On Monday afternoon, only a day after getting our new lowline Angus cattle, Billy and Bob (not real names), we came back from appointments in town to a farmer's worst nightmare. Our prize cattle had gone!

We thought perhaps they were lying undetected in the long grass, but no, the grass relinquished no sign of them ... They had completely vanished! And apart from a slight depression in the wire net fence (a possible point of escape), there were no clues of their whereabouts. None of the tell-tale signs of trampled grass or ravaged plants or trees.

Mysterious ...

Was this the work of some dastardly cattle rustler, monitoring our every movement for their opportunity to carry out their fiendish deed?

We hoped not, but our sense of foreboding was growing every moment, as we continued our search.

We split up so we could cover more ground: I went around to the front of the house to search for them in the paddocks there. Feeling resigned to their loss, I turned the corner to find ...

... them lying in a very relaxed fashion on our front deck. Clearly they had found the paddock too hot and not to their taste, and had sought out more shady environs, which happened to be our deck. Eminently sensible, really.

We got the message. They were promptly relocated to a paddock with the girls (sheep that is) where there is plenty of shade offered by the poplars.

On a farm (even just a pretend one like ours), there are always arrival and departures (see Sheep Diaries: The day has come).

But Sunday was a particularly auspicious one in this respect. It saw the arrival of two Lowline Angus steers (boys with their bits removed), in a sophisticated shade of brown, with a hint of burgundy. They came from Dannevirke, bought from a bit of character named Bear.

We awaited their arrival with anticipation, but were not prepared for the cuteness on the trailer. I know, I know ... farm animals are not supposed to be cute. But just look at these little fellas!

Of course, like all farm animals they have a purpose. They will follow the sheep around and deal with the longer grass that the sheep leave behind. And also ...

At last the time has come to say goodbye to our boys: the boys born this spring (see Sheep Diaries: Our first lambs). They were weaned a couple of weeks back, which led to a cacophony of baa-ing between the mums' paddock and the lambs' paddock. This only lasted a day or two, though fortunately.

When we advertised them, we had inquiries as far afield as Tauranga and Hamilton, Wiltshires (and especially black ones) are in such hot demand, particularly among lifestylers.

But it is sad to see them go. This was the first of the boys to go. The Husband didn't want him to feel anxious all by himself in the pen awaiting pick-up, so sat with him until his new owners arrived from Otaki to get him.

Bye young fella - go well!

It is very affirming to read Shaun Barnett's review of "Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics" in this month's Backcountry Magazine, particularly given that Shaun himself is such a talented and well-respected writer of NZ non-fiction.

His review concludes:

"Knight writes succinctly, clearly and convincingly. Few books pack as much punch in as little as 272 pages. Good photographs, endnotes, a bibliography and index complement the text. Beyond Manapouri is an important, highly readable and hard-hitting book that deserves to be in the library of every New Zealander concerned about our environment."

Read full review below:

As you may have seen from an earlier post The connection between nature & wellbeing, I am interested in exploring the connection between nature and wellbeing as the subject of my next book. In that earlier post, I asked for help finding existing literature on the topic, particularly in the New Zealand context. And I got some super-helpful responses, so thank you so much to everyone who responded!

The great news is that I have now secured funding for the research component of the project, which is very exciting!

So if anyone has any ideas for case studies for the book, please be in touch.

These can be anywhere in New Zealand, individual or group, private property or reserve/public land, where the project or activity has had unanticipated (or perhaps anticipated) benefits for the wellbeing (mental, spiritual, physical) for those involved, and perhaps also the wider community. I am particularly interested in stories in urban areas, involving people who might not necessarily be able to access our regional and national park network for tramping and other recreation – whether due to age, illness, lack of income or leisure time, etc.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Rarely can I say that I was ahead of my time, but when it comes to single-use plastic bags, it may be a fair claim. Fifteen years ago, in late 2002/early 2003, I led a campaign to call on the government to ban single-use plastic bags, particularly in supermarkets - my only claim to 'activism' in my life (though of a fairly mild variety, admittedly). Oh, apart from an anti-nuclear march I organised on Hiroshima Day in the mid-1980s, while I was still at high school.

The campaign got a fair reception, with TV3 news picking it up as a news story - though to be fair, probably only because it was the 'slow news' period over Christmas/New Year and they were a bit desparate! But as their interviews with your average on-the-street shoppers demonstrate, there were plenty of people who were unconvinced. Convenience still trumped environmental concerns, though these were well-known even then, as I outline in the interview.

For a long time, the bureacratic response to the call for a ban on plastic bags was that 'plastic bags only comprise [pick a vanishingly small percentage figure] of the total waste stream in New Zealand'. Of course, you could say this for every category of waste in the waste stream. Yet, cumulatively each of these proportions makes up 100%, It is like the police saying we are not going to make any effort to combat X crime because it only makes up X percentage of total crime.

So it is with mixed feelings I hear that Associate Minister for the Environment, Eugenie Sage, has just announced that the government will implement a ban of all single-use plastic bags within six months. This is great news, but of course, only one small step in the monumental challenge posed by the proliferation of plastic in the environment (anyone who remains unconvinced may wish to read this article about the sperm whale found dead having ingested 6 kg of plastic, including 115 drinking cups, four plastic bottles, 25 plastic bags and two jandals). On the other hand, it is saddening it took 15+ years for any action to be taken. But unfortunately, as our environmental history has proven time and again, 'good things' take time.

[Above: A much younger me. Screen saves from the TV3 news clip that played on the 6 o'clock news on 2 January 2003.]

During dinner a week or so ago, we noticed a couple of spur-winged plovers in hot pursuit of a swamp harrier; we were alerted to the aerial combat by the plovers' characteristic high-pitched screeching. The swamp harrier eventually made a dignified and unhurried exit and was not seen again.

We thought nothing more of it, but later Husband and son were out in the paddock moving the sheep when they looked down in the grass and found the source of the birds' assertive behaviour: a nest (well, a slightly hollowed out bit of grass really) with three speckled eggs in it. They had been defending their babies.

Unfortunately, the paddock in which the parents-to-be had set up their nursery was the one into which the boys had just moved the sheep. Proper farmers would have just left it to nature to battle it out. But not us. Off went the boys to get the moveable pen fencing, carefully placing it around the nest to protect it from marauding lambs.

The Husband returned to the house feeling satisfied that he had demonstrated magnanimity towards our fellow living creatures - even if, strictly speaking, they are Australian (though have been here for a long time).

However, two problems soon became apparent:

1. The lambs (now quite large and boisterous - see Sheep Diaries series), took the erection of this curious new structure as something done entirely for their enjoyment, and congregated around it, like teenagers around a mall, playing tag around its circumference, and cat and mouse with the now somewhat agitated birds.

but also

2. The birds couldn't work out how to get in. (Despite having wings.)

So Husband duely went out and made an opening in the fence, tying it with rope so that (theoretically at least) the birds could get in, but not a rambunctious lamb.

