“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





01 February 2018


This poor old introduced tree in my back yard can't live very happily with its roots hitting the slab terrazzo-like tennis court ironstone just a metre beneath. 

But it never gives up, and galahs and parrots and cockies love roosting in its wired dead hair. They are fascinated by me pegging my laundry there on the ancient Hills Hoist, and discuss it with me as I go.

Sometimes, rarely, magpies sit there and watch. They are faster to dismiss me: the Cacatuidae are more amused and curious.

The postfarm beyond the fence is a lovely boot hill for the old industrial Perma-Pine mentality. Since that went in, Yangarra went all bushvines (no trellis posts) or stainless steel posts (if one must have posts). So these posts will be extracted and sold. No vines have been planted there. It'll be good when all these old-fashioned toxic teeth have been removed and they plant new chewers! That's premium geology under there.

I reckon there are several acres of solid slab tennis court terazzo ironstone here under this cottage and the Ironheart Vineyard. There are no handy boulders or cracks. Just a dusting of sand or loam on top of acres of this. Tough titties. Every baby grows at least one perfect bunch. This 400mm vine already provides tiny dollops of serious gastronomic heaven ... photos Philip White

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