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Rural Aussies slam city folks' stupid act that many of us are guilty of: 'Happens all the time'

Rural Aussies slam city folks' stupid act that many of us are guilty of: 'Happens all the time'

Daily Mail​2 days ago
Ignorant city slickers have come under fire from country folk for not following a common 'bush law', leaving many locals frustrated.
An Australian recently vented on Reddit about travellers lacking proper gate etiquette when passing through rural properties.
'If you drive into a property and their gate is shut, f***ing shut it after you come in!' they wrote.
'I thought the gate thing was widely understood in this country but apparently some people need a stern reminder.'
The Aussie explained that their golden retriever went missing after someone left a gate open while passing through their land.
Fortunately, the story had a happy ending.
'The dog is fine. I caught her in the neighbour's driveway going after a rabbit,' they wrote.
The original Reddit rant drew strong support, with over 5,000 likes and nearly 500 comments.
One summed it up simply: 'Bush law: leave gates as you found them.'
Another added: 'It's not just bush law, it's the actual law in Australia. Leaving a gate open that was otherwise closed on someone's private property can be considered a form of trespass.'
In New South Wales, the Inclosed Lands Protection Act 1901 states that anyone who enters enclosed land and wilfully or negligently leaves a gate open can be fined up to $220. In South Australia, the fine can reach $1,500.
Hunter Valley property owner Callum told news.com.au that city folk needed to be aware of the rules.
'It happens all the time with visitors,' he said. 'It's like going into someone's home, you don't open the door and then leave it open.
'In the country, your house extends out to the land that it's on, and people in the city don't understand that because they don't have property.
'If you're going to visit someone's property, then at least have the respect to close the gate behind you. Otherwise, don't visit. It takes a few seconds to get out of the car and shut it.'
Other Aussies vented that it was not just an issue with larger properties.
'I had some sales guy come in and leave the gate open.
'The gate that my toddler had run out a few days before onto the road. I told him to go and shut it before I was going to talk to him.
'I was in a restaurant last week, inside but near the door, it was cold outside.'
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‘The friendship of the good': how a community garden gave me a sense of something bigger than myself
‘The friendship of the good': how a community garden gave me a sense of something bigger than myself

The Guardian

time2 hours ago

  • The Guardian

‘The friendship of the good': how a community garden gave me a sense of something bigger than myself

