Last time I wrote about travelling to our Coomboona farm, I likened the experience to Alice’s falling down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. I was speaking metaphorically of course, there was never actually any white rabbit, until this trip, when, in a strange instance of life intimating art, there suddenly was…

On one of the farm properties stands a little old house, surrounded by a once lovingly tended rose garden, planted in the 1950s. Beyond the garden, there is only open space, no other dwellings, just acres of fields stretching out flat into the distance. The house itself is no longer inhabited, but the roses are still going strong, growing a little more wild perhaps than they once were, but beautiful in bloom. I was in the garden this January, early one evening picking some rose petals with which to decorate the rosewater panna cotta pictured above, when suddenly I saw it. A flash of white moving fast out of the corner of my eye, then it stopped. Ears aloft and alert, just by the entrance to its burrow, sat a large white rabbit. For I while, I looked at it, and it looked at me. How had it gotten here, this domestic rabbit, miles from the nearest town? Then I reached for my camera and the spell was broken. The rabbit darted down the hole, and, in beginning another week in Coomboona, I tumbled straight down after it (metaphorically of course)!

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