Col is a retired Head Teacher of Science, spending about 35 years of his career teaching on the Central Coast.

Quoting Col, he ‘has never really retired but doesn’t get paid any more’.

The first decade of Col’s retirement was spent at the Marine Discovery Centre (where he still volunteers), later discovering bush regeneration as a means of exercise during the COVID-19 lockdowns.

Approximately three years ago Col started volunteering with the Central Coast Council Environmental Volunteer Program, initially with our Monday Nursery Volunteer group and then also with our Seed Collectors and some of the conservation groups in the Avoca area.

Col’s passion these days is propagating plants for dune and bush restoration and trying to encourage the planting of the local pigface (Carpobrotus glaucesscens) rather than ‘other strays’.

It was at one of the Monday Nursery Volunteer sessions that Col introduced the group to some of his bush poetry and the character of Jock, an alter-ego amalgamating elements from wonderful characters he met during three years working in the Central West, as well as from uncles, a great uncle and a father-in-law, who all liked to retell their yarns.

I hope you’ll enjoy one of Jock’s tales as much as we all did during our nursery volunteer session. 

We’d love to have more stories from our volunteer network. If you have an article idea for a future edition of our eNews we would love to hear it. You can let us know by talking about this with your groups Officer or by emailing us at environmentalvolunteering@centralcoast.nsw.gov.au

New Posts by Col Ruffels
(Another of Old Jock's tales that he would tell and as I have said before, I don't always catch the whole of it, but over many repetitions I can piece most of it together. However, I am never sure Jock isn't telling it bits and pieces, just to tease me.)

'Twas 'bout the time, now some time back,
when he was helping Smithy out.
You might recall that dreadful blaze, 
and Jock, that fencing lay about.

You might remember that destroyed,
was Smithy's fences and his shed,
and Jock was asked to fix it up,
and bury animals found dead.

For,
There's dignity, out in the bush
where things are best when they're done right.
For sure they're good at making do
and DIY's their daily plight.

But it's Jock's 'tory - I'll bow out
and let him tell it his own way.
and though I've heard it many times
he doesn't tell it ev'ry day.

So there I was, me spade in hand,
and holes now dug for new fence posts.
I dug 'em deep. I dug 'em straight,
beside them old and blackened ghosts.

But now for new uprights to plant
before I pulled new wires tight.
But where to find new trunks to fell
and split to use once cut to height?

The only likely ones to use
were burned to useless blackened sticks.
So there I was, completely stumped.
I had to find Old Smithy quick.

"I need some new posts, for the fence,"
I told him on the old two way.
"I need some fence posts! None out here!
Done all I can, out here today."

"Goodo," said Smithy. "None in here.
First thing tomorrow drive to town
and get a load of concrete posts.
They'll last for good and not burn down”.

Was nothing left for me to do,
I packed the ute. The sun was low.
In back was Blue, all tuckered out,
from playing chasings with the crows.

The stories in the pub that night
were tales 'bout fate and where it kissed.
The feed burnt out, machin'ry lost
and lucky farms the fire missed.

But to me plight out Smithy's shed.
My sleep spent fighting flames tree height,
and swatting flies and 'cidal crows.
termites in ev'ry thing in sight.

More spent than after diggin' holes,
to Tom's Farm 'quipment, Stock and Feed.
I thought that there I'd have a chance 
of gettin' ev'rything I'd need.

By crikey, Tom's had come along,
why even tractor seats were furred. 
Gone were the days he'd make ya tea,
and spread the gossip that he'd heard.

'cause now you go up to a desk.
A smart dressed chap is at a screen.
You haf to tell him what you need,
‘cause on a farm he's never been.

Anyway, 
I fin'lly found the bloke and asked,
"got concrete posts that fire can't 'tack?"
He asked, "How long you want 'em mate?"
I said, "Don't plan to bring 'em back."

This poetry was written by Col Ruffels, Environmental Volunteer with forward by Michael Smith