Seaside Daisies

Sometimes I don’t have many words, but I see things I want to share.

On our walks around our neighbourhood, footsteps in time. We chat. We laugh. We smell the flowers. We sit on the grass and soak up the sun.

We live near the green belt. Dotted around are exercise stations. We stop at each one, inadvertently exercising muscles normally left in peace.

Sometimes we walk in silence, lost in our own thoughts.

Other times we find ourselves wandering down memory lane. On our last walk my daughter spoke of her sadness, missing the beach house, her cousins. Good times remembered.

Tradition has us stop off on our way home for a treat, invariably an icecream.

My daughters footsteps speed up as we head toward home.

I linger.

Have a wonderful day 🌱

 

Ode to Margaret Maloney (1771-1804)

Autumn welcomed us to Adelaide, it was like arriving in my own personal heaven, streets lined with historical avenues of deciduous trees every day turning even more brilliant colours of my favourite season.

This post is an ode to Margaret Maloney, my Great x5 Grandmother.

I remember, as a child, asking my mother if we had any convicts in our family. She said, ‘yes’, my eyes wide, ‘really! What did they do?’. ‘Stole a cow’, my mother replied.

I don’t know if my mother was having fun with me, or if there is any truth to it, I certainly haven’t found anything to prove or disprove it…yet…

But I have found some convicts, let me introduce you to Margaret Maloney 🍀

Margaret was born in Ireland in 1771.

Her parents, siblings and childhood are mysteries to me, every rock I find I wish for a clue, turn it and find nothing.

Her childhood? At a minimum, I hope she was safe, warm and fed.

We don’t know if Margaret came from a poverty stricken family, middle of the road or a family of note but we do know that her life wasn’t about to get easier.

In April 1792 she was tried for a crime in County Carlow.

There are no surviving records of what she was found guilty of, but guilty she was found and seven years transportation she received.

An explosion destroyed the Irish Public Records Office in 1922, lost that day were thousands of documents, many dating to the 13th century, a trove of historical treasure, including sadly for us, the record of what Margaret Maloney was found guilty of that day in April 1792 (and perhaps more information about her life and family?).

About a year after her arrest, 21 years of age (and 6 months pregnant), she boarded the ship Boddingtons and on 15 February 1793 departed Cork with 19 other female convicts and 125 male convicts, bound for Botany Bay.

At sea in May 1793 Margaret gave birth to a son, John O’Brien. She listed the father as William O’Brien. Another William (O’Neil) features later in her story…I can’t help but wonder if they were the same person?

It was an eventful 173 days journey from Cork to Port Jackson interspersed with alarms of mutinies and conspiracies among both soldiers and convicts.

But, under the charge of Captain Robert Chalmers, a convict ship it remained and on the 7th August, 1793 the Boddingtons sailed safely into Port Jackson, just five years after Arthur Phillip and the First Fleet rowed to shore and set foot on the coastal wilderness that would become Sydney.

Some convict ships had devastating numbers of death, especially the notorious Second Fleet with ships run by the slave traders. Thankfully Boddingtons was not one of those, she dropped anchor at Sydney Cove just one convict less (and four babies more) than when they left and it was reported on their landing that they were mostly in good health.

In September 1793 Margaret baptised her son John in Sydney.

I can find no further record of John O’Brien, it has been suggested by one researcher he died in infancy.

Upon Margaret’s arrival in Sydney, she met John McDuel.

My early research indicated John arrived as a private for the newly established New South Wales Corps in 1791 on the ship Matilda. However, I’ve since found alternate research that suggests he arrived as a convict and upon arrival enlisted as a soldier. To find the truth from the old country, I’m searching shipping records, prison records, military records and court records, but the truth alludes me at the moment…

One thing my research has told me is that the journey onboard Matilda was horrendous, 25 lives lost and the majority of convicts sent directly to the hospital upon arrival ‘the greatest part of them are so emaciated, so worn away by long confinement, or want of food, or from both these causes, that it will be long before they recover their strength, and which many of them never will recover’. Governor Phillip to Lord Grenville, November 5th 1791.

In trying to understand the unfolding (unravelling) of John’s life, I find this information valuable…I wish I could find more about his life before his journey to Port Jackson, his family, siblings, career…to further understand…

Margaret & John’s journey together started with a son, William McDuel (May 1795) and then a daughter, Jemima McDuel (5 November 1796).

Then, like something from your worst nightmare, just days after his daughter was born, John (with several others) was arrested, tried, found guilty and sentenced to death for robbing the public stores.

