In the summertime ...
The song In the Summertime by Mungo Jerry was a 70s classic with all the trappings of extravagantly flared trousers and really bad hair (https://youtu.be/wvUQcnfwUUM). Although I associate this song rather strongly the unsavoury experience of boarding school, it turns out that I just could not get the lyrics out of my head as I drove over the Misty Mountains and down into the Huon Valley, after flying into Hobart from a hot and steamy Brisbane.
You can stretch right up and touch the sky
…
When the weather's fine, we go fishing or go swimming in the sea”
I thought perhaps the fishing and swimming bit was probably taking things a bit too far, but I certainly did not anticipate the Antarctic conditions that I flew into, with November temperatures the coldest recorded since 1953.
One thing that always takes me by surprise when I mention our plans to move to Tasmania is the automatic response. “Very nice, but how can you stand the winter?” As pleased as I am that most people don’t want to come here because of the weather, this pronouncement has always made me uneasy because I have always found the weather to be pretty standard. But the last few days have really been something else. For snow to be falling at 200m this late in the year is a bit of an eye-opener. I guess every now and then the demon in Van Dieman’s Land shows up and reminds everyone that the Huon is indeed the southern-most municipality in Australia.
For the most part, this snap freeze hasn’t been too much of a problem for me. I have hunkered down in front of the fire. The same cannot be said for poor old Pepper who has glared balefully at me every time I send her outside and close the door. Unfortunately, the hair she has been busily shedding in Brisbane is now urgently required, but she has not yet discovered how to reverse the process! Something else which has disturbed her equilibrium is the fact that prior to this cold snap, it had been raining continuously in southwestern Tasmania and without us here, the grass around the house grew thigh high. Imagine Pepper’s surprise when on arrival she immediately bounded up onto the island in the middle of our circular driveway (a favourite place for chasing birds and barking at possums) and was immediately submerged in a sea of onion grass.
Now onion grass is a little tough and stringy and cannot be cut with a lawnmower when it reaches the epic proportions observed on our island. So this morning, when the sun made a very reluctant appearance, I made an even more reluctant expedition to the shed to grab the trusty Stihl slasher. The result is actually quite pleasing.
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