Blue-tongue skink

I was heading home this afternoon when I spotted this fellow basking in a quiet part of campus. It wasn't quiet for long. As soon as I saw him (or her), I dumped my bag in the Faculty office and took my camera for a short walk.


As the vernacular name suggests, common blue-tongue lizards (Tiliqua scincoides) are not exactly rare in eastern Australia. These large skinks occur in a range of habitats, including suburban gardens and — obviously — university campuses. When moving around, they tend to follow routes that give them maximum cover, but a sun-warmed concrete slab or quiet road can sometimes lure them into the open. One of these basking sites is riskier than the other.


Blue tongues feed on a range of items, including snails. (I'm not sure how I feel about that.) But their broad diet and love of pest species means that they are not only adaptable to human-influenced habitats but also are often welcomed by gardeners looking for natural snail control.

Although they're reputed to be slow moving, this one put on a great turn of speed when it decided I'd got too close. It didn't resort to the blue tongue display but did make itself larger by inflating its body. Not that it was a small lizard in the first place.


I didn't want to disturb it any more than I already had, so I returned to the office to pick up my bag … and discovered that the special and supplementary exams are due at the printers tomorrow. So that's what I'm doing now. I'd rather be watching lizards.

I'm marking exams. They're not … good. But they're taking up most of my time, along with endless bloody meetings where we go around and around and around — but not, unfortunately, in ever-decreasing circles. If we did, at least we'd get somewhere.

In the moments between marking and swearing and meetings and swearing, I'm writing for money, which is A Good Thing. And in my spare nanoseconds, I'm reading Sean Carroll's Endless forms most beautiful, which explains evo-devo to those of us who studied embryology before Hox genes were big.

Evo-devo is the branch of evolutionary biology that looks at embryonic development and the way in which it leads to differing morphologies. Development is shaped by a handful of Hox genes, which are pretty much the same whether they're in crabs, crinoids or kookaburras. PZ Myers gives a good intro to their role in this post at Pharyngula. And he's written plenty more about them.

Fascinatin' stuff.

Yes, I've been quiet for a while. Many, many things to do at work, including that enormously entertaining pursuit — justifying your existence. Not mine, specifically, but the existence of our course. We'd have much less difficulty with management if we taught alchemy rather than … yanno … science. We'd be better off if we ditched our units in microbiology, biochemistry and genetics and replaced them with Amulets 101, Pure and Applied Lycanthropy and Consulting Entrails for Fun and Profit. I'm sure several universities have done that already.

I'm off to cast the runes.

Read all about it!

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Bridgewater Bay and Cape Bridgewater

Bridgewater Bay is a beautiful sweep of sand between the hook of Cape Bridgewater to the west and Cape Nelson to the east. You reach it by driving through grazing country remarkable only for the large number of bold, chocolate-brown bunnies that feed at the roadside in the middle of the day.


The bay was previously thought to have formed when the sea breached the rims of two volcanoes but its origin is probably more complex, involving eruptions, erosion, faults and changing sea levels. Nothing is ever simple.

At the eastern end of the bay, Shelly Beach is mantled in sea-milled molluscs. I didn't get the chance to inspect it but it's on my list for next time. At the western end is a thriving metropolis of ... oh ... six or seven guest houses and a beachfront cafe. Because the rain had held off and the wind was only moderate, I drank my coffee and ate my egg and bacon muffin at one of the outside tables. I was the only one there (apart from the birds) for half an hour or so, until a convoy of grey nomads arrived. At that point, the crested terns, pied oystercatchers and I went our separate ways.

Cape Bridgewater from the cafe

From Bridgewater Bay, the road climbs steeply and curves through more grazing land. Some of the land has been set aside for a wind farm. They won't be running short. The meagre roadside vegetation is packed with yellow-rumped thornbills, which haven't quite got the hang of traffic. The magpies and ravens have better road sense.

The flora fascinated this raven

A pair of magpies accompanied me for part of the walk

Cape Bridgewater was once a volcanic island but is now connected to the mainland by an infill of dune calcarenite. The Great South West Walk passes along the cliff tops with a couple of detours — to the Blowholes and the Petrified Forest.

Cushion bushes on the cliff top

The Blowholes are much more entertaining in stormy weather, when the spray comes over the cliff top. (Not that I wanted to be out there with a gale blowing.) But even on a calm day, the surf sounds like a cannonade and you can almost feel the concussion through the rock.

Basalt at the Blowholes

Kelp ...

... enjoys the pummelling

The Petrified Forest is an unusual formation on the cliff top. One explanation suggests it is the remains of a moonah (Melaleuca lanceolata) forest that was smothered by wind-blown sand. The trees died and decayed, leaving trunk-shaped sandstone crusts. It's a nice story but isn't true.

