Ian Fraser, talking naturally

For reasons uncertain (I was a somewhat boring youth who didn't hang around at loud concerts for instance) I have fairly strong tinnitus, which can be a nuisance. Different people report different manifestations, but mine sounds like a chorus of insects - tree crickets or higher-pitched cicadas in particular. This means that I can't always tell if the chorus I'm hearing emanates from inside or outside my head but a week or so ago, during a family visit to Nowra in near-coastal southern New South Wales, I was in no doubt whatsoever.

Like many cicada species, the very handsome Redeye Psaltoda moerens doesn't appear every year in any given locale, but this year appears to be theirs in that part of the world. From quite early in the day, as the temperature rose towards 20 degrees, the roar of the massed Redeyes filled the world. After a while the steady roar breaks into what's known in the cicada students' world, somewhat quaintly, as 'yodelling'; it sounds like a sawing but melodious "cheee-aw-chee-aw-chee-aw (etc!)"

Redeye Cicada on Spotted Gum Eucalyptus maculata. This species is found throughout near-coastal south-eastern Australia, and has a strong preference for smooth-barked trees, which are probably easiest to penetrate with the strong proboscis to access the sap.

The aggregations typical of this species - and others - can be enormous; I watched a constant stream of Redeyes flying from tree to tree in the yard. They gather to mate, with the males striving to capture the females' attention by the force and persistence of their song.

A few of the Redeye gathering on just one tree - and many had flown away as I approached.

A successful suitor.

This gathering had its genesis in a past one, though for most Australian cicadas we don't know the length of the cycle, though it seems to be some years at least for many species. Like her mother before her, this female will lay her eggs in dead eucalypt branches; they will hatch in 10 to 12 weeks, when the tiny nymphs will hurry down to the ground and enter soil cracks, where they will insert their proboscis into a tree root. The liquid waste they exude helps form a wall to their cell. This is how a cicada spends most of its life - the adult phase that either thrills or exasperates us, depending on our approach to nature, lasts probably no more than four weeks at the most. When the time is right, some years later, the nymph comes up to the light, climbs onto a convenient surface and emerges from the shell at night.

Redeye nymph cases; on the left-hand one the split can be seen along the back where the adult emerged.

Much of the male Redeye's body is designed to sing - his abdomen forms a fearsome resonating chamber, as we can attest, amplifying the sound made by vibrating timbals, corrugated membranes like a wobbleboard on his sides just in front of the abdomen. His song is unique to his species. The energy required to drive it at up to 100 vibrations a second is significant, which is why he can only sing when the temperature reaches a certain level.

He is a bug - no, really, a member of the Order Hemiptera, characterised by a long sucking proboscis.

Sap-sucking Hemipteran, Kata Tjuta, central Australia.
Cicadas all have such a proboscis (more properly a rostrum), both as nymphs and adults, though it it generally kept tucked away under the body.

The adults insert the rostrum gradually into the bark, inserting saliva and extracting partly digested sap. This is dilute food, and a considerable quantity of water is constantly sprayed from the trees where large numbers of cicadas are feeding. Feeding need not be interrupted by either singing or mating incidentally!

More than one cicada species can cohabit, though only one was present this time, as far as I could see. In a recent Nowra summer however the gorgeous Yellow Mondays were abundant.

Yellow Monday Cyclochila australasiae.
This lovely cicada is very common and comes in a somewhat bewildering array of forms, including the Masked Devil, form spreta, pictured below from the Blue Moutains.

Masked Devil, still the same species as the Yellow Monday.

Other colour forms of this species are known as Chocolate Soldier, Greengrocer and Blue Moon.

Closer to home, around Canberra, cicadas are not as prominent as nearer the coast, though some years we too have massive Redeye eruptions, when a variety of bird species live well for a few weeks. Even up in the Snow Gums in the mountains however cicadas can be found, though the great choruses are rarely heard.

Diemeniana euronotiana on Snow Gum at approximately 1300 metres, Namadgi National Park.
My only slight hesitation about this identification is its location on the trunk - they are 'supposed' to be found mostly low in bushes. Any suggestions welcomed.

As for overseas cicadas, I'm afraid I can't even offer a guess at the identity of this Andean specimen; again, help welcomed!

Cicada, Cuenca, 2500 metres above sea level, Ecuador.

Cicadas are one reason I look forward to summer (or maybe I like cicadas so much because they are emblematic of summer for me). But, you know one good thing about tinnitus? I can hear cicadas all year round!

BACK ON MONDAY

Sir James Edward Smith was a very influential and enthusiastic botanist indeed, who used his family wealth - his father was a successful Norwich wool merchant - for the considerable betterment of the science.

Born in 1759 he was the star botany student in the Edinburgh Uni medical course, but there are suggestions that his primary interest in the subject was its botany component. Either way his passions increasingly tended towards botany and away from medicine. At a young age he founded the Natural History Society of Edinburgh.

It's often on seemingly unlikely combinations of events that history makes its turns, changing lives and the course of science itself in a given place. So it was with young Smith. When Carl Linnaeus the younger died in 1783, his widow wrote to Sir Joseph Banks, doyen of British botany at the time, asking him to buy his library and specimens – 9000 plants and some 3500 animals - for the enormous sum of a thousand guineas. Smith just happened to be breakfasting with Banks when the letter arrived (this was not an unusual occurrence, as Banks was a great encourager of young up-and-comers). Banks was unwilling or unable to raise the funds, but certainly recognised the immense value of the collection. He persuaded the young Smith, just 24 at the time, to find the money, presumably having a pretty fair idea of the Smith family fortunes. Smith in turn persuaded his father to advance him a loan. It took time, but he came round (just in time to pip the Empress of Russia who also fancied the trove) and the 26 cases arrived in England the following year – to the frustration of Swedish science. One story, which appears in a book written after Smith's death by his wife Pleasance, claims that the King of Sweden, who was in France at the time and heard about it too late, tried to fetch them back via the navy, but they failed to catch up to the ship.

On receipt of the vast, and vastly significant, array of scientific riches, Smith abandoned his medical studies, hired rooms overlooking the Chelsea physic garden to house the collection, and sorted them with the help of Banks and Jonas Dryander, Banks' librarian.

Acmena smithii, family Myrtaceae, Lilly Pilly.
This rainforest small tree from coastal New South Wales was named by French botanist, Jean Louis Marie Poiret, Smith's contemporary, in his honour.
The berries make excellent jam - and I hasten to say I collect mine from my in-laws' garden, not the wild!

He did the Grand Tour of Europe and in the process began to amass the 18,000 specimens he was to personally add to the Linnaeus collection.

He moved to bigger premises and founded the very influential Linnaean Society in 1788 around the collection, dedicating it to public good. Indeed, his enthusiasm and easy communication skills are said to have done much to popularise botany in Britain at the time. He was the Society's President for the next 40 years, the rest of his life in fact; it is now the world’s oldest natural history society.

Eucalyptus smithii, Gully Gum, Bowral, New South Wales.
These trees were in fact presiding over a most memorable outdoor Leonard Cohen concert; not sure what Sir James would have made of it...
And I must acknowledge that while I had believed until now that the tree was named for Sir James, extra research I've done for this posting suggests that in fact Australian botanist and eucalypt chemist Richard Baker named it for his colleague Henry Smith. I'm not totally sure though, so I'll let the picture stand, with that proviso.

He wrote the huge 36 volume British Botany over 24 years from 1790 (it was this that earned him his knighthood) and the English Flora in the 1820s. When he died the Society bought the Linnaeus collection for £3000 - a debt that it took them over 30 years to pay off.

Very few Australian plants seem to have been named for Smith, though he himself named very many of them for his fellow British and European botanists. Keep an eye out for the cryptic little 'Sm.' that follows the name of many Australian plants - it indicates that Smith was their author.

Sowerbaea juncea Sm., Rush Lily, family Anthericaceae, Ulladulla, coastal New South Wales.
Named by Smith for botanical artist James Sowerby, with whom he often collaborated.

I wonder how the course of British botany and the scientific institutions of the early nineteenth century might have been different if James Smith had breakfasted elsewhere on that fateful morning in 1783?

BACK ON THURSDAY

During the week, following advice received, I managed for the first time to take some photos - albeit mediocre - of one of Australia's rarest honeyeaters. Painted Honeyeaters Grantiella picta are woodland mistletoe specialists, gazetted as threatened by habitat loss. Prior to last week I had only seen two, though their piercing 'taw-dee' call makes their presence pretty obvious when they're around. Fifty years ago they used to appear regularly in summer in the mistletoes in the River Oaks Casuarina cunninghamiana near the Uriarra Crossing of the Murrumbidgee River near Canberra; since then there have been few records. It would be exciting indeed if this were the beginning of regular annual returns, but maybe we simply haven't been looking in this slightly out-the-way location recently?

Painted Honeyeater in River Oak (above);
sitting on nest in mistletoe clump (below). The nest is a fragile hanging bowl of grass and casuarina 'needles', bound together and to the surrounding foliage with spider web.

When I got home and showed the photos to Lou, she was somewhat underwhelmed. "Painted? I thought they'd be rainbow-coloured!" That set me thinking. Why indeed should this handsome but not especially colourful bird be 'painted'? The vernacular name comes from John Gould's species name, but that of course simply begs the question. The generally sober and restrained Gould waxed quite lyrical about the 'beauty of their appearance'; fair enough too, but really there are honeyeaters more apparently worthy of being 'painted' than the yellow, black and white (plus lovely pink bill, granted) of this one.

So, I started to look at other 'painted' organisms, either by common name or having the specific name pictus/picta, and was a bit surprised.