If you came across our school garden, you might walk past without giving it much thought. On the surface, we don't have anything that would warrant a visit from Gardening Australia: no kitchen garden or water feature or 'reflection space'. But we do have something else you might not see at first glance – something I wasn't expecting to find when I first came to this suburb. I moved to Fawkner, Melbourne with my partner and kids about five years ago, in search of affordable housing. The suburb was nice enough but I felt unmoored. I didn't know anyone here and much of community life seemed to revolve around structures such as the extended family, the church and the mosque. I could see how vital these were for people in our suburb; for my part, however, I'm not religious and my extended family live far away. I tried to find other ways to make connections: my kids and I went to Lego time at the library; we hung out at the local playground and chatted to people at the skate park. But none of it added up to a sense of belonging. Then I signed up to help with our school garden. At the very least, I figured, it was a day out in the sun. On volunteer day, my partner pushed our kids to school in a wheelbarrow, and I was armed with a shovel and pitchfork. Around 50 people turned up to the school on a Sunday to help with the garden, and while the kids played, the adults chose jobs according to our levels of ability and enthusiasm. My partner opted to repair the garden beds and I went for the lower-stakes job of weeding. It was slow and careful work, pulling out dandelions and chickweed – along with a few chip packets. Sign up for the fun stuff with our rundown of must-reads, pop culture and tips for the weekend, every Saturday morning Between gardening and tending to the kids, there were moments of socialising: a nod of thanks from a teacher, a chat with another parent about the out-of-control compost heap that lives behind the mud kitchen. These conversations were tentative, at least on my part; the pandemic and early motherhood had left me out of practice when it came to socialising. However, the school garden was the perfect place to learn how to be with other people again and I could see that I was surrounded by the sorts of people who I wanted to befriend. At midday we stopped for lunch (all halal, some vegan) and in the late afternoon the kids busied themselves by turning rubber gloves into makeshift water bombs. Eventually we wheelbarrowed our kids home, happy and hyper and wet. When I returned to school on Monday, it looked different – and not just because the garden was in better shape. It looked different because my relationship to the place, and the people, had subtly changed: I felt invested in them. After a few more gardening sessions, I had people to talk to and text. At first, these conversations revolved around the garden; however, one WhatsApp chat group led to another (as they tend to do) and soon enough I had people to hang out with. People I could call on for support if I needed it. Working together in this way brings us close to what Aristotle called 'the friendship of the good'. This, according to Aristotle, is the best kind of friendship: it happens when you see the good in another person, and they in you. It is very different to what he calls a 'utilitarian friendship', where we spend time with another person because of what they can do for us. A friendship of the good, conversely – like the school garden itself – is about creating something bigger than ourselves. Our school garden has given me a way to see the good in my neighbourhood. We have a diverse community: nearly half the adults here, including myself, were born overseas. Sign up to Saved for Later Catch up on the fun stuff with Guardian Australia's culture and lifestyle rundown of pop culture, trends and tips after newsletter promotion If we are to believe the worst corners of the internet, then life is something to be feared. People are to be feared, because people – as the despots and tech bros would have us believe – are motivated purely by self-interest; therefore, we must dominate others, or risk being dominated ourselves. And maybe that is true for a small portion of society. But in every neighbourhood there is also this: people coming together to work on shared projects, motivated by simple altruism. Projects that help strangers build connections to place and each other. This doesn't mean the school garden is utopia. Sometimes the seedlings die. Sometimes a child gets upset and stomps on a tube stock. But even these moments become lessons about care, consequences and how to repair damage. In tending to the garden together, we create a common purpose rooted in the things we all need: nourishment, agency and belonging. And maybe that's the most radical thing we can grow. All We Need by Magdalena McGuire is out now (A$34.99 Ultimo Press)

‘Ephraim will know': the man who buried 10,000 people has lessons on empathy, loss and the majesty of memory
‘Ephraim will know': the man who buried 10,000 people has lessons on empathy, loss and the majesty of memory

The Guardian

time3 hours ago

  • The Guardian

‘Ephraim will know': the man who buried 10,000 people has lessons on empathy, loss and the majesty of memory