But spur-winged plovers don't do 'openings'.

... So, the Husband went out and moved the sheep.

We were somewhat dubious about whether all this effort would be worth it.

But a few days later, a crack began to appear in one of the eggs, and then another. Two chicks eventually emerged (we are still waiting on the third egg to hatch).

And I think you have to agree, spur-winged plover chicks are pretty cute. (Not so much their parents ... )

Looking forward to this event this Thursday November 1, as part of Local History Week 2018.

I will be taking the audience on a journey of discovery of the Manawatu’s past through the photographs of C.E. Wildbore and others. The event also marks the launch of Totara Press’s beautiful new (French-flapped) edition of Ravaged Beauty: An environmental history.

Wildbore: A photographic legacy will also be for sale at the event.

See event details here

I have mused before on seasonal change, especially as an opportunity to contemplate nature, beauty and life (see for example, The influence of seasons on culture and More about seasonal change). The Japanese are very good at this. Each season is marked by a traditional festival - in spring for instance, there is hanami (cherry blossom viewing), and in autumn there is momiji.

In our newly-established garden in the country this spring, we do not have anything quite as spectacular as avenues of blossoming cherry trees (nor the crowds of sake-guzzling festival-goers, thankfully). But we did have a lovely crop of violet and yellow irises, which brought a little bit of joy and satisfaction each time I walked passed them to my little studio.

I am excited to have been able to make a contribution to this important new book. Out any day now!

These are two of the many "nature prescriptions" that doctors in Shetland, Scotland can prescribe to their patients as of October. Below are sample prescriptions for April, from the prescription calendar produced by NHS Shetland.

As this article notes, the evidence for the benefits of nature on mental and physical health are numerous. For instance, researchers have found that spending one and half hours in a forested area will make the part of our brains associated with depression less active. Spending time in nature not only reduces blood pressure, anxiety, and increases happiness, but it also reduces aggression and ADHD symptoms and improves pain control and the immune system.

I really like the idea of a nature prescription calendar adapted to New Zealand's seasons and landscapes - anyone keen?

See also: The connection between wellbeing and nature

... you might be pleased (at least, if you are an amateur like me) to take a half-decent photograph - one that goes some way to convey the pleasure of being in such a beautiful place.

This is Totara Reserve, in the Pohangina Valley. The last reasonable-sized remnant of lowland forest in the Manawatu. I wanted to take a photograph of the reserve for my upcoming talk Exploring Manawatu's environmental past through photographs, which is part of Local History Week.

The talk will draw on the new edition of Ravaged Beauty: An environmental history of the Manawatu, and the newly released both published by Totara Press.

I see that a focus of this year’s Mental Health Awareness week was ‘Letting nature in’, encouraging New Zealanders to get out and connect with nature, in light of its proven benefits for mental and spiritual wellbeing. (A survey undertaken by the Mental Health Foundation last year found that 95 per cent of New Zealanders reported a lift in mood after spending time in nature.)

This must be serendipity at work: something has been pulling me towards this theme as the potential subject of a future book for some time now … you can see the trail that has led me here in recent posts (Subterranean adventures, Trees as sacred: What we can learn from tonari no totoro and Discovering our own sacred groves). And my last book purchase was Florence Williams’ “Nature Fix”, which explores, among other things, the benefits of shinrinyoku (forest-bathing) – a sort of mindfulness undertaken within nature, a practice which originated in the 1980s in Japan.

What I am interested in finding out is has anyone done any research (e.g., Masters, Doctoral theses) on this subject in the New Zealand context? (I have found this 2015 DOC commissioned report that includes some discussion.) Or is there anyone with particular expertise or experience in this field?

If you have some tips, please be in touch via the contact form or directly via email. Thank you!

adjective Also sub·ter·ra·ne·ous.

existing, situated, or operating below the surface of the earth; underground.existing or operating out of sight or secretly; hidden or secret.

So, these adventures are not really 'subterranean' in the first sense - I am using a degree of poetic license – more in the second. They are adventures in our gully.

Do other countries have 'gullies'? - I am not sure. The dictionary tells me they are also known as 'small valleys' and 'ravines'. 'Valley', even of the diminutive kind, seems a bit too bucoIic to me, while 'ravine' sounds way too treacherous (though in fairness, some gullies are pretty precipitous).

In New Zealand, and especially the North Island where we live, the country is dissected by gullies running from the foothills of mountains and mountain chains, created by water running from these watersheds. Sometimes the streams that have created them are ephemeral - they dry up completely over the summer months. And often the gully dwarfs the skinny little waterway that runs down the bottom - hinting at more water-abundant times, perhaps after a previous ice age, when icesheets melted away, disgorging their contents as trickles that eventually became rock-gouging torrents.

Gullies, by their damp and recessed nature, often escaped the worst ravages of the European settlers' forest clearance through fire and milling. Even if damaged, their unworkable terrain means they are more likely to have restored some of their tree cover, becoming oases of indigenous nature in an otherwise homogenous pastoral landscape. Even so, many gullies became convenient dumping grounds for farmers and householders alike, of old farming equipment, sheep and cattle carcasses, tyres, and general household rubbish. But many landowners today have come to value and protect gullies as important vestiges of indigenous nature and ecosystems of the lowlands and hill country.

Of course, the key challenge a gully presents to anyone lucky enough to have access to one, is how to get down it, with only a small chance of permanently maiming yourself. This becomes particularly important if you have youngsters. In our case, a series of footholds dug with a spade, ropes knotted at intervals, and a 2 1/2-metre high ladder did the trick.

And what an exciting world it has opened up for us. A discovery around every bend, on every fern and moss-covered gully-face, in every gully wall cavity. We now know where the kingfishers nest (in cliff-face burrows) and the kereru brings up her babies (high in a rewarewa tree). This is an entirely different ecosystem from the one we know up above - it is damp, cool, dark and largely windless - even on the windiest day. It is one that rewards the tenacious (trees that can grow sideways) and the moisture-loving.

It also makes you think very differently about how Aotearoa's first explorers traveled the country. Where dense forest made travel difficult (i.e., pretty much everywhere), these little gullies, with stoney streambeds largely free of vegetation, would have offerred a convenient means of traversing terrain.

In this sense then, these gullies, which converge and diverge in a vast network, similar to veins in a body or an (admittedly haphazard) roading system, are 'subterranean' - a secret world, for those of us lucky enough to explore them.

Following on from my previous post about the dimunition of free and frank advice in the public sector performance (Are we well-served by the public sector?) This post explores another theme that came up in the recent panel discussion hosted by the Institute of Governance and Policy Studies - the value placed on expertise in the public sector.

One attendee asked the salient question: 'Does something need to be done to retain expertise in the public sector?', making reference to the ongoing debacle over Wellington buses. I would reframe that question slightly, at least as it relates to the environmental policy, to the following:

'Does something need to be done to re-establish expertise in the public sector?'

