Both side of the bay.

Port Phillip Bay sits below Melbourne like the head of a badly battered tadpole. The Yarra - the tadpole’s tail - stretches up into the hills to the north.

The bay itself is shallow and in its waters hides the ghost of Yarra’s course, from when the world was colder and the sea was lower. The bay is held in the arms of two peninsulas - the Mornington to the east and the Bellarine to the west. Each is visible from the other, and each is different from the other, and in between is the water, constantly shifting but seemingly permanent. But in reality it is a newcomer, a flooded plain from the end of the last ice age. And as the world warms it will grow larger and come knocking on peoples doors, an unwelcome guest and the first foot of a startling new year.

Standing on the edge of a great ocean can feel like looking at the edge of the world, the grey seasky and the waves and maybe the curve of the Earth. But the Bay is not this big, it lacks the vast scale of the ocean and you can always see parts of land in the distance, lighthouses, and the toothpick spikes of Melbourne’s CBD. At night those tall towers glitter like modern lighthouses, but you have to wonder why all the lights are left on. As the city has spread out around the arms of the bay, with its street plans looking like some form of cheap tattoo, the mystery of time and tide has been brought closer to the city.
On the beach at St. Kilda, once a small village, now a bayside suburb, jellyfish were washed up on the beach, causing alarm to young children, concern to strolling coffee drinkers and not a jot of interest to the sleeping bodies of last night’s party folk, blurred and recovering at the water’s edge.

While the bay may not have the edge of the world view of the Pacific it really is the edge of our world. The coming and going of the tide makes all coastal edges vague and imprecise, places where maps are even more uncertain than normal. Coastal maps are at best an approximation and are often out of date the moment they are drawn. The coast marks the boundary between our air world and the water world that is elsewhere. The silver pull of the moon changes the water’s edge hour by hour, sometimes sea, sometimes land and often something in between. We are suited to that land, but at sea we need the help of our technology to survive. It’s no real surprise that the development of our civilisation can be mapped on to the exploration of the world’s oceans, and that the Sea of Tranquillity, which is not a sea at all, is as far as we have been.

To pass from the water’s edge and out on to the water itself is always a journey, where physics is needed and it seems that the rules of motion change. The journey from land to sea always holds the attention, and even on short trips you will find people just standing and watching, peering out over the ship side rails and into the water. This may be bring rewards, but it seems to be worthwhile just in itself.

The ferry from Queenscliff to Sorrento ploughs backwards and forwards across the bay, on the hour, every hour of daylight. Forty minutes of travel, twenty minutes to load and unload and then back to the other side, passing its twin mid-journey. Sometimes the ferries are followed by bay dolphins, recently identified as a new species, playing in the wake. Surfing the standing wave they follow the boat, delighting the rail leaners and leaving as suddenly as they arrived, possible bored, possible getting to where they needed to go using the public transport provided by the day trippers. Who knows?

An industry has built up around watching the dolphins, with boats from both sides of the bay searching for them. Hundreds of people, me included, invest time and money trying to see these beautiful animals, and seem delighted when they find them and devastated when they don’t. But as ever, it is the surprise encounter, the un-planned visit that holds the highest reward; the wake surfers or the encounters while fishing. Neither side of the bay has a monopoly on these animals, but they do seem to crop up more often on the Mornington side.
Dolphins have a huge public appeal and whoever manages their PR is doing a mighty fine job, for the details of their private life are as sordid as a typical footballers, with sex and coercion to the fore, but fewer drugs. The real life of a dolphin is very far from the picture shown in Flipper! But people still flock to see them - seeking, and often finding, a connection between them and the wild they would not find elsewhere - and no matter that the real life details of the animal they have come to see are something of a state secret. People wax lyrical about the experience, and ignore the birds overhead. Our guide talks of science and the need for conservation, then about the power of homeopathy. Contradictory ideas in the same mind - quite impressive really. And all around us the dolphins swim. For all my cynicism about this, there is no doubting the appeal of these animals. I just wish we could wash the candy coat away, and know them as they really are, not as we want them to be.
I spent a morning weaving between the moored boats over on the Mornington side, under steep cliffs capped with the expansive houses of the rich - architect designed, but often ugly none the less. Some had pulley railways from the cliff edge to the beach below, to save the weary legs that 100 meter climb at the end of the day - or if the rumours are correct, to deliver cold wine and strawberries to the beach at lunch time. The waves lap at the base of the cliffs and at the hulls of long moored boats, with a green strip of fouling underneath and bird lime on top.