Certainly I found a few that are colourful enough that the inspiration behind the name is pretty obvious.

Painted Locust Schistocerca melanocera, Sierra Negra, Isla Isabela, Galapagos. A glorious beastie.

African Pygmy Kingfisher Ispidina picta, Queen Elizabeth National Park, Uganda.
I particularly like the mauve patch on the side of the neck.

Spot-legged Poison Dart Frog Ameerega picta, Machuguenga Lodge, Peruvian Amazon.
The vivid lime-green stripes are brighter than they appear here.
And unless you grew up with these highly toxic little gems, don't ever try to touch one!

Painted Dragon Ctenophorus pictus, Streaky Bay South Australia.
Maybe not so obviously painted, but in fact the paint is applied only by males during breeding season.
The blue flush on the legs seen here gets much brighter and extends to the chin, contrasting with bright orange-yellow up across chest and shoulders.

However when we look further into the world of painted creatures, we get the impression that many of the authors of their names associated 'painted' primarily with shades of brown. Please don't misunderstand me - I think the subjects of the following pictures are beautiful, and of course brown (plus black and white) is a perfectly valid colour for paint, but why see these creatures and immediately think of paint?? I have no good answer, but I see no reason why I should ponder it alone!

Upland Geese Chloephaga picta, Punta Arenas, far southern Chile. An integral part of the Patagonian landscape,
not really geese, more closely related to shelducks. Males have white heads, the females brown.

Painted Button-quail Turnix varius, Dubbo, New South Wales.
Button-quails are not at all related to either Old World or New World quails;
all are coloured in themes of black, cream and brown.

Australian Painted Snipe Rostratula australis, Jerrabomberra Wetlands, Canberra.
A very rare species (no relation at all to snipes) and rarely seen.
In this species the female is the more brightly coloured.


Painted Grasshawk Neurothemis stigmatizans, Litchfield National Park, Northern Territory. This dragonfly is found across near-coastal tropical Australia - along with many bright red and blue ones.

Australian Painted Lady Vanessa kershawi on Pimelea ligustrina, Namadgi National Park near Canberra.
I hardly need point out the existence of butterflies in nearly any colour in the paintbox.

Cape Hunting Dog, or Painted Dog, Lycaon pictus, Perth Zoo.
It seems that mammal taxonomists are prone to it too!

Painted FingersCaladenia picta (Petalochilus pictus), near Nowra, New South Wales.
Not brown, and a lovely pink flush to the edges, but other orchids might be reasonably seen as more painted.
My only plant example, though I'm sure there must be more.

Any thoughts welcomed, as always!

BACK ON TUESDAY

If I was pushed, I would probably nominate Genovesa (Tower is its English name) as my favourite island in the Galápagos. It is the most remote of the islands that visitors can land on (ie the furthest from any other publicly accessible island) and the only one north of the equator available to tourists. 'Remote' is always attractive to me.

Genovesa is at the pointy end of the red arrow; the other end of the arrow is resting on the ling of the equator.

Genovesa shoreline, north shore of Darwin Bay. (Darwin didn't actually visit here.)
Like many first impressions of the Galápagos islands, Genovesa can seem initially misleadingly bleak.

The remoteness is a key to Genovesa's attractions in a more direct way too. Several of the groups that characterise other islands in the archipelago didn't make it to here, including Giant Tortoises, Land Iguanas, snakes and Lava Lizards. This has had various ramifications. For instance, without the browsing pressures of the tortoises and iguanas, there has been no reason for the Opuntia cactuses (Prickly Pears) to retain their sharp spines, and they have become soft, presumably with an energy-saving benefit.

Soft Opuntia spines - their laxness can be seen here.

More obviously, the lack of Lava Lizards means no Galapagos Hawks - and only where the hawks are absent can the branch-nesting Red-Footed Boobies Sula sula, the smallest of the boobies, successfully raise chicks.

Red-footed Boobies, Genovesa.
Both the brown morph (above), dominant in the Galapagos, and the much rarer white morph (below), breed here.

Red-footed Booby colony, Genovesa.
Below, white morph with egg in nest in mangroves.

Young Red-footed Booby chicks (above).
Fledgling (below) practising on the beach for its imminent first flight.

Both other Galapagos booby species are also present.

Blue-footed Boobies Sula nebouxii, constantly overhead.

Nazca Booby Sula grantii, with egg (above)
and with week-old chick (below).

Other seabirds also nest here, and are as oblivious to human visitors as are the boobies.

Great Frigatebirds Fregatta minor are very similar to the co-occurring Magnificent Frigatebirds F. magnificens.The green sheen on the shoulders of the male (above) and the rusty head of immatures (below) are distinguishing characters. They constantly harass incoming seabirds trying to feed their own chicks.

Particularly constant victims of the Frigates are the beautiful Red-billed Tropicbirds Phaethon aethereus, which on Genovesa often shelter in rock crevices and overhangs.

Red-billed Tropicbirds roosting under shelter, Genovesa.

And one of the loveliest of all gulls, the mostly nocturnal-feeding Galapagos near-endemic, the Swallow-tailed Gull Creagrus furcatus, also breeds among the busyness of Genovesa. It's a special part of the Galapagos experience to look out of the cabin window at night and see, in the glow of the boat's lights, one of these beautiful birds flying alongside.

Swallow-tailed Gull with chick.

But wait, there's more (than just seabirds)... You've probably had enough for now, so I'll conclude this little snapshot of an astonishing island next time with other wildlife highlights.

BACK ON THURSDAY

Last time I found that there was more rhapsodising to do about wonderful Genovesa than I could politely fit into one posting, so I desisted after talking about some of the seabird treats, leaving its other wonders for another day. That day is here.

It's probably fair to say that most of us wouldn't make the considerable journey there just to admire the vegetation and landscapes, though the arid environments of the Galapagos, sun-baked and often growing out of pure lava, are in themselves fascinating and rapidly become compelling. Unexpected combinations of organisms, penguins and tropicbirds for instance, are the norm for the Galapagos, but I find cactus alongside mangroves to be equally wondrous.

Prickly Pear cactus Opuntia spp. juxtaposed to Red Mangrove Rhizophora mangle. I can understand why the Swallow-tailed Gulls find it perfectly normal, but I'm delighted by the concept.

The mangroves don't follow the cactus inland - even in the Enchanted Isles, as the Galapagos were once known! - but here the tough deciduous Palo Santo is prevalent.

Low tangled Palo Santo-dominated forest, Bursera graveolens Family Burseraceae.

As is true pretty much anywhere in the archipelago you are likely to be greeted ashore by lounging Galapagos Sea Lions Zalophus wollebaeki.

Sleeping Galapagos Sea Lion, Darwin Bay landing, Genovesa.
This species is confined to the Galapagos, except for a small colony on Isla de la Plata, closer to the mainland.

Also relatively easy to see on Genovesa is the much less commonly seen Galapagos Fur Seal Arctocephalus galapagoensis, the smallest of the sea lion/fur seal family Otariidae.

Adult male Galapagos Fur Seal.
While often regarded as rare, this species is actually almost as numerous as the sea lions, but is far less frequently encountered. One reason, oddly, is its thick fur, which led to heavy exploitation and a population crash in earlier years. This insulation means that it cannot safely lie out in the sun on beaches, or crowd together as the sea lions do.
Instead individuals climb nimbly onto cliff faces and retreat into shady niches when not at sea. They go out to hunt at night, unlike sea lions, so are rarely encountered from boats either.

After the sea lions, one of the first animals likely to greet you is the Sharp-beaked Ground Finch Geospiza difficilis. Genovesa is the only place they are readily found; elsewhere, on Santiago and Fernandina, they are mostly only in the remote high country. On the far more isolated and harsh islands of Darwin and Wolf (far to the north-west of the map in the previous posting) this little insectivore has gained a notoriety as 'the Vampire Finch', for its ingenious habit of pecking nesting boobies to collect blood in a water-pauperate world.

Sharp-beaked Ground Finch, inordinately naive, like other Genovesans.

Another hard to see 'finch' (see here for explanation of this equivocation) which is easy to see on Genovesa is the Large Cactus Finch Geospiza conirostris, found only on remote islands - here, Espanola in the far south-east, and the out-of-bounds Wolf and Darwin.

Large Cactus Finch female, Genovesa.

The Marine Iguanas of Genovesa are tiny compared with other sub-species; the largest males here weigh scarcely a kilogram, compared with a massive 12kg maximum in southern Isabela.

Marine Iguanas, clustering for warmth in the late afternoon sun.

Apparently bare sand can suddenly be seen to be swarming with little Fiddler Crabs, which just as rapidly vanish again into their burrows when disturbed.

I think these are probably Uca galapagensis, but I can't find any record of them occurring on Genovesa.
Advice welcomed!

On the east side of Darwin's Bay, up the cliffs via the steps known as El Barranco, a track leads to a vast creviced lava field, where some 200,000 pairs of Galapagos Storm-petrels nest.

Unfortunately the storm-petrels had just left when we were there, but this is their nesting ground.

Someone who regretted the end of the nesting even more than me was this Short-eared Owl Asio flammeus, who regards the breeding storm-petrels as a vast smorgasbord.

Roosting Short-eared Owl, Genovesa. This species is found throughout much of the world.

As a result, the delightful Galapagos Doves Zenaida galapagoensis are now finding life more difficult, as the owls' attention turns to them, and until next storm-petrel breeding season they will be a lot warier than they were on this day.

Galapagos Dove, almost underfoot, Genovesa.

Genovesa is a special place in a special archipelago (and in a world that despite all, is still special too). Try and include it in your dream trip, and maybe one day even a real one!