It's a cool summer morning in the last days of 1959 and a teenager is riding his bike through Sydney's Rookwood cemetery. As he glides across the grounds, he notices the signs of dawn. The dew is melting off the grass. A fox leaps behind a bunya pine, and as if out of nowhere, a few of its cubs follow. The soil is firm beneath his tyres, and he can smell it warming, roused by the sun after a night of slumber. Riding his Malvern Star, he is carefree. But Geoffrey William Finch, this lanky not-quite-man on his way to his carpentry job, is also careful. As he traverses the grounds, he sees the sun come up behind the headstones. Then he rounds a corner and sees the very same sun shining on an east-facing row, blazing into the engraved names of the dead. This morning, as every weekday morning, he could circumvent the cemetery, ride along the waking bustle of Lidcombe. Instead, he lets himself in through the pedestrian gate and cuts across the field of headstones. He chooses this route because he likes the quiet. This is the interlude in which he works out his world, considers the day to come. 'And the whole time I am talking,' he tells me, some six decades later, sitting at his broad dining table in Melbourne. 'Who are you talking to, Ephraim?' I ask, because now this boy is an elderly man with a different name, a different religion, a life that he could have scarcely predicted riding through Rookwood on those dewy mornings. Ephraim and I are sitting in his front room and the sun is pouring into the space between us. He is telling me stories. I notice that he prefers discussing his work to discussing himself. He wants to revisit his 30 years as director of a burial society – the people he comforted and held; those he ritually washed, wrapped and prayed for. But today I press him on those early years. I want to learn the soil of this man before I can describe its trees, the fruits it has borne. 'Who are you talking to, riding through Rookwood?' I repeat, lightly, as Ephraim closes his eyes, slipping into a temporal estuary. 'I am talking to God,' he says eventually, his hands resting on the table in front of him, a boyish smile now playing on his bearded face. That Ephraim says such a lofty thing without an ounce of grandiosity, without pushing or preaching, foreshadows what I will learn about this man. This man, at once deeply religious and utterly irreverent, softly spoken but defiant, is as prone to crying as to smiling. This man, whose work deals with the body as much as the spirit, dwells easefully at their intersections. This ageing Orthodox Jew with a broad Aussie accent, this voracious archivist and beloved community figure, this working-class butcher's son who felt pulled to the Torah, is, himself, many beautiful intersections. The notion of writing Ephraim's life has been in the ether for many years. If you were a member of Melbourne's Jewish community from the mid-1980s to 2015 you would – for better or worse – have had something to do with Ephraim Finch. Having buried over 10,000 individuals, Ephraim is – physically, emotionally, culturally and spiritually – linked to a great many lives in this unique pocket of the world. Not long ago, someone interviewed Ephraim with a view to writing his biography. But for one reason or another, a book did not eventuate. And so the idea made its way to my desk. A week after the publisher approached me, I was shown Ephraim's journal. I was struck by the language he used to chronicle his work with the dead and the dying, as well as their loved ones: 'Your heart could feel the pain of lovers separated by war.' 'How do you live a normal life? I don't know, but I feel their losses and their love for each other.' 'Sometimes you do not understand the depth of friendship until the final days.' I noticed his empathy for all those enduring loss. The intensely personal involvement with the details of another's narrative. The reverence for forces we battle but must ultimately accept. 