The Fall Collection

Autumn Comes Far Too Early To Melbourne

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Three weeks ago, as Melbourne’s record-breaking hot, dry spell began, I noticed that the huge plane trees on our property were starting to shed their leaves, much earlier than normal.

Then we had that terrible run of consecutive days where the mercury hovered in the 115-degree zone, barely cooling down at night. The plane trees were quickly stripped of their leaves, more than semi-denuded not just in the suburbs but in the city centre as well.


I took these shots late on Friday evening, on a pathway in our garden. I keep an old pair of Nikes outdoors at all times and these are my gardening footwear. But as you can see from this shot, the swirling leaves, borne on the hot northerly winds that have fanned our bushfires, have swamped the Nikes.

This blue watering can is a miniature version of my huge watering can nearby. But despite my best efforts, this heatwave, the worst in my memory, has claimed more plants than I think I can save. (And at this point I should mention that none of these objects were moved for better photographic effect, because I simply shoot things where they are, in the existing light.)


It’s strange to think that we are in a hot zone ringed by bushfires, yet Queensland in the north is struggling with terrible flooding. Maybe some of their rain will find its way down here. Fingers crossed …..

Maybe one day this watering can will be filled with rainwater instead of leaves. Maybe I could find some success as a water diviner. Stick around while I try ...


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Water Diviner

We'll Drink To That

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

We are all water diviners, in one way or another. We seek it, we need it, we depend on it. When we camp, we seek some form of running water to sustain us. When our ancestors built villages that grew into modern cities, they did so on the banks of mighty rivers.

I live in a country where drought has prevailed for many years. I have seen hundreds of great pictures that illustrate the cruel grip of Australia’s drought. I have read many news reports that evocatively captured the trauma of a dry red land. But then I read the story of a toddler on a New South Wales farming property.

At the time the story appeared in print, he was coming up to his second birthday – and he had never seen rain.

I learnt very early in life to appreciate the value of water. When I was about eight or nine years old, I had my tonsils removed and I can vividly remember coming to in a hospital bed. My throat was severely constricted and I asked for a sip of water.

The doctor nixed my request because he was scared I would throw up. I endured the grip of choking thirst for as long as I could, but I remember asking again and again, through the fog of anaesthetic and discomfort, for a sip of water to slake my burning thirst.

I did not cry. Much later that afternoon, I was given the medical thumbs-up. I could have a sip of water, but no more than a sip. I am a father of three now, but I have often told my children the story of how I raised my head and treasured the feel of the white china feeding cup (as they were called then) against my lips.

Eyes half-closed, I can still remember how I sought the spout and how, swallowing carefully because of the operation, I savoured each drop that passed down my sandpaper-like throat.

Now I live in a land famous for its wine and beer, but I still drink water. Some years ago, I drank nothing but water – or Adam’s ale, as it is known – all the way from Melbourne to Vancouver, flying business class on Cathay Pacific. With each meal the flight attendant, wearing a broad smile, tried to get me to agree to a glass of fine Australian riesling or chardonnay, but each time I grinned back and asked for a refill of my water glass.

About ten days later, with a particularly spirited (in every sense of the word) group of journalists, I was the only sober one each night, ensuring that they all got back to the cruise ship during a memorable trip to the Alaskan ports. My colleagues all made sure I had a full glass of ice water, and told everyone how I had christened the drink an ``Alaskan cocktail’’.

On the last night, a wonderful American couple asked me to join them for a drink. ``I’m a cheap date,’’ I said, ``I only drink water.’’

They sat there, gobsmacked. ``You’ve led the singing in every Alaskan pub, every night of the cruise – and you were SOBER?’’

Yup. That’s what these Alaskan cocktails do to me.

Verse And Worse

Random Wit, Errant Rhyme. Not A Literary Crime

Nothing could be finer
Than a water diviner
Whose rod finds a blotch
That ain’t water but Scotch