BACK ON TUESDAY

I recently received a request from a loyal reader for a posting on Ecuadorian orchids - I am flattered to be asked, so here is my offering on that daunting subject. 'Daunting' because Ecuador, incredibly, boasts some 4000+ orchid species, and there is no accessible guide to them that I'm aware of. Hence I can at best offer you genus names - bear in mind, if you will, that Sobralia, Elleanthus and Odontoglossum each have well over 100 species, Pleurothallis has more than 500 (though until recently it was more than double that) and Epidendrum more than a thousand. As ever, any suggestions you can make as to identification of what follows will be gratefully received and acknowledged.

Unlike the situation in temperate Australia (and elsewhere) most of the species are epiphytes.

Probably the richest orchid habitats in Ecuador are the cloud forests of the slopes of the Andes.

Cool mountain cloud forest, El Cajas National Park. This is a superb park high in the Andes above the World Heritage town of Cuenca in southern Ecuador.
These forests grow from 2000 to 3500 metres above sea level and are rich in orchids.

Cloud Forest, Paz de las Aves, Mindo Valley. These forests of the north-west slopes of the Andes are part of the Choco Bioregion, recognised as one of the most biodiverse in the world.

Yanacocha Reserve, on the northern slopes of Pichincha Volcano, on the other side of which lies sprawling Quito. The cloud forests, including the high altitude 'elfin forests', are protected by a foundation. This photo was taken at 4000 metres above sea level.

To add to the complications, many of the species grow and flower high above our heads in the forest canopy. Anyway, enough excuses - enjoy some orchids with me!

Elleanthus sp., El Cajas NP.

Epidendrum sp., El Cajas NP, above and below.

'Mosquito Orchid' El Cajas NP. This was the only name I could elicit for this one, and I can't pin it down any further.

Odontoglossum sp., El Cajas NP.
This genus produces some huge sprays of up to hundreds of flowers on spikes a metre or more long.

Odontoglossum sp., Yanacocha Reserve.

Pleurothallis sp., El Cajas NP.
These delightful orchids have flowers which only appear to grow out of the leaf!

Sobraliasp., El Cajas NP.

Then there are some which I can't even assign to a genus; over to you, if you'd be so kind...

Unidentified orchid, Pacha Quindi, Tandayapa Valley, north-western cloud forests.
This was growing close to the ground in a magnificent area of regenerated forest - formerly cow pasture.

Unidentified orchid, Paz de las Aves.

Unidentified orchid, El Cajas NP.

In the Amazon basin I have seen surprisingly few orchids, but I'm sure that this is simply because they are far above our heads, as in the case of the one in the photo below growing on the branches of a huge old Kapok Tree. It is only accessible because Sacha Lodge has built a viewing platform in the tree, 45 metres above the ground. The photos that precede the orchid indicate both the distance above the ground that this orchid is growing, and the incredible richness of these epiphytic gardens, which support hundreds of orchid species generally unseen by human eye.

Unidentified orchid, 45 metres above ground level in a Kapok Tree, Sacha Lodge.

I hope this brief and incomplete snapshot of a few of the Ecuadorean orchids gives you some pleasure, and ideally an extra reason to go there one day! And if you have any (sensible and polite!) requests for future postings, I'm very happy to consider them.

BACK ON FRIDAY

Nature has come up with a wealth of ways to achieve the most pertinent end of all - ensuring that your genes are passed on to the next generation, and preferably to a greater extent than those of your neighbours. One of the most impressive of these mating systems, from a spectator's point of view, is the lek, where hopeful males gather to display in competition, with the prize-winners being chosen by selective females, who ensure his gene line will continue on, in combination with their own.

The word is from Swedish, and referred originally to the display areas and gatherings of various grouse species, where the males gather in dozens to show off their finery and make a lot of noise. (If this reminds you of certain social situations involving young human males, there may be a reason for that too...) In many leks - perhaps even most - most of the females' selection process is done for them, with the most successful males taking up position in the centre of the display area. It is no coincidence that these positions are the safest, with predators inevitably drawn to the edges of the performance. It is certainly to the females' benefit not to have to travel far to compare the talent on offer, and for said talent to sort out their rankings for her to inspect. The benefit to successful males is clear, though the also-rans may miss out entirely.

In the case of the Cocks-of-the-Rock, two species of outlandishly attired South American cotingas, the prize positions at the centre of the lek are determined by a series of one-on-one display contests between males, with winners edging ever closer to the middle.

Andean Cocks-of-the-Rock Rupicola peruvianus, San Pedro area, southern Peru.
These brilliant colours come at a cost, as the carotenoids can only be obtained from fruits, then converted, by expenditure of much energy. More about this here.
Further, when a female (below) arrives, a frenzy of flapping and harsh calling erupts, again expending energy. They can ill afford to leave the lek to feed while others are present, lest they lose their spot.

Andean Cock-of-the-Rock female, Aguas Calientes, Peru.
She has no need to spend lavishly on gorgeous attire.

Another cotinga which forms leks is very familiar to movie-goers, even if they don't realise it. The startlingly loud call was used in every Tarzan movie, and most movies since then that featured rainforests, regardless of the continent! You can hear a selection of their calls here; I'd recommend the second and third ones as being pretty typical. Again such huge calls are at great cost, which is the point of the exercise - he is telling the world how strong he is, and what an appropriate father he'd be.

Screaming Piha male Lipaugus vociferans - love that species name! - Yasuni NP, Ecuador.
Here the display is purely aural, so no sartorial extravagance is required.

Still in South America, many of the hermit group of hummingbirds also engage in lekking, albeit not quite so spectacularly as cocks-of-the-rock or pihas. Males gather together, in dozens sometimes, in traditional lek sites, singing and tail waggling when a female approaches. Both of the species illustrated below are known to form leks.

White-whiskered Hermit Phaethornis yaruqui, Mindo Valley, north-west Ecuador.


Great-billed Hermit Phaethornis malaris, Yasuni NP, Ecuadorean Amazon. Deep in the shadows of the rainforest floor is not a good place for clear photos - sorry!

Some African antelopes also practise lekking, though it seems that for them this is only one strategy. In species including Uganda Kob and Topi, some males form a traditional territory with good resources and try to attract females to it, while others form leks on relatively bare areas - of little other value - and fight to attain the coveted central positions. Because of the lack of resources males cannot maintain their position in the lek for very long. Females visit regularly, and make for the centrally located males; they will fight other females for the privilege of mating with these desirable males, especially in Topi where the females are only receptive for one day a year! ('Topi' are now regarded as comprising several species of the genus Damaliscus.)

Korrigum female and male Damaliscus korrigum, Waza NP, northern Cameroon.
Previously regarded as a sub-species of Topi or Tsessebe.

Uganda Kob male Kobus thomasi, Murchison Falls National Park, Uganda.
He is lekking, in typically sparse grassland, unattractive as a permanent territory.
(And if were prone to anthropomorphism, I might suggest he is looking very pleased with his position of honour on the Ugandan coat of arms.)

In the 1990s Galapagos Marine Iguanas Amblyrhynchus cristatus became the first reptile to be added to the list of 'lekkers'; in summer males gather on lava platforms to display and attract females.

Male Marine Iguanas, Isla Espanola, Galapagos.

Male frogs gather to call competitively, as do cicadas; many butterfly species indulge in 'hilltopping' where males compete for the sites closest to the top of a hill, where they display for females. All these are forms of lekking.

Macleay's Swllowtail Graphium macleayanum, a species which forms leks over mountain tops in Namadgi National Park high above Canberra.

Then there is a form of lekking known as 'exploded lekking', where the displaying males are far apart, but compete by loud calling. The most-cited of these is the wonderful but sadly critically endangered flightless New Zealand parrot the Kakapo which emits far-carrying booms - all night for up to four months, at great cost. Another apparent example is the Australian Musk Duck Biziura lobata, which splashes loudly and whistles and grunts, being audible and visible from far across the water.

Musk Duck male, south of Canberra.

I hope you've found this of some interest - at worst I've had fun writing it!

I'm off for a few days out of town over Christmas, but will be back soon with more offerings for your delektation.

BACK ON TUESDAY 31 DECEMBER

It hardly seems that long since I was saying goodbye in this blog to 2012, via a series of sunset photos. It would be altogether too corny and unoriginal to do that again, but I'm definitely running down for the year, so have decided to settle on a few of my favourite photos from the year. As ever, I make no claims as to the quality of my pics, but rather they are selected, just one per month, as ones that bring back particular memories.

JANUARY

Geckoes are not common in Canberra - winters are probably too cold for a start - and the lovely Marbled Gecko Christinus marmoratus is rarely seen away from rocky areas around the urban fringes. We were delighted then when this beauty appeared on the outside wall one night last summer when we were sitting out in our little back yard enjoying the warm evening.

FEBRUARY

In February we spent a weekend at the top of Australia (yes, I know it's only 2300 metres above sea level, but it's our highest point!). The weather was very atmospheric (cold, windy, wet) but it really did make for a special experience. These lovely Alpine Gentians Gentianella muelleriana in the mist through drops on the lens bring it back for me.
More on the trip here, and in subsequent postings.

MARCH

The Australian National Botanic Gardens is a favourite desination of mine when in town.

Taken in the rainforest gully at the gardens, with the misters on, on a warm early autumn morning.

APRIL

In April we set off for a wonderful holiday to the dry centre of Australia. Our first camp was in Bladensburg National Park in central Queensland (which will get its own posting soon), and this dawn photo brings back memories of silence and isolation, other than the Red-winged Parrots and goannas which were among the camp visitors.

Bough Creek Waterhole, Bladensburg National Park.
Our camp, among the Coolabah trees Eucalyptus coolabah, can just be seen on the left bank.