Two were swiftly put to death on November 30, 1796 and another two followed on December 1, 1796.

Terrifying for John.

Terrifying and devastating for Margaret and her two babies.

But incredibly, on the 12 December, 1796, John and two others were ‘granted a colonial pardon by Governor Hunter when favourable circumstances [were] represented to him, on condition of remaining in the colony’.

I can’t help wonder if, for John, those ‘favourable circumstances’ were Margaret and his two wee babes in arms, William (1) and Jemima (just days old)?

I found this an interesting read from The Works of Jeremy Bentham published 1843:

Suffice to say, John was discharged from the NSW Corps on 25 November, 1976.

I’m super grateful to Governor Hunter for showing mercy to my Great x5 Grandfather that day because two years later my ancestor was born, Lydia McDuel (29 July 1798) and then a little sister, Elizabeth McDuel (1800).

But then some not great news, a record in 1801 of John McDuel owing Richard Tuckwell £5.17.4. I wonder how Margaret was coping?

Then this glimpse into Margaret’s personality…on February 2, 1802 Margaret Maloney & Margaret Murphy were confined by His Excellency’s order for riotous behaviour. They were reprimanded and discharged.

She still had her fighting spirit in 1802 🍀.

I wish I knew what she felt so passionate about that day?

My research revealed these two things happened around that time:

1801 – Governor King introduced a 5 shilling fee for a ‘night’s lodging’ in Sydney’s gaol (the fee was divided between the arresting constables and the gaoler).

1802 – Governor King introduced a tax on ‘strong drinks’ (this was to help pay off the remaining debt of building the new stone Sydney gaol).

I also wonder if this gives us a hint as to what her crime was that warranted seven years transportation? Riot? It’s on the list of common crimes in Ireland at the time…? Or was it the cow…?

Sadly her fighting spirit didn’t last much longer, in 1804 she died, leaving her four young children.

Following her death it was reported that:

…a presentation was made to the Provost Marshal by William Neil stating the death of Mrs McDuel, of the Back Row East [was] in consequence of violent treatment received from her husband. Neil’s declarations were calculated, however they might have been designed, to excite strong suspicion whence, after the most minute enquiry, [the authorities] were decidedly of the opinion that the declaration of the above informant was false, infamous and malicious and that no symptom of violence whatever appeared on the body – and the persons who attended the deceased during her illness protested solemnly when examined separately, that no violence whatever had been offered her.

Neil was summoned, ‘…stood confounded and abashed and returned with a severe reprimand. The deceased had four children, the oldest not more than 8 years old’.

It has been suggested that the man named as William Neil was William O’Neil who had been in prison with Margaret in Carlow. He arrived on the ship Marquis Cornwallis at Port Jackson on 11 February 1796.

I can’t help wondering if William O’Neil was the father of Margaret’s son born at sea? Were they parted young lovers/soulmates. Was he anxious to follow his beloved to Botany Bay, but sadly forced to wait three long years before being put on a ship, only to discover on his arrival that she was with another man, not only pregnant but also with a babe in arms?

Heartbreaking if this was their story.

Whoooaaa there imagination…

Thank you William O’Neil, I am grateful to you for being Margaret’s friend, standing in her corner, loving her and valuing her life enough to stand up and speak the truth. I know you would have known that you couldn’t change anything at that point, or prove anything. I see you a bit like her guardian angel, I have some of those in my life for whom I’m more grateful than words can say.

Okay, back to the facts…

In 1805 we find some more not great news, John McDuel registers a promissory note to Thomas Rose for £9.15.5.

And then in October, 1806 this notice appeared in the Sydney Gazette:

All persons are forbid harbouring, encouraging, employing or accrediting John McDuel, cabinet maker, on any pretence whatever on pain of prosecution with the utmost rigour of the law, as also for a breach of existing Public Orders, the said John McDuel being bound to me by Articles of Indenture the conditions whereof have not been fulfilled. I. Nicholls.

Sadly we then find John McDuel listed as a convict on the 1811 Muster in Hobart, Van Dieman’s Land.

When did they transport him to Van Dieman’s Land?

What happened to the children left behind in Sydney?

Were William and Jemima able look after the younger ones?

Knowing what we know about John, did they have to take on the role of parents when Margaret died in 1804, when they were just 8 & 7?

Did William O’Neil help?

I’ve found it recorded that Lydia had a very strong bond with Jemima and lost her will to live after her beloved big sister passed away. In my heart I believe it was the older children who kept the family together and Jemima became the mother figure.

