I, Gaius Plinius Secundus, having returned from a two-day sojourn on the far-off coast of Yorke Peninsula, have these tales to tell.
I and my two companions drove in a car out of the city precincts following a long straight road to the top of the Gulf known as St Vincent. On the way we saw many wonders. The Palms of Cavan, an oasis of giant palm trees. Rows of white salt heaps reflected upside down in a lake of blue. An untended Cactus Garden. A field of metal creatures, a man, a metal beetle and a mouse. Dilapidated glasshouses, empty but for dried-out sagging weeds. Vast tracts of sand and rusty saltbush.
At Port Wakefield we walked through a deserted town, where it was very hot and the trees afforded no satisfactory shade, and there were horseflies.
At Moonta we looked for food. We found a small shop that served Cornish pasties, on blue and white striped plates. Here we found evidence of the famed Copper Triangle, for the knives and forks were tipped with copper balls.
Next we left Moonta for Moonta Bay. I spied a sign on a fence which read 'General Contractor'. I would have liked to stop and speak with a military man, but my companions were anxious to continue to the coast.
We arrived at Moonta Bay. The tide was out as far as the eye could see. There were white sand banks and pools of pale blue sea water, red and yellow rocks, and a fine long curving jetty. While my companions walked out on the jetty, I examined the rocks on the shore for traces of copper, which I found, and when my companions returned, they assured me that the deep sea's hue was a mottled coppery green.
Thence to the Moonta Bay Cabin Park, where our cabin had been left unlocked for our arrival. Indeed, there was no one there to welcome us, other than a large brown hopping creature that my companions informed me was a kangaroo. I should have liked to get a closer look at this kangaroo, but my companions wishing to go for a walk along the beach, I was obliged to put on a hat and some white sun-deterring cream and join them.
It was most pleasant on the beach at Moonta Bay. The sun was warm and mild, and the breeze was gentle. The coppery cliffs reflected in the coppery sheeny flat pools of water in between the sand banks. A man with two dogs of differing sizes speared a blue and white umbrella into one of the sandbanks and sat under it with water lapping all around.
I pottered on the shore looking for copper traces, and marvelling at the floating seagrass that was straight and flat, yet cast shadows that were polypy and curved, and edged with light.
My companions meanwhile walked towards Port Hughes. I did not accompany them, but one of them later told me that she had sat down upon some grass under a pine tree there, and been attacked by biting midges, on hearing which I suppressed a smile.
Of many more wonders I have yet to tell , but fearing lest I induce tedium, I shall leave them for tomorrow.
Vale!
Gaius Plinius Secundus.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Moonta Bay
What's this? says Pliny the Elder, looking at his Facebook. You didn't tell me you were going to Moonta Bay.
I was going to tell you, I said.
When? he asked.
About now, I said. We're going to Moonta Bay for the weekend. We're staying in a cabin.
By we, you don't mean me, I suppose, said Pliny, looking sorrowful.
Oh Pliny, you do look sorrowful. Would you like to come?
I do not know. Where is this Moonta Bay?
It's north up St Vincents Gulf to Port Wakefield then across Yorke Peninsula to Kadina then down to Moonta on the Spencer Gulf, I said. At least I think so. I get my gulfs mixed up, I added, unhelpfully.
How far away is it? asked Pliny, who was looking just a little bit too interested.
Two to three hours drive, I said, through very boring countryside.
And what is there? asked Pliny, not seeming at all put off.
Not a lot, I said. The Copper Triangle. Old abandoned mines, a jetty, and a windy coast. Impenetrable scrub.
Well, said Pliny, if you both don't mind, I'll come!
I was going to tell you, I said.
When? he asked.
About now, I said. We're going to Moonta Bay for the weekend. We're staying in a cabin.
By we, you don't mean me, I suppose, said Pliny, looking sorrowful.
Oh Pliny, you do look sorrowful. Would you like to come?
I do not know. Where is this Moonta Bay?
It's north up St Vincents Gulf to Port Wakefield then across Yorke Peninsula to Kadina then down to Moonta on the Spencer Gulf, I said. At least I think so. I get my gulfs mixed up, I added, unhelpfully.