I will draw on both first-hand experience and historic context to explain my emphasis. First the first-hand experience. I have witnessed not simply the neglect or the undervaluing of expertise and institutional knowledge, but the outright rejection of it. This manifested itself in one instance in a major restructure of a Ministry, the result of which many of the more senior (and more experienced) officials were given redundancy or 'encouraged' to move on to roles elsewhere. (I suspect that this was driven by budgetry considerations - their salaries would have been at the higher end of the range - but I cannot know for sure.) Then a few years later, the same Ministry made it very explicit (ie it was in every job description for prospective applicants) that the following qualifications were most desired for anyone applying to be a senior policy analyst: economics, law, and public policy (in that order, it seemed clear). For avoidance of doubt, these were for roles developing and evaluating environmental policy. Those with resource management or environmental science qualifications were tolerated but were not on the 'desirables' list, nor was anyone with a background in environmental planning or similar. Apparently, these type of individuals are too 'boxed in' in their thinking and cannot do the 'blue skies' or 'first principles' thinking that was in vogue at the time (perhaps still is?). The 'generalist' was in, the 'subject-matter expert' was decidedly out. (Part of me wonders too, is this in fact directly related to the increasingly prevalent desire of senior officials to give ministers the advice they want? In other words, are generalists with no direct experience of the policy area more readily malleable?) Numerous experienced analysts with the 'wrong' credentials left feeling that they had no future at the Ministry.

Of course, not long after this change in recruitment and promotion focus (which led to an exodus of those with environmental management experience), the government decided that a major reform of the Resource Management Act was due, and well, a few people with some understanding of planning and the legislative framework might be handy ... But no worries! This expertise could all be contracted back in as consultants!

As for institutional knowledge, at an average tenure of 3 years and 3 months (when I was there anyway, this may have changed), it is quite hard to build this up, especially if you have spent the first year or two 'learning the ropes' as someone with no previous knowledge of environmental policy, planning or its implementation in the real world.

So these examples provide some context around this question from my own experiences (and I suspect, of many others) of the public sector, but in fact the devaluation of expertise and institutional knowledge goes back a lot further than this - to the 1980s' reforms of the public sector. Many of you will know where I am going with this... but I will return to this aspect in a subsequent blog.

Forget about what Pixie thinks, Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics in New Zealand has been short-listed for the New Zealand Heritage Book Awards, alongside such intellectual heavyweights as Dame Ann Salmond.

Earlier this week, I was privileged to be invited to participate on a panel discussing proposed changes to the State Sector Act, hosted by the Institute of Goverance and Policy Studies ... "Yawn!" I hear you utter ... Yes, it true - this does sound very dry, but in fact the proper functioning of the public service is critical to a properly functioning democracy. I discuss the implications of a public service that is not functioning as well as it should for environmental outcomes in my book Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics in New Zealand.

Justifiably, much of the discussion focused on free and frank advise, including my own presentation. (Also see Simon Chapple's thought-provoking article on this topic: Reviving the spineless public service.) But it feels to me like this only captures the tip of the iceberg. After the talk I had the opportunity to talk with a former colleague of mine at the government department I worked at as a policy analyst for nearly 10 years. This person told me how they had been working on a strategic 'scanning' document seeking to identify issues that New Zealand will face in the future. The work they had been tasked with sounded astoundingly similiar to a piece of work I had been tasked with only a year or so before in another division of the same department. And guess what, this person was completely unaware of the work I had done, as I suspect were the managers that assigned it to them.

Why were they unaware of the piece of work I had done? Because after everyone read it and nodded 'yes, very important and we need to do something with this', it joined countless other documents languishing in the bloated archives, never to be seen again.

Even more depressingly (sorry about this), many officials* know, even when they are in the midst of such work, that it will go nowhere - rather like a rat in a wheel. And quite often it doesn't deserve to. Often the questions being asked are the wrong ones, and the 'issues' being examined are not priorities. Why are they being looked at then?, I hear you ask. Because they are uncontroversial, comfortably abstract or intellectual, do not challenge the ideologies of the day or align well with the objectives of the government of the day (so ).

Sadly, this is not a rare occurrence. Far from it in fact. Though I admit, I haven't seen any hard stats on this, I would hazard a guess that the majority of work that policy analysts like my former self and my colleague work on in government departments ends up going nowhere, achieving nothing. Moreover, a vanishingly small proportion of the 'stuff' officials work on ends up having positive outcomes in the real world. (Reflecting this reality, policy-oriented departments often measure their success by counting how many briefing notes, cabinet papers etc made it to their Minister this week, month etc, rather than asking 'what positive outcomes did our work have in the real world this month, year?')

So my question is, is this good enough? Well, my answer would be a resounding 'No'. Quite apart from it wasting a collosal amount of resources and money (taxpayer money, I should add), but also, for every 'go nowhere' project an official works on (only for another offical to repeat the entire exercise a year or so later, oblivious to the earlier work), there are numerous urgent issues our country is facing that are not getting the attention and resources they need.

* I should emphasise I am talking mainly about public servants who do policy here - not the ones that do front-line work (though I am sure they have plenty of stories to tell about misdirected resources too!)

In my last post, I shared the astounding revelation that sheep are good at maths.

But we now have irrefutable evidence that they also appreciate the arts. The evidence is manifest in this photograph: it is of my daughter dancing and singing to the sheep one balmy evening (the moves were Michael Jackson-esque (with some flossing in there too, obviously), while the song was a catchy number, perhaps Imagine Dragons...?)

Anyway, the performance lasted about 20 minutes, and there was no sign whatsoever of attention flagging. The sheep were entranced, the lambs diverting their attention only to bounce in an exuberant manner (we suspect their way of showing their appreciation for the performance).

Interestingly, there is a strong connection between music and mathematics - coincidence?

On Tuesday 25th September we had our last lambs. The last of the floppy-eared three had twins: one black and one white. This followed the second of the floppy-eared three having two white twins on the 19th. All are healthy with no assistance required from us. (Our colostrum went back in the freezer for next year.)

But these last births also led to an astounding revelation: in all their various configurations, singletons, twins, triplets, all variously hued, we ended up with exactly equal numbers of black and white lambs – seven black and seven white.

This is clear evidence that sheep are not only more intelligent than we often give them credit for, but they are also good at maths (well, at least counting). It puts the phrase 'counting sheep' in an entirely new light!

We had come to the conclusion that lambs would either be born all black or all white, and in an alternate sequence, as it turns out. (The last lot after black triplets Pinch, Punch and Munf were Bunny and Hop, both white, seen here on their first day, making the overall sequence - black triplets-white singleton-black triplets-white twins.) So next, we were due for black twins (+/- 1).

But, it turns out things are not so black and white after all. Well actually, they are black and white. What we got around 9pm on Sunday 16th September to one of the Floppy 3 was twins - one white and one black. I was alerted to the fact that we had some new arrivals by the distinctive noise that sheep mums make to their newborns. A kind of soft, stacatto baa, not unlike a purr, actually. The Floppy Three ('floppy' for their distinctively floppy ears) came from a block just outside Palmerston North and were born in the spring of 2017. We had heard stories that one-year-old ewes don't tend to make good mums, but that certainly has not turned out to be the case so far with these young ladies. In fact of all the mums, this one has turned out to be the most communicative, purring to her babies throughout the first few days of their lives.