MAY

From there we progressed into the Northern Territory, and from a demanding crowd of photos clamouring to be chosen I couldn't really go past one of magnificent Uluru, part of Australia's heart and soul.

Uluru sunset, from a long series. This is the moment that the shadow of the horizon begins its rapid rise up the wall.

JUNE

To be honest I didn't have many options to choose from in June, but this one (or rather two, but please think of them of two parts of one photo!) of a tiny female Superb Fairy-wren Malurus cyaneus taking a full plunge on a very chilly winter day in our back yard bath appeals to me.

Superb Fairy-wren female, about to (re)plunge above,
and totally submerged below.

Ironically, given all the ones I've had to omit, I seem not to have taken any photos at all in July! At least I feel more justified in using two above...

AUGUST

We indulged in a delightful romantic weekend at a remote little one-room cottage (no power) at the edge of the Deua National Park in southern New South Wales, prior to a very busy spring. One highlight was this visitor just outside one night.

Ring-tailed Possum Pseudocheirus peregrinus in Black Wattle Acacia mearnsii.

SEPTEMBER

This month I took a tour to south-west Western Australia; the task of choosing just one image from this treasure-house was almost too much, but this orchid was a special find.

Arachnorchis nivalis, bizarrely known as the Exotic Spider Orchid! Apart from its breathtaking crimson on snowy white colouring, it grows only on the edge of the sea - sometimes almost in the spray zone among the limestone - along a very few kilometres of coast in Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park.

OCTOBER

By now I had the privilege of accompanying a group to Ecuador, so choosing one picture for the month is almost a lottery. This one however brings back good memories of hours spent in towers high above most of the canopy in the Amazon.

Purple-throated Fruitcrow Querula purpurata, a very handsome cotinga 50 metres above the ground,
Sacha Lodge, Ecuadorian Amazonia.
I do like the juxtaposition of the spider web too, though of course it was total serendipity.

NOVEMBER

Still in Ecuador and so hard to choose just one. However the memory of totally unexpected time sitting in a canoe in a little creek in Yasuni National Park, again in Amazonia, entranced by the antics of a family of Giant Otters Pteronura brasiliensis, made the decision for me.

Giant Otter, one of a family of this sadly Endangered species which gave me, and others, huge pleasure at very short range from a small canoe.

DECEMBER

Finally, ending where I began, in our little suburban yard. Just a couple of weeks ago I chanced to look out of my study window and saw an unfamiliar shape land in a tree along the back fence, separating us from a public park. I was surprised and delighted to recognise it as a Collared Sparrowhawk Accipiter cirrocephalus, an elegant small goshawk which is quite at home in suburbia, though we don't always expect it in our yard! It was lurking under cover to enjoy its meal of an introduced House Sparrow - I'd be happy for it to come back daily for those! - but allowed me to approach quite close before taking dinner elsewhere.

Collared Sparrowhawk in our back yard - with sparrow!

I hope you have as many good memories of 2013 as I have. Thank you for taking the time to read these postings, I do appreciate the honour you do me. May 2014 bring you health and happiness and lots of natural pleasures - I hope to have the chance to share some of mine with you again.

BACK ON FRIDAY

I'm always keen to highlight Australian national parks, and I've been meaning to focus on Bladensburg for some time. This park is a treasure; I'd been there a couple of times, both with 'fair weather only' vehicles in terms of Bladenburg's terrain, and both times it rained, necessitating an ignominious retreat. Finally last year we planned our holiday route to central Australia to enable a couple of nights camping there; it does require some planning as it is in a fairly remote part of the country.

Location of Bladensburg National Park, at the end of the red arrow in central Queensland, just north of the Tropic of Capricorn. It is some 15km south of the town of Winton, via perfectly good two-wheel drive roads, as long as it's dry!The Lark Quarry dinosaur 'stampede' site and museum is in the general vicinity too.

It covers some 85,000 hectares of the north-eastern edge of the Channel Country, a vast area of grassy plains, broken by low eroding ranges and mesas ('jump ups' locally), dominated by a complex network of braided creek lines draining into central Australia via rivers including the Georgina, Diamantina and Cooper Creek - names redolent of Australian folklore and folksong! Here they disappear into a series of waterholes, all but the deepest of which dry out in drought times, though in exceptional years - a very few times per century - the waters reach Lake Eyre in northern South Australia. Last year was certainly not such a year (and there has been very little rain since) and the country was parched. A few of the photos below were taken on a previous brief visit, in May 2010.

The only really significant watercourse in the park is Surprise Creek, which cuts across the north-west corner of the park - the only camp ground in the park is here, extending along a few hundred metres of the bank, with basic facilities, but totally appropriate to the situation.

Bough Shed Hole camp, among (but never directly under!) River Red Gums, Eucalyptus camaldulensis.

Surprise Creek Top Hole. Both waterholes were already isolated, and would certainly be a lot lower now.
But one day - perhaps with luck even soon if the aftermath of Cyclone Christine gets that far east - they will fill again and Surprise Creek will even flow for a while.

The property, part of the land of the Koa people, was taken up as a pastoral lease by one Henry Cory in 1874. In 1993 it was bought by the Queensland government, and declared as national park - the name being that of the station - in 1994. The station homestead is now the park headquarters.

Old Bladensburg Homestead, in the midst of a vast and currently dry plain.

The plains comprise cracking black soils which expand and contract as they soak and dry, making it nearly impossible for trees to establish. Tough grasses tend to dominate.

Mitchell Grass Astrebla spp. plains, very droughted.

Cracking soils in the Mitchell Grass prevent tree establishment by breaking rootlets.

Spiky hummocks of spinifex, or porcupine grass, Triodia spp, are hardier and less prone to grazing than the Mitchell Grass. Such hummock grasslands comprise nearly a quarter of Australia's land area.

Some of the more spectacular big birds of Bladensburg live out on these plains.

Brolgas Grus rubicunda; it often surprises me to find these cranes, essentially wetland birds, in such arid landscapes.

male Australian Bustard Ardeotis australia.

Black Falcon Falco subniger.This redoubtable hunter is relatively thinly scattered across Australia, and is our second least common falcon.

It is easier however, especially in the dry times, to find life around the jump-ups and eroded gorges.

Jump-up capped with Ironwood Wattle Acacia estrophiolata.

Scrammy Gorge. With the thin hard cap breached, the softer underlying material is crumbling,
undermining the walls and widening the gorge.
It is purportedly named for stockman Scrammy Jack, for his crushed right hand - 'scrammy' is alleged to mean 'left-handed' in an English dialect, but I can't confirm that.

Spinifex Pigeons Geophaps plumifera are typically associated with spinifex on and around rocky ridges.
They are one of the most delightful of all pigeons, both in appearance and their whirring runs across the ground.

Spinifex Pigeons with a friend, a Euro Macropus robustus, which shares their habitat preferences.


Red-winged Parrot Aprosmictus erythropterus female inspecting a nest hollow along Surprise Creek.

This Spotted Bowerbird Chlamydera maculata hung around camp with an optimistic expression.
And surely the long-promised posting on bowerbirds must be getting closer!

In addition to the bold and handsome Yellow-spotted Goanna that I introduced you to here, another, smaller, lizard lived along the creek too.

Gilbert's Dragon Amphibolurus gilberti.
Also known as the 'ta ta lizard'; males, like this one, sit up and wave to competitors
to announce that the territory is still occupied.

I was tempted to tell you that the lizard is waving goodbye for the day from me, but that would be altogether too twee. Instead I'll finish with three of the characteristic eucalypts of the park (along with the River Red Gum, along all the creeks, that I mentioned above in the second caption).

Ghost Gum Eucalyptus (Corymbia) aperrerinja, struggling on a stony plateau, but prevailing as this tree always does.
The wonderful species name is taken from the Pitjantjatjara language of the central deserts
- still very much a living language.

Coolabah E. coolabah, made famous by its appearance in Waltzing Matilda, Australia's 'unofficial national anthem'.
(It would be fair to say however that most Australians haven't actually seen one.)
They live on the flood plains, but where the River Red Gums are absent they grow along the creek lines too.

Desert Bloodwood E. terminalis, a particularly elegant tree which grows right across the central deserts.

But I can't always help being corny, and I have a weakness for sunrises, especially as a New Year symbol.

Sunrise over camp, Bladensburg NP.

But corn aside, Bladensburg is a special park and I'd commend it to you very highly indeed. Let me know if you get there.

BACK ON TUESDAY

I have to specify that in the title, because elsewhere in the world people are likely to think of the superb Murchison Falls in Uganda - and they too will get a turn here in due course. I am prompted by my mention in the last posting of Augustus Gregory's mapping of part the Murchison River in 1848. Both features were named for Sir Roderick Murchison, Scottish geologist and president of the British Royal Geographical Society.

The Murchison River is the second longest in Western Australia, flowing for some 800km from the dry inland Robinson Range to the sea at Kalbarri National Park near Geraldton on the semi-arid Indian Ocean coast, much of the water coming from overflow of salt lakes which fill only during cyclonic summer rains.

The red arrow point indicates Kalbarri and the mouth of the Murchison, flowing from the north-east.

The Murchison Gorge in Kalbarri NP is just magnificent, 80 kilometres of huge red sandstone cliffs above the sharply twisting river bed, with wildflower-rich sandy dry eucalypt woodlands on the plains above.

The Murchison, in the dry season, beneath the cliffs at Ross Graham Lookout, Kalbarri NP.

Dry woodlands, typical of the sandplains of Kalbarri above the Murchison.

"Nature's Window", a wind-eroded feature high above the Murchison.


