Local author Loani Prior has just released her second book, Really Wild Tea Cosies. They are simply amazing. Visit her lovely blog and check it out.
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Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Tea Cosy Queen
Local author Loani Prior has just released her second book, Really Wild Tea Cosies. They are simply amazing. Visit her lovely blog and check it out.
Happy Campers by Annabel Candy
Recently I camped in Coolum and discovered a small community on the verge of extinction. So I chatted to them, took photos and wrote this story.
Coolum Campsite is a great place to stay in the heart of Queensland's Sunshine Coast. Set right on the beach away from the high rises, you can find a peaceful spot, hoist the Aussie flag over your tent and relax. I only stayed one night but I wish it'd been longer.
Stan's lived at Coolum Campsite for 16 years. He doesn't need to use the communal bathrooms or laundry facilities because he's got a permanent home here, surrounded by lush bromeliads, with space to air his laundry in private.Temporary residents abound, but permanent residents like Stan are a dying breed. Literally. Once you could buy a spot at Coolum Campsite, set up house and move in, but those days are over now. Another charming resident who moved to Coolum from Victoria 10 years ago, said a permanent spot at the campsite was the only housing option he could afford at the time.
I admired a tree, adorned with a twinkling kaleidoscope collection and an epiphyte that clings to it like a ruff. The epiphyte has doubled in size since he moved here, but property prices have grown faster. Apparently, 10 years ago a typical house in Coolum would have cost about $150,000. Now they're over $400,000.
All 32 permanent camp-site residents have injected their personality into their homes and maintain them meticulously. Only one house looks pleasingly ramshackle and seems to house an extended happy family. Never-the-less, permanent residents are being phased out. Most of them are elderly and when they die no one else will be allowed to set up a permanent home like theirs.
If you can, stop by and visit the permanent residents of Coolum Campsite. They're a friendly bunch, teetering on the brink of extinction and we'll never see their like again. Thank you for chatting to me Stan, and letting me take your photo. You seem such a happy man.
Annabel Candy is a local writer who has lived in Noosa since November 2008 and is here to stay. She is originally from the UK (many moons ago) and moved to Australia from New Zealand via Costa Rica. Her blog "Get in the Hotspot" contains a wealth of great reading. Check it out.
Hinterland Calling by Julie Chilver
I got out of the car and knew at once, despite the abandoned cars peppering the green hills, I wanted it I couldn’t even see the main house which was hidden by vegetation as high as the roof. I wasn’t put off by the bare brick interior or the dark stained floorboards. I smiled and then I noticed Andrew’s face, a mix of horror and amazement. Apartments in London and Sydney, and a McMansion in a street lined with shiny mail boxes hadn’t prepared us for this.
Reduced to rustic, by choice. A brick cottage with no upstairs bathroom and ventilation holes big enough for snakes and more. “Eighth generation possum.” The vendor told us proudly. Andrew assured me that although the possum could get down into the bathroom, it wouldn’t. What did he know? A high pitched shriek from me and he appeared carrying a piece of gyprock. ‘We won’t block it up completely, just so she can stick her nose out and the kids can feed her.’ My friends would be amazed that I’d even pop in to use the toilet, let alone live here. And that was before a giant cane toad sat by my feet while I sat on said toilet. ‘Andreeeeeeeeewwww’.
That was just the main dwelling, there was another building which was to be my office and painting studio plus guest accommodation for anyone game to spend some time on the ‘farm’. I decreed that the building should be dismantled. Termites I could have lived with but that was the building my dad christened ‘the building that never was’. More accurately he was almost ‘the dad that was no more’. Chatting to Andrew and leaning on the wooden railing, he was spat from the first floor entrance way. Crunch, splat. He jumped and launched himself to avoid a steel post where only yesterday a tree had been tethered. He fell 10 feet, I wailed like a banshee and my mother didn’t speak for half an hour. A black bruised foot and a scar shaped like devil’s horns on his forehead. Unusual souvenirs for the couple who usually played it safe with a bag of local nougat or marmalade from the Ginger Factory in Yandina. The building was declared evil and Andrew took it to pieces over our first winter, some walls as thin as paper and as easily torn as sweet wrappers.