With reference to that classic Michael Jackson song, we have called her lambs Mikey and Jay (not sure whether they are girls or boys yet, but names these days are pretty gender-ambiguous anyhow).

And while we are on the subject of names, Bunny and Hop were named for their resemblance to small rabbits, their ears long in proportion to their small bodies. They were born to the last of the Pohangina 3, who has also proved to be a great mum.

A picture of Bliss. Mum snoozing in the afternoon sun with Pinch and Punch (or maybe Punch and Munf, or Munf and Pinch ...?)

The birth of the first two sets of lambs had happened when we were out, and we were starting to think that the sheep had some kind of secret agreement only to have lambs when we weren't at home. But on the first day of spring, we were in for a pleasant surprise. It was a beautiful day and the family, including aunty and grandad were congregated on the deck playing catch with a bean-bag (a small one, rather than the type you sit on).

One of the Pohangina Three looked like she was imminent, and sure enough, at around 4pm, the action started. She had one lamb (black), which she licked vigorously and nudged onto its feet. About half an hour later came another one, also black. Splendid, we thought - a set of black twins! In honour of it being the first of the month (and the first day of spring), we decided to call them "Pinch" and "Punch" and got on with eating our bbq dinner.

Except that... about 45 minutes after Punch was born, another shiny black shape appeared on the grass - just a ripple of movement, like a piece of kelp being tossed around by the tide.

A review of our nomenclature was necessary ... so the three became "Pinch", "Punch" and ... "Munf".*

All that was left was to monitor the situation to ensure that they all got that first vital feed of colostrum in the first hour of their life. Like anxious parents, the Husband and I were out with our head torches, watching furtively from a distance checking that all the lambs had found the teat (this can take an excrutiatingly long time at times). At last, they all seemed to find the magic organ (and the right place to suck on it).

Sheep have only two udders so only two lambs can feed at a time. A weaker lamb tends to miss out and this can have fatal consequences, as we saw with Fatty's triplets. For this reason, some sheep farmers (I suspect a minority) have a policy of taking away and hand-rearing the third triplet. But Pinch, Punch and Munf have thrived, and mum, one of the "Pohangina Three", like Bounce's mum, has proved to be an excellent mother.

* "Pinch and a punch for the first of the month" is a saying in Britain, Ireland, Australia and New Zealand. Said on the first day of a new month, while pinching and punching someone as a prank (especially by children). The victim may respond with "a flick and a kick for being so quick!" and the original attacker may reply with "a punch in the eye, for being so sly".

Next, it was the turn of one of the 'Pohangina Three' (two of whom lost lambs to pneumonia last year [see: Sheep Diaries - the backstory). On 29 August, four days after Fatty gave birth to her triplets, a little white lamb emerged.

Which gives rise to the question, of course, why?

Our ram is a black Wiltshire from Tokomaru (progeny of the black Wiltshires bred at Blackshire Farm in Bunnythorpe). His name, for the record, is 'Blacky'. I was half-expecting that we would get black lambs with bits of white (which we have, but only small bits), or white lambs with bits of black. But the white lambs are just ... white. And given a white mother and a black father, what determines whether a lamb comes out white or black? Genes I guess. We will be tagging our sheep so that we can compare from year to year - whether certain ewes only ever have white lambs and whether others only ever have black ones.

Anyway, the difference between this lamb, being a singleton, and the triplets was immediately evident. This little one was bouncing within 24 hours of his birth. Bouncing suggests a lamb is not only getting enough nutrients from mum's milk to support a growing body, but also a bit extra, useful for, well ... bouncing. In comparison, it took a good three days for Jet and Patch to bounce.

The bouncing also indicated that Bounce's mum was doing a good job, she was a very attentive mother who was meeting all her baby's needs. This was a relief given the double loss of lambs to the Pohangina Three last year. Suggesting too that that was likely the result of environmental factors rather than any failures on the ewes' part.

Last time I wrote [Sheep diaries - Our first lambs], the fate of Fatty and her triplets hung in the balance. We had intervened to save one lamb and successfully returned it to her. This felt like a triumph, given what we had heard about mothers rejecting lambs that had been handled by people. Her familiarity with us may have been a factor in her acceptance of the lamb, but it is hard to know.

Sadly, this success was tempered by the discovery of the lifeless body of the last - and smallest - of the triplets on the second morning.

And the danger of more fatalities was not over yet. Fatty was not well. She was lethargic, had no appetite and her front leg was obviously causing her pain. This meant that she was not getting up as much as she should have been to feed her lambs. It was time to call in the professionals! (Well, at least people who knew more about sheep than us.) A call to our farmer neighbours was in order. Within minutes of the call, Lyn was over with an array of sheep-reviving goodies.

We administered Ketol with a drench gun, which helps elevate blood glucose level and accelerates general metabolic function (apparently). Next, we gave her a shot of antibiotics to help with any infection at the "business end". And then there were her feet. We have not yet invested in clippers and so we were very grateful to get help with her pedicure. Next, came the copper sulphate footbath.

Fatty didn't enjoy any of this, but we felt vindicated when the next day we were seeing a visible improvement in her energy levels and mobility. Her remaining lambs, Jet (who had had a brief sojourn inside the house) and Patch (for his white patch on his head) seemed to be thriving.

Today when we go out with the tub of sheep biscuits, she comes running. She is again living up to her name.

It is a momentous day. Our son, Carter, has reached double figures! Carter was born 10 years ago at Wellington Hospital. At 4.3kg, he dwarfed the little babies in neonates where he had a short sojourn to deal with some fluid on the lungs. He remained in the 99th percentile for the remainder of his babyhood - obviously inheriting the tall gene that skipped his dad!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY young fella!

It was Saturday, and we had just come home from an afternoon of geocache-hiding in Rangitikei as part of our Wildbore series. Dusk was setting in, but when I looked out on the front paddock to see how the flock was, I could see that one ewe was by herself under the cover of some trees, and her attention was directed to something on the ground.

"I think we have lambs!" I cried, and all members of the family were directed to don their gumboots without delay for an expedition out to the paddock to investigate. And yes indeed, not one - but two - lambs, largely black, with little white tufts around the heads (I realise I need to explain this - will do so later). After satisfying ourselves that all was well, we headed back to the house, husband and I returning later to check on the ewe (whose name is "Fatty", owing to her generous proportions), only to find that she had since had another lamb - "triplets!" I exclaimed, excitedly, but rather redundantly.

The night had set in by now, and we were a little concerned that Fatty didn't seem to be getting up to feed the lambs as much as she should be. One lamb was lying on the ground, struggling only to lift his head when we approached. He was breathing in raspy, laboured breaths. It was clear that he hadn't had his vital first feed of collostrum. So, we decided to take him inside to feed him in front of the fire. Within minutes of his first bottle feed, he was like a new lamb, active and alert (and quite vocal during the night).