Down at river level, a quiet pool. While the level is low here, after a dry summer when the cyclones don't bring rain this far south, the flow can stop altogether.

Mind you, it can still rain there even in the dry season!

Semi-arid Kalbarri NP woodland rapidly becoming awash!

The rocks contain some fascinating stories too.

The tubes are in fact Skolithos - casts of the burrows of worms that lived in a shallow sea here some 410 years ago.

Another fossil here, almost overlooking the Murchison, is one of the most exciting fossil traces I've ever seen. It marks one of the first forays ashore of a major predator, over 400 million years ago in the Silurian.


These tracks are those of a eurypterid, or 'sea scorpion', the top predator of its time, which here followed small prey ashore onto a soft muddy shore, where they had doubtless thought they were safe!

Today the predators are generally out of sight, but the wildflowers of the Murchison plains are some of the most spectacular in Australia; let me share a few of my favourites with you.

Tall Mulla Mulla Ptilotus macrocephalus, in almost unimaginably massed flowering; this species is widespread across the arid inland, but I've never seen it like this.

Pink Milkmaids Burchardia rosea, family Colchicaceae.
One of just five species in the genus, this beautiful lily is restricted to the Murchison area.
For more about the somewhat mysterious person it was named for, see here.

Two superb big grevilleas light up the plains too, and are not found much further afield from here.

Grevillea candelabroides, above, and
Grevillea petrophiloides (Pink Pokers) below

Wiry Honeymyrtle Melaleuca nematophylla, another magnificent massed display.

And finally, a sandplains representative of one of the most beautiful West Australian genera, the Myrtaceous Verticordias - the genus name means 'heart turner'.

Verticordia monodelpha, guaranteed to turn both hearts and heads!

Which indeed is true of the mighty Murchison itself, and the rest of Kalbarri where it ends its journey. Make a date to get there some time, preferably in late winter or early spring.

I am about to head west myself, though not this far north this time, taking a group of people to explore the rich south-west corner. There'll be lots to talk about when I get back, so please don't forget me!

BACK ON TUESDAY 1 OCTOBER

This is an unscheduled posting, prompted by an observation in Nowra again over the weekend. A few weeks ago I discussed cicadas here, after a previous visit there when the dominant - indeed only evident - species there was the hyper-abundant Redeye.

This time I found what appears to be the beginning of the emergence of another species, the magnificent Double Drummer Thopha saccata. I am tempted to use the term 'fearsome' because the volume of sound produced by this one is startling, even relative to the massed choirs of Redeyes. In an area of dry forest my eardrums literally seemed to be vibrating with the sound (well fair enough though, I guess that's what eardrums do!).

My cicada book, M.S. Moulds'Australian Cicadas 1990, describes the song as "Particularly loud... When populations are large the noise is almost unbearable to be near... On very hot days singing continues for many minutes with only occasional momentary breaks." I certainly don't feel inclined to dispute any of that; bird watching was nearly impossible, as I was pretty much unable to hear their calls.

Double Drummer.

The choir gathers; the Redeyes still have the numbers, but two Double Drummers can be seen at the bottom, and a couple more higher up. Soon enough they'll have the majority.

As I've said before though, I can't really begrudge them, as they've only got four weeks to eat, drink,sing and otherwise make merry.

BACK TOMORROW

Of all the things that thrill me when I go to central Australia - and there are many - the first sight of a Ghost Gum is particularly special. Like many Australians - I'd like to think most of us, but that may be optimistic - I knew of Ghost Gums before I saw them, courtesy of the truly great Arrernte Australian artist Albert Namatjira. (An image search on your favourite search engine for 'Namatjira ghost gum' will give you lots of examples.)

Their superbly white trunks, powdery to the touch, against red cliffs or vast dry plains catch at the breath and the heart every time.

Roadside Ghost Gum, west of Windorah, south-west Queensland.
Coming from the south-east, this is one of the first examples you'll encounter.

For much of my life I knew them as Eucalyptus papuana, but two things happened then. Firstly, the respected botanist Lawrie Johnson of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney grasped a very large and forbidding nettle indeed when he tackled the problem of what to do about Eucalyptus. The problem, in a gum-nut shell, is that the differences between Eucalyptus and Angophora are no greater than between the various sub-groups of Eucalyptus. Logic demanded either incorporating Angophora into Eucalyptus, or splitting Eucalyptus; Lawrie boldly chose the latter. Before his sad death from cancer in 1997 he had got as far as separating out the bloodwoods, spotted gums and ghost gums as Corymbia; they remain in most books now as the only other non-Eucalyptus eucalypt. This is an interesting enough subject in itself, but I'll leave it at that for now.

The other development was the realisation that 'Eucalyptus/Corymbia papuana' in fact comprised several closely related species. The species was based on a specimen described by Ferdinand von Mueller from New Guinea; as now recognised that species is limited to New Guinea and Cape York Peninsula in Queensland, so the others needed their own names. The central Australian one, our subject today, growing cross the harsh central deserts from eastern Western Australia to central Queensland, was delightfully called E. (or Corymbia) aparrerinja, that being a name used by the central desert peoples.

But thereby hangs a tale, for which I am very grateful to an anonymous contributor (see 'Unknown' below under Comments). I can do no better than quote him/her. "How aparrerinja came to be applied is a bit mysterious. It was recorded as the word for 'Ghost Gum' only by Basedow (in 1925 near Gosse's Bluff). In his orthography nj is the palatal nasal. It is not understood why he did not record the common Arrernte ‘Ghost Gum’ word ilwempe, and why instead his term is built on the ‘River Red Gum’ term apere (in modern orthography), meaning "similar to apere". Note that the River Red Gum is commonly considered in central Australia to be the most similar tree to the Ghost Gum." It doesn't seem that this one is soluble, but it's good to know the questions at least.

Uses recorded by indigenous people (which may include other closely related Ghost Gums) include its value as a very good firewood, resistant even to rain; gum was used further north as a leech repellant, and more generally as antiseptic and topical relief for burns; bark infusions were drunk to assist in fighting chest infections, and to bathe sore eyes.

You're most likely to first encounter Ghost Gums on the plains.

Ghost Gums towering over the plains near Simpsons Gap, MacDonnell Ranges.

Ghost Gums by the Plenty Highway, far eastern Northern Territory.

Ghost Gum estimated to be 300 years old (by the Northern Territory Parks Service)
near Trephina Gorge, East MacDonnell Ranges.

However to my eye, it is among the rocks, in the gorges and on the cliffs of the ranges that Ghost Gums are at their most dramatic and striking. It is remarkable where such big trees can gain a toehold, and the white trunk against red rock and bluest sky is just stunning.

Above and below, Standley Chasm, West MacDonnell Ranges.

Kings Canyon Rim Walk, George Gill Range, central Australia.

Ormiston Gorge, West MacDonnell Ranges.
In the film Man From Snowy River, the famous ride down the precipitous mountain was purportedly filmed by sticking smallish trees into the ground at an angle, then tilting the footage to make it look steep. No such trickery is necessary for this amazing tree, though it takes a while to persuade the eyes what they are seeing!

As you will have divined, I love Ghost Gums; please go and see for yourself one day.

BACK ON FRIDAY

This is not my usual natural history posting - in fact I'm still in Western Australia, about to start the 4000km drive home tomorrow. I don't have time or facilities for a 'real' posting, but events here since I last wrote have driven me to say something to the many people in many lands who continue to surprise me by reading my offerings.

The newly elected government of Australia has already filled me - and many others I know - with shame and embarrassment. This is not the place for a polemic, but I do want to offer my apologies, as an Australian, to those who are doubtless puzzled and even offended by unfolding events here. Both major parties sought, during the election campaign, to outdo each other in abnegating Australia's moral and legal responsibilities to the displaced of the world, and this is to our deep shame. In years to come I have no doubt that a more enlightened parliament will offer an apology to those victims, as recent ones have to 'stolen' Aboriginal children.

More immediately relevant though to those who read this blog is the perplexing and alarming formal rejection of science; there is to be no Minister for Science in the new cabinet (composed almost exclusively of middle-aged white men), a concept which I find utterly bizarre. More directly they have already abolished the independent Climate Commission, the only independent source of information and advice on this most critical of issues - bloody-minded madness. There is to be no Minister for Higher Education, apparently another deliberate move towards dumbing down the country.

The future of biodiversity management can only be viewed with despondency.

This is not why you read this blog, I know, and I won't be carrying on with this theme in future. Please know however, that there are many of us here who do not feel represented by this lot, and who reject such 1950s 'thinking'.

Meantime, back with a normal posting on Tuesday 1 October, as promised!

Aylmer Bourke Lambert never visited Australia, but he contributed quite significantly to the early understanding of its botany, in the golden days when a torrent of plant and animal specimens, mostly new and utterly wonderful to European scientific eyes, was flowing north to museums and other collections. Born in Bath in 1761, he died on this day in 1842, one of the most respected botanists of his day, though less remembered now than are some of his contemporaries. Two of these contemporaries assisted and encouraged him considerably - Sir James Smith, who was virtually the same age, and Sir Joseph Banks, a generation older.

Also of great assistance to him were the circumstances of his childhood. He was an only son whose mother (from whom came the 'Bourke') was of wealthy Irish background and her death when he was twelve brought to him the income from estates in both Ireland and Jamaica. His father and his step-mother encouraged him in his natural history interests; her family, the Seymers, included enthusiastic amateur botanists who also gave him a leg-up. When his father died, further inheritance came his way, ensuring that he never had to work for a crust, and could devote his life to his passion. (Sigh... just a personal comment.)

Aylmer Bourke Lambert, courtesy National Portrait Gallery, London.

