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Party time

There’s a folksy Australian song that rattles off numerous place names in rapid succession. You know the one, something like Tumbarumba Cootamundra Gooloogong Corryong Arawang Wee Waa etc etc. Macca will play it on his weird Sunday morning radio show, Australia All Over, in which Tony from Mungallala will tell us about the weather in western Queensland before an out-of-tune ukulele solo and some tips from Brenda of Bendigo on making a mint courtesy of franking credits while decimating the countryside in a f*ck off caravan. I sometimes tune in to keep my finger on the pulse.

I bring this to mind only because I feel like I have been living through that song during the first quarter of 2023. A less catchy but almost as infinite Phillip, Wallaroo, Grenfell, Crestwood, Queanbeyan, Nirimba, Lyons, Duffy. Like all good journeys it seems the final destination will also take me back to the beginning, a grande boucle finishing in Phillip. A few hundred metres from my old apartment. Just a matter of selling my soul to a hopefully solvent bank and one or two handshakes away.

Ah, handshakes eh. Remember how they were the norm? And then how a raccoon dog got sick and people thought we would never shake hands again, bewildering the Australian Liberal Party leader. And then we pretended the raccoon dog thing had gone and we went back to shaking hands again as well as not talking to our neighbours and not pickling vegetables and not walking an hour every single day? I tell you, I could live without those pesky handshakes.

For the sake of a good story I like to think it was a soul-selling handshake with a mortgage broker that not only meant my Australia All Over tour was destined to end but gave me the added bonus of COVID-19 on top of hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Most people get a little cashback or a year of insurance with their mortgage. I got an illness that shattered my delusion at being one of the invincibles.

Frankly, this sucked given I was somewhere between Queanbeyan and Nirimba at the time and continued to see the Cs and Ts in Lyons and Duffy. And what of it? I can’t say it was ever too serious for me but it drags on like an episode of Vera and is just as sure to make me feel sleepy. It also has impeccable timing at emerging just at the time when I thought I might have a break away from everything.

Nirimba is also known as a part of Caloundra which is also known as a part of the Sunshine Coast which is also known as a part of Queensland. Needing a few weeks of fill-in accommodation why not spend a little of it on the Sunny Coast instead of, say, Queanbeyan? With the offer put out there, why not seek some payback for those domestique duties back in the rail trail days? Why not celebrate Canberra Day with that time worn custom of fleeing Canberra? I mean, it’s not like anything could go wrong.

Indeed, apart from the terrible option of a Red Rooster dinner off the G’day Bruce Highway, things started off fairly well. A dawn start down by the beach with coffee and a brekkie wrap. Yes, it was a bit dull – the Sunshine Coast doing its usual thing of lacking sunshine – and, yes, it was a bit too early given the backwardness of the time zone, but there were good, healthy, fresh air vibes. In the water, surfers lay as bait for sharks while landlubbers strode with purpose along the boardwalk before settling down to read about rugby players in the Courier Mail. Happy Valley life.

Later in the morning the activewear extravaganza continued as I took a mountain bike along the smooth bike paths of new suburbia and found an island of remnant forest. As islands go it was more of the Drake variety than, say, Greenland, a small reminder of how abundant this ecosystem once was before bulldozers and progress. Just a koala-less snippet enough to take a sexy bike photo and at least pretend this was deep in the heart of the wilderness. Before popping to the IGA.

Perhaps this was the turning point. On the way back, laden with sweet potatoes and a cauliflower, the gloom that had threatened all morning decided to unleash its saturating dampness. It wasn’t especially cold nor especially refreshing but a chore that made the short ride back bitter and infuriating. The only solace coming in brief moments imagining I was some Wouter Van Aert whizzing through the lanes of Flanders. And remembering that there was also an apple turnover being transported in my backpack.

What made me sick? Mortgage brokers, rain, apple turnovers, red roosters, plane flights or, perhaps in keeping with such things, a work planning day? I will never know but on Saturday things started to emerge. Unfortunately this came after a good two hours hard labour on a building site, sweeping up all sorts of dust while musing on the ostentatiousness of so much floor space. A smoko Beefy’s pie and slice of carrot cake wasn’t the only thing irritating my throat.

Do you know how many times I have shoved a swab up my nose and sometimes down my throat and watched as a bit of fluid rises up a small strip of paper on a cheap white plastic thing ironically made in China? You know that moment where the march upward reaches the T and you start to vision a line forming, convinced this time is the time, yet it proceeds up to C without a second thought? Well, the answer is I don’t know how many times that has happened to me, but at least plenty. In some ways it was a relief to finally see that T line glow bright and true, for at least there is a clear reason for how I am feeling. In other ways, my dreams of superhero status were dashed and I was stuck homeless and hopeless in Queensland.

