An allotment past its priime

With visions of yours truly in the role of Miss Marple floating before my eyes, I peered between the overgrown hedges into a tired, and very blousy allotment. Here in the land downunder, we don't call them an allotment, but a community garden. Not that this was either, actually. It is just that the block of land slopes so terribly that the backgarden is level with the roof of the house below. And, you know what they say: 'out of sight is out of mind'. This though is perfect for a joint garden between neighbours, except for that ownership thing that we have in this country for real-estate. And heaven help anyone who sets a toe across a neighbour's boundary. Shame that the communal ownership of our indigenous citizens is not more popular. This had a great pumpkin vine among the weeds. And an orange tree heavy with fruit. A lemon likewise. Plus two lime trees similarly weighed down. Do you know that I bought six lemons this afternoon, and each lemon cost me 98c.

Turret Reserve - lovelier the second time around

The first time, entering from The Parapet, and heading towards the Turret Reserve, I was confronted by a wizening of the pathway, and felt uncomfortable, an intruder upon the privacy of others. But Castlecrag is not like that: it is riddled with walkways between, and behind, private property. Well-used walkways at that. After consulting my map, I realised that this particular laneway could also be entered from The Postern. So I set my compass, took a deep breath, and toddled off, poking my stick here-and-there to ensure a secure footing.

As I toddled, a sense of the struggle of the Australian environment was with me, cloaking my shoulders with bougainvillea and banksia from one side, and camellia and azalea from the other. This was no goat-track off into the bush, no bush-bashing required whatsoever. One almost expected a stile and hedgerow around each curve.

From The Postern, Turret Reserve was easier to locate.

I did walk down those steps, and out onto the flat rocked 'turret', watching my footing all the way. I looked out and down, and the drop was substantial, down to Warner's old dairy, now occupied by bowling clubs and playgrounds, out and across to the TCN9 transmission tower in Artarmon. The view and the muffled sounds were a delight. Would that my balance had permitted me to stay longer out there AND TAKE PHOTOGRAPHS.