The enormous fig tree in Brennan Park which has guarded the children's playground was injured in a storm and sadly the council had to chop it down. A sad day. The amazing thing is that they have saved a massive branch which they will plant and it will sprout roots and grow. I had no idea fig trees could do this. The great tree will live on and hopefully in time, grow back to its former glory.
As a kid, I made a life-changing discovery: I could scale the great tree in our garden. I was obsessed. For a solid week, I spent every spare hour perched in the branches, a miniature king surveying the world below from my secret leafy fortress.
Then came the day I returned from school to a scene of devastation.
The tree was gone. My father stood there with a chainsaw, and my kingdom lay in a million splintered pieces. I was heartbroken. For years, I nursed a quiet, righteous "peevement" against him for destroying my favorite sanctuary without so much as a warning.
Then, I hit a certain age.
I looked back at the layout of the old garden and realized exactly where that tree had been located: directly level with my parents' bedroom window.
Suddenly, my father’s urgency with the power tools made perfect sense. Every married couple deserves their privacy—and no father wants his son accidentally becoming the world’s most innocent voyeur.
I recently shared this story with my mother, expecting a laugh over my belated realization. Instead, she looked at me with total confusion.
"Graeme," she said, "there was never a tree outside our bedroom window. Dad chopped a tree down at the back of the house, not the front."
I told her I was worried about her memory, but she was adamant. "My memory is not what it used to be, but I'm pretty sure. Check with Jo."
I did. My sister’s response was a second, even more violent "chainsaw" to my childhood kingdom: "No, there was never a tree there."
I was absolutely shocked. I can remember that tree so vividly—the texture of the bark, the specific branches I gripped, even the caterpillars I used to watch crawling along the leaves. I had carried that tree with me for decades, using it to define my childhood sense of adventure and my father’s "ruthlessness." To find out it never existed is a staggering realization. It suggests that our personal history is less of a documentary and more of a convincing fiction. If the very foundations of who we think we are are built on memories that can vanish into thin air, it makes you wonder what else we’ve perfectly imagined.
I'm so fortunate to have Berry Island in my backyard. I always love walking here, bathing amongst the beautiful trees and walking down to the little beach where, to my delight, I saw a little kingfisher.
Once a true island in Sydney Harbour, Berry Island was connected to the mainland in the early 19th century via a stone causeway, later expanded into a grassy isthmus. It was named after Alexander Berry, who, along with Edward Wollstonecraft, received the land as part of a grant from Governor Macquarie around 1820–1822.
The site holds deep Indigenous significance, once serving as a vital fishing, hunting, and camping area for the Cammeraygal people. It has been heritage-listed and protected as a reserve since 1926.
One of my favourite walks in my backyard is the walk to and through Balls Head Reserve in Waverton. I love how the path winds through native bushland, with beautiful Sydney red gums and the sculpted sandstone lining the harbour’s edge. The views are absolutely stupendous — the city skyline rises across the water like a painting, yet I’m surrounded by birdsong and trees. It’s incredible to have this kind of natural beauty so close to where I live.
Balls Head is not just scenic — it’s rich in history. This land was traditionally cared for by the Cammeraygal people, and you can still find evidence of their presence in ancient shell middens and rock carvings. Later, during the Great Depression, people seeking shelter built makeshift homes here — a few traces of their life remain. Thankfully, community efforts in the 1920s protected the headland from industrial development, preserving it as the quiet, green sanctuary it is today.