Morning came, and we decided to try to see if we could return him to his mum. She immediately accepted him, giving him a vigorous lick. With this, we made an important discovery - under certain circumstances, mother sheep will accept their babies back after they have been bottle-fed. All three lambs seemed to be doing ok now, but our concerns remained for Fatty. She only reluctantly got up (usually encouraged by us) and lacked energy. Uncharacteristically, she was not interested in the sheep nuts we took her. Nor was she talking to her lambs as most sheep mums do. In fact one of the two lambs that had remained with her overnight had wandered off through a fence and if it were not for husband's persistence would certainly have perished on the other side of the fence, unable to get back to mum.

Tune in for the next instalment of "The Sheep Diaries" to find out how Fatty and her lambs fare.

See also: The Sheep Diaries - the backstory

It is spring! And that means lambing season - an exciting time of us, as near-novices to sheep husbandry. To record our happenings, learnings and disappointments (hopefully not too many), I am starting a Sheep diaries series.

But first, let me fill in a bit of background. After moving to our Pohangina block in April last year [see Life changes], and taking a few months to set ourselves up, we decided that sheep were the way to go for us. We are on a river terrace, and our soils have a clay base, so get pretty claggy (technical term) after rain. And located as we are at the foot of the Ruahine Range, there is no shortage of rain either. Having had the neighbour's cattle on our land from time to time, we knew the land pugged quite badly and were keen to get it back into condition.

We thought sheep, being lighter on the land, were the answer. But they needed to fulfil two important conditions: they needed to be self-shedding and not be a breed susceptible to footrot. Our research suggested that Wiltshires were superior to Dorpers on this latter condition.

Knowing nothing about sheep husbandry we started off small, acquiring three one-year old ewes from over the other side of the valley in September. We had abundant grass and lots of shelter and the ewes settled in well. Unbeknownst to us, however, two of them were 'with lamb'. In early October, one ewe gave birth to a single lamb, white with black spots on her face and feet. She seemed a good size and healthy and started feeding in good time. We were absolutely stoked!

But as the next 24 hours wore on, she became more and more lethergic, flopped out listlessly on the grass. The ewe pawed at her to try to encourage her to get up. Eventually, after monitoring the situation for a few hours, I decided to intervene. I put her in front of the fire in a towel-lined box and attempted to feed her with some collustrum. She wouldn't feed. Her tongue was a dark purple colour and her eyes black. She didn't last through the night, and we buried her the next morning. (My son wrote an ode for the lamb - held in his hand in the photo below - which was buried with her.)

I was gutted about this. Our very first lamb and he had perished. I wished I'd had intervened earlier.

A few days later, it looked like we were getting a second chance. A second ewe had a baby - again white with black patches on his face and feet. A good size, healthy and feeding. This time I was watching anxiously, hour by hour. Then, several hours into his first day, I noticed the same symptoms setting in - extreme lethargy and floppyness. I brought him inside with me and tried to feed him but things just kept on going downhill. This time, even if he died, I wanted to know why. I put in the front seat of the and rushed down to the vets in Ashhurst.

I suspect it is not common for the vets to have someone burst through their doors, breathlessly, with a day-old lamb, but they were extremely good about it - very thorough and attentive. The diagnosis? The lamb had pneumonia, and was afflicted by septicemia (when bacteria enter the bloodstream) triggered by the illness (this was the reason for the dark purple tongue and dark eyes). The prognosis was not good, but the vet injected the lamb with antibiotics, and with electrolytes under the skin (to prevent dehydration). (For those wondering, no it is apparently not currently possible to vaccinate for pneumonia - the ewes had had their 5 in 1 vaccinations, and, what causes it? The causes seem wide and varied - bamboozingly so - I was none the wiser after fairly extensive research on the internet and talking to two lots of vets.) I took the wee thing home, not optimistic but at least glad that I had got to the bottom of the lambs' affliction.

The lamb survived several more hours, but by morning, he too was lifeless in his box. The sadness about the death of both lambs and my inability to intervene to save them lingered for weeks afterwards. We thought that maybe we would get another chance with the third ewe but that wasn't to be (maybe this was for the best).

So it was with great anticipation (excitement mixed with trepidation) that this day arrived, nearly one year later - 25 August 2018 - our first lambs.

The launch of "Wildbore: A photographic legacy" on Wednesday night was an amazing success, with over 80 people attending, including around 20 people from the wonderful Wildbore clan. Thank you all for coming along and making it such a successful and enjoyable event. Here are some photo highlights. More to come!

Question: What is the connection between these two images?

Auckland children drinking the free issue of a daily half pint of milk which was made to all New Zealand school children from 1937 to 1967. Photographed by an unknown photographer about 1939. Alexander Turnbull Library, ref: MNZ-2461-1/4-F

Man and three children (in a washtub) swimming in a river in the Northland region. Photograph taken between 1910 and 1940, probably by Arthur James Northwood. Alexander Turnbull Library, ref: 1/1-006230-G.

Answer: They both appear in New Zealand between the Wars, edited by Rachael Bell (Massey University Press, 2017), a collection of essays, edited by Rachael Bell, exploring New Zealand life during the interwar years. The first photograph illustrates the introduction by Rachael Bell, while the second is included in a chapter entitled "Modernising rivers: River 'improvement' efforts and hydroelectric power development" exploring efforts to 'tame' rivers during the interwar years and make them more 'useful' for human purposes. (Second answer: Yes, they both relate to fresh water.)

Sample pages and other information about New Zealand between the Wars can be found on the Massey University Press website.

“Reading this book will likely change your perception of the New Zealand environment. It is a must-read for all New Zealand landscape architects, planners, resource management lawyers and indeed all New Zealanders that want to achieve a better future for their children and their children’s children.”

This was the conclusion of Peter Kensington, planner and landscape architect in a recent review of Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics in New Zealand(Canterbury University Press).

Madi Kensington, aged 11 years old, also reviewed the book, and concluded:

“This book perfectly explains how New Zealand has changed its view on the environment many times over the past 50 years. In the early days, our environment was regarded as something our government didn’t need to worry about, but as the years wore on, things started getting more serious. Knight has explained these issues with perfectly-worded descriptions and given real examples, making for convincing reading.”

To read the full review go to the Landscape Architecture Aotearoa website.

Reflecting on what I learnt from researching the last 50 years of environmental policy and management in New Zealand, a question has arisen in my mind that is - I believe - a vitally important one, with strong relevance to the environmental challenges we face today. That is, in rejecting "top-down" town planning, as represented by the Town and Country Act 1977 and its predecessors, and embracing an environmental management regime that focused on minimising effects of activities once they happen, did the government abandon its legitimate mandate to shape a better future via environmental planning?