And the cottage, I repainted those bare walls in white. My instinct was to paint the entire building white, inside and out. To make it clean, to paint out the dark. Then came the stairs, a wooden step ladder I couldn’t imagine negotiating after a glass or two of cab sav. It was to be our first big job, the stairs, until we discovered the wooden floor was full of holes and little white friends. The day we found the little critters was the first day of many hard rains. The floor was ripped up. We had no stairs. To get to bed we had to climb a mud bank four feet from the ground which led to a door giving access to the bedrooms. It was raining as I emerged with a determined face, clutching a bottle a wine, trying not to fall as I negotiated a sea of mud. It wasn’t until day 10 that we had stairs and flooring and the rain still hammered on a, thankfully intact, tin roof.
I call it a farm because it is to us, despite the animals being wild; wallabies, hares and once a wandering dingo howling in the night. And two dogs that adopted our boys, or the other way around. Cold Comfort Farm is what I dubbed it in the early days. We planned to live off the land, without a clue we researched. We have clay soil and predators. We’ll turnover the soil with a crowbar, plant legumes. And we have to have chickens, right?
Tough for a girl with a bird phobia. There were bush turkeys who were here before we were. They were prince of darkness birds with rudders for tails but no sense of direction, their huge bulk and tiny heads. I asked the locals for advice on how to tackle them, ‘shoot them’ came the reply. I didn’t like them but I didn’t want to shoot them. I would name them to personalise them, make them less scary. Philip, Bartholomew and Lester. There was one left. I asked my boys if they wanted to name it. “Dave,” said Jordan the 10-year old.
Now I’m so used to them, secure in the knowledge that they’re scared of me. We live side by side and I protect my herbs with swathes of chicken wire. Not sure how I’ll go with those chickens. I love shopping in the local town. I chat on first name terms with the shopkeepers. I know the difference between fresh local produce and the smorgasbord of city choice. For me it’s all about the people. How things have changed since London or Sydney when I’d spend hours searching for an obscure ingredient for our evening meal. Now I’m happy with a locally grown tomato.
Now where was I? Anyone know a good name for a chicken?
Julie Chilver is the mother of two boys. A former city mortgage broker who now writes short stories and lives on acreage in the Noosa hinterland.
Reduced to rustic, by choice. A brick cottage with no upstairs bathroom and ventilation holes big enough for snakes and more. “Eighth generation possum.” The vendor told us proudly. Andrew assured me that although the possum could get down into the bathroom, it wouldn’t. What did he know? A high pitched shriek from me and he appeared carrying a piece of gyprock. ‘We won’t block it up completely, just so she can stick her nose out and the kids can feed her.’ My friends would be amazed that I’d even pop in to use the toilet, let alone live here. And that was before a giant cane toad sat by my feet while I sat on said toilet. ‘Andreeeeeeeeewwww’.
That was just the main dwelling, there was another building which was to be my office and painting studio plus guest accommodation for anyone game to spend some time on the ‘farm’. I decreed that the building should be dismantled. Termites I could have lived with but that was the building my dad christened ‘the building that never was’. More accurately he was almost ‘the dad that was no more’. Chatting to Andrew and leaning on the wooden railing, he was spat from the first floor entrance way. Crunch, splat. He jumped and launched himself to avoid a steel post where only yesterday a tree had been tethered. He fell 10 feet, I wailed like a banshee and my mother didn’t speak for half an hour. A black bruised foot and a scar shaped like devil’s horns on his forehead. Unusual souvenirs for the couple who usually played it safe with a bag of local nougat or marmalade from the Ginger Factory in Yandina. The building was declared evil and Andrew took it to pieces over our first winter, some walls as thin as paper and as easily torn as sweet wrappers.
And the cottage, I repainted those bare walls in white. My instinct was to paint the entire building white, inside and out. To make it clean, to paint out the dark. Then came the stairs, a wooden step ladder I couldn’t imagine negotiating after a glass or two of cab sav. It was to be our first big job, the stairs, until we discovered the wooden floor was full of holes and little white friends. The day we found the little critters was the first day of many hard rains. The floor was ripped up. We had no stairs. To get to bed we had to climb a mud bank four feet from the ground which led to a door giving access to the bedrooms. It was raining as I emerged with a determined face, clutching a bottle a wine, trying not to fall as I negotiated a sea of mud. It wasn’t until day 10 that we had stairs and flooring and the rain still hammered on a, thankfully intact, tin roof.