The bright yellow sea kayak was a great toy, and brought back none of the horrors of kayaks from past years - instability, paddling in circles, and forced capsizes in the name of safety. Out past the wading depth from the shore's edge you felt like you were really in the bay, even if the shore was never that far away. At sea-level the gannets that flashed overhead seemed even bigger than normal, the terns floated past and gulls laboured on heavier wings. Cormorants hunted around the piers, cursed by the fishermen, but surely a sign that there were fish to be had. Silver ghost flashes of fish dart through the shallows, and all eyes scan for dolphins. Down the coast we passed the old quarantine station where the ill and the dying were prevented from coming ashore for fear of infection. This was a place of isolation, where the least fortunate were held to die, or prove their health. And it seemed strange that now many of the cliffs were capped by the houses of the very rich, seeking isolation from the less fortunate, medical quarantine one year, social quarantine next. Some people seemed interested in these mega houses, but I could not help but wonder where they will be when the cliffs are undercut and waves wave at the back door? Will the sanctuary of the rich become the high hills and the coast become, once more, the home of the disposed, the ill and the uninsurable? Will they still have the cliff edge railways? Will they still have the boats bobbing at anchor, bought to impress but rarely to sail.
When you paddle on the sea, with each blade stroke leaving its own little gyre in the water, it becomes very clear that much of the water is rather empty of visible life. Pop a drop under the microscope and it may be a different story, but to the human eye it looks empty. But then you encounter small hot spots where life is abundant and visible. Two of these places on the bay do not glory in politically correct names - The Pope's Eye and Chinaman’s Hat. Both are artificial and both are a Mecca for life - although mixing the Pope and Mecca is probably asking for trouble.

The Pope's Eye is a C shaped reef that has been built up by the addition of large stones - the plan was to use it for a gun turret, but technology overtook the need and shore based weapons were trained on the bay instead. Now it has abundant life, both above and below the water. Fish I can’t name swim past and Gannets preen and tend their young on the rocks. For all its wonder, it still has the unmistakable smell of a sea bird colony! On the platform known as the Chinaman’s Hat, Fur Seals loaf around, waiting for next year. These fur seals are bachelors or the elderly, without out a mate this year and resting up for one more roll of the breeding dice. They slide into the water and swim beside us - I hesitate to say they swim with us because we can have no idea of motivation. But whatever the cause they make even the best swimmers look leaden and slow.
But once you get into the water you start to see the real other side of the bay - not defined by the geography of east and west, but by the vertical split of above and below. I have recently heard that some computer games are “immersive”. Well, that may be the case, but swimming underwater really is. With little to hear but the rasping of your own breath in the snorkel you have a greater sense of your own land locked abilities than ever before. In the afternoon, after the sea kayak paddle, I snorkelled around the pier at Portsea. Wrapped in a buoyant and warm suit you could drift over the surface and gaze down at the sea bed. With the help of a lead belt, you could dive down and briefly investigate the life around you. But buoyancy and the need to breath always won, and I soon popped back to the surface, a marine Jeremy Fisher, but not, thankfully, pursued by a trout. A rock ledge weaves in a slow 'S' out from the shore, and the life follows it. Wrasse and dozens of other fish with names I don’t know drift past and disappear with the flick of their tails. A Puffer-fish shows its inflated displeasure, and my own regret at not having a camera grows. Focussed on the sea bed, I find myself surrounded by small surface fish and looking up I swear in surprise, a living patch of silver that seems to have solidified the currents of the water. I have heard the sea called “permanence in motion”, and as the fish currents flow over me, I know what it means. First one way, then another, oblivious to my presence, never ending, never ceasing.