How far away is it? asked Pliny, who was looking just a little bit too interested.
Two to three hours drive, I said, through very boring countryside.
And what is there? asked Pliny, not seeming at all put off.
Not a lot, I said. The Copper Triangle. Old abandoned mines, a jetty, and a windy coast. Impenetrable scrub.
Well, said Pliny, if you both don't mind, I'll come!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Three Flies
Dear Blogger Person,
We are THREE FLIES. We have reason to believe we are the THREE FLIES referred to yesterday in your blog as SANDFLIES!!! We believe this because the THREE OF US happened to be walking towards the sea at GRANGE on Australia Day afternoon just to the immediate SOUTH of three half-eaten APPLES!! and we commented to one another at the time that SOMEONE (no doubt YOURSELF) appeared to be staring at us rather RUDELY!!
We wish to point out that we are not SANDFLIES. We are not nor have we ever been members of the family CERATOPOGONIDAE. We are perfectly ordinary FLIES who were harmlessly and inoffensively enjoying the beach on Australia Day along with MANY OTHERS, whom we note you have ALSO described in a somewhat SNOBBISH and ELITIST manner, such as the YOUNG DRINKING AND CRICKETING HUMANS, the FAT DOGS and the hapless SKUAS.
We demand that you write a RETRACTION, acknowledging that we are neither HORSEFLIES, which some people mistakenly call SANDFLIES, nor are we SANDFLEAS or BITING MIDGES, whose BITES leave large red itchy BUMPS that may turn into a RASH!!
WOULD that we WERE!!
Yours plainly, and without PREJUDICE,
THREE FLIES
We are THREE FLIES. We have reason to believe we are the THREE FLIES referred to yesterday in your blog as SANDFLIES!!! We believe this because the THREE OF US happened to be walking towards the sea at GRANGE on Australia Day afternoon just to the immediate SOUTH of three half-eaten APPLES!! and we commented to one another at the time that SOMEONE (no doubt YOURSELF) appeared to be staring at us rather RUDELY!!
We wish to point out that we are not SANDFLIES. We are not nor have we ever been members of the family CERATOPOGONIDAE. We are perfectly ordinary FLIES who were harmlessly and inoffensively enjoying the beach on Australia Day along with MANY OTHERS, whom we note you have ALSO described in a somewhat SNOBBISH and ELITIST manner, such as the YOUNG DRINKING AND CRICKETING HUMANS, the FAT DOGS and the hapless SKUAS.
We demand that you write a RETRACTION, acknowledging that we are neither HORSEFLIES, which some people mistakenly call SANDFLIES, nor are we SANDFLEAS or BITING MIDGES, whose BITES leave large red itchy BUMPS that may turn into a RASH!!
WOULD that we WERE!!
Yours plainly, and without PREJUDICE,
THREE FLIES
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Australia Day
It's Australia Day. In the afternoon we go to the beach. A blue sky and a warm strong flag-flapping hat-flipping wind at Grange.
As many people in the water as out. Forty people per hundred metres, I think.
They sit under vast no-sided tent pavillions, in canvas chairs, drinking, or shoulder-deep in water drinking pre-mixed drinks from cans. They play with small fat dogs.
Three sand flies march towards the waterline. Three seagulls peck at three half-eaten red-skinned apples on the sand. Four young women in swimsuits walk towards us, one with a pink parasol. Children carry fluoro boogie boards into the water. A blue and yellow fish kite flutters overhead.
Now there's a bare stretch of beach. The wind plaits the water like grass. A few wispy clouds curl up sportively.
A party spills on to the beach from a house. Young men play beach cricket with bottles and girls stand ankle-deep in the sea, drinking. The conversation: Where are you going? Europe. Just Europe? Yeah.
Two fat skuas sit on the sand looking sadly out to sea, a long way apart. The horizon is miles and miles away today.
Three passing girls stop momentarily. The one with blue lips says, leaning towards us, Happy Austraya Day!
As many people in the water as out. Forty people per hundred metres, I think.