I call it a farm because it is to us, despite the animals being wild; wallabies, hares and once a wandering dingo howling in the night. And two dogs that adopted our boys, or the other way around. Cold Comfort Farm is what I dubbed it in the early days. We planned to live off the land, without a clue we researched. We have clay soil and predators. We’ll turnover the soil with a crowbar, plant legumes. And we have to have chickens, right?
Tough for a girl with a bird phobia. There were bush turkeys who were here before we were. They were prince of darkness birds with rudders for tails but no sense of direction, their huge bulk and tiny heads. I asked the locals for advice on how to tackle them, ‘shoot them’ came the reply. I didn’t like them but I didn’t want to shoot them. I would name them to personalise them, make them less scary. Philip, Bartholomew and Lester. There was one left. I asked my boys if they wanted to name it. “Dave,” said Jordan the 10-year old.
Now I’m so used to them, secure in the knowledge that they’re scared of me. We live side by side and I protect my herbs with swathes of chicken wire. Not sure how I’ll go with those chickens. I love shopping in the local town. I chat on first name terms with the shopkeepers. I know the difference between fresh local produce and the smorgasbord of city choice. For me it’s all about the people. How things have changed since London or Sydney when I’d spend hours searching for an obscure ingredient for our evening meal. Now I’m happy with a locally grown tomato.
Now where was I? Anyone know a good name for a chicken?
Julie Chilver is the mother of two boys. A former city mortgage broker who now writes short stories and lives on acreage in the Noosa hinterland.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
About the Writer in Residence
Annette Hughes is a Cooroy based author who moved to the region six years ago after a twenty year career in first Brisbane, then Sydney, in the entertainment and publishing industry. In her previous lives she has been a bookseller, contemporary art dealer, small publisher, theatrical, film and television agent, literary agent and now, author.
She is an industry expert with many years experience in publishing from every possible angle. Her skill set includes; intimate knowledge of the entertainment and publishing industries, preparation of copyright contracts in all fields, structural editing of both fiction and non-fiction, life writing, art criticism, and assesses manuscripts for a major publishers. She has represented authors international rights to the London Book Fair, and attended Australian literary festivals to participate in the Australia Council's VIP program (Visiting International Publishers), selling international publishing rights. She has was also contracted by the Australia Council for a research project to scope and assess opportunities for regional writing in FNQ.
She is also a trained and registered art and English teacher, and speaks on a range of subjects encompassed by her professional skills. She has appeared at the Byron Bay writers festival, Reality Bites festival (Cooroy), Sydney Writers Festival, New South Wales writers centre, and various bookshops and libraries.
Annette is currently self employed, trading as Books&Writing, providing professional services to the publishing industry and teaching and mentoing to individual emerging and established authors. Her recent book, Art Life Chooks (a memoir) is published by Harper Collins Fourth Estate.
She is an industry expert with many years experience in publishing from every possible angle. Her skill set includes; intimate knowledge of the entertainment and publishing industries, preparation of copyright contracts in all fields, structural editing of both fiction and non-fiction, life writing, art criticism, and assesses manuscripts for a major publishers. She has represented authors international rights to the London Book Fair, and attended Australian literary festivals to participate in the Australia Council's VIP program (Visiting International Publishers), selling international publishing rights. She has was also contracted by the Australia Council for a research project to scope and assess opportunities for regional writing in FNQ.
She is also a trained and registered art and English teacher, and speaks on a range of subjects encompassed by her professional skills. She has appeared at the Byron Bay writers festival, Reality Bites festival (Cooroy), Sydney Writers Festival, New South Wales writers centre, and various bookshops and libraries.
Annette is currently self employed, trading as Books&Writing, providing professional services to the publishing industry and teaching and mentoing to individual emerging and established authors. Her recent book, Art Life Chooks (a memoir) is published by Harper Collins Fourth Estate.
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