Around the pier the richness of life is astounding, with life forms totally alien to my daily life. Sponges, animals that look like plants, strange faces peering out of small cracks in the wooden piles. A nudibranch - a “sea-slug” - slips over a sponge garden, with bright colours above and below.

I return to the more open sea, away from the fishing lines, strung like cheese wires around the wooden piles, away from the teenagers throwing themselves off the pier, drunk on hormones, or possibly just drunk. I drift over a bed of sea grass, nursery lawn for many species, and slowly something shows itself. A weedy sea-dragon. At this point the lack of a camera causes more swearing. This is a 30cm (or so, I was rather excited!) fish in the same group as a seahorse. It shares the same pipe like structure, but its fins have evolved leaf shapes to hide it in the weed. It really is a remarkable animal. And it just sat there as I dived and dived to look and look. It became bored with the whole affair at about the same time as I needed a break, and it drifted off a few feet to one side and simply disappeared, like a ghost or a lost chain of thought. I knew it was there, but I could no longer find it. It was as if the few minutes I had watched it were a gift from it to me, that it could have hidden at any time if it wanted to, but for some reason it had not. Nonsense I know, but it was a bloody remarkable fish. And on the pier the drunks still throw themselves into the water and laughed when we asked them to stop jumping on us.

As I left the sea a small flock of Black-Tailed Cockatoos floated overhead on hitch-beat wings and called their weird and floating calls. I was back on land. I was back in the air. I was back on my side of the bay, but I wanted to go back to the other side, the underside, for there be dragons.

Rain in a time of drought.

It’s been raining again. This may not strike so people as worthy of comment, but believe me it is. Northern Australia has had lots of rain, more than in any other spring in some places. Victoria has had the wettest spring in more than a decade. It’s raining right now from a strange copper brown sky. 22 mm of rain dripped into our rain gauge last night, and there will be more by morning.

The Yarra, normally tea coloured, is running like hot chocolate, heavy with clay. Ducks have to strike off upstream to go straight across, and once it’s plain you have no bread they cruise away from your boat on busy, unseen feet. Conserving energy when it’s clear that there is no food to be had.
The trees hang heavy in the mornings, lush with new growth, and some, sheen weighted with water, have given up the ghost and fallen over. Two have bent down to sleep in our area in the last week, driving branches deep into the water soaked soils. After heavy rain the paths are coated with wet tissue leaves, pounded and blown from the branches above. Sticks hang on phone wires and electricity cables. Some hang balanced in the trees themselves, waiting for the fall. Many trees have been giving up their sick and redundant branches, seemingly confident that new ones will grow. The streets are leaf littered. Many trees have an outer layer of pale green leaves, a halo of new growth where before there was only wilt and death. The ground is soft underfoot. Puddles last from one storm to another, and steep driveways pour thin silver streams into the street. In some places drains block and the water backs up, delayed on its seaward journey. The pressure of the water forced a plug of old leaves and blown dirt from the pipe above our tank and filled it with water in minutes.

Morning rain pushes train commuters into the shelter of the waiting rooms, which are far less grand than they sound. Business types busy themselves with laptops and smart phones, hoping that this is the week when they catch up with their dreams and their overdraft, both of which seem always to be just out of reach. Party girls and boys go home far too late or set off far too early, eyes darkly ringed. Students struggle with oversized bags. Everybody looks at the rain. Shop workers. Day trippers. Me.

It has become possible to look at the weather forecast without a sense of dread. In the long weeks of the last few summers it felt as if even the possibility of rain had gone. Day after day of clear blue skies and hot burning sun. This may sound perfect to some, but it’s not. Even in the city where people could work and live as their gardens died, you could feel the pressure growing. I have no idea what it would have been like to live where rain means money and food on the table and drought means another trip to the bank, another investment in hope. I would look at the sky and wonder if it would ever rain again. And sometimes it did. Heavy, violent storms that were as much a reminder of drought as they were a bringer of relief. They would turn up on hot summer afternoons, like a school yard bully, breaking up a fight they knew they had started, a fight between two silent and unyielding friends. Welcome in some ways, but still frightening. Relieving, but not relaxing. And each bucket of water saved in the shower or scooped from the bath reminded me of how small this effort was. I was trying to hold back drought and death one bucket at a time, pushing against a force that was invisible and unavoidable. Some form of climatic Canute. A battle of wills between human weakness and an implacable foe that was flint hearted and incapable of concern. On some days it felt like the whole of the worst case scenario climate change predictions had occurred over night. And as the catchments emptied it became harder and harder to see that our daily domestic efforts were doing any good at all. The politicians told us we were all doing very well, but then it was in their interest to do so. You don’t get re-elected by telling voters they are wasting their time.