A couple of months before her 19th birthday Jemima married Edward Eager on July 10, 1815. Edward arrived as a convict in 1811, he came from a land-owning family in Ireland and was a solicitor before he received a death sentence for forgery, with his family’s influence his sentence was commuted to transportation for life. He had a noteworthy life after he received a conditional pardon in 1813, one area of significance was his work surrounding the rights of ex-convicts.

And good news for my ancestor. Reverend George Erskine, the son of 1st Baron Sir Thomas Erskine, arrived in a fast developing Sydney town on June 26th, 1822. Shortly after his arrival our Lydia caught his eye, they were married April 2, 1823 at the Church of St Philip. Published in the Sydney Gazette: “Immediately after the ceremony, the happy pair set out for Windsor”

Rev. George Erskine is mentioned on the Australian Royalty website and the suburb Erskineville in Sydney was named in his honour, it was where he built a home for his family, Erskine Villa, in 1830.

Sometimes when I look in the mirror I see my mother in my expressions, I wonder, could that mean I’m also looking at my grandmother(s) too? Next time I see those expressions I’m going to look closer…

Thank you Margaret Maloney, for so much, your strength, courage, fighting spirit…for your legacy and my tiny place in it.

And thank you too John McDuel, I’m sad your life held so much pain, may the joy that has been born through you rained peace upon you. (John passed away in New Norfolk, Van Dieman’s Land in 1827)

Have a wonderful day!

(most of my research has come from online genealogy sites but there has also been one additional source where I found valuable new snippets of information, Barbara Hall’s self published book, ‘Of Infamous Character, The Convicts of the Boddingtons, Ireland to Botany Bay, 1793’. Thank you for your research Barbara, from a very grateful descendant of a convict who made her journey on the Boddingtons.)

Digging

It’s a long time since I’ve written.

Much has happened!

We’ve left NZ.

And our Tiny Garden.

In the hands of new caretakers 🌱

We’ve ventured across the ditch, home (for me) to Australia.

Here on home soil, much inspired, I’ve been doing a different kind of digging.

Into my ancestry.

Some of my ancestors experiences have left me awake at night worrying about them.

Two who have particularly captured me; a 21 year old convict who arrived in 1793 on the ship Boddington and a private in the New South Wales corps who arrived two years earlier on the ship Matilda. They arrived just a few years after Phillip Arthur sailed into Sydney Harbour in 1788 with the First Fleet (11 ships).

I’m patching their lives together with what facts still exist but what I wish more than anything is that I had some of their own words, so I can be there with them while they write, feel their pain and fear, share it with them, a trouble shared is a trouble halved? Halve their worries, I wish with all my heart I could.

We miss so much about our home in NZ; our beloved friends, our little cottage and our tiny garden 🌱

But with the twists and turns of life come new joys, new hopes, new dreams…

Wishing you a wonderful day!

PS. these golden delicious apples are from our last Tiny Garden harvest before we left in April this year. No exaggeration, they were the yummiest apples I have ever tasted! 🍏😃

 

Plum blossoms

We have some plum blossoms!

This is the Greengage Plum that struggled through last year after being relocated.

The thought of some greengage plums makes me want to swing like a monkey from a tree!

That reminds me of trip we made from Sydney to Mullaway Beach when we were little to visit our Nan.

I would have been about 5 years old. We’d been in Sydney since I was two when our parents separated. But now we had a new member of the family, our step father, and the decision had been made that we would move back to the mountain.

In preparation, a new purchase, a short wheel base ex Army, khaki, soft top Landrover.

A visit to Nan was planned (6hrs drive north from Sydney), an opportunity for mum and us kids to take the new truck for a joy ride!

Those of you who are familiar with soft top Landrovers will know that the canvas canopy fastens to the front cab and fits over two metal frames. At the back there is a canvas flap that you can roll up, like a tent door. That day it was a beautiful sunny warm (hot) day, we had it rolled up and we had the perfect view of the road left behind, massive majestic eucalyptus trees one minute huge in our peripheral and the next minute tiny in the distance and blink, gone.

We were on top of the world. And what do you want to do when you’re on top of the world?  Swing like a monkey!

Which is exactly what my little three year old sister did. She started to swing on the middle metal frame, we all thought it was very funny, totally oblivious to the danger.

Mum must have looked back to see what was making us laugh. Can you imagine the horror she must have felt? Her little baby swinging with nothing between her and the open road disappearing behind us at about 60 miles an hour! If her little fingers were to slip and let go?? The horror was felt by all of us when we realised the danger.