'He knew he was going to die and seemed to accept it. I held his hand and wished him a safe journey,' he writes in one entry. I wanted to know more about this heart language and how a human might acquire it, become fluent in its lexicon. Sign up to Five Great Reads Each week our editors select five of the most interesting, entertaining and thoughtful reads published by Guardian Australia and our international colleagues. Sign up to receive it in your inbox every Saturday morning after newsletter promotion Underneath this sat something else. I had my own memory of Ephraim Finch, from a death in my family almost 20 years ago. When my then-husband's mother passed away in 2006, I remember Ephraim's name being uttered; on the cusp of her death, throughout her funeral, during the rituals that coloured the subsequent weeks. I do not recall the way Ephraim looked, or even meeting him. But I will never forget the way his name resonated in that house of mourning. It was as though the name itself had a beneficent forcefield; every time my grief-stricken father-in-law would say it, he seemed calmer. 'Ephraim will know' seemed to be the answer to the questions, many of them unanswerable. Time after time, in the sheer act of saying it, something in the atmosphere would ease, even as the tears continued. When the name 'Ephraim Finch' was spoken to me again, some 17 years later, I felt myself hurtling, with grateful awe, back into its orbit. At our first meeting, before I have even begun to prepare myself for the flood of names and narratives, Ephraim launches into a recollection of everyone he continues to visit at Springvale Jewish cemetery, almost 10 years after retirement from his role as director of the Jewish burial society. 'It's my village,' he says, closing his eyes and taking me along on his imaginary tour of the place. 'I see all of them as I go around … it's like walking down the street. There is the lovely gentleman who descended from the Radomsker Rebbe, and there is Bill … Hello Bill, my dear friend! And here is Mr Cykiert, who gave me his poem just before he passed.' I continue to watch him meet them, one by one. 'And, oh.' He drops to a whisper, his fluttering hands stilling. 'Hello, dear boy.' Something subtle shifts in his facial musculature, his eyes flicker. 'You see, I buried this boy …' In this moment, Ephraim's wife Cas, who has been sitting with us the entire time, softly interjects. 'May I tell this story, darling?' she asks, in a manner I will witness many times over the coming months. There is a concert of silent knowings between Cas and Ephraim, an instinct for each other's pauses. Intuitively, they allocate the best raconteur for the moment, illuminating and verifying one another. 'I'd like to explain why we are so connected to this boy, if I may?' Cas asks, her voice deep and low, her blue eyes cloudy. Ephraim nods. 'We were out one day with our daughter Sharona, who is now 42, but was then 20. It was a hot day, but she was suddenly freezing and had a terrible headache. This went on for days and on the third night she developed a rash. On top of this, she felt like every bone in her body was breaking. Next morning, I got up at dawn to get her some Panadeine. As soon as my finger made contact with her arm, dark purple spots started to appear, spreading. And Ephraim knew exactly what it was, because he had buried this magnificent young man a few years earlier. He knew the symptoms.' A doctor arrived not long after and administered a penicillin shot, which bought Sharona time to get to the hospital, where she would stay for three weeks. One day an infectious diseases doctor approached the Finches on the ward. 'How did you recognise the meningococcal septicaemia?' he asked Ephraim. 'Doctor, I buried a boy in 1991 …' And before Ephraim could say more the doctor named that boy, remembering the family. They stood mutely for some time, struck by the reach of tragedy. But beneath the moment was an undertow, a twist in the Finches' hearts. It was nothing as crass or numerical as a sacrifice schema – Cas and Ephraim never believed that this boy died so Sharona could live. In fact, it was an inversion of this 'lucky us' smugness – they had never forgotten that this child died while theirs had lived. Three months after Cas tells this story, Ephraim and I will go to Springvale together, and when we reach this young man's grave, Ephraim will bend down and kiss the engraved marble. He will greet the boy and read his name out loud, along with his date of passing. He will intone the names of his mother and father. He will weep for them, while knowing the limits of his weeping. He will continue bending, head bowed, holding all the connections in all his body. And I sense, simply by being next to this softly moving human, the shuddering proximity between us all, the near misses, the churn of loss and the majesty of memory, the ceaseless current of our arrivals and departures. This is an edited extract from Ferryman: The Life and Deathwork of Ephraim Finch by Katia Ariel (Wild Dingo Press, A$34.99).