I don't think the answer to this is a resounding "yes": as enacted, the Resource Management Act 1991 did envisage that central government would have the role of setting high-level policy goals and standards for matters of national importance, but these were slow to eventuate. (The only national policy statement on a section 6 "matters of national importance" in the first two decades of the Act’s life was the New Zealand Coastal Policy Statement 2010, which was mandatory under the Act.) But, any form of national-level spatial or strategic planning was most definitely off the table in the "market-determines-optimal-use" era of the 1990s, thinking that continues to prevail even now.

Back in the 1980s, in its first report on New Zealand's environmental governance, the OECD gently chastised New Zealand for not doing any national-level planning to determine the best use of land and other natural resources (e.g., the best place to put plantation forests, that sort of thing). Subsequent OECD reports have repeatedly made the same criticism (though again, with impeccable diplomacy!)

So it is refreshing to read the first of three reports written by analysts at environmental think-tank EDS, which draws on extensive international experience. In the "International lessons" section of the report, Greg Severinsen and Raewyn Peart discuss the major themes that emerged as they travelled to various countries to gain insights from their experiences. A central theme relates to the role of planning in managing environmental outcomes. The authors point out that:

In many other countries planning is focused on proactively achieving positive community outcomes ... The RMA, which focuses on ‘effects-based’ management, has a focus on preventing or reducing public ‘bads’ (ie environmental degradation) rather than on increasing or creating public ‘goods’.

This means that the system by definition is reactive – waiting for a developer to propose something rather than being proactive in encouraging the type of development a community needs, and maximising the public goods which can be delivered by the development process. As a result, fewer public benefits are derived from development.

They conclude, that this points to the importance of reassessing the role of planning and planners in the system, and the "proper role" of the market.

For instance, under the RMA, land-use decisions have been regarded as decisions over "private goods" (private property), and therefore the basic principle has been that unless there is an explicit rule precluding the use of land in a certain way, then people have the right to use their land in whatever way they like. However, as we have come to recognise in recent years, land-use decisions by landowners can have consequences that are far-reaching, including housing affordability, long-term economic growth, environmental quality, social inequality and the mitigation of, and adaptation to, climate change. As we also know, decisions rarely consider these externalities (either positive or negative).

As the report points out: "Planning is now connected with much broader agendas such as the transition to a low carbon economy, reducing social-spatial inequality, and creating opportunities for economic growth and prosperity."

Is it time for the market to relinquish some of its defacto decision-making power, and for New Zealanders to regain control over the future of our country through proactive planning?

You can download the first two reports in the RM Reform Project series from the EDS website.

In a recent article published in George Washington University’s online journal History News Network, I argue that New Zealand may be on the cusp of a tipping point – not in the state of our environment, but rather, in terms of New Zealanders’ awareness of the gravity of environmental issues we face and the need to make meaningful interventions.

I conclude my article with the hope that a future historian will be able to reflect back on this period, and identify it as a watershed era in terms of environmental awareness and action – a ‘tipping point’ in environmental history, much like the Save Manapouri Campaign was half a century ago.

Do you agree? You can read the full article on the History News Network website.

In 1977, an entire school house moved from its existing location on a country road in the shadow of the Ruahine Range in the Manawatu to the main street of Palmerston North City, nearly 30 kilometres away. To be fair, it was just a one-room school house, one of just over 40 square metres. The school was built in 1902, to take pupils within a 10-mile radius, who travelled to school by foot or pony. When it opened, it had a roll of 20, and by 1907, the number had increased to 32. Many of the early teachers were young and inexperienced. One teacher was only 16 years old, just two years older than the oldest pupil. As transport improved and numbers of children in the area declined, the roll dwindled and had reached single figures by the 1970s.

In 1972, it was closed, when it was almagamated with Komako School on the Awahou North School site as Awahou School (which is still operating today with a roll of 40-plus students). In 1977, the school house was moved to the Manawatu Museum location as a typical example of one-room country school, where it remains today.

It has a high stud and steep roof, a fireplace, a porch in which children hung their coats, and windows so high that inattentive children could not gaze out. The classroom was tiered with the primer children sitting at the front. Behind the school there were outbuildings and a shelter shed in which the children could eat their lunch and play in wet weather. The horse paddock occupied one side of the grounds (and still does!)

Today the site is marked only by a World War One memorial, where the community holds Anzac commerations most years.

There is a geocache hidden near this site, one of a series celebrating the life and photography of Charles E. Wildbore.

Never tried geocaching? You can join for free at www.geocaching.com – it is a great way to spend some time on a weekend, with kids or without! To find the coordinates and other information about this geocache on the site, click on “Filter” and search for “Wildbore 1”.

Wildbore: A photographic legacy (Totara Press) will be available in July 2018.

Sources:New Zealand Museums website and Awahou South School information sheet, Palmerston North Archives.

This post was originally published on envirohistory NZ

Earlier this month, the Minister for the Environment David Parker made an address to the Forest & Bird annual conference entitled

"A vision to restore the environment". I was delighted to see he made reference to my book Beyond Manapouri, and how history helps us put events today into context. Here is an excerpt of his speech, which can be read in full on the Beehive website:

Last week I had the privilege of speaking at the launch of Catherine Knight’s new book Beyond Manapouri – 50 years of environmental politics in New Zealand. In her book she said the ‘expansion and intensification of dairy farming in recent decades has created impacts on the environment on a scale unlikely to have been foreseen by dairy farming proponents, or even by environmentalists, when its growth began in the 1970s.’ I agree.

Catherine also referred to the Manapouri story. Sir Alan Mark – one of your most esteemed members – reminded me recently that it took from 1959 to 1972 to save Manapouri. After 13 years of civil society activism, the issue was fought and won by Labour in the 1972 election. Manapouri was saved. Norman Kirk made good on his election promise. Sir Alan Mark was even then a loyal member of Forest & Bird and has been ever since, and of the New Zealand Labour Party as well.

While as Catherine Knight said, the rate of change in the intensity of dairying took most by surprise, by 2004 councils, politicians and NGOs knew better. That is because Parliamentary Commissioner for the Environment Morgan Williams, in his report Growing for Good, nailed the problem we had with nutrient load, especially nitrogen.Thirteen years later – as with Manapouri – the political battle was settled by a general election. We now have to implement the changes that are needed to fix the problem. We don’t need to debate the existence of the problem.

Another similarity should be noted, Catherine pointed out that one of the leaders in the campaign to save Manapouri was local farmer Ron McLean. We now have leaders in

agriculture stepping up to the mark to help. Some are local farmers, leading by example

with sustainable land use practices. Others are farm leaders, and this is new. If I could name two: Andrew Morrison, Chair of Beef and Lamb, and Jim van der Poel, Chair of DairyNZ. We also have Theo Spierings from Fonterra leading some important examples. We have many regional councils increasingly concerned to show progress.

I couldn't have hoped for a more successful launch of Beyond Manapouri last week at Vic Books, Wellington. Thank you to all who came along - many from far afield. Minister for the Environment David Parker gave a cracker of a speech, with a few laughs in there as well (as evidenced by the photographs!). Photos by Dave Kelly.

