The Green, Green Grass of Home.

Animals of a different type: Alex leads Princeton back to the hitching post inside the shed at Main Ridge, Mornington Peninsula, after a two-hour ride on a cool day in mid-January. The horse trail, literally on a ridge, runs directly behind Arthur’s Seat and affords glimpses of both bays from its elevated position.  After the ride, a giant old-style ham and salad sandwich at D’Alia’s Bakery Cafe in Rosebud’s Main Street. 

  The photograph illustrates the sheer beauty of these creatures we call guinea pigs. The clarity of the eyes, black as deep pools; the gentle curve of snout; the lovely ears (ugly on most mammals including humans) gently obscured by cashmere-like fur; the toe peeping demurely from beneath a skirt of that same fur like some Edwardian debutante at a formal ball; and the overall adorableness that nevertheless holds a slight air of vulnerability. It's no wonder children love these animals.  Perhaps the name 'guinea pig' does the species a disservice. It has overtones of a cheap sow. A guinea  was a unit of currency worth about two dollars - and a pig is a pig. They should be called something else. But what? Savannah Sylphs? Glade-dwelling Ground Squirrels? Short-Eared Fairy Rabbits? Little Lemmings? They certainly look like the latter. (And the cliff misconception is an urban myth.)  The ‘loveable lemming’ or 'glade-dwelling ground squirrel' shown above is, of course, ...

 "Sleeping in the midday sun ... sleeping in the midday sun ... "* The maple has finally developed some foliage after being almost totally denuded by possums. I didn't really mind because in previous years they had destroyed the roses. The shade provided by the foliage provides a nice spot for the guinea pig trio and will retract slowly across the scene until the solid shade of the carport takes over.  Not that it really matters. It has been mild. We have had only one, or perhaps two, days over thirty Celsius so far this summer. * (*Lyrics from a half-remembered Paul Kelly song from the late '80s or early nineties.)

(Fear not, no wolves in this story; although the double-storey hutch did blow down once in a gale.) There were fireworks early on New Year’s Eve; Vegemite, Mullet and Violet seemed not to notice, continuing to graze peacefully in the dying light of 2023.  It was only about 9 p.m.; the trend of recent years seems to have been fire off the early Catherine Wheels, Roman Candles and Rockets to thrill the children so you can pack them off to bed before ten and get down to some serious end-of-year partying and drinking. What? Me a cynic? Anyway, the second burst of noise and colour died out soon after eleven o’clock - at least in this geographic square bounded by Pascoe Vale and the Merri Creek to the east and west, and Fawkner and Coburg proper to its north and south respectively. I was asleep by midnight, not being the Hogmanay type. And I despise the imbecility of those countdown broadcasts. Next morning, the guinea pig trio hit the new year enthusiastically, assisted by celebratory a...