Ten baking tips (and life lessons) from Australia's best bakers
Ten baking tips (and life lessons) from Australia's best bakers

The Guardian

time16 hours ago

  • The Guardian

Ten baking tips (and life lessons) from Australia's best bakers

Baking: it's part science, part craft, part magic. A mindful escape or total mystery, depending on who you ask. In writing The Bakers Book, a collection of recipes, kitchen notes and wisdom, I asked 36 Australian bakers for an essential piece of baking advice – a lesson that changed everything, a tip that's always in their back pocket. I expected a pantry of practical tips, but I also realised their wisdom has applications beyond baking. Here's what I learned. We've all been there. You've turned up ready to bake, only to glare at the instruction for room temperature eggs and butter. Yours are fridge cold. Maybe you microwave the butter to a half-solid, half-liquid result and you take a gamble on the cold eggs. Your mixture comes together, but the scrambled egg effect is real. That's because a cake batter is an emulsion of ingredients, explains chef Danielle Alvarez. 'When something is a little bit too cold or a little bit too warm, it's never going to combine perfectly, or it will split or it will break,' she says. But if you forget to grab ingredients ahead, here's what she recommends: put eggs in their shells in a cup of warm water to let them come up to room temperature. It only takes a few minutes. For butter, warm a bowl in an oven or microwave, then place it face down over your butter. The ambient heat will soften it quickly – and evenly. How did you first cream butter and sugar? Did you, like cookbook author and TV presenter Belinda Jeffery, put the butter and sugar in the bowl of your mum's old Kenwood mixer and 'beat the hell out of them'? These days, Jeffery recommends a gentler approach. Going hell for leather means you can over beat the mixture and let in too much air, which will make your cake rise, and then promptly collapse. Use a medium speed instead – until the ingredients are well mixed but not all the way to white, light and fluffy. Same goes for egg whites that need to be folded into a mixture – they should be 'just beyond sloppy', Jeffery advises – too firm and they won't incorporate into your batter. Start by whisking them in a stand mixer, but quit while you're ahead and finish off whisking by hand so you can stay in control and avoid over beating. 'I think baking is one of those things you can't ever really be perfect at,' says Nadine Ingram, cookbook author and owner of Flour and Stone. It's a bold admission from the woman with a TED talk on cake. Instead, baking teaches you that imperfect is beautiful, she says. 'You need to try things more than once to improve. I think a lot of our culture these days says you've got to get it right the first time or you've got to be the best at it … Baking teaches you how to break those habits.' 'I'll test recipes eight times and they're still not right … sometimes, things will turn out how they're going to turn out and you have absolutely no control over it, even with all the skills in the world.' Sign up for the fun stuff with our rundown of must-reads, pop culture and tips for the weekend, every Saturday morning When a recipe has an overwhelming number of steps, break down a project-bake by making the most of the freezer. 'I think people get so scared of baking because they start reading a recipe and think 'I don't have three hours',' says pastry chef Anneliese Brancatisano. 'Remember the freezer is your best friend … you don't have to make everything from scratch on the day.' Icings and buttercreams can be frozen and later defrosted in the microwave, for example. And the cold makes some things a choux-in. 'I always keep choux pastry in the freezer – just pipe it and freeze it. You can bake them from frozen, and the moisture from the freezer creates steam, which will help them puff up even more.' Alisha Henderson of Sweet Bakes is living proof. She taught herself to pipe from YouTube videos, practising on cake she'd make, then freeze, and re-freeze, so she didn't have to bake one for every attempt. 'Instead of going through that process … you can bring it out, decorate it, try out all your new techniques, wipe it off, and chuck it back in the freezer,' she says. 'Don't eat it, obviously, but use it again and again.' Sign up to Saved for Later Catch up on the fun stuff with Guardian Australia's culture and lifestyle rundown of pop culture, trends and tips after newsletter promotion 'Baking is 70% organisation,' says Baker Bleu pastry chef Gad Assayag – and taking the time to get organised usually improves the outcome. This means reading through your recipe before you begin, weighing your ingredients before you start and ticking them off as you go. 'And only then, once everything is organised, your tools are there, then you start working. You have to understand the process and understand where you're going before you actually start,' he says. It helps to remember bread has its own plans. 'Bread keeps you honest, it keeps you on your toes,' says chef, baker and teacher Michael James. 'It's a bit like life: you've got to let it take you on its journey. There are a lot of variables, so it's about guiding it.' Or as Jesse Knierum from Tasmania's Cygnet Bakery puts it: 'You might think you're hot shit, but then the weather changes.' You'll need to adjust for the season you're in, the temperature of the room and the ingredients you're using. Understanding what to tweak and when will help. Just because baking is a science, doesn't mean you should leave your intuition out of the equation. 'Always, always listen to your gut when you're baking,' says Giorgia McAllister Forte of Monforte. 'Sometimes it's easy to get a little bit lazy or just think, I don't need to do this, it'll be fine.' If in your gut you know you should be doing something differently, don't ignore that feeling. It takes much less time to fix something earlier in the process than going all the way through to the end. Ask yourself: Does this feel right? Does it look right? Is there something I can do now that will save me time later? 'To stay in control, try baking low and slow,' says Alice Bennett of Miss Trixie Bakes. 'We have our ovens on at about 145C/300F on low fan. Typically, a lot of cookbooks will tell you something like 160C/325F. I've always gone a little bit lower and slower with temperatures – and you can apply this before you even put your cake in the oven. If you slow down the whole process, you're less likely to make a mistake.' Gillian Bell, who travels the world making bespoke wedding cakes, is mindful of her mood when she's baking. 'I always mix my cakes by hand, and I stir in good wishes, good thoughts. I really believe that somehow it comes through … So I say to people, 'Find that place in your head, put on some music, do whatever you can to get to that place'.'' And remain positive. 'Everyone can bake,' says Bell. 'It's just that you don't know how to, or you don't have the confidence. You can make a cake in anything – you can make a cake in a big bean tin. So relax, let go.' Ruby Goss is the author of The Baker's Book, Favourite recipes and kitchen wisdom by Australian bakers you love (Murdoch Books, $45)

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