They sit under vast no-sided tent pavillions, in canvas chairs, drinking, or shoulder-deep in water drinking pre-mixed drinks from cans. They play with small fat dogs.
Three sand flies march towards the waterline. Three seagulls peck at three half-eaten red-skinned apples on the sand. Four young women in swimsuits walk towards us, one with a pink parasol. Children carry fluoro boogie boards into the water. A blue and yellow fish kite flutters overhead.
Now there's a bare stretch of beach. The wind plaits the water like grass. A few wispy clouds curl up sportively.
A party spills on to the beach from a house. Young men play beach cricket with bottles and girls stand ankle-deep in the sea, drinking. The conversation: Where are you going? Europe. Just Europe? Yeah.
Two fat skuas sit on the sand looking sadly out to sea, a long way apart. The horizon is miles and miles away today.
Three passing girls stop momentarily. The one with blue lips says, leaning towards us, Happy Austraya Day!
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Pomegranate Crown
How is your, ahem, blemish this morning? asked Pliny the Elder.
Sore, I replied.
Let me see, said Pliny.
At least it's flat, I said.
You should not use medicine that is out of date, admonished Pliny. And you should have asked my advice. Which reminds me, I see you have been eating pomegranates. Why?
Because they are there, I said. My daughter bought five of them just before returning to London.
Well, rub some pomegranate juice on your finger, said Pliny. It is antiseptic and good for curing, ahem, blemishes.
Do stop saying, ahem, blemishes, Pliny. I'm not as sensitive as I pretend. Tell me more about the medicinal uses of pomegranates. I didn't know that they were good for anything.
Indeed they are. The juice of the Malum Punicum, or Jewel of Winter, as we called it, was well known as a cure for stomach ulcers, morning sickness, tape worm, diarrhoea, and pains of the ears and nostrils.
Nostrils?
Yes, So said Dioscorides in his Herbal of Dioscorides.
So the ancient Greeks knew about it?
Yes, everyone knew about it. The pomegranate was valued very highly. They say its shape inspired King Solomon's crown and all crowns ever since.
I don't believe it.
Look again.
Sore, I replied.
Let me see, said Pliny.
At least it's flat, I said.
You should not use medicine that is out of date, admonished Pliny. And you should have asked my advice. Which reminds me, I see you have been eating pomegranates. Why?
Because they are there, I said. My daughter bought five of them just before returning to London.
Well, rub some pomegranate juice on your finger, said Pliny. It is antiseptic and good for curing, ahem, blemishes.
Do stop saying, ahem, blemishes, Pliny. I'm not as sensitive as I pretend. Tell me more about the medicinal uses of pomegranates. I didn't know that they were good for anything.
Indeed they are. The juice of the Malum Punicum, or Jewel of Winter, as we called it, was well known as a cure for stomach ulcers, morning sickness, tape worm, diarrhoea, and pains of the ears and nostrils.
Nostrils?
Yes, So said Dioscorides in his Herbal of Dioscorides.
So the ancient Greeks knew about it?
Yes, everyone knew about it. The pomegranate was valued very highly. They say its shape inspired King Solomon's crown and all crowns ever since.
I don't believe it.
Look again.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Wart and the Pomegranate
What is this bitter taste? I first noticed it last night when I was drinking wine. It tasted bitter. Perhaps I'm ill. I don't feel ill.
In any case, I'm suffering from a condition. Being of a scientific bent I try to think what I've been doing that is different.
I'm putting salicylic acid on a finger wart. I'm eating pomegranate seeds.
These are both things that I don't usually do.
Either one could be the cause.
Do you mind if I stop using the word wart from here on? I find it a little embarrassing. I shall use the word blemish and you can just remember what it is.
Salicylic acid is good for killing blemishes. But my tube of salicylic acid is over twenty years old. That shows I do not often get a blemish, I hope you're noting that. The point is though, that this tube of stuff is very old.
Now suppose it gets more toxic as it ages? Suppose it gets into my bloodstream and works its way through every part including my taste buds? That is my hypothesis.
