treasure, including our then-14-year-old nephew.

Sunshine on my shoulders

Spring hasn't just sprung in Sydney. On Saturday it smashed into the city like the Terminator in charge of a Mack truck. Winter is no more. Absolutely gone. Rozelle Markets on Saturday was full of bare shoulders, floaty dresses and brightly coloured pedicures which have been hidden away for months.

Luckily for me, four of these lovely vintage glasses had also been hidden away patiently waiting for me to come and find them and take them off the stallholder's hands for $10. They came home with me, as did two of the dishes with the Australian coat of arms on them, that must be a hangover from colonial times as they were made in England.

The glasses were put to good use over the weekend, as they were filled with iced water all Saturday afternoon before being toasted with crisp white wine for our first barbecued dinner of the season. The Husband is old-school when it comes to barbecues - it's charcoal in a deep kettle-style barbecue all the way - and cooks a very fine shoulder of lamb.

Happy, sunny days.

If you're reading this...
Stephie, my local shop only stocks the straws in grey otherwise I'd happily buy The Child bright ones! I'm not that mean! I don't think...

Linking up vintage finds here.

Rose gold

Have been on the lookout for some inexpensive but pretty camping cutlery to replace the plastic-handled stuff I turn my nose up at every time I see it. Have picked up some nice bits and pieces over the last month or two but believe I struck (rose) gold with these from Rozelle Markets last weekend.

As they'll be out of sight in our camping basket, which won't get used until at least spring, I've slipped them into the kitchen cutlery drawer for now. Not sure they'll ever leave. They'll possible never see the great outdoors, instead serving a life sentence in cutlery jail. At Her Majesty's pleasure, at the very least.

Now I just need to fix myself a nice up-do so my crown won't slip.

Edited to add that I'm belatedly linking up here.

Ice, ice baby

With freshly baked bready pretzels, apple streudel and Belgian pancakes scenting the scene, a bunch of us sat with gloved hands wrapped around frothy coffees watching our offspring ice skate in the frosty open air. All perfectly reasonable apart from the fact we were on the sand at Bondi Beach. To be precise we were at the Bergstation, part of the Winter Festival that's on in Sydney at the moment.

As waves thundered down not far from us, it was quite a bizarre sight made even stranger with the knowledge that the Bergstation had been closed for a few hours the day before because the ocean was so rough that it was feared waves may come crashing over the top.

Lifesavers have been replaced with icesavers for the moment and they darted about scooping up fallen children or reversing anyone going against the flow. The one above was just checking The Child was alright before darting off like a solo Torville and Dean to avert another possible crisis.

Inner west France

The bright weekend sunshine provided the perfect excuse to roam around a couple of markets. Picked up five elegant little glasses for just $1 each, my favourite buy of the weekend, on Saturday at Rozelle Markets.

Along with the apples that came home with me on Sunday from Marrickville Markets was an almost pristine copy of Vicki Archer's My French Life, $10, an old metal bicycle basket, $10, which I'll use for office storage.

Continuing with the unintentional rustic French theme I also popped into my bag a new, but old-style, dishwashing moppy thing, $5, from a stall selling millet brooms, natural bristle wooden dustpan and scrubbing brushes, and all sorts of beautifully made cleaning items from the Snowy Mountains area of NSW.

Everything they had was well priced so keep a look out for them at a market near you as they don't do any regular stints but move around. I have to use the generic term 'they' as stupidly I didn't get 'their' name.

Must have been intoxicated by all that sunshine. If only I could have distilled and sipped it from one of my glasses. With a croissant.

Snakes in the city

We love a bit of a bushwalk but not the type that involves equipment, beyond a packed lunch, or a long drive. More the type that will have us back home in time to cook some sort of braised dinner we'll have in front of the fire with a bottle of wine (the Child will have sparkling water, if she's lucky, tap if she's not). The type that doesn't involve leaving Sydney, so we set off for Bantry Bay at Middle Head.

After heading into Garigal National Park on the edge of Seaforth Oval, we don't see anyone apart from two joggers and three other walkers for three hours. It was bliss. We do see a cute snake, who is also making the most of the winter sun by basking by the side of the path. We oohh and aahh at the closeness of such a fine creature and bark at the Husband who wants to poke it with a stick to see it move. He gets a stern chat about letting nature be.

We are shaded by by banksias, the air is filled with birdsong and small animals dart about too quickly to identify them.