The Petrified Forest

The tubes are solution pipes. They are thought to have been formed when water seeped down through the dunes, dissolving the lime in it. The water moved laterally and cemented the sand into a pipe. Over time the surrounding material was eroded but the more resistant pipes remained.

The Great South West Walk takes intrepid walkers to Discovery Bay, which extends into South Australia. I didn't wander too far along the track because I had to get back to Melbourne that afternoon. But Discovery Bay is another location on my list, although I'll probably drive there rather than walk.

The view to Discovery Bay

White-necked heron

Although they're not rare, seeing a white-necked heron (Ardea pacifica) is always a delight. I spotted this one just north of Condah on the Henty Highway, when I tried to escape the rain by driving inland.

The white neck makes the bird very noticeable at a distance. This individual was on the other side of a flooded paddock and I drove on for another couple of minutes debating with myself whether to go back to try for a photo. I talked myself into it.

I pulled off the road as far as I could without plunging into mud and took photo through the passenger window. I wasn't so worried about the passing trucks and utes but the caravans concerned me. (All caravan-towing vehicles should be fitted with width sensors, much like the whiskers on cats. Just saying.)


Duncan at Ben Cruachan also has a lovely photo of a bird he spotted in Gippsland last year.

Points Arboretum

Coleraine has two things going for it: the chocolate factory and the Points Arboretum. (It probably has more but I never get around to looking further when I visit.) This time, I only made it to one of the magic two. And it wasn't Glenelg Fine Confectionery. (Next time, next time.)

The Peter Francis Points Arboretum specialises in eucalypts. Oh, there are plenty of other genera — all native — but eucs are the focus. The plant list (PDF) records over 500 species and I think I saw most of them as I strolled around in Thursday's rain, although I only recognised two or three. Yes, I'm as crap on eucalypts as I am on most other plants. I am, after all, an equal opportunity non-botanist.

But not knowing anything about a subject is a reason to load up with books and camera and spend time finding out. Every step is up.

I have one book on eucalypts — Dean Nicolle's Eucalypts of Victoria and Tasmania. It's handy but it's obviously not enough. I might have to invest in Euclid.

While I'm getting a feel for the eucs — which will take ... ooh ... quite some time — I'll take pics and post them. They really are stunning trees.

And I'll write more about the Arboretum soon. Here's a little taste of what's in flower right now.

E. annulata from Western Australia

Red-flowering mallee box (E. lansdowneana) from South Australia

Curly mallee (E. gillii) from inland South Australia and New South Wales

Mottlecah (E. macrocarpa) from Western Australia

Rich and strange

On the second (and successful) foray to Cape Nelson, I encountered a couple of other walkers. We passed on the path to the lighthouse.

'It's got a strange atmosphere,' one said to me as they headed back to their car.

'You should have been here yesterday,' I said, 'when the fog was rolling in from the ocean ...'

Mercifully, I didn't break into a fake West Country accent, although it was touch and go for a moment. Had the exchange lasted much longer, I would have lost out to my piratical alter ego — Cowerin' Annie Slaughter — and warned them about wreckers and smugglers and the dangers of travelin' on the moors *.

'You've been here before?' the walker said. She sounded surprised.

'A few times.' And I've seen terrible things. Things no mortal eyes were meant to see. Flee, while you still can. 'The weather's usually a bit worse than this.'

As I wandered along the trail that wound between the cushion bushes, one hand clamping my hat to my head, my ears filling with rain, I pondered on the walker's words. I didn't ponder on them too intently because the path ran quite close to the cliff top. But I considered them nonetheless.

What did she mean by 'strange'? I'd inferred that she'd meant eerie or sinister, hence my comment about the fog — a coastal cliché, if ever there was one. But it wasn't sinister. It wasn't eerie. There were no smugglers (unless one of them were Spiderman, because those cliffs are over 100m high). There were no moors. And there wasn't even a lonely sea monster attracted by the song of a distant foghorn. (Note that I didn't say siren song. Points for restraint, I think.) There was an asphalt car park, two houses, a gravel footpath, a stout wooden viewing platform with interpretative signs and arrows pointing the way along the Great South West Walk. None of these struck me as strange, sinister or eerie. I felt ripped off …

… but only for a second. Because whatever strange atmosphere had sent her and her walking companion back to their car within moments of arrival had clearly prevented them from savouring the spectacular scenery. (They might not have been so enthusiastic about the beauty of the flora but each to their own.) Had I been similarly affected by the 'strangeness' I might have missed it all.

