Maggie vs Cockies

We had a show-down here the other day between one magpies and half-a-dozen sulphur-crested cockatoos. The cockatoos won the battle, but not the war.

It started innocently enough. The family of magpies that calls this spot home have been gradually getting used to us and, although we decided we will not feed them regularly, it is hard to throw away wrinkled apples and such when you know that the magpies and the ravens and the cockatoos etc etc will make short work of them.

And, since the maggies have been getting the occasional left-over (burnt rice seems to be a favourite), they are now keeping a closer eye on us. So when I saw a lone maggie on our doorstep the other day, I went and got a handful of oats. The maggie was very impressed and got stuck into them. Unfortunately, what I had not seen or heard (amazingly) was a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos.

One after another they descended from the heavens. The first one landed on the phone line above the railing (photo above). Then he jumped down onto the railing and got stuck into the oats (photo below). Then another landed on the railing.

As each one arrived our maggie hopped further away on the railing.

And the cockatoos kept arriving. On the railing, on the over-head beams, and then …

… more on the phone line! I had been bemused to begin with, but once there were two enormous cockatoos on the phone line I went and got Ted to chase them away. I have seen flocks here as large as thirty or forty and, given how much hassle we had getting the phone connected, I wasn't going to let the cockatoos bring it down, either through weight of numbers or by chewing on it as a substitute for the oats!

Ted did his job and I learnt my lesson. No more oats. For now on, we only feed the maggies Ted's left over carrion, which the cockatoos are not interested in!

Our Hornsea Heirloom Obsession

For a while now I have been meaning to mention our Hornsea Heirloom collection/obsession.

[Why, yes, that is twenty bowls]

Two events are responsible for our completist obsession with Hornsea Heirloom. First, about three years ago, M. and I were tempted by, but decided not to buy, a very reasonably priced 70s dinner set at an antique shop. Within a week we were regretting our decision, but when we went back, the set was gone and all we could remember about it was that it was brown. We couldn't recall a maker or the name of the series.

Some time later we found one or two brown pieces of the Hornsea Heirloom series, thought they might have been from our mystery brown 70s dinner set, bought them, and then—having a few pieces to work from—went looking for more on eBay. Not long after, a huge collection of Hornsea Heirloom pieces turned up. We were very excited by the scale of the lot, and the price. I was all ready to put in a last-minute killer bid, I had even organised someone to pick the set up for us, but got distracted and missed the end of the auction! The lot was vast, and it went for less than $100.

Everyone was seriously unimpressed. I/we have been trying to make up for these two near-misses ever since. I started buying up everything I could find at a half-reasonable price on eBay while my sister kept an eye open for pieces too, both locally and online. I bought a few large lots, and many single pieces, mostly from Australia, but a few pieces that I couldn't get here were ordered from the UK. I also scoured the web for information about what we had, and what we were missing.

At first, we decided we wanted a set of four, then six, then eight, then twelve. The problem was, having settled on four or six or whatever, I would buy a another large mixed lot—in order to get some of the more obscure pieces we didn't yet have—and all of the extras, the duplicates, would almost succeed in expanding our entire set to the next round number, eight or twelve.

[Why yes, that is eighteen cups]

Having finally given in and decided on aiming for enough tableware to serve twelve people we found that we still had so many duplicates that we could select the ones we wanted to keep based on the particular shade of brown that we liked, the particular backstamps that we preferred (ones with dates) and so on. We also got fussier about condition, went looking for replacements, had items broken in transit, bought more, and so the collection grew and grew, but grew irregularly and without shape. It took a long time before the Hornsea collection took on any shape, and before it became really clear what we wanted.

We still haven't quite finished our collection, but we now know exactly what we are missing, so I think it might be useful to start doing a series of posts on the different Heirloom pieces, because when we went looking on line we really struggled to find reliable information on the series. We have also, now, joined the Hornsea Pottery Collectors and Research Society (HPC&RS), so we have been able to buy a copy of Brian Heckford's Hornsea Pottery 1949–89: its people, processes and products (1998), which is the most comprehensive work on the pottery and on this series.

What this means is that we should be able to combine our experience buying Hornsea Heirloom tableware with plenty of photos and reliable information, the sort of information we wanted when we started collecting in 2008. It should also help us keep up the 70s focus on this blog while we struggle to finish the endless weeding!

Lost Guttering of the 70s, Part 2

Since we burnt through half of our woodpile to dry the house out, I decided I may as well completely dismantle the first bay—the one with the logs in it—so that I could raise the wood in it off the ground—like I had in the second bay, the one with the sticks in it.

Having removed all the logs, and dug all the weeds and rubbish out of this bay, I used the last of the timber we salvaged from a monster packing crate to make a platform a few inches off the ground. The off-cut from this platform forms a removable cover to protect the wood from worst of the rain. So, as long as we have wood, we should have no trouble getting a fire going.

Having rebuilt the woodpile, I then added to it everything else I could lay my hands on that needed sawing up. Here is the end result.

BTW: I had a nasty surprise while digging in this patch of dirt: a piece of timber that was riddled with very-much-alive, wriggling termites! None of the other timber I found in this spot contained any termites, but I emptied an entire can of Mortein onto the wood and the ground beneath it, and then drowned the wood in a bucket of turps! Just to be sure to be sure.

Lost Guttering of the 70s*

[*as in "Lost City of the Incas"]

Last week-ish we excavated this original stone guttering from beneath six inches of muck (I mean, very rich soil).

And on Friday the Weather Channel tested it for us.**

In the interim I cleaned up most of the tree limbs that scattered the place, and constructed a woodpile, with a roof to keep the twigs dry. (Which, as you can see, worked a treat.)

Because the rain came down so hard and for so long the house leaked. We had water coming through the ceiling in the laundry, and around the window-frames in the lounge-room (a lot) and bedroom (a little). We also had a sick puppy who we couldn't put out in case he was washed away in the flood. (He got wet enough watching us clear gutters, sweep away rising flood-waters etc etc.) By the time we had finished cleaning up the mess both Ted and the storm had made the house was wet all over.

The only way to dry out the house was to fire up the Coonara (wood heater) and burn through about half of the wood in the second picture. After two days everything was dry: the carpet, our sodden clothes and the dozen soaked towels. And Ted is feeling much better!

**Clearly, the Weather Channel are behind the outrageous weather, they are creating floods and cyclones as a ratings ploy. If you'd seen The Avengers (1998) you'd know what I am on about. (I keep having images flash through my mind of Sean Connery as Sir Augustus de Wynter stomping through the halls of Westminster declaiming to the assembled world leaders "Now is the Winter of Your Discontent" and "You will buy your weather from me! And by God you’ll pay for it!" Much more pleasant than images of Sean Connery as Zed in Zardoz (1974) flashing through your mind.)