Has New Zealand failed its environment? is the question asked by Jamie Morton, Science Reporter at the New Zealand Herald, in his piece published yesterday about Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics in New Zealand (Canterbury University Press) [read article here].

In his interview, one of the questions Jamie asked me was:

'Looking into the near future, what do you think will be the big issues of contention? Is there anything on the horizon that might prove New Zealand's next Manapouri?'

My answer to this is: I don't think we are ever going to have any issue like Manapouri again – this was a campaign for an iconic landscape, and it was a very black and white, David and Goliath scenario - the little guy against the state, which had all the resources and all the information back then.

Today environmental issues tend to be a lot more complex, and less tangibly identifiable – for example, difficult to put on a postcard.

But I would say that the surge of concern around fresh water, which we saw in the final couple of years of the last government, was potentially as close as we might get.

It got lots of New Zealanders from all walks of life talking about rivers and lakes and being able to swim in them, the idea of this being "their birth right".

And it was this upsurge in concern that led to the U-turn in government policy.

The then-Minister for the Environment, Nick Smith, went from insisting that making New Zealand's rivers and lakes swimmable was economically unviable, to coming out with a policy to make all rivers and lakes "swimmable" by 2040.

In terms of issues of contention, I think we are seeing them already.

These are the issues that are characterised by the tension between private gain and public cost; that is, the exploitation, or degradation, of the environment for private profit, while the cost of a despoiled environment and its remediation is assumed by the public, through reduced enjoyment or benefits from the environment, including impacts on health, and through our taxes.

I think the recognition that this distribution of benefits and costs is fundamentally wrong and unfair is starting to dawn on us as New Zealanders.

Has New Zealand failed the environment? (New Zealand Herald)

Earlier this year it was revealed that New Zealand has become one of the worst in the world for the generation of waste. This is according to World Bank data, which ranks NZ has tenth worst of all countries surveyed for the generation of urban waster per capita (see map above).

Each of us create about 734kg of waste each per year - that is 2 kilograms exactly every day. And mystifyingly, the amount of waste New Zealanders generate has increased by around 20 percent over the past three years. Until now, the panacea was seen as recycling. It was ok to consume lots of stuff and not really think deeply about our consumption because we can just ship it all to China to be turned into car seats and polypropylene thermal underwear (in fact, we were doing the world a favour!). But China has now told us they don't want all our plastic waste and many local recycling centres are now faced with ever-expanding stockpiles of plastic and other material that they can do nothing with (see below: crushed plastic bottles at the Timaru recycling centre).

Some commentators are pointing the finger at the Waste Minimisation Act, which I myself was involved in when I first started working as a naively optimistic official at the Ministry for the Environment. And I think undoubtedly there have been issues with the Act's implementation - primarily because the government was too reluctant to regulate - to force industry to reduce waste. Instead implementation relied heavily on voluntary, industry-led stewardship schemes - which still soaked up years of officials' time and government resources to cajole to fruition, but (as we now know) have proven ineffective in cutting waste - in fact the problem has got much worse, as the statistics show.

But it is too easy simply to blame industry and government for what has been labelled 'New Zealand's shame' (inaccurately, I feel, because if it was truly a source of shame, we would have done something about it). The responsibility also firmly rests with us - consumers. In recent years there has been a move to what can only be described as unthinking, gratuitous wastefulness by New Zealand consumers, and this worrying trend cannot be epitomised any better than by the kids' party bag. This is a bag (generally plastic) given to kids when they leave a birthday party, containing - in addition to the sweets and the mandatory balloon - a range of small plastic toys that have a tendency to get lost or broken within 24 hours of the bag's transfer into the sticky clutches of the expectant, sugar-filled child (in the case of really annoying toys, such as ones that make irritating noises, there can be a degree of human intervention in their being 'lost').

It seems this new 'custom' was introduced from overseas - the United Kingdom or United States. But what drives me to despair is how even the smartest of parents have felt railroaded into buying into this wasteful habit, which is not only the gratuitous and senseless consumerism that we are supposed to be moving away from, but also teaches kids a number of unhelpful lessons: that cheap plastic toys are a legitimate part of our lives, that having things is not about 'need' but about 'want' (the very basis of consumerism', of course), and, an innate sense of entitlement (just what every child needs more of!). Even if we are not turning our kids into rampant, unsatiable consumers, at the very least, we will be leaving them confused. On the one hand, their teachers at school and kindy are telling them that we should stop using plastic bags because they choke turtles and strangle dolphins, but on the other it is ok to buy - not just for yourself but for all your friends - disposable plastic junk.

In Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics in New Zealand, I trace the evolution of environmental governance in New Zealand since the Save Manapouri Campaign, identifying some fundamental issues that have led to a failure to address our biggest environmental issues. Many of these issues lie with government and the way legislation has been implemented. But as can be seen with the issue of waste, responsibility for environment also lies squarely with us as ordinary New Zealanders. Even if some of us are too old and set in our ways to change much beyond the token use of reusable supermarket bags, can we not at least let our kids lead the way to a more sustainable future without contaminating their minds with these senseless and wasteful behaviours?

Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics (Canterbury University Press) is available from all good bookstores now, or you can order here.

The latest "shock" announcement by Environment Minister David Parker, that limits need to be set at a national level to curb further freshwater degradation (and this may mean less cows in some places!) has triggered all the predictable responses:

“Does David Parker hate farmers?”

“Most farmers are already putting a lot of effort into reducing pollution – regulation is unnecessary.”

“Regulation will be unfair because it will affect some regions and farmers more than others.”

“Farming is the backbone of the New Zealand economy. Without a healthy farming sector New Zealand will suffer.”

"But what about urban pollution? Why is it the farmers that always get picked on?"

Well-worn lines deployed with varying degrees of gravitas. But what many of the “actors” in this play are perhaps oblivious to is that, just like Shakespeare’s Hamlet, this play has been performed many times before - over a period of about twenty years. The acting is starting to become a bit lacklustre though, as the actors (apart from the protagonist – we will return to him later) begin to doubt their own lines. They sense perhaps that the audience is moving on, is a bit tired of Hamlet (no disrespect to Shakespeare here), that they want a new play that embraces the future rather than defensive positions of the past.

The protagonist is an entirely different kettle of fish (freshwater, obviously) though. What must strike terror (yes, terror!) into the hearts of his enemies are the words he uttered when announcing his plan, jaw set in grim determination:

“I only have limited time left ... I don’t want to squander this opportunity to clean up our rivers and lakes” (I have embellished slighty here, for dramatic effect).

In other words, Parker has nothing to lose politically.

It is precisely this fear that has thwarted any attempts at more decisive measures over these past two decades – the abject fear of a self-inflicted electoral hara-kiri.

What is invariably lacking in the frenzied discussion that erupts after any suggestion that the government may actually do something is historical context. The fact that this discussion is not new; the same arguments, the same responses, the same attacks, the same reactions, have being deployed over and over again for many years.

