I am planting trees and buying trees. Early on Tuesday mornings, once a month Ralf and I leave at 6am for the plant trade fair to purchase wholesale plants for our garden. I have planted rosemary, sage, lemongrass, pig face and Acacia floribunda. I have purchased quinces, mulberries white and black, raspberries, blackberries, and currents.

Every week something is planted, a tree guard is straightened after heavy winds. A new garden bed is established: raised and heaped with straw and manure.

Inside our home the fire is lit, its companionship makes even the darkest skies seem friendly. Spilling over the very edge and up to the road our wetland boasts its voluminous skirt.

At the kitchen bench lemon marmalade is made, stock from herbs and vegetables simmers and dough is shaped and allowed to rise.

As I chop she plays her violin, as I empty the compost she talks and makes up stories using her imagination. We visit the book store we scour the library shelves, we read stories together when I am not too sleepy.

A text arrived from Mark this afternoon telling me he’d found a Morel by Kirks reservoir, Morel season is not over yet, I leap and grab my keys and leave ahlia to peeling apples by the sink…

In between planting, cooking and nurturing I carve a little spot for something else too, for in my heart there is this great desire to share stories, to sing stories too.

At the Swiss Italian Festival, here in Daylesford Victoria, Australia, I will be singing and storytelling: songs about ricotta, home, unrequited love and daughter snatching witches.