The Great Veronica Hunt —Part 6.

I'm writing this in Melbourne, where I'm about to fly home after a wonderful three weeks in Australia. I wasn't specifically on a Veronica hunt, but kept my eyes open anyway, just in case.

I didn't see any Veronica in Queensland or around Sydney. The first I saw was the introduced V. arvensis in Bega, a small New South Wales town.  Australia has many of the same weedy speedwells that New Zealand does, so I was more interested to see plants of the indigenous species.

Mallacoota inlet, Vic.

We spent a couple of days with friends at Mallacoota in the far east of Victoria, and there came across V. plebeia growing beside a track in coastal forest in the wonderfully-named Croajingalong National Park.

Veronica plebeia, Mallacoota, Vic.

The flowers were closed just as they often are in New Zealand, needing a warm sunny day to open.  If they don't get to open, I assume they self-pollinate, because they always seem to set fruits.

The flower below was photographed on a cultivated plant in New Zealand, where V. plebeia is widespread and considered by some botanists to be native.  It is introduced and weedy in some other parts of the world though, so it does have the ability to be invasive.

Veronica plebeia, from a cultivated plant in New Zealand.

That was it for wild speedwells the whole trip, but my sister-in-law, near Ballarat, had some small plants of another Australian native, Veronica gracilis, ready to plant out in the garden, and one of these was in flower.

Veronica gracilis, cultivated near Ballarat, Vic.

The plants are strongly rhizomatous, and this one even had a shoot coming out of the drainage hole in the bottom of its pot.

Australia has 23 native species of Veronica, classified in section Labiatoides, and they are the sister group to the large New Zealand clade (section Hebe) that includes the hebes and their relatives (Albach & Briggs 2012).  Thus, although they look much more like northern speedwells than New Zealand hebes, they are known to be more closely related to the hebes.  And because of that fact, it's misleading to classify them as Veronica unless you classify our hebes in Veronica as well.

Reference

Albach, D; Briggs, BG. 2012. Phylogenetic analysis of Australian species of Veronica (V. section Labiatoides; Plantaginaceae). Australian Systematic Botany, 2012, 25, 353–363
http://dx.doi.org/10.1071/SB12014

Wednesday wildflower: Diddillibah wildflowers.

This week I’m on the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, visiting family before the Australasian Systematic Botany Society’s conference in Sydney next week.  We arrived last night and this morning took a short walk to get a feel for our surroundings, from Diddillibah to the Maroochy River and back.

Maroochy River

We haven’t seen much natural vegetation yet, but plenty of wildflowers and a few native Eucalypts and she-oaks.

Mangroves, Maroochy River.

Along the river are mangroves, which I assume are the same as we have in New Zealand, Avicennia marina.  It reaches its southern limit—and the southern limit of mangroves generally—at Corner Inlet, Victoria.  Here, in the warmer climate, they grow taller.

Mistletoe in a Casuarina tree.

There were mistletoes in the she-oak (Casuarina) trees near the river.

Mistletoe flower buds.

I think this little weed is Emilia sonchifolia, something I’ve collected before, in Singapore; at least I think it’s the same.  

Emilia sonchifolia

Its resemblance to sow-thistle (Sonchus) is remarkable, but it’s convergence, because this isn’t in the same tribe.

Emilia sonchifolia flower head.

The single row of involucral bracts is characteristic of tribe Senecioneae, whereas Sonchus is in the Lactuceae.

And there was a pelican on the river. Nice.

The Barber's

Getting a haircut in the 50s and 60s was a very masculine thing.  The Barber’s was an all male environment and you had to know, really know, how to behave there.  If your mother came in with you, she wouldn’t stay long (you’d hope).

The Barber was a wizened and enigmatic character, his thinning hair Brylcreemed back, or sidewards in a comb-over if it was thinning too much.  His face was haggard and he smoked; he looked a bit like a jockey.  You didn’t want to piss this guy off: he could kick you out of the shop, or probably something worse.

My first haircut in New Zealand was in 1955, in Whanganui.  I don’t remember getting it cut in England, but oh boy this was memorable.  The shop smelled of Bay Rum, Brylcreem, and cigarette smoke. I was five.  My Dad took me, and The Barber had this enormous wrought iron barber’schair. I was thinking, “how am I going to get up into that?”, when he produced a seat on a plank that sat across the arm-rests, and lifted me up onto it.  It had leather padding and its own little arm-rests, and I felt really special.  But the hand-operated clippers pulled at my hair and I squirmed.  Eventually The Barber got so grumpy he whacked me over the head with the handles of the scissors.  I didn’t dare cry, and Dad didn’t come to my rescue, such was the manly power of The Barber.