On the side of the road mum unrolled the canvas flap and fastened it tightly closed. Locked in (safe and sound) a hot canvas canopy. What was that smell? Army? Dirt & sweat? Or just the old musty smell of aged canvas? Gone was our view, gone was the swirling fresh air. We were pleased to arrive at Nan’s.

I’m not sure whose idea it was but Nan had some shark netting in the shed, Mum secured it to the back of the Landrover. We got our fresh air and (slightly hindered) view back!

That aqua green thick nylon shark netting remained on that Landrover for all the years she drove us around, keeping us safe. She eventually got replaced by another ex army Landrover, this one long wheel base and hard top. No metal bars to swing from, but even if there was, we’d learnt our lesson.

Here in Tiny Garden we don’t have any trees big enough for an adult (or child) to swing from, but we have some plum blossoms! Now we just need the bees to do their magic 🌱

Have a wonderful day!

 

Spring is here

Is it possible that the fastest route to happiness is creativity?

Is it possible that when we’re feeling frustrated it’s because our creativity is being squeezed or restricted in some way?

I know the joy creativity gives me, both my own and others.

Watching and listening to my daughter planning and creating a new fairy garden.

Creatively solving a problem. Even those problems on spreadsheets!

A beautiful photo.

Posting here on Tiny Garden 🌱

A chef’s creation that awakens taste buds long forgotten, a movie that makes you belly laugh, written words that paint the picture so clearly you’re there, feeling the fear, hurt, anger, disappointment, a water colour painting that transports you to the country road where you can hear the cows bellowing from the far paddock, feel the coolness of the late afternoon and smell the smoke from the farm house…

Spring is here! 🌱

Have a wonderful day!

 

The woods

Lots of talk about the woods on the weekend.

Into the Woods, the musical.

Out of the Woods, Taylor Swift.

What does ‘out of the woods’ mean?

I tired to answer, relationships, bumps, troughs…

…but the important thing is to come out of the woods together…

…and to learn from the woods…

Did you make it out of the woods with…?

No, we didn’t make it out together.

What about us?

Yes! We go in and out of the woods together all the time! That’s what makes us such a good team.

Quiet now.

Content. Me too.

Grateful for everything the woods have taught me.

Have a wonderful day!

 

Singin’ (and Dancin’) in the Rain

A rainy Wellington day.

Drenched garden.

Reminds me of our new favourite movie, Singin’ in the Rain.

Just a sprinkle of rain…singin’…

…and dancin’ in the rain, images of my daughter dancing, pretending to tap, and singing.

Gene Kelly has inspired my little girl, I think she’ll take up tap next year 🌱

To look at, Gene reminds me of my father, the rolled up long sleeved shirts, slacks, his dark hair and boyish handsome looks, the cheeky sparkle in his eye…

Isn’t it curious that sometimes all it takes is flicker of recognition to pierce through into locked away memories, causing them to leak and sting. Ouch, why were things the way they were? Quick, lock them up again.

The past is past. Today is today, and today it’s raining!

Singin’ and dancin’ in the rain.

What a glorious feelin’…

I’m laughing at clouds.

The sun’s in my heart.

Come on with the rain…

I’ve a smile on my face.

Just singin’…

Singin’ in the rain…

Dancin’ in the rain…

I’m happy again.

I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the rain!

With joy in my heart.

I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the rain.

The last remnants of autumn.

Our Golden Delicious apple tree.

Autumn and rain. Favourites.

Have a wonderful day!

(This post is dedicated our friend Mark, we hope you’re having a wonderful time in the Big Apple!)

Protected centres

I started to write this about a month ago, our brassica’s have grown since then…

Our young brassicas.

I love their centres.

Young fresh leaves, protected by the older leaves.

Baby leaves protected by toddler leaves, protected by teenage leaves, sheltered safe in the arms of their parents.

Surviving a New Zealand winter.

My nine year old daughter wrote a shopping list, a menu and cooked a three course meal tonight. She set the table, waited, tidied everything away and washed the dishes!

Yum 🌱

Our first lemons!

Have a wonderful day!

 

 

Bare boughs

Our trees are bare.

End of Autumn.

Winter is here.

Chilly.

There was snow on the Orongorongos yesterday!

Short days.

The time of year when it’s a bit more of a struggle?

There was a time on the mountain when it became a little bit more of a struggle. I was fifteen, my little sister two years younger.

Just three of us left on the mountain, Mum and us two girls.