He didn't actually graduate from Oxford, but he did meet Banks and Smith while there, and John Sibthorp. Smith in particular smoothed his way. In 1788, when Smith was already well-established and had recently been instrumental in founding the important Linnean Society, he invited Lambert to become one of its first members. Eight years later Lambert became one of four vice-presidents, a position held until he died. By then he was also a member of the Royal Society, and in 1801 Banks had him appointed to its prestigious Council.

But why? Well, he was an assiduous researcher and collector, and importantly used his position and major reference library and herbarium to help young scientists. His herbarium contained in excess of 50,000 specimens and represented the work of more than 130 collectors around the globe. Botanists came from far and wide to consult it. Sadly it would seem, after his death the herbarium was broken up and sold to institutions across Europe and the USA. He developed gardens and greenhouses to grow and exhibit exotic plants.

His most-cited works - and the ones on which he built his reputation - were monographs on the genus Cinchona (quinine trees from South America) and Pinus. His herbarium was swelled by material in Australia from contributors who included Governors Phillip and King, Lieutenant-Governor William Paterson and Surgeon-General John White.

His zoological interests are greatly understated (the estimable Wikipedia seems unaware of them), but his writings included articles on the Indian Gaur (the so-called 'Indian Bison'), the Irish Wolfhound and a new kangaroo from New Holland, at a time when Europe still mostly thought in terms of 'the kangaroo'. He somehow acquired a collection of bird skins from the Matthew Flinders expedition, and passed them on to the Linnean Society. He also built up an invaluable collection of bird paintings from the New South Wales colony in the 1790s, many of them by Thomas Watling, convict forger and artist. This collection, of over 700 works, was bought by the NSW State Library in 2011.

He died, today, at Kew 174 years ago, but in an important sense he lives on in Australia. Lambertia was named in his honour by his friend James Smith in 1798,from specimens collected by Banks and Solander on the Cook Endeavour expedition in 1770. It comprises a genus of ten or so species of dramatic flowering shrubs in the family Proteaceae (Banksias, Grevilleas, Proteas etc), all but one of which are from south-western Australia. The exception is well-known in the sandstone country of near-coastal New South Wales.

Mountain Devil Lambertia formosa, Nowra, New South Wales.
The typical tube flowers with rolled-back perianth tubes and spiky leaves are evident here.

Mountain Devil? The answer to that lies in the spectacular woody seed capsules,
often used as toys and sold as souvenirs, suitably (or not!) decorated.

Like many heathland plants, Mountain Devils resprout after fire from underground shoots.

In the west, one of the first Lambertia species described was not at all spiky, so was called inermis - 'unarmed'.

Chittick, Lambertia inermis, Cape Le Grande National Park, southern Western Australia.

Another, also growing in sandy heathland, grows north almost to Geraldton. Like several other species its vernacular name is honeysuckle, for the nectar-rich flowers.

Many-flowered Honeysuckle Lambertia multiflora. The common name is taken directly from the species name, but neither is very helpful as it is not generally possessed of more flowers per head than other species.

It's a shame Aylmer never got here; I think he'd have liked it. Either way, it would be a pity to forget him altogether.

BACK ON TUESDAY

As I write, it's 36 degrees Celsius here in Canberra (and close to that here in my study!); the coming days are predicted to be 39, 39, 38 and 37. In Adelaide, my birth town on the south coast of Australia, it's currently 43, with predicted maxima of over 40 for the next three days. This is normally the hot time of year for southern Australia in particular, but we are grimly aware (as are our North American friends at present) that climatic extremes are the norm of the future, given our unwillingness to do anything about them.

The radio has been reminding me to keep up my water intake, and the bird bath outside is hosting a stream of heavy drinkers. Their styles vary however. Pigeons can suck up water, enabling them to drink quickly and leave again - waterholes are magnets to predators and thus very dangerous places to hang about. (And no, none of the following pics were taken at our bird bath!)

Bar-shouldered Doves Geopelia humeralis, Idalia National Park, central Queensland.

Diamond Doves Geopelia cuneata, West MacDonnell Ranges, Northern Territory.

Most however have to scoop up a beakful of water and tip it back.

White-winged Choughs Corcorax melanorhamphos, Canberra.

Emu Dromaius novaehollandiae, near Esperance, Western Australia.

Zebra Finches Taeniopygia guttata, Serpentine Gorge, West MacDonnell Ranges, Northern Territory.
Like other desert seed-eaters (including pigeons and parrots) Zebbies must drink daily.

Chestnut-bellied Sandgrouse Pterocles exustus, Waza National Park, northern Cameroon.
It was long believed that sandgrouse sucked up water, like pigeons, but this is now known not to be so, as the bird on the left is demonstrating.

More dramatically, some birds will swoop onto water to scoop it up in flight, or by skimming the water.

Magnificent Frigatebirds Fregata magnificens, Isla Isabela, Galapagos.
Like many other seabirds, frigatebirds also drink seawater, so have salt glands above the eyes to filter salt out of the blood, but welcome fresh water when it is available.

Predatory and fruit-eating birds can get most of their needs from their food, and rarely need to drink.

Mammals too have different approaches to drinking. Carnivores, which are not generally threatened when drinking, tend to lie down and lap water in a leisurely fashion, using the tongue to scoop it up.

Sumatran Tiger Panthera tigris sumatrae, Adelaide Zoo.

Its prey however must be more efficient than that, and many antelope and horses for instance form a tube with their lips and 'suck' by using the tongue as a pump. (The following photos have been scanned from old slides, hence the ordinary quality.)

Black-faced Impala Aepyceros melampus petersi, Etosha NP, Namibia.

Gemsbok Oryx gazella, Etosha NP, Namibia.
This desert antelope rarely needs to drink.

male Kudu Tragelaphus strepsiceros, Etosha NP, Namibia.

Springbok Antidorcas marsupialis, Etosha NP, Namibia.
It is quite likely that fully entering the water makes it safer with regard to lions and other predators
- though not crocodiles!


Plains Zebras Equus quagga, Etosha NP, Namibia.

Giraffe drink similarly, but must go to much more trouble to get down, and are particularly vulnerable once in the drinking position.

Giraffe Giraffa camelopardalis, Etosha NP, Namibia.

And elephants of course have a particular advantage.

African Bush Elephant Loxodonta africana drinking, Okavango Delta, Botswana.

Closer to (my) home it seems that kangaroos have evolved the same drinking method, though I can't be sure that they don't discretely lap.

Euro Macropus robustus, Idalia NP, central Queensland.

And finally for vertebrates today, this big goanna just walked in and gulped!

Lace Monitor Varanus varius, Pilliga forest, New South Wales.

Butterflies have a proboscis primarily for absorbing nectar by osmosis, but it works equally well for water.

Butterflies taking water from Amazonian riverbank mud;
Manu River, Peru (above) and
Yasuni NP, Ecuador (below).
The proboscis of the animal below is clearly visible.

All this blogging has made me thirsty, and the temperature here has crept up to 37, so I might say 'cheers' for now. But I'll be back later in the week, when it will be at least as hot, to look at animals bathing.

BACK ON FRIDAY

Firstly, it turned out that I was understating the situation with regard to the predicted hot spell that I mentioned three days ago when we were about to plunge into it. Adelaide yesterday, at 44 degrees was officially the hottest city in the world; next was Melbourne. Here in Canberra, where at 600 metres above sea level we're usually spared the real heat extremes, it reached 40 yesterday and today we're on the way to 41 and apparently to the hottest week ever recorded here.

However my point is not to whinge about the world, but to continue to use the situation as a trigger to talk about how animals use water, whether in extreme heat or not. Last time I talked a little about how animals drink; today I'm going to torment myself slightly (as I sit in front of the fan with a wet towel round my shoulders) with stories and images of animals bathing. In practice it will be mostly about birds, as I seem not to have images of other animals indulging themselves, other than simply swimming as part of their lifestyle.

Firstly, birds don't just bathe when it's hot, though most species do so more often then. Bathing is not optional - it's critical to the continued well-being of feathers, which can be the difference between life and death when a falcon or goshawk's on your tail, which can happen at any moment.

Female Austral Negrito Lessonia rufa bathing, El Calafate, Argentina.
She isn't here to cool down - this is ice-melt water from glaciers, and the air temperature is definitely single-digit!

In a way I should be talking about preening overall, because bathing is an integral part of that, but the careful rearranging of each vane of each feather by the bill, at least daily, is a topic that warrants a posting to itself. Bathing helps remove surplus preening oil which can clog up feathers, as well as getting rid of other dirt, loose feathers and barbules, and parasites.

Eastern Rosella Platycercus eximius, Canberra.
This was in May, a chilly month, so again lowering body temperature wasn't the chief motivation. Note how the feathers are all fluffed up - this can be to help increase insulation, but when bathing, feathers are erected and separated to expose the skin between the feather bases to allow water to wash the skin and expose the entire feather.

It's still not a passive process though. In fact a bathing bird works very vigorously to force water into the feathers, pushing the breast into the water and rocking hard from side to side, hurling water around with the wings.

European Blackbird Turdus merula (above and below), Melbourne.

Red-rumped Parrots Psephotus haematonotus, Lake Cargelligo, New South Wales.

Australian White Ibis Threskiornis molucca, Darwin.

After that water is thrown onto the back, again with the feathers first raised, then lowered to squeeze the water through them.

Golden Whistler male Pachycephala pectoralis, Canberra.

Perhaps surprisingly, even waterbirds need to bathe vigorously. This shouldn't be too surprising actually, as such birds need waterproof plumage, so must make a special effort to get their body surface and under-feathers wet.