Later, in Tawa, The Barber’s became a regular ritual.  You’d be dropped off there to wait your turn and get your hair cut, usually on a Friday after school.  There was a long bench seat that ran around three sides of the shop, and you took your place at one end and shuffled along as each boy’s hair was done.  Sometimes there were too many waiting and you had to stand until a seat became free.  There were comics to read, and that was the best thing.  We were only allowed “Classics” comics at home, which told the stories of Dickens and the like in comic form, but here was the real thing: Phantom, all the Disney characters, and best of all, war comics.  Battler Britton, scrambled by an air raid during a cricket match on the village green, runs out of ammo over occupied France, and bowls the cricket ball he had stuffed into his battledress pocket to switch over the railway points and send the German ammunition train crashing into a horrendous explosion!  We always drew Spitfires and Hurricanes on the backs of our school books.

The Barber had a big poster behind the counter.  It was a kangaroo, leaping, with envelopes spilling out of its (her) pouch, and the caption “We post to Australia”.  I sat and stared at this, and I still don’t know what it meant.  I suspect it had to do with gambling; maybe the barber was an agent for Tattersall’s Lottery or something.  It was all exotic and dark.  Men, real men who smoked and swore, would come in, and the barber would leave off cutting hair and go behind the counter.  There would be a quiet conversation and money would change hands, but I never understood what was going on.  Later I learned that barbers sold condoms (we called them “Frenchies”), but I always suspected these clandestine transactions had something to do with the flying kangaroo.

After an hour or two of comics and shuffling along the bench, you’d finally get to have your hair cut.  It was always a bit off the top and short back and sides, even if you asked for something else.  When the cutting was done, he’d violently rub in some Brylcreem, slapping your head about in the process, comb and brush your hair into a bit of a style, flick the cut hairs off your collar, and finish off with a little spray of smelly stuff.  Everyone’s hairstyle was the same. 

By about 1964 we all wanted Beatles haircuts, long enough to be thought Fab, but short enough not to earn a detention.  The barber never understood this; we all walked out with short back and sides, then put off our next visit as long as we could and combed our hair, what was left of it, forward as much as we could; making the best of a bad job, a bit like The Barber’s comb-over.

After the barber’s, if you were lucky, was fish and chips for dinner, and you could buy a classic comic at the bookshop, or a 45 rpm record.  I remember buying “A Fool Such As I” by Elvis Presley.  I’ve still got it somewhere.  But no more barber’s for me; I don’t have enough hair any more.

Lila's big day out.

It’s ANZAC Day, New Zealand’s day to remember the war dead.  It’s an important day for my family too, because we arrived in New Zealand on ANZAC Day (April 25) 1955 on the MV Ruahine. 

Today it rained on and off all morning, so when the sun came out after lunch we had to get out for a walk.  Rufus was happy inside, but Lila was out in the garden and decided to follow us.  We tried to outrun her, but in the end decided to give in and let her come with us.

So she tagged along quite happily for the first 500m or so and then seemed to get a bit tired.  She was very wary the whole time, probably because she was out of her territory and in a place of new smells and sounds.

You might feel it’s wrong to take a cat into the bush, especially so close to Zealandia.  First, she’s not a hunter (yes I know cat owners always say that, like dog owners say their dogs don’t bite).  Secondly, she was too busy keeping up with us and watching her back.  Thirdly, and I know it’s not a valid argument but I’ll make it anyway, lots of cat-owning households back onto that bush and people walk their dogs there all the time.  I agree with Gareth Morgan that cats should be enclosed so they can’t hunt birds and lizards.

It’s autumn now.  The drought is well and truly behind us and fruits and fungi were the features of this walk.

Favolaschia calocera

Favolaschia calocera is an introduced fungus that lives on dead wood.  It’s become very common around Wellington.  Under the cap are large pores instead of gills.

Under the cap of Favolaschia calocera are honeycombed pores.

Buds of kohekohe, Dysoxylum spectabile.