Of course, I might be on the wrong track completely. Maybe she had meant something else by 'strange' — something without negative connotations. Not eerie, not sinister, merely unfamiliar. Perhaps the weather had driven them off rather than the ambience. Either way, it worked in my favour because I got the whole cliff top to myself. What a treat.

And for no other reasons than it's magical and uses the word 'strange' in relation to the sea, here's part of Ariel's song from The Tempest:

Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.

_____

* It's happened before. Years ago, my house in Yarraville was burgled but the police caught the thief in the act. I had to give a statement at the local police station. It was all fine until I turned into an extra from The Bill. The constable taking my statement didn't actually write down the words 'toe rag' but did manage a fine compromise between my semi-authentic East End monologue** and the plonker-speak of a formal statement.

** I grew up in the East End (in Bow, just as the Krays were in decline) but I was brung up proper so I didn't ever speak that way. Not until now. Such is the power of television.

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Cape Nelson II: no fog, only rain

Cape Nelson is one of a series of headlands that project into the Southern Ocean from the Portland Peninsula. It is part of an extinct volcano that was breached and eroded by the sea and then smothered by sand dunes. Black basalt lies beneath the dune calcarenite, forming resistant rock platforms that take a pounding from big waves. (There's nothing but ocean between the capes and Antarctica.)

Fog

No fog

Vegetation is coastal heath and woodland. The eastern side of the Cape is (relatively) sheltered, so it supports a well-developed low woodland of eucalypt and wattle with moonah and grass trees. The flora includes an endemic subspecies of soap mallee (Eucalyptus diversifolia macrocarpa). The trees have just finished flowering — missed it by that much — and are now producing fruit.

Cape Nelson soap mallee

Grass tree in flower

Echidnas, red-necked wallabies* and tiger snakes are common in the area. I saw echidna excavations (they are industrious animals) and a wallaby but no snakes this time. There were plenty of birds, especially New Holland honeyeaters and brush bronzewing pigeons.

Bedraggled brush bronzewing

The southern and western edges of the Cape are exposed to the Southern Ocean. Here the vegetation is battered and bonsaied by the wind and salt spray. Cushion bush (Leucophyta brownii) dominates the cliff tops, providing shelter for smaller plants. Many species of invertebrates (including amphipods, ants and snails) live beneath the cushion bushes, where they are protected from desiccation.

A patchwork of plants

Bright among the greys and greens

Resistance is not entirely futile

The Cape Nelson lighthouse and two residences were built in the 1880s from locally-quarried bluestone (basalt). A 435 metre long stone wall encloses the compound to keep out the wind. But it doesn't keep out the rain ...

Lighthouse

Residence

____
* Named after their banjo-playing skills. Or the collar of russet-coloured fur. One or the other.

Cape Nelson I

Despite the rain, I ventured out to Cape Nelson State Park on Thursday. No downpour was going to get in the way of my exploration of the Great Outdoors.

I hadn't considered the fog.


So I turned around and headed back to Portland. On the way, I spotted a stand of grass trees, their flower spikes glowing like beacons. I was determined to get a picture of something ... One brave New Holland honeyeater had a similar idea — it wasn't carrying a camera, but it was determined to return to its nest with spoils of some kind.


It was so focussed on its task that it wasn't concerned with my focussing on it. Eventually, it gave up and fluttered off to a nearby tree. We were both soaked at this stage, so I squelched back to the car and it went on its way.

I'm back from my miniature vacation and now need another one because I'm exhausted from trying to fit everything into a single, only slightly rainy day.

Will post pics tomorrow.

Gawking at gannets

Lawrence Rocks, SE of Portland, host a colony of Australian gannets (Morus serrator) and a handful of Cape gannets (Morus capensis) that appreciate the views on this side of the Indian Ocean. When the Rocks real estate became too crowded, a group of gannets relocated to the mainland at Point Danger. The breakaway colony is now a low key tourist attraction.

The platform gives an excellent view of the small colony

A pair of Maremma dogs guard the birds

When the pups arrived, they were 'rescued' by a visitor who thought they'd been dumped

Gannet-dotted Lawrence Rocks are remnants of the rim of an extinct volcano

Cape Bridgewater is a good location for watching the birds

But the photos would be better with an SLR rather than a point and shoot

No, this isn't funny

And I was wondering why the landscape was so lush on my drive down here. I saw the gannets but all my photos are blurred because of the rain. I saw a brolga but my camera batteries were flat after taking all the blurred photos of gannets. I did manage to spend much of the morning at the Points Arboretum in Coleraine, where it only rained a bit. But now it's settled in.

Bugger!