Warrnambool Road Trip

Greener pastures greeted the traveller as they crossed the countryside. Travellers who followed the well worn journeys of many others. Large dinosaur-like skeletons controlled the greening of paddocks. Those dinosaur skeletons rolled across the earth to deliver much needed water to nourish the parched ground so unlike that we had seen earlier on the western plains. Robust, steel, skeletons towered over their domains.
Then, finally, a sign with printed blue, iconic symbols indicated that The Great Ocean Road stretched ahead.
Tourists flocked to signed vantage points. Hostile waves each with white crests pounded the shoreline. Cliffs were silently being re shaped as people stood at viewing platforms. Some cliffs were rough and jagged like shattered glass shards. Others stood smooth and straight as if carved by a master craftsman. Delicate sediments succumbed to the will of the incessant waves. Only time revealed the relentless invasion of the coast. Rusty red hues weakened and gradually fell to their knees before such might.
Tourists cameras clicked rapidly. Cameras captured images of the tortured headlands and islands. None considered that history would only remember them in photographs snapped years ago by nameless tourists. Each lens created memories of colossal landmarks. Landmarks that inspired awe. Natural beauty not mimicked in photo shopped computer screens.
Each car park led to new vistas. Sea, water, waves and coastline reached beyond the horizon.

Pudding

Pudding, what an unfortunate name for a dog? She was a Christmas gift. There was much debate about a name with only one dissenter to the unflattering Pudding. All others argued that Pudding seemed to suit the festive occasion. Pudding is playful and friendly. At times she must be reminded that she is not human. In the past she loved to ride a skateboard at the beach near Merewether with her owner, Chris. Recently Chris had to move interstate so now she lives in a more rural setting. To be certain Pudding misses her weekly cafe visits to Derby Street where all passers-by stopped and chatted to her. Her adoring public must wonder where she is and what she is doing. Sometimes one knows when they have to leave the limelight behind and enjoy the wide open spaces of an acreage. One particular advantage of the more rural lifestyle is that the burial of bones is much easier with less concrete under foot or perhaps more correctly, under paw.

Murder Mystery Dinner

Just another fine excuse to come together with friends for dinner. The Murder Mystery theme encouraged creative dress decisions and cemented the relationships of those invited to test their skills of deduction. Each character was provided with a scripted and brief analysis of their role as the evening progressed. The only rule was that no one could lie. However, as with rules, there was always an exception and that was that the murderer was permitted to lie during the final act. I am pleased to report that while I was not the murderer I did know  'who done it.

Pasta

Stephen and I were watching the movie, A Trip To Italy last weekend. The movie prompted us to book a table at our local and favourite Trattoria, Lillino's. A quick call to Valentina had secured us a table for dinner. Having had no lunch, the images of the meals showcased in the movie had fostered a hunger for traditional Italian cooking. Later, over a dinner of shared plates, each piled with steaming pasta we agreed that we needed to do some home cooking, Italian style. When we arrived home hurried invitations were emailed to friends inviting them to join us in creating some pasta dishes of our own. Dishes that would allow us to reminisce about our travels.
Jeni, Alain, Stephen and I measured flour, rolled dough and cranked handles on a pasta machine before hanging our efforts out to dry. On a side note, the handle of the pasta machine had the unnerving habit of falling out of its socket and clanging to the floor. It was more a product design fault rather than issues due to its inexperienced operators.
A previously gifted pasta dryer was extremely helpful in drying the strips of pasta. In the past, when we had made pasta we had no fabulous plastic tower, complete with lifter and it was hung on clothes hangers about the kitchen. The completed cuisine was particularly tasty. The best fun was in the meal's creation and in the making of happy memories.

And then it rained ...

The empty wine bottle fell into the recycling bin, along with the torn pizza packet. I looked skyward as the bottle struck another at the bottom of the bin. It chimed, like only glass can.
I was so disappointed. This is not what I wanted. Rain tapped gently on the tiles. I could already hear water flowing into the tank at the side of the house. The gravel and brown earth barely wet but obviously enough rain to make its way from the tiles to the newly painted gutters and then into the tank's thirsty mouth.
I wanted a storm. A storm with torrents of rain heralded by thunder claps that rattled windows and shook foundations. There was something about lightning bolts that cracked and shattered the night sky with their silver fingers of crazed light that tantalised. Lightning tongues that licked the earth I willed to come.
I wanted to raise the blinds to the tops of the windows and look out through the dark, waiting for the rumble to be followed by an eerie light show that would momentarily illuminate the neighbour's yards. The need to see the waters rushing across the grass, then across the road drains at the bottom of the hill. Drains that could not be seen for they were so troubled with weeds.
To stand and wait for each explosion of colour to bring relief from the blackened sky. For rooftops and trees to shine where wet rain had drenched their features. To see the neighbour's storm water creating jets like burst water mains pouring onto the lawn.
Instead I lazed briefly on the lounge, restless for the storm to bring closure to my day. Feeling unsettled I roamed the hallway looking into every room. Searching for something to challenge my interest to bring about a break in my weather.
In the first room the treadmill stood silent in one corner. No feet had walked its panels for months or maybe even years. Opposite it a sofa couch designed to provide respite for the exercise enthusiast. Bright cushions punctuated it's grey fabric. Soft furnishings to entice and to stimulate energetic participation in walking to nowhere had not met their target. Foliage of every hue outside the windows suggested the inside merged with the inner world, framed by this room.

