A couple of clichés spring to mind as I nurse a tear in the centre of my right palm – an unusual injury caused by my attempt, and subsequent failure, to dig up a root of a presumed ginger plant – and contemplate my new living arrangements: Variety is the spice of life, and Every day’s a school day.
The effort of the ginger-dig has brought me out in sweat, so I’m taking a break in my go-to hangout spot: a hand-built, rickety lean-to with a turquoise-painted, plywood ceiling; a variety of sacking and bedsheet ‘curtains’; an old, brown rug which won’t lie flat but which swallows whatever comes in under feet, and usefully, a padded, swivelling computer chair which is just the right height for the glass-topped ‘patio’ table at which I now write. A wide shaft of sunlight illuminates the rug, while I am tucked into the shade and the curtains flap in the breeze. Open-sided and unlockable, yet weather-proof enough for proper furniture, it’s Schrödinger’s room: simultaneously an outside space, yet an extension of the house.
I am surprised Pouss-Pouss has not come to lie in the patch of sun, as a European feline would do. He is, perhaps, still rather inconvenienced by my presence and by the absence of his guardian. His strident miaow has already seen me leaping out of bed and hastening towards the food cupboard at 3am, so I’m sure I’ll win him over.
The real difficulty I face is my own productivity because this space, where I can sit on the steps with my legs in the sun watching the butterflies, is just too relaxing. But I’ve come here to write, and for a month-long breather during a busy travel schedule which has taken me from Christmas Island to the Cocos and a large curve of Western Australia, to Brisbane with a short foray into New South Wales and thence to Far North Queensland and Port Douglas, where I’ve had an indulgent week of beach, pool, rainforest and reef. I’ve experienced beautiful suburban villas, historic Queenslanders and beautifully-designed, wooden farmstead homes; I’ve stayed in motels, cabins and hostel dorms and the luxury of a friend’s timeshare. Now I have arrived in the Atherton Tablelands and the lack of distractions immediately outside of this property (although not far from natural attractions, I have no transport), will benefit my self-discipline. My being around for most of the time will, supposedly, benefit the cat.
An unofficial house-sit in a small country town in the heart of dairy country, my only duties are caring for Pouss-Pouss (who so far cares little for me, but that’s okay) and keeping an eye on the garden. Since I arrived last Sunday, we’ve had heavy showers daily and there’s a clever irrigation system in place, so I don’t need to water much except for the baby pineapples which each occupy their own tub. I’m still figuring out exactly what is a weed, which is the danger of ‘gardening’ in a foreign land; as I’m scared to pull out something precious, I’m leaving the activity until I’m more familiar with the territory. I am on standby for a vital task, though, and will need to leap into action at exactly the right moment. Unfamiliar as I am with this particular crop, I need to study the seed-heads carefully each day. Then, when I feel they are ready, I must upload a photograph. If given the thumbs-up, I pounce.
‘It’s when they start to get little brown bits just here. See?’ I didn’t, but I’d do my research.
Gingerly typing in ‘How to tell when cannabis is ready to harvest,’ I came upon a plethora of sites, the first of which was aptly titled Grow Weed Easy.
I have learned that one must harvest the crop according to intended usage. If you pick too early, it won’t be any good at all, and is definitely a mistake to avoid. At the beginning of its optimal period, however, it’s at its strongest. If all you want is a relaxant, you wait until it’s nearly finished, but before it goes off. I have a window of three to four weeks – the entire length of my stay. The responsibility is mind-blowing.
The website informs me that the plants are ready to harvest when hairs have darkened and curled in, revealing the solid bud underneath. If I wish to be more precise, I must look at the trichomes with a magnifying glass, or take a photo and enlarge it, to try to determine the colour. If the trichomes (a kind of hair) are clear, they are not ready. If most are milky-white, they’re ready and potent! Once they begin to take on an amber hue, they are good for the ‘chilled’ effect. I am supposed to be aiming somewhere between these stages.
D was disappointed the plants were not ready before his departure. He was relieved that, although I have no experience of, or interest in, the end product, I find the skulduggery an amusing diversion. Apart from several years’ worth of sweet potatoes (no complaints from me), the bushy ‘weeds’ are the most prolific plant in the garden, taking over an entire bed where they line up in a neat(ish) row. We need to make sure the tips don’t peek over the top of the fence. The proliferation is unintentional.
‘I thought I was planting cabbages!’ D admitted sheepishly.
I could only imagine how that excuse would be received by a passing officer, but this town is sleepy. Perhaps there’s a correlation?
When the awaited day arrives – apparently I’ll be able to smell when it’s time – I’ll cut each plant and hang it from the roof of the shed, where wires have been prepared for the event, and then my work will be done. Perhaps, by then, there’ll be a ripened strawberry or a fattened carrot to go with the potatoes. It’s a dream for me, to be able to eat straight from the garden, and a deal-clincher for any future home I may decide upon. But with that a long way off, I’m heading into the kitchen now to steam a freshly-picked sweetcorn cob. No ginger, no curry.
www.growweedeasy.com (accessed february 26th 2025)