The garden slates come to life with unfamiliar colour; washing lines and windows are lensed with sweat drop rain. Plastic toys, left overnight in the sandpit, cry small tears of loneliness, and still, remarkably, it keeps raining. The days warm and plants grow with unseemly haste, tomatoes swell on the plant and strawberries glow in the evening light. We elect a new government, but we barely talk about water and drought. The catchments are half full now, so that’s OK. But doesn’t that mean they are also half empty?

Down by the beach, where there was always more water than you wanted, but most of it out of reach, they have put the taps back on the public water pipes. The beachside showers are working again, so there will be less sand in the back seat of the car on the journey home. Paddocks which have been little more than dust bowls for year after year are waist deep in grass and flowers. A hare, which would normally use its speed to escape seems comfortable to sit in the open and not run, confident that it will find cover within seconds if it needs to. It watches with its wild eyes, before bursting off into the long grass. A few minutes later it wanders past again, all fright forgotten.

The tittle-tat rattle of rain on tins roofs becomes familiar again. The Murray reaches the sea. In Adelaide they pray for rain, and it comes - but not soon enough. Australia loses the cricket by an innings and 71 runs. Rain could have saved them, but in times of drought, who can put their faith in rain?
Over the last few days it has continued to rain. Busy days at work and tired kids in the evening have slowed the development of this post, and now it becomes clear that it is in need of a little refinement. While I have welcomed the rain, I happen to live in an insulated, urban vacuum, where rain should never be a matter of life or death, and when it becomes one, it is often due to misadventure, or plain stupidity.

But this is not the case everywhere. In some places rain is a matter of life and death every year. The drought placed almost unbearable pressure on many rural communities, and they bore the unbearable only with the help the banks, through government aid and with the hope that one day, one day soon, the rain would come good and crops would not wither down to dust. And for a while it seemed that those days had, at last, come. Winter and spring rains had brought bumper crops, the like of which had not been seen for a decade or more. These were crops to pay back debt, crops to get the banks off the backs of farmers, crops which could have lifted the darkness that had crippled so many people. These were crops that would undo some of the harm the last dry decade had brought. But in many places these crops now lie wet and rotting, as the rain that was once a blessing becomes a curse. In some places the crops are underwater, lost beyond hope of harvest. This is a random cruelty beyond measure.

Drought, flood, fires and now even locusts. It’s all a bit to biblical for me. I like the rain, but many people may beg to differ.

Up North Again (part II) – The life of O’Reilly.

Despite the fact you needed forearms like a Viking to actually negotiate corners at slow speed I was becoming increasingly positive about my loaned car, which I suppose was appropriate for a Proton. After a few minutes I had to pull over to check I was not heading in the wrong direction. I thought that the car may have developed a mind of its own and was heading for the dense centre of Brisbane, but it turned out that I was neither lost nor in possession of a car with a mind of its own. If I had gone only a few metres further down the road I would have found the road sign I needed.

The little car whizzed down the motorway with surprising ease, but I was glad to get onto roads more in keeping with its scale. Queensland’s government really should be congratulated on its efforts to reduce the road toll by significantly reducing the number of roadside objects that you could possibly collide with. Unfortunately, this high minded and laudable scheme seems to have resulted in the removal of most of the road-signs. It would appear that those which do remain are rapidly being converted into small, vertical nature reserves, bound up with a wonderful array of flowering creepers and small shrubs. So navigation was often based on glimpses of partially obscured signs and any confirmatory signs that you were actually heading for Tamborine were missing. What you did find though were large numbers of parked cars, normally clustered around mysterious road junctions. Their drivers were hopefully studying hand drawn maps that were lacking in both scale or detail, in the hope that they may be able to draw some meaning from the faded cartography. Well good luck. Much to my surprise the only thing I managed to collide with was my destination.