Kohekohe (Dysoxylum spectabile) is going to have a bumper flowering this year.  The sprays of small white flowers are produced on the tree trunks, and a number were quite low down.  When these open, I’ll easily be able to reach them and get good photos.  Individual trees are either male or female, although some males can set a few fruits.

Outside the bush, the track follows the Zealandia pest-proof fence alongside a clay banks with a nice range of mosses and lichens and a view of the harbour.  We didn’t go far along, because Lila was clearly getting tired by now.

Passiflora fruits, one eaten by birds

Native passion flower (Passiflora tetrandra) was in fruit.  Orange rinds littered the ground where birds had opened the fruits for their meagre pulp and few seeds.  I found one intact one.

Inside the Passiflora fruit are bright red seeds and pulp.

The fruit has three parts (carpels) and the ovules and (later) seeds are attached in three rows to the outer walls where they join.

Home at last, Lila staggered in the door and immediately collapsed on the cool wooden floor.  She’ll sleep well tonight.

45 years on—10th April 1968.

Forty-five years ago I was a first year student at Victoria University of Wellington, studying Botany, Zoology, and Chemistry.  On April 10th, I woke up early, before seven, to the howling of the wind and the house creaking and shaking.  It was a very strong single-story house – Dad designed it with earthquakes in mind and the builder claimed it was “overbuilt” – so it didn’t creak often.  I don’t recall if I was worried, but I was certainly surprised by the strength of the wind, the constant roar of noise, and the shaking.  In the hallway outside my bedroom I met Dad on his way back from the bathroom.  He told me the inter-island ferry Wahine was aground on Barrett’s reef, but that everyone was safe.  The wind is said to have peaked that day at 275 km/h.  NIWA has published a catalogue of weather extremes, damage, injury, and loss of life that day.  Our house in Linden was at a similar altitude and exposure to Kelburn, where they recorded just under 200 km/h.

At breakfast we debated about going in to work (Dad) and university (me).  It was probably after breakfast that the power went off, ruling out our usual transport, the electric trains.  Then a neighbor called to say her husband had tried to drive into town and had turned back because it was too windy on the motorway.  We decided to sit tight.

I guess it was mid-morning when the roof blew off the house next door but one.  For some reason, Dad and I were in the laundry watching the storm from there, so we saw the iron sheets lift off one by one and fly tumbling through the air towards us.  Dad had the presence of mind to get me out of the room and close the door; however no iron hit the house, but it did demolish our fence where some sheets embedded end-on 5mm into the wood.  Dad and I dashed across the intervening section to help our neighbors evacuate the house.  I foolishly sprinted through the swirling iron; he sensibly ducked around the back out of its flight path. 

Minor damage at home, 10 April 1968

At some stage during the morning our 5m Norfolk pine (Araucaria excelsa: Dad used to call it the Alka-Seltzer) tipped over at about 30˚ off the vertical.  We watched a tree across the road thrash itself out of the ground and then roll end-over-end down the street like a giant tumbleweed, never to be seen again.

Some time in the early afternoon everything went calm.  We thought it was the eye of the storm, and expected the wind to pick up again from the north, but it was all over.  I don’t recall hearing more about the Wahine until the TV news that night.  My memories of that are all mixed up with what I’ve heard since.  Fifty-four people died in that storm, 51 on the Wahine.  The display at Wellington's Museum of City & Sea captures it all; it still makes me tear up.

Students who did turn up for lectures had an exciting morning, they told me later.  Prof Gordon had valiantly tried to give the Botany I lecture, but abandoned it when slates from the roof of the Hunter Building started crashing through the lecture room windows.

Smashed pine trees, Colonial Knob, Wellington, 1968

 The following weekend was Easter, and I went tramping in the Tararuas with two friends.  Another friend couldn’t come because his cross country running club had volunteered to search the south coast for bodies.  On Cone Saddle we encountered a whole beech forest tipped over.  We ended up having to climb among the fallen trees to get through, sometimes walking along logs that were 5m above the ground. 

At home, we fixed the fence and pulled the Norfolk pine upright again.  For me, the day had been pretty benign really, but I still think about it every time 10 April comes around.  For many people, I guess life took a sudden and unexpected turn that day.  People survive a lot worse—Christchurch earthquakes, the Sept. 11 attacks in New York, let alone the blitz, Dresden, or Hiroshima—but these things all leave their mark.