Magellanic Penguins Spheniscus magellanicus, Strait of Magellan.

So far these pictures were taken in natural settings, but a bird bath is one of the most valuable pieces of assistance that we can offer birds, up there with growing local native plant species.

Double-barred Finches Taeniopygia bichenovii and Chestnut-breasted Mannikins Lonchura castaneothorax, Darwin.

Silver-crowned Friarbird Philemon argenticeps, Darwin.
Here the head is thrown back and the wings are arched to form a bowl to hold water on the back.
(Below is the bird afterwards, so you have some idea as what it actually looks like!)

Superb Fairy-wren Malurus cyaneus, Canberra (our yard in fact), fully submerged.

At the end of the process the bird is sodden, and needs to squeeze water from the feathers and dry them out to regain their essential insulation properties.

Dusky Honeyeater Myzomela obscura, Darwin.

Noisy Miner Manorina melanocephala, Canberra.

Birds are adaptors however - indeed to live in suburbia you must be able to adapt to unfamiliar conditions. Part of this is the enthusiasm with which some species have adapted to sprinklers. This is not entirely new behaviour, but based on rain-bathing, wherein the bird hangs upside down to allow water to penetrate.

Sulphur-crested Cockatoo Cacatua galerita, Canberra. Hanging from eucalypt foliage to expose its breast to the rain. This is also known as leaf-bathing, as water shaken from the wet leaves is also utilised.

Crested Pigeon Ocyphaps lophota, Canberra (our yard again).
The sprinkler is to the bird's left, and it was turning from side to side and raising the near wing to let the water in. This is learned behaviour, as it's hard to imagine a natural situation where water would be coming from the side.

Just a couple more things. Firstly, one token non-bird.

African Bush Elephant Loxodonta africana, Okavango Delta, Botswana.
And OK, it's not actually in water, but it's just left it!

Significantly, many birds bathe in dust - obviously when water is absent, but also when it is not. In fact some species often follow a water bath with a dust bath, and in doing so seem to increase removal of both parasites and surplus preening oil.

House Sparrow Passer domesticus, Isla de Chiloe, Chile, dust-bathing. Plenty of water is available here.

By the time I'm back here with the next posting, things will be cooler here - for a while at least. Birds will still be bathing assiduously however.

BACK ON TUESDAY

Well, if pushed I would have to say that they're my favourite Australian tree at least! For me, this mighty tree represents the Australia that I love most, the essence that makes me feel so very priviliged to have been born here. This is another in an irregular series on Australian trees - other recent ones here and here.

Even if you've not visited, it is quite possible you've seen the tree in art - great Australian landscape painters including Albert Namatjira (see an example here) and Hans Heysen (here) featured them repeatedly. It is the only eucalypt found in every mainland Australian state and territory, always following the waterways, and absent only from the deepest deserts and the coastal strip.


River Red Gum Distribution, courtesy of the Atlas of Living Australia. The actual distribution will be more continuous than this - each dot represents a specimen or record. (The apparent dot in Tasmania will represent a planted specimen.)

In the mighty Barmah forest of the Murray River which divides the states of Victoria and New South Wales, the red gums form a great forest 25 kilometres wide, of trees up to 40 metres tall. Along the desert watercourses the 'forest' is only one or two trees deep, and the trees rarely exceed 25 metres in height.

Trephina Gorge, East MacDonnell Ranges, Northern Territory.
Every tree in this photo is a River Red Gum.

A River Red Gum forest growing in a rainfall of 400mm a year has a biomass similar to that of a forest with a rainfall three times as much; the key to the red gum forests are the underground waters, and flooding. The trees above benefit from both.

Floods are essential for seed distribution too, downstream and out onto the flood plains. Seed production is vast - it has been estimated that one tree can produce 150 million seeds in its lifetime - but obviously enough most of this bounty never germinates. Ants account for a huge proportion of the production.

River Red Gum seedlings, Ormiston Gorge, West MacDonnell Ranges, Northern Territory.
Whether these seedlings survive will depend on the timing and ferocity of the next storm-flood.

The trees in the following photos were once such seedlings germinated in the dry river bed. (Don't be fooled by the 'road' in the middle of the river in the first pic - that's normal in these parts!)

Hugh River, Owen Springs Nature Reserve, central Australia.

Stephens Creek, north of Broken Hill, far western New South Wales.

The limits of past floods can be seen in the lines of Red Gum saplings that grow on the flood-plains where the receding flood left them.

River Red Gum saplings, marking a past flood peak, Hattah-Kulkyne National Park, north-western Victoria.

Big River Red Gums are old!! It is estimated that the growth rate of a mature tree is less than a centimetre of diameter a year. Consider some of these magnificent old-timers, and what they've seen.

Melrose, southern Flinders Ranges, South Australia.
I love the way the road goes around it!

Orroroo, South Australia.
This venerable tree has a circumference of more than 10 metres and is estimated to be over 500 years old.

Brachina Gorge, central Flinders Ranges.

Burra Gorge, South Australia.
The trees here are probably the oldest I've seen; some of them must be close to a thousand years old.

It is remarkable that any trees this old survive, given the extraordinary pillaging that has taken place from the nineteenth century to today. River Red Gum timber is superb, hard and dense - so dense in fact that it doesn't float and had to be transported by barge, and so hard that in the earlier days blasting powder was used to split it. It is proof against rot and insect attack, so hundreds of thousands of trees went to make jetty piles, railway sleepers, fenceposts, wharf pylons and mine props. 25 tonne logs were cut, from trees that are claimed to have been 1000 years old. Worse, it makes excellent firewood, and probably millions of trees went into the fireboxes of the paddle-steamers, and the fire-places of Melbourne and Adelaide homes, which still burn it. Cutting wood for the river boats was a boom job. An average boat burnt a tonne an hour.

The common name refers of course to the timber, rather than the tree itself - here in Australia we have long suffered from an inability to see the trees for the wood.

The scientific name is rather more intriguing. It was named E. rostrata ('beaked', for the little bud caps) by German botanist Diederich Franz Leonhard von Schlechtendal in 1847, and was known by that very sensible name until the 20th century, when it was realised that von Schlechtendal had actually been beaten to the punch. Back in 1834 Friedrich Dehnhardt, botanist of the Naples Botanic Gardens (or possibly chief gardener at the gardens belonging to the Count of Camaldoli - some of the fine details of the story vary according to your source) described a eucalypt growing in that garden. It has been claimed that it derived from seeds sent by botanist-explorer Allan Cunningham from his 1817 trip to central New South Wales - certainly plausible. Anyway, Dehnhardt named it camaldulensis, the '-ensis' being a standard suffix denoting a place of origin, but his publication promptly sank from sight. (At one stage in my youth I spent some time searching gazetteers for the place, which I decided must have been somewhere in Queensland. I failed.) Why he should have thought it was appropriate to do so from this source, and how he was sure it had not been already described, I cannot imagine. In 1902 Joseph Maiden of the Sydney Botanic Gardens found the name, but regarded it as a synonym of rostrata, and published it as such in 1920. It was William Faris Blakely, one of Australia's great amateur botanists, who pointed out in 1934 that precedence must always rule in taxonomy - quite rightly of course, or anarchy would prevail - and so camaldulensis it is.

Enough of all that, mere human conceit. This is a truly wonderful species of tree, and if you're not familiar with it yet, then you're not familiar with my Australia at least...


River Red Gums,Murchison Gorge, Kalbarri National Park, Western Australia.

BACK ON FRIDAY

'Highway' in Australia doesn't always mean what you might expect. Certainly in the more populated and near-coastal areas a nice (albeit perhaps boring) strip of bitumen can be anticipated, but in the dry inland it may simply refer to any track with some level of maintenance, built to link different regions. We're perfectly aware of this, and for some time I'd had an urge to cross from western Queensland to central Australia via the Donohue and Plenty Highways, across the northern fringes of the somewhat forbidding Simpson Desert. The last time we planned it there were big rains across the centre, and while the country would have looked magnificent, all the roads were closed for many weeks. Last year we finally made it, but ironically by then the region was in the grip of severe drought, and not at its best from our perspective at least.

Moreover, we had the good fortune to come along soon after a young chap had come off his motorbike early on the second day; he was in pain, albeit stoical, but not seriously injured, so we re-organised our load and were able to take him on - several hundred kilometres as it happened - to a clinic from where he was air-lifted to Alice Springs. We were of course delighted to be able to help, but it did mean we pushed on through the central part of the journey faster than we would otherwise have done.

Nonetheless it was a great experience which we are very glad to have in our portfolio of memories, to be unpacked and relived over and again.

The Donohue and Plenty highways are indicated by the broad red line just north of the Tropic of Capricorn.
The Donohue Highway begins just out of Boulia in western Queensland, and heads west for 250km to the
Northern Territory border, from where it continues for another 500km as the Plenty Highway,
terminating at the Stuart Highway (a 'real' highway linking Adelaide with Darwin) 50k north of Alice Springs.

The start of the Donohue Highway, just 8k north of Boulia near where we'd camped on the riverbank
the previous night.

It's country that you need to get used to I think, and if you were seeing it for the first time in drought you may be underwhelmed or even intimidated. I love it.


Rolling gibber plains, Donohue Highway. There is a real grandeur to the vastness of the land, and in years when the cyclonic rains wander this far inland, the plains are green, covered in flowers and exploding with life.

Desert Bloodwood Eucalyptus (or Corymbia)terminalis and
Spinifex Triodia spp. hummock grassland.