The road to O’Reilly’s Rainforest Lodge snakes up and out of a town of rather shocking ordinariness that belies its location. The hills that are topped by O’Reilly’s sit within the Lamington National Park - a World Heritage Site no less, so expectations were high. As you drive along this winding road it soon becomes clear that something interesting is happening. Firstly there are no rainforests to begin with - the vegetation is dominated by eucalypts, and looks familiar. But as you go higher you move into areas with higher and higher rainfall - brought by moist winds that collide with the mountains and give up that moisture as rain. Walls of vegetation start to push in on the roadside, whereas before there was open space and views. The trees start to gain wide buttresses to hold them up; the finger thin gum trees disappear. The road itself narrows and becomes more and more serpentine. Dense eucalypt woodland can be dominated by the straight lines of their trunks, but here everything was fluid and plastic. At one point I drove through a section of woodland that pulsed with the calls of cicadas, loud enough to hear within the car, but falling silent a few moments, a few meters, later. Large Wanderer Butterflies flapped across the road, and purple flowers hugged the corners of the road. There were a lot of corners, there were a lot of flowers.

At times the road became a single lane with confusing give way signs and painted white lines. Give way to what? The possibility of a car? The chance of a landslide? A passing goat? You could normally see only a few tens of meters down the road, so I pressed on regardless. Near the top of the hill my progress was slowed by a succession of powerful Subarus. Heaps of them, dozens in fact. They all seemed to be driven at break-neck speed by young looking men, who seemed determined to get to the next corner half a second faster than the car behind them. But once they got to the corners they often found their way blocked by a less than young man, in a less than powerful Proton travelling at a more sedate, some might even say, elderly, speed. I trundled on, corner after corner, increasing the workout for my arms and shoulders. Most of the trees were marked with reflective patches, testament to the difficulty that night driving would bring. Many of the trees were marked with paint marks and gashes - many seemed to be at the height of Subaru spoilers!

The vegetation became thicker and thicker, with the roadside curtain of vines and creepers growing equally dense. You could see where images of lurking danger grew from when you see forest that looks like this. This looks like the kind of thing that used to be called “jungle” when I was a kid, rather than the rainforest it is called today. You have to wonder how it changed from a source of fear and death to the salvation of the world. Both are clearly incorrect, but both have elements of truth hidden within them. Arriving at the top was a bit of a shock really, for there was open space and grass, car parks and buildings, feeling a little like coming upon a lost city, buried in the past.

As I pulled up outside the lodge there was a yellow and black flash as a bird flew low over the front of the car. I had come here to see Regent Bowerbird, and had managed it before I had even left the car, in fact I'd managed it before the car had stopped moving. As I parked I noticed another bird, sitting on a rusting engine block pecking at an apple. This was a female Satin Bowerbird, and it was completely unconcerned as I wound down the window and photographed it. Something was happening here, something not entirely natural, possibly out of keeping for a World Heritage site. The place felt like a theme park. “Rainforest” seems to speak of something a little more wild than semi-tame birds feeding in the car park, even if the birds are remarkable. It just did not feel entirely right. Bush Turkeys wandered across the road, and Red Browed Finches - a bird that seems to be both delicate and robust at the same time - flicked around, seeking seeds. I checked in and checked out my room, small, functional, but with the universal soullessness that comes with the territory. It had echoes of University accommodation, but without the Roger Dean posters. I was back outside within ten minutes.

Walking into the forest was like walking into another world - green, complex and surprisingly noisy. Bird calls, rustles, the rattle and thud of falling fruit, more bird calls. Even with the absolute certainty that the place was safe, the sheer energy of life that the place gave off was startling. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to walk through such a place knowing that there were animals out there, or worse still, people, whose express intention was to do you harm. Large rocks flanked the paths, held protectively by the finger-like roots of larger trees. There was no imagination needed to see the Ent-like form that these trees took - in fact it was probably harder not to feel an aura of sentience here than to feel one. Trees walking south, because it feels like you are going downhill. The rocks themselves were clothed in mini forests of moss and other plants, two knuckles deep in some places.

