The Hills of Hawkes Bay

Ever since I saw Katherine's posting of her interpretation of a Hawkes Bay landscape I've been intending to do my own photographic interpretation because her painting was exactly as I see the landscape.  So today I spent the afternoon climbing the hill at the Sugar Loaf Reserve in nearby Taradale and then went to Te Mata Peak in Havelock North.  There is one small caveat:  the hills this year are much greener than they often are - there's been a lot of rain in the Bay this summer.

Sugar Loaf Reserve covered in wild thyme.  Napier and Bluff Hill in the background.

The wild thyme was bee-laden and the hum was reminiscent of hot summer days.

Looking towards the Kawaka Ranges from the top of the Reserve.

Looking towards the Ranges.

From the top of Te Mata Peak looking South and West towards the central Ranges in the middle of the Island.

The Hawkes Bay Hills

And again

And the faithful Handbag waits for me in the shade.

Modern Technology

I woke at 0455. Not the 'I need the loo' sort of wake not the 'Just turn over and go back to the land of nod' sort of wake but a full blown 'I'm awake' sort of wake. The moon was still streaming into the bedroom and the world seemed a very inviting place. I popped my head out of the ranch sliders and was suddenly struck by something amazing: silence. I don't think I can recall hearing silence here before. There is usually so much noise in the countryside: crickets, insects, night birds, the trees rustling even in the very gentlest of breezes. But no. Not a sound could I hear. The silence was almost overpowering. That was a time for the correct use of the word 'awesome'.

I couldn't return to bed so I've been reading blogs and commenting. I've also been burning a DVD with photos for a friend. I switched the air-con on to take the chill out of the air. I made tea. I opened the dishwasher. Sitting here I was getting puzzled (and a little bit irritated) by a regular but insistent beep. The air-con sometimes beeps when it changes program so I assumed that's what it was. It wasn't. Then I assumed it must be the smoke detector alarm. It wasn't. Then I assumed that the DVD player must have an alarm to tell me that I'd left the drawer open. It hasn't. Curiouser and curiouser. Eventually it dawned on me that I'd opened the dishwasher but not switched it off. Why would a dishwasher need to beep to tell me that? Modern technology can sometimes go just that one step too far.

Tuscany?

When out walking down the road recently I looked up and saw this scene. All at once I was back in Tuscany. I'm sure that if I had access to my Tuscany photos (pre-digital and therefore stored in Scotland) I could find an almost identical scene.

Morning Living in The Country

This morning I stood in the living room with the ranch doors onto the deck wide open.  Elgar's Cello Concerto (the Jaqueline du Pré recording) was playing.  I like my music reasonably loud which is ok when there is no one to disturb.  As I stood and listened I realised that the noise of the countryside outside was greater than the sound of the music.  I switched off the music and ventured outside onto the deck.  

I'm not very good at bird calls but there are some that I recognise.  Nearest to The Cottage a Chaffinch was vying for individual honours with a Blackbird (the clear winner).  The flocks of Sparrows and Goldfinches were vying with each other for group honours (no clear winner there).  The eerily haunting cries of the Australasian Magpies filled the distance (winners of the eerily haunting class by a wide margin).  The screetch of the Pukeko intermittently butted in (clearly winning the scare-you-out-of-your-pants class).  Two little Fantails twittered as they chased each other through the trees (winners of the twittering class and the can't-stand-still class as well).  The Kingfisher darted around winning the silent class: although they do have a loud and penetrating call and there are many of them around here I'm not sure that I've ever identified it.

I was actually wakened this morning before 0600 by a quad bike in the Orchard.  Johnny was inspecting the insect traps to see what pests had to be sprayed today.  An hour or so later he was back dressed from head to toe in his protective gear covering all and sundry with insecticide.  

This morning there has not been a breath of a breeze and my washing has hung limply on the whirlygig since 0700.  In fact it's a very odd morning because the bright sun after the dawn became hazy and then overcast and now it's bright, though, hazy again.  There's a very unsettling feeling in the air.

There is just something magical about living in the countryside.

The Countryside Is Noisy

The weather has been very hot so a few nights ago I decided to sleep with my bedroom door with it's newly fitted flyscreen in place open onto the deck. The Cottage is built to modern standards of insulation and, very unusually for New Zealand, it has double glazing throughout as well. So as a general rule I can hear very little at night. I don't sleep with windows open either as a rule because of the many and varied flying creatures which, though harmless, are nevertheless unpleasant as bedfellows.

For the first time the sounds of the night, from which my insulated environment shield me, became loud and real. The call of the Morepork (so called because of its call of the same sound) which roosts in a nearby tree and, like many owls, is not faint-hearted in its announcements to the world; the crickets which surround (and occupy) The Cottage; the wind which rustles the huge trees nearby; the Pukeko screeching in the orchard below (and that really can make your blood curdle); the birds singing their hearts out at 0400; the rustling and snorting of the hedgehogs and possums and countless other creatures of the night all conspired to make constant sleep hard. And once I was awake I could hear the oddly verbose fridge and the excessively loud tick of the kitchen clock. So the perfect sleep to which I am accustomed eluded me.

Last night the door remained closed as it will again tonight. I think it will have to be exceptionally hot before I next bask in the closeness to nature which robs me of my slumbers.