The hypothesis is soon to be tested, because today I attacked the blemish with a sewing needle, and now it's gone. Well, I hope it's gone. You never really know with a blemish. It might come back. The important thing is that I've stopped using the salicylic acid.
Are you a scientist? Do you see what I'm driving at?
The bitter taste will disappear quite soon, if it was caused by salicylic aid.
If not, I must stop eating pomegranates.
In any case, I'm suffering from a condition. Being of a scientific bent I try to think what I've been doing that is different.
I'm putting salicylic acid on a finger wart. I'm eating pomegranate seeds.
These are both things that I don't usually do.
Either one could be the cause.
Do you mind if I stop using the word wart from here on? I find it a little embarrassing. I shall use the word blemish and you can just remember what it is.
Salicylic acid is good for killing blemishes. But my tube of salicylic acid is over twenty years old. That shows I do not often get a blemish, I hope you're noting that. The point is though, that this tube of stuff is very old.
Now suppose it gets more toxic as it ages? Suppose it gets into my bloodstream and works its way through every part including my taste buds? That is my hypothesis.
The hypothesis is soon to be tested, because today I attacked the blemish with a sewing needle, and now it's gone. Well, I hope it's gone. You never really know with a blemish. It might come back. The important thing is that I've stopped using the salicylic acid.
Are you a scientist? Do you see what I'm driving at?
The bitter taste will disappear quite soon, if it was caused by salicylic aid.
If not, I must stop eating pomegranates.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Adelaide Street Circuit
Who wants to do the Adelaide Street Circuit anyway? sighed Jean Paul Sartre, swallowing the last piece of the snapper which The VeloDrone had cycled into Willunga earlier to buy. It's so pleasant and peaceful here.
Is it? snapped The VeloDrone. Tell me again, Jean Paul, why is it that an existentialist always carries string?
Ah! dear fellow, an existentialist is the practical type, pragmatic, always ready to change tack at the drop of a hat. Unlike your own philosophy, which is that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
The VeloDrone looked like thunder. What? he cried, you have misunderstood my book Candide! That is the foolish philosophy of Docter Pangloss! My own philosophy is that everyone should stay at home and mind his own business!
Advice you fail to take, evidently, interjected Freud, with a snapper-rich smirk.
Ingrates! shouted the VeloDrone. Who was it cycled all the way into Willunga this morning so you could have fish for breakfast?
Yes, calm down, gentlemen, please, said Le Bon David. We all have reason to be grateful to The VeloDrone. And perhaps we would have all been better off to have remained at home. But I for one am pleased to have come to the Tour Down Under. In spite of everything, I feel I have learned a lot. For example, about the limited usefulness of string.
I can think of a good use for it, muttered The VeloDrone. But, of course, we ought to count our blessings. In Willunga this morning I discovered a most excellent cheese shop called The Blessed Cheese.
Oh I don't suppose you brought any back with you? asked Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Because has anybody thought what we are going to do for lunch?
Is it? snapped The VeloDrone. Tell me again, Jean Paul, why is it that an existentialist always carries string?
Ah! dear fellow, an existentialist is the practical type, pragmatic, always ready to change tack at the drop of a hat. Unlike your own philosophy, which is that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
The VeloDrone looked like thunder. What? he cried, you have misunderstood my book Candide! That is the foolish philosophy of Docter Pangloss! My own philosophy is that everyone should stay at home and mind his own business!
Advice you fail to take, evidently, interjected Freud, with a snapper-rich smirk.
Ingrates! shouted the VeloDrone. Who was it cycled all the way into Willunga this morning so you could have fish for breakfast?
Yes, calm down, gentlemen, please, said Le Bon David. We all have reason to be grateful to The VeloDrone. And perhaps we would have all been better off to have remained at home. But I for one am pleased to have come to the Tour Down Under. In spite of everything, I feel I have learned a lot. For example, about the limited usefulness of string.
I can think of a good use for it, muttered The VeloDrone. But, of course, we ought to count our blessings. In Willunga this morning I discovered a most excellent cheese shop called The Blessed Cheese.
Oh I don't suppose you brought any back with you? asked Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Because has anybody thought what we are going to do for lunch?
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