To walk in such a place without hearing would have been to have missed most of what was going on. The pale green filtered light seemed to hide things as much as illuminate, with layer upon layer of leaves setting up levels of interference that even the CIA would have been proud of. Most of the life was hiding in plain sight, so you had to stop and readjust, wait. Only then did it start to become visible. Looking with your ears. It also became clear that some places were worth spending more time on than others. Where the canopy thinned, often where a tree had fallen, and a patch of light reached the floor were great places to wait. Birds - often Rufus Fantails - hunted for insects, rarely still, dashing from perch to perch and bouncing into the air to snap some otherwise invisible speck of life. And for once you could see into the canopy.

Bird watching in this type of forest is to say the least, difficult. The birds were either hidden in the interleafed undergrowth, or silhouetted against the sky at the top of a 30m tree. This was a very different experience to seeing birds in the car park. But after a after a few hours I found myself back there. The call of the bowerbirds was too strong, even if I did suspect that they were animatronic replicas. The bold black and yellow of the Regents and the ever changing blue black of the Satins was almost irresistible.

The next morning I was up early for a guided walk; I was actually up an hour too early, but that was my own fault! The guide arrived with some chopped fruit and within seconds there were Regent and Satin Bowerbirds all over the place. It was the kind of abundance that you don’t normally find associated with this kind of beauty. I felt that the brilliance of these birds deserved more than to be reduced to a commodity that could be bought on tap. This was nature on a plate, rather than nature as a wild (or even wildish) experience. This feeling intensified as the birds perched on the guide's hand to take food. He did admit that he was not entirely comfortable with this, and I had to agree with him. This feeling did not diminish as we moved away from the feeding station. Birds hopped around our feet, and came when called. Again, this was a remarkable experience, but it caused a certain disquiet. Eastern Whip Birds are normally shy, retiring birds - even if the call is loud and far carrying. Here they came out on to the path to meet us. A part of the bird is that it is from the darker places of the world, it dwells in the hidden underbush of the forest. When you see it feeding in the open, away from shelter are you seeing the bird, or some constructed, convenient, humanised version of it?

But for all my concern it was clear that a number of the people who had risen early to go on this walk had never seen anything like this before - and to be frank neither had I. And it’s also likely that they would have taken away a sense of wonder at the richness of the bird life (or possibly the skill of the guide to conjure the birds from the bush to the hand) that they would not have gained if they had simply walked through the bush and seen a few glimpses and heard a few distant bird calls. It’s all well and good for me to hold the high moral ground, but some people need (or can only gain access) to the foothills. And at the very least they had got up early - although not as early as me! - just to see birds.

The next morning I walked away from the car park and along a track that allowed you to look downhill and into the canopy of the trees. This is much better for looking - you still don’t see much, but the actual act of looking is easier than the neck snapping contortions needed when the canopy is just straight up. At one time I considered lying on the floor to look up, but then I saw the number of ants and spiders that were moving over the forest floor and thought better of that idea. At one point a few trees on the downhill side of the path had fallen over, succumbing to storm, old age or termites. Here you could look flat into the canopy. I ate an apple, drank some water and waited. Then the hoped for but unexpected happened. A bird with dark barred feathers and a curved beak started to walk, headfirst, down a tree. To say this caught my interest is a bit of an understatement. I almost pulled a muscle getting my bins up to my eyes. There, bang slap in the middle of the field of view a female Paradise Riflebird was walking down the tree. A Paradise Riflebird! No feeding table. No bird wizard magically calling the birds to his hand. Just a remarkable bird and me, well it was just me until two other people showed up, but they were just as interested as I was. I watched it for about a minute, but then it was up and off into the distance, into the tangled green off the downhill trees.