The difference this time is that something may actually happen.

DISCLOSURE:

I am biased. Environmental history is my passion. (But so is the environmental future.)

My latest book, Beyond Manapouri: 50 years of environmental politics in New Zealand examines the evolution of environmental management in New Zealand since this ground-breaking campaign to save this spectacula Fiordland lake.

This blog was originally published in 2011 on envirohistory NZ.

Though my implement of choice for environmental history is the pen (or more accurately, the keyboard), I am known to pick up a spade from time to time. Specifically, to plant native trees on land in the Pohangina Valley, about 40 kilometres north-east of the Manawatu provincial “capital” of Palmerston North.

When I do so, I am deeply conscious of the fact that I am undoing the toil of hardworking men who “broke the land in” only a century ago, transforming the Manawatu – at the time described in a government advertisement as “the waste land of the Colony” – into productive farmland. Sadly, as we know, this transformation was achieved by destroying all but small pockets of lowland and hill country forest: by first cutting out the larger trees, burning the remainder in massive conflagrations that could be seen from many miles away, and then “stumping” – removing the charred tree stumps. Grass-seed was then sown among the ash-covered soil – temporarily enriched by the burnt skeletons of the forest that had thrived on those soils for thousands of years.

Fortunately for environmental historians, this process was documented by a photographer active at the time, C.E. Wildbore; indeed, it is one of his photographs of men milling trees at Komako, in the Pohangina Valley, which graces the cover of Brooking and Pawson’s “Environmental Histories of New Zealand” (the very book that got me started on this whole environmental history thing).

While my actions play only a very small part in the reversal of this process, they are a reminder that we are not just observers, but also actors, in our environmental histories.

Photo top: Me planting trees on our land in 2011. Above: A photo of a bush burn taken by Pohangina photographer, Charles E. Wildbore, circa 1904.

A bend in Pohangina River, near Totara Reserve. Catherine Knight.

Our hens surprise us with one of these every so often. On the left is a fairy egg (also known as a 'witch egg'), on the right is a normal-sized chicken egg. They are white inside and have no yolk. Apparently they happen when something disturbs the hen's reproductive cycle - though we prefer to think that a fairy is involved somehow.

Most of the trees we have planted at our 'permanent retreat' in Pohangina Valley (see Life changes) are New Zealand natives - and to the greatest extent possible, trees native to this area (see Undoing environmental history (with a spade)). However, I was willing to bend this rule for two kinds of trees - ones that provide autumn colour and ones that provide things to eat.

For the autumn colour, I invested in six liquidambar trees to line the driveway. There are a dazzling array of liquidambars (also known as American Sweetgum) and unable to make up my mind, I chose two kinds - the 'original' Liquidambar styraciflua with leaves that turn yellow, orange, red and purple, and the Worpleston, with leaves that turn a deep purpley colour. Though this is only their first autumn, and they are still fairly wee, they haven't disappointed - a sample of colour shown here.

And country living means having at least a modest orchard. We have never had fruit trees - well, apart from a lemon and feijoa tree, which don't really count as you can't really go too far wrong with them. So I ended up choosing a Liberty apple tree, which is known for its resistance to disease, and therefore reasonably indestructable, even for a novice. Here is the first apple of the season (a third of the entire crop for this year, so treated with great reverence). It fell off slightly prematurely, when we were reinforcing the barrier around the tree so that Lamby didn't climb up and nibble on the foliage (as he has done before, despite being in a paddock full of juicy grass ... that's sheep for you!).

Now, on the walnut front. After much deliberation (grafted walnut trees are not cheap), we chose a Meyric, known for its good 'crack-out ratio'. (This means that the nut is quite large comparative to the shell. In some varieties, the shell is impressive but the nut disappointingly small.) However, the walnut has failed to bear fruit this year. Perhaps still a bit young. Or perhaps sulking because I forgot what I had to spray on it and when. Hopefully next autumn!

... But that's just my opinion, so I canvassed a number of individuals in my community to gauge their reaction to the book.

Here is a summary of their responses:

Bella the sheep- interested enough to come over, but noticeably disappointed that is wasn't edible

Pippa- indifferent

Pixie (AKA the Marauding Chicken)- vaguely interested, but only because she wanted to know where I had hidden the bowl of ricies (could have been behind the book). Frankly, I would have expected better from Pixie, given that she got special mention in the Preface, but there you go...

Gracie - she looked kind of interested, but I think she might have just been humouring me.

Anyway, you can judge for yourself!

One of Charles E. Wildbore's most evocative images (in a desolate kind of way) is this one of men getting ready to cart sleepers from Crown-owned reserve land in Pohangina Valley to the nearby railway station at Ashhurst. This road borders what is today known as Totara Reserve (originally set aside by the government for its timber), and is in fact not far from where I live. The other day, I drove up to the road in an effort to find the exact place he took the photograph - and was excited to locate it with relative ease. Well almost - judging from the terrain, the alignment of the road today is just to the south of its original route, on slightly higher ground.

Charles's Wildbore's photographs are the subject of an upcoming book I am writing, to be published by Haunui Press. See also Wildbore's landscapes and this recent feature in The Manawatu Standard.

Top: Men carting railway sleepers on Opawe Rd, Pohangina Valley, circa 1904. Palmerston North Libraries. Above: Opawe Road today. In this image the Ruahine Range can be see very clearly, while in Wildbore's photo the line of the range can only be seen very faintly. C. Knight

Today's Manawatu Standard features an article on my latest book project, the story behind the images of Charles E. Wildbore, farmer, bee-keeper, inventor and photographer, who lived in Pohangina Valley from the 1890s to the 1930s. Through his photographs, he left - I suspect, unknowingly - a rich legacy: a visual record of the unprecedented environmental change that took place in the Valley, mirroring the transformative change that had already unfolded throughout New Zealand following European settlement. Through his photographs, we can imagine the past, and even more importantly perhaps, imagine the future.

The book is due for release later this year, and will be published by Haunui Press.

Read the Manawatu Standard article here.

Image: Bush-whackers' camp at Komako, Pohangina Valley, ca 1904, taken by Charles E. Wildbore. Palmerston North Library.

We are rather fortunate that when we feel the need to get out into nature, we have some pretty good stuff right on our doorstep - Totara Reserve, the Manawatu's last substantial remnant of lowland forest.

Today my 9-year old son and I set out to do the Fern Walk, named for the plethora of native ferns found in abundance on the forest floor. Forest giants such as kahikatea, northern rata and ... I always get my matai/miro etc mixed up ... can be found too. (Sadly, not so many mighty totara - most of those were milled for things like railway sleepers a century or so ago.)

The official time for the walk is 2 - 2 1/2 hours, but we did it in just over an hour and a half. And we learnt quite a lot about ferns, such as what a 'hanging spleenwort' looks like (it looks nicer than it sounds).

Above is a photo of the forest as viewed from the entrance to the walk, and below some colourful fungi on a mossy log we spotted along the walk.