A second room had its agenda firmly designed for sleep. Black, iron, bars welded to an arc at one end was festooned with no fewer than six pillows. Each precisely placed and plumped for restful slumber. Tall bedside lamps with velvety, green shades sat on each side of the bed. Small metal and wood framed tables with glass tops allowed me to see through to the carpet underneath.
My walk had not yet injected inspiration and nor did the final bedroom from this hallway. This hallway was no substitute for the storm I sought to rid myself of a nightfall malaise.
With tempered steps I returned to the lounge. I soon drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow I knew that I would wake with promise.

Today is my tomorrow. It brought me to lunch at a local restaurant in the vineyard, just a short drive from home, along the highway to Lovedale. Lovedale, the area where tourists first meet the rows of trellises. Some vines still clinging to bunches of grapes long past picking schedules. Now waiting to wither, dry and fall back to earth from whence they grew. Others had proudly offered their bounty before summer storms rendered them useless. Roses bloomed at the beginning of each row. Their job to alert the vigneron to possible disease. The same roses had not been able to prevent the hail that harassed the delicate grapes into submission one summer afternoon.
Matthew and I seeking a light lunch turned into the drive of a once favourite restaurant and parked with ease. We were a little early for the Sydney visitors to be crowding for tables so it was a quiet and relaxed dining experience. Choices there were many. Today's fare a mixed platter of smoked duck breast, chutney, chicken terrine, thinly sliced, air dried beef, pistachio salami, smoked cheddar, rocket salad with a side dish of Cajun potatoes. Our wine was a local Chardonnay that supported the variety of flavours in a most pleasing manner.
Conversation over lunch noted the success of casual dining and the creation of platters when entertaining. No banging of pots in the kitchen, stirring mixing or plating when platters had been prepped before the arrival of guests. Mental note to self to do this again soon with a group of friends where we could all sit and enjoy banter without the intrusion of watching over a hot stove.
Across the table I watched Matthew as he made his selections from the platter. As a couple this platter worked well for it allowed each of us to partake of preferred options without due conflict. Shared meals where another cooked was a pleasure. Matthew savoured the variety that a charcuterie platter offered. Terrines, one of his personal favourites.
While I sat and typed I yearned that in writing this I could find a perspective that resolved thoughts and secured them whence there could be no return. To put them in a vault where no key or the biggest storm would open the box of memories.

A Memory - Marysville

A memory. 

This story is dedicated to the people of Marysville. Some time has passed since Black Saturday, February 7th, 2009 when the town was devastated by bushfires. Bushfires that killed 45 residents and destroyed approximately 90% of Marysville's buildings.

Marysville was a town of around 600 permanent residents. Its town’s people experienced the most catastrophic fire storm. Fires so intense that it spared neither human nor historic building save a few. The bakery, the lolly shop, the post office, the tourist information centre, the church where Taj was christened, a motel, a cafe and the odd house, Bruno’s Sculpture garden, all passed before many people grasped it had arrived.  The expected sirens were never sounded.

The cooling Steavenson River that ran through town no match for the tornado of flames that descended with its supreme power so determined to wreak chaos and havoc.  The shared telephone messages between people assembled at Gallipoli Park where all were aware that many might perish. Too many to save given the fire’s ferocity. Some must attempt to make a break and that is what they did. Under escort, a convoy of cars raced along the one road out of Marysville that had just been cleared; albeit temporarily; and that was for the briefest of minutes not totally consumed by flames and smoke. Few escaped to Alex for the road soon succumbed once again to the inferno as vegetation and cars were incinerated.

Steve, your unselfish abandonment of all your most valued possessions to drive another. Leaving your home to the mercy of that tsunami-like fire, knowing that when you returned that everything you owned would be lost to the searing flames. To Grace, who evacuated Marylands and its guests to the expected safety of Gallipoli Park. I hope that your face cream and hair wand remind you of happier times that we all shared at Marysville. To Alex and Helen at Snobb’s Creek winery who made your home available to many friends when all around was under siege.

To Kay who served us breakfast, the lady who owned the bikie bar, 'In Neutral' and the girl who allowed me to shop at Lit.  

A special thank you to Kay and Nora who cared for my daughter when she lived in Marysville. I commend your courage, your resilience and your determination to rebuild. 

Secrets

I have a secret. It is not a big secret. But as secrets go it's best to keep this secret. 
You see, one Saturday morning I was happily working in the garden when I took a call on the telephone. The caller asked if I could come for a visit as she had a little problem. The caller knew my secret. What the caller wanted to know was it possible for me to pack my secret costume and to come for a sleepover. I considered the offer. What payment or enticement was the caller offering for my services? How many people would be in attendance? Did the caller have any specific requests while I wore my costume? Next problem, what would my husband think? How would he feel about the request? He was aware of my secret costume sitting in its plain, brown, paper bag in the wardrobe. Would he accompany me and make the three hour journey to the mountains so that I could wear my secret costume? Did he want me to say no, not this time? When I asked him he smiled a knowing smile and said, "Tell her that we are on our way. We can be there a little after lunch."
My secret costume has travelled far and wide since that first time. It has been to Queensland, to my workplace, Katoomba and even a local hotel. Another Christmas. Another occasion to wear my secret costume.