When we get home, I decide to find out what sort of snake we'd crowded our faces around. "Good photo, Mum," says the Child when I've got a perfect match up on the screen before she realises it's not mine but a Google image. Excitedly, she sees our snake listed in a Top 10 Most Venomous Snakes in the World list.

The New Zealand-born Husband had been threatening to irritate a deadly Eastern Brown snake. The Child and I roll our eyes. Will he ever learn? Probably not, which is fine - as long as he lives long enough to tell the tale.

Wash day

Possibly my favourite ever vintage buy. Encapsulates many homey things that warm my heart, such as fresh linen, washing lines, hand-made embroidery, domestic history. $10 from Marrickville Markets.

Could stare at it for hours. Which may explain why I need new glasses.

Home is where the heart (and art) is

Sometimes when flicking through magazines like Australian Country Style or English Country Living, I wish I lived somewhere like on those pages. Sydney's often maligned as being too busy, too crowded, too noisy, too expensive, too pushy, too avaricious. Often, it is all of those things. Other times, like the weekend just gone, it's magical and I can't imagine being anywhere else.

Highlights included the Finders Keepers market at Carriageworks and then waiting in a (short) queue to be served pork dumplings by Kylie Kwong at the adjacent Farmers' Market. I love it that a celebrated Sydney chef is humble enough to man her own stall. Every week. I also love it that the Child falls in love with a handmade scarf and a print of an original local artwork.

In the evening, we join two other families for homemade fish pie and golden syrup dumplings.

On Sunday we decide to leave the car at home and walk in the luminous Autumn sunshine through back streets to Marrickville Markets. We wander down unknown streets where unexpected towering gums pierce the urban sky and we return the same way carrying crunchy apples picked just days before.

In the afternoon, we leave the house and 15 minutes later we're at the Sydney Writers' Festival where we hear author Markus Zusack read a short story he'd written when he was 16. It was, by his own admission, probably the worst piece of writing that had ever been read at the festival and the room laughed along with him. It was a generous gesture and made to help launch the Sydney Story Factory, a not-for-profit children's writing program that may be just what our 12-year-old budding novelist is looking for.

A very good weekend.

And entrance to all these events was absolutely free.

Pictured: Catherine Campbell print, $25, Elkhorn scarf, $55, and vintage pillowcase, $8, from the Frankie stand at Finders Keepers.

Country break

The bulk of last week was spent at a country property with friends and a pile of our kids. Roaring fires and marshmallow toasting by night, swims in the river by day and visits by a local kelpie puppy at all hours who just wanted to hang out with the children made this, our second visit to the property, just as great as the first.

When we visited last year, the Husband and an army of children picked bucket loads of oranges that grow wild along the Patterson River. Well, he shook the trees while kids gathered the fallen ones and took an occasional tonk on the head if they didn't get out of the way quickly enough. This resulted in my first attempt at marmalade - and I was smitten. This time round, the oranges weren't ready, of course, so we reluctantly left them on the trees.

There's a dairy farm next door and the farmer welcomes visitors with open arms to the milking sessions, lets the kids feed the calves with bottles and the two piglets with any scraps we bring. The whole experience is a bit like indoor camping in an Enid Blyton story set in Australia. There was even steamed golden syrup pudding one night. Lashings of it. Someone had also brought marmalade she made from last trip's oranges, which was smeared over buttery toast on the mornings we weren't doing bacon and eggs.

When I went to upload the photos on our return, I realised there weren't any. I had been too busy in the moment to think of picking up the camera. What I hadn't been too busy to do was stop in Morpeth on the way home and pick up some blood orange marmalade from the Morpeth Sourdough Bakery.

My only regret is I didn't buy 15 jars of the stuff because, being only Monday morning, our second morning back, the jar is already half empty. That's how good it is. Just like the country break itself.

Apples of my eye

I need a lot of apples this week so I headed off to Marrickville Organic Food and Farmers Market yesterday as I discovered last weekend, thanks to a foodie neighbour, that this is where the best apples in the Inner West can be found right now. And at a brilliant price - between $4 and $4.50 a kilo depending on the variety.

I came home with over 3kg of Bonzas and Galas, which I'd popped into a big plastic carry bag at the markets. When I opened the bag at home I couldn't believe the smell. The fragrance of the fruit was so strong it smelled fake. But it wasn't. I've never smelled apples like them before and wanted to capture and bottle the aroma. But I'm no Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, fortunately.

The cake stand is my usual fruit bowl, chosen because fruit never gets squashed. Not that apples like these would be around long enough anyway.