The road surface is unsealed for all but the last 100km before the Stuart Highway. It can be corrugated and there are loose rocks on the surface. It gets maintained more regularly on the Northern Territory side than in Queensland. All of which means that a four-wheel drive is preferable, but if your vehicle is solidly built with reasonable clearance, you'll be fine in a 2WD as long as conditions are dry. At western end is a camping area with facilities and a shop called Gemtree, but as that's still on the bitumen it's hardly part of the highways adventure. That aside a couple of cattle stations - particularly Jervois and Tobermorey - sometimes do and sometimes don't provide basic camping and fuel, varying with current management policy. In other words, don't rely on it, and do be self-sufficient with regard to fuel, food and water. Basically all you'll get there is a bit of grass (or not) to camp on, a toilet block - and neighbours. And you don't go all the way out there to have neighbours at night!

Camp in the Gidgee Acacia georginae Plenty Highway.
The last light of the sun is catching the tops of the trees, my hat has been retired for the day,
dinner is about to be cooked on the trailer, and we're looking forward to another excellent night's sleep,
knowing that the stars will be blazing above our swag whenever we open our eyes.

In the Queensland section, away from the stream lines - especially the winding channels of the Georgina - trees are fairly stunted and birds seeking to nest in them must make do with what they've got.

Wedge-tailed Eagle Aquila audax nest, Donohue Highway.
This magnificent bird would rather be a lot higher off the ground than this, but needs must...

Once on the Plenty Highway in the Northern Territory, the landforms become more varied and the road passes near ranges including the Tarlton, Jervois, Elua and Harts, as well as the eastern end of the MacDonnells and the northern fringes of the Simpson Desert.

Outliers of the Tarlton Range, Plenty Highway.

More tree species are evident to the west too, in addition to the widespread Desert Bloodwood and the ubiquitous Mulga Acacia aneura.

Ghost Gum Eucalyptus apparerinja, Plenty Highway.

Blue-leafed Mallee, or Warilu Eucalyptusgamophylla, Plenty Highway, above and below.
This lovely little mallee is found right across the central arid lands.

With the very dry conditions not much was flowering, though we did find a few things in a recently burnt area of mulga towards the western end of the highway.

Ipomoea polymorpha

Solanum ellipticum, one of the 'bush tomatoes', and a close relative of 'real' tomatoes,
potatoes, capsicums etc.

Among the most ubiquitous animals anywhere in Australia are ants; we have an unusually high diversity it seems, and Mulga Ant nests are a feature of any landscape.

Nest of Mulga Ants, Polyrhachis sp. They are inevitably surrounded by these rings of painstakingly gathered
fallen Mulga phyllodes ('leaves'), apparently to form levees to protect the nest from flooding
when storms cause water to rush across the non-absorbent soil surface.
The animals themselves are far less obvious, being nocturnal foragers.

Perhaps the major highlight of the Plenty however is an area of huge termite mounds near to the Simpson Desert, more typical of tropical savannahs to the north. The Australian desert lands are truly termite-land; it has been suggested that termites here are the equivalent of the herds of big grazing mammals in African grasslands. The construction of mounds of this scale by an animal that tiny is an extraordinary thing to consider.

Termite mounds, Plenty Highway.
The Desert Bloodwood (above) and Mulga (below) are both full-sized small trees.

It's a very big country and there's so much more to see; I don't know if I'll travel this highway again, though I'd love to see it after the rains. Bear it in mind though; with a bit of thought and preparation it's a great option for a trip between Queensland and the Alice. There's always Plenty to see.

BACK ON TUESDAY

James Stirling isn't well known in eastern Australia (or indeed in his native Britain) but he was instrumental in the early days of the Swan River Colony, which we know better as Western Australia. A series of mighty French scientific expeditions to Australian had made nervous the British Admiralty, so the hitherto ignored western half of the continent suddenly became of interest in London and Sydney, and to forestall any undesirable ambitions the French may have had a settlement was proclaimed in 1826 at King George's Sound (site of modern Albany) on the south coast, to keep an eye on the sea lanes. The following year James Stirling, captain of the HMS Success, was sent to check out the Swan River, on the west coast, following reports by Dutch and French visitors.

Stirling was a Scot, born in 1791 as the halfway point of his parents' 15 children! Entering the navy at age 12, he saw considerable fighting in the Americas. Things went quiet for him after Napoleon's defeat and he filled in time by marrying, touring the continent and having his own children. It was the French interest in the southern continent that revived his career. He liked what he saw on the Swan River and recommended that a colony be established there. Indeed he rhapsodised – he even had a name for the colony – Hesperia, because it faced the setting sun! This was Greek, denoting ‘far western’, ultimately from Hesperus, the evening star, ie Venus. Hesperia was a nymph, one of the Hesperides who inhabited a fabulous peaceful garden somewhere in the far west. Neither the New South Wales governor or the British government were very enthusiastic, partly due to the cost, partly because the French seemed to have lost any interest they might have had.

James Stirling, some time in the 1820s (ie probably before his governorship).
Courtesy of the State Records Office of Western Australia.

Stirling, lobbying in London, tilted the balance by proposing that private enterprise bore the main cost, and finding some willing investors. The western third of the continent was claimed for the British crown in 1829. Stirling was instructed to ask the Aborigines if they minded; he was satisfied that they didn't…. All of Australia was now formally claimed by the British. The name of Perth was bestowed upon the town, it being the home of Sir George Murray, the Secretary of State for the Colonies. Perth was formally proclaimed the Capital of the Swan River Country and the ceremony took the simple form of cutting down a gum tree – it all sounds pretty prophetic!

For the next decade, except for a two year break, Stirling ruled the colony with little effective counter-balance. This is not the place for a detailed history, but it was not a happy time for anyone much; in his absence virtual war broke out with the indigenous inhabitants and savage retribution followed. English farming practices were inappropriate and many settlers were unwilling to adapt. There were also fundamental schisms based on the old class system. He resigned in 1837 and returned to naval duties, but maintained an active interest in the western colony.

Unusually in the context of this blog, Stirling had little obvious interest in the natural world, but his name is forever associated with one of Western Australia's special places, as well as an interesting plant genus.

The Stirling Ranges, inland from Albany, were named by Surveyor Septimus Roe. They mark the tearing apart of Antarctica and Australia 54 million years ago, 'unzipping' from the west and pinching the land (then sea bed) to the east, compressing and hardening it, and squeezing it upwards.

Stirling Ranges, from Central Lookout.
Photo courtesy Louise Maher.

Biologically this is a remarkable place; over 1500 plant species are known from the 115,000 hectare national park, including at least 87 known from nowhere else. It is also an important part of the program to reintroduce the seriously endangered Numbat Myrmecobius fasciatus to parts of its former range from which foxes have been removed.

Signpost, western Stirling Ranges.
Below, Numbat, Perth Zoo.

Finally, among the many genera and species of the great Gondwanan plant family Proteaceae (Proteas, Grevilleas, Banksias etc) which are endemic to Western Australia is one dedicated to James Stirling. Stirlingia was published by the Austrian botanist Stephan Endlicher in 1838, after it was realised that Robert Brown's earlier Simsia had already been used, and was hence not available. There are seven species, all restricted to the south-west. The best known is Blue Boy, Stirlingia latifolia.

Stirlingia latifolia, Badgingarra NP, above and below.

I would feel perfectly safe in offering you 500 guesses as to why the name 'Blue Boy'. It derives from the doubtless surprised observation that when sand from its vicinity is used to make cement, the cement turns blue!

And on that note I might wish James a happy birthday, and leave him and you to it.

BACK ON FRIDAY

While my overseas readers will probably have no reaction to that line, I'm sure my Australian ones will recognise it immediately. It is the first line of the second verse of a poem called My Country, written in the first decade of the 20th Century by a young Australian called Dorothea Mackellar who was travelling in Britain and Europe. It is in the form of one side of a conversation with someone who loves the misty European countrysides, acknowledging that love while expressing her own passion for the harsh extremes of Australia. She was from a wealthy Sydney family, but spent formative time on family property in the mid-west of New South Wales. The poem caught the Australian imagination and was widely printed in newspapers. It has been put to music more than once - most recently, and somewhat mind-bogglingly, by eminent Australian composer Elena Kats-Chernin for the Vienna Boys Choir! I recall singing a version at primary school, though I can't determine what the origin of that tune was. To many of us it's still an unofficial national anthem. (To many of us too, that's no bad thing as the official one could plausibly be described as a dirge-like tune accompanied by words that range from archaic-weird to not-quite-as-good-as-banal. That's a subjective view of course...)

Superb Lyrebird Menura novaehollandiae, Fitzroy Falls, New South Wales.
Presumably singing his own anthem.

This is a week which began with Australia Day, commemorating the day in 1788 that a small armada arrived in Sydney harbour to found a convict colony and claim the entire country for Britain, regardless of the fact that it had already been fully occupied for some 50,000 years. For obvious reasons this a pretty divisive day here. As I have implied numerous times in this blog's postings, I never cease being profoundly grateful for my ridiculously undeserved luck at being born in this remarkable land. 'Pride' however would suggest taking credit for things I'm only the beneficiary of, not responsible for. And that good fortune carries, for me, an obligation of stewardship, and my periodic criticisms of actions which damage the land and our society stem directly from my passion for it. You can't claim to love someone or something if you stand back while it's being assaulted.

Anyway, enough of that. I thought it might be fun to illustrate, line by line, at least the second and third verses of My Country, from my own perspective. (The whole thing is worth reading and some of it is surprisingly modern.) The first verse is her acknowledgement of her imaginary English conversation companion's love of softer climes, the last three talk about the recovery of the land from drought when the rains come. The "droughts and flooding rain" reference is a perfect summary of the El Niño nature of our climate.

I love a sunburnt country,