At this time we didn’t have a vehicle, a working washing machine or mower or generator.

The little creek had washed out, now a crevasse, too wide to jump, the walls too steep and too deep to step down into to cross.

With no car to drive across it anyway, we lay down planks, a makeshift foot bridge.

Everything we needed, we’d carry up the mountain.

Gas for the stove, petrol for the generator, food.

We’d bring groceries home with us on the school bus.

At the bottom of the mountain the bus would deposit us at the side of the road surrounded by our bags of groceries.

We would fill our back packs and distribute the remaining groceries to evenly weight our arms and, with our shoes switched out for gum boots, we’d head toward home.

Down through the pine forest out into the open, sharp eyes peeled for the killer cows, across the big creek, through the gate into Billy’s property, safe now from the killer cows with their knarly Brahman horns that could, in one swoop, impale you, expelling your final breath. Yes, we had active imaginations, but they were truly terrifying. They would come toward us with their big eyes and scary humps and horns…and the bull! We could never shut the gate with them on the other side quick enough, though we would never run, they would run after us and they could run faster…those horns at speed?! It was a flat peaceful forest walk through Billy’s property, only having to contend with the wildlife, snakes and goannas that would dart away at the mere crackle of our footstep. Up the first big hill, down through the bush, a gentle slope at first with a steep drop into a valley. A flat walk along the base of the valley to the little creek, across our makeshift foot bridge and then up the final long steep hill. Home at the top.

It was during this time that a very kind uncle of ours, who had once owned a bicycle shop, designed a person powered cart for us. Two mountain bike wheels on either side of a large square basket (about a metre square), with a sturdy extended padded trolley handle. You could push or pull it. Or, as we did, on the steep hills, with heavy loads, one would pull and the other push. Or if the three of us, two pull and one push, or vice versa.

It was with this trolley that we carted a washing machine up the mountain, a lawn mower, (a new second hand generator?) and once, with the help of our visiting brothers, a gas bottle, one of those ones almost as tall as you and unbelievably heavy, if you tried to budge a full one, you couldn’t (well, I couldn’t). I’ve just looked up the weight of a full one, about 160kg, I would have been about 50kg at the time. If I remember correctly we had both our brothers helping us, mum and us two girls. We had to take the basket off, lay the gas bottle down, strap it securely and then up long steep climb to the house, two pulling and three pushing? Regular rests, all hands and legs holding it tight, careful to not let it go shooting off down into the valley to explode spectacularly.

Those were the odd occasions, our regular week was just carrying school books, life’s essentials, groceries and petrol.

We’d carry half filled (full was too heavy for us) five gallon plastic containers of petrol on our fronts in our arms, was it because we failed to bring the empty trolley down the mountain on those days?

We were fit and strong.

Every day when I come home to our little cottage and there is electricity, light at the flick of a switch, a gas fire to warm us, a short walk (to carry groceries) from the garage to the house, I am grateful.

Though I still wash the dishes by hand 🦎

Fridays harvest 🌱

Have a wonderful day!

After the storm

We had a wild storm last night, rain and 100km/hr icy winds from the southern alps.

Disjointed sleep.

Scary dreams, on the front line, in a forest on a steep slope, tall dense grasses, violent sounds, guns, explosions, thuds, crackling, whispering stealth through the grass, silent breath, afraid.

Unarmed, hiding, until my spot came under fire, ducked, ran and made terrifying leaps down the slope, pause, check, I’m okay, scramble for cover. Over and over.

Every return from broken sleep, I’d find myself right back there, trying to survive.

Finally the familiar tune of my alarm called me safe into my chilly bedroom.

Morning bought icy cold sun.

We were surprised to see our young celery survived 🌱

After the storm, driving to work, first glimpse of the water, framed by the pohutukawa trees at the end of the road, was shimmering gold from the morning sun.

Out from beneath the pohutukawa trees to the shoreline, huge God rays filled the sky, a freight ship vivid blue in the light. The size of the clouds and the expansive God rays made the boat appear huge and close.

A silver ribbon of light glistened along the coastline on the other side of the bay.

High tide, no pebbly beach, just water lapping the road. Evidence of the waves lapping over the road during the night, pools of water, debris and sand. Scary for the houses on the beach front to have the waves so close to their front door, grateful that our cottage is nestled safe within the village.

Always sad to turn away from the water, final glimpse back at the rays, the glistening silver ribbon, the golden pathway to the sun. Focus turned to work, up over the hill.

Winter is here?

Our most recent harvest 🌱

Have a wonderful day!