Now if the Regent Bowerbirds were given to me on a plate, then this was a rare treat that I had found for myself. However, seeing the bird did raise some interesting questions for me, not the least of which was “Am I disappointed that the bird was a female?” To be honest the answer was “Yes I was”. The male of this species is remarkable, and although I could hear them, I never saw them. Now the female is hardly a dull bird, but it does not have the incendiary beauty of the male. From a “listing” point of view a Riflebird is a Riflebird, so I should have been pleased (and I was), but from a aesthetics point of view, seeing the female was a bit like seeing spring in black and white, satisfying but ultimately diminished. And I thought this paying attention thing was meant to be easy.

Much later I walked along an elevated boardwalk, which swung with every footstep, in the canopies of the huge trees I had been under all day. From ground level the canopy of the trees looked solid, almost uniform. From within it you could see the diversity and structure, the nooks and crannies of a 3D space. It was already dark on the forest floor, but the roof of the forest was still in daylight. Clear beams of light fell to the floor in a few places, catching leaves here and there, lighting them up like Christmas decorations. But the canopy was all daylight. Ferns grew along damp branches, lichens bearded many limbs, and all around birds were calling. The branch of a long dead tree still poked through the grasping fingers of a strangler fig - the last part of the host, smothered by its parasitic lodger.

Green Cat Birds called to each other, and for once I was able to see them. From the forest floor they could be heard but not seen, the polar reversal of the good child. They are a thickset looking bird, that punches its head up and forward when it calls. The call gives the bird its name - and while I could see that the yowling they produced was catlike, it was not fully convincing. However, calling a bird a “Green Cat Impersonating a Chicken being Strangled Bird” does not really have much of a future, even if it is (to my ears anyway) more accurate. Behind the Catbird I could hear the pea whistle call of a Rose Robin, but the bird itself was never more than a slight blur, a dash through the tree tops. That evening as the sun was setting I ordered a beer and watched the light finally fade from the sky.

The following day was to be my last at O’Reilly’s. I was up early again, and there in trees were the Regent Bowerbirds again. A Satin Bowerbird, with its obsession with all things blue, foraged around the BBQs - a true Australian. Its feathers seem to change colour by the minute, gloss to matt, blue to black. Its bower - a strange extension of its DNA and its urge to mate - was littered with milk bottle tops and straws. You have to wonder what kind of sensory overload it suffers when it sees a blue car, a Carlton jumper, or a glimpse of the sky.

The forest floor was even busier today. Log Runners were rushing everywhere. Splendid little birds which seem to be evolving into avian moles, burrowed through the food rich leaf litter. Kicking the debris sideways rather than backwards and sitting back on stiffened tails they seemed more mouse than bird. They were no easier to see than photograph. Scrub-Wrens flitted and built a ragged nest, Eastern Yellow Robins looked sideways and seemed to notice everything.

Down in the valley a Lyrebird was calling, running through its repertoire of croaks, clicks, grunts and impersonations. The day before I had been very firmly put back in my box by one of the staff at the lodge for suggesting that it was remarkable that this bird could sound like a camera with a motor drive. I was told that this was not remarkable, but was in fact rather sad that I should think that, as the natural sounds that the bird makes were far more interesting. I decided not to argue with a man who clearly held himself in such high esteem. Today he was down in the valley with the Lyrebirds, trying to push them towards a group of waiting birdwatchers that had paid for the privilege of his company and wisdom. From what I could tell he was running some form of ornithological hammer and anvil move. It failed. I wondered if he was about to tell his clients that they should appreciate the bird for all its natural talents and beauty, whilst had the same time driving from its home and trampling much of it underfoot. I thought about the Log Runners and birds as a saleable commodity. It did not feel like a good note to leave on.

The little Proton started first time, and I was soon on the way back down the hill. After about 20 minutes and an unknown number of kilometres down the hill a Regent Bowerbird flashed across the road and landed in its own little patch of sunlight. It fluffed itself up and pushed one wayward yellow feather back into place. Content with itself it flew off. Round the next corner the distant forest was punctuated with a single blue jacaranda tree. And in the fields at the base of the hill Grey Crowned Babblers chattered to their family.

These seemed more wild than much I had seen at the top of the hill - this felt like a much better way to leave.