I will not bore you with descriptions of too much sickness as surely we’ve all had enough of that to last a lifetime. In the end it was a blessing to be in Queensland yet also I longed for my own retreat, my own place of solace, my own bed, my own home. The blessing was that I had friends care for me and look out for me and even vacate their own home. I had a bedroom and a bathroom and a dose of warm, humid air when I wanted relief from air conditioning. I had Netflix and a domestique making me coffee, and two generous doggies to pat. I had taste and smell and, mostly, an appetite. Even if gathering treats from the IGA by bike was out of the question for a few days.

If only the home was closer to the beach. I would have gone on soothing strolls away from people, feeling the salty warmth of the ocean on my feet and shutting my eyes to absorb the rhythms of the surf. As it was I had the Dinosaur park and display homes to scrutinise, a sporting oval with distant views to the Glasshouse Mountains and, occasionally, the company of the dogs who will go absolutely bananas at the sense of any other dog in the neighbourhood. By day five, a trip to McDonalds was starting to sound like the most exciting thing to do, if I could make it.

But fast forward several days and it is back to the early morning beachside vibes of Happy Valley. This time, the morning sun is rising, shimmering off the mirror-like sinews of Pumicestone Passage. Surfers stroll down the steps with vigour into a golden glow. The water is gentle and soothing and delightfully warm. The air is still and the day is already on its way to becoming hot. I breathe it in as best I can, this bounteousness of ocean air. Just with a little regret at what could have been.

Now I enter the post-COVID era, superpowers extinguished. Really, how on earth did I last this long? It caps off what has been quite a rubbish start to 2023. All those place names might sound jaunty and adventuresome in a folk song but everyone could do with a place to hang their hat. A place to call their own. A place to mull over kitchen benchtop resurfacing and vinyl tiles and a new vanity. A place to put pictures on the wall, my pictures on a wall! Let the homeowner era finally begin*.

* barring any last minute handshake issues

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Under the shadows

And so, that year that everyone was so looking forward to when it commenced draws to a close. If the sequels to 2020 continue to pan out like the Police Academy series then we are all in for a very unamusing time. Unless you’re really into these boorish characters, crass jokes and ridiculous plotlines.

Despite its ups and downs, I was surprised to be able to find myself for a couple of weeks at the latter part of 2021 in the United Kingdom. So thank you lax borders and frequent flyer points and negative lateral flow tests and annual leave build up and, most of all, thank you science. It was a bonus trip, taken with a wariness that things could so easily change again and again.

It was amazing and I would do it all over again. This, despite the shadow of coronavirus always lurking in the background, sometimes coming to the fore. At times – such as high upon a clifftop overlooking the Atlantic, roaring with laughter during an early Christmas gathering, scouring verdant countryside for lens hoods – the pandemic disappeared altogether. At others – shopping for cards in an almighty hurry, shoving swabs up my nose, double-masking when others breathe “freedom” – it was all that was going on.

The journey back to Australia is never really a good one and pandemic travel adds an extra layer of crap. Which is exactly what was lathered all over my hands from a Great Western Railway dispenser at Plymouth station. Awaiting a train to Exeter masks were – mostly – back in fashion but no-one was rocking the dual surgical-cloth combo quite like me.

Eschewing my reserved seat for a quieter clump further down the carriage, it was a peaceful journey twisting through the ambrosia of South Devon. Along the Teign the low winter sun inched into the sky and flickered golden upon the caps of gentle waves as we wound towards Dawlish. A silhouette upon the beach swiftly passed by and I felt a yearning to swap places.

At Exeter a breath of fresh air before trundling on through a litany of country villages and towns straight out of Wessex – Whimple, Sherborne, Templecombe, Tisbury, and then finally Salisbury. For a meeting with Dad, a bakery and – yes – a PCR test.

At £99 (AU$200) I was expecting a gold plated swab and free lollipop, not a tiny pharmacy offering a ten second poke up the nose. Oh well, hopefully it will get me on a plane to Australia within the mandatory 72 hours. Hopefully.

I stayed with Dad and Sonia for a couple of days, happily partaking in Tartiflette traditions and Saturday night quiz shows. The main activity was a delightful Wiltshire walk around the Vale of Pewsey, that ultimate pre-departure injection of countryside England, of green and pleasant, of great outdoors. Of surprising blue skies masking a chill winter wind.

Much of the route took us along the top of a characteristic chalk down, plunging curvaceously into rich, bounteous farming country. Beyond far-reaching vistas over loveliness, memorable features included a white horse, old burial mounds, brambles, crawling through gaps in a fence and slipping in cow-trodden mud. Oh and did I mention the Belgian Bun? Should’ve brought a flask though.

Despite blue skies, winter finally touched me with its bone-chilling menace. This occurred right about the time Dad lost a lens hood. Buffeted by the arctic, layered up with everything I had, unable to feel my nose. What the bloody hell am I doing? My mind switching to Australia.

It is quite feasible that some people in Pewsey felt that I should have stayed put in Australia. I dunno, spending my Dad’s money in their out-of-the-way town on instant hot chocolate. And while I can appreciate perspectives on non-existent pandemic control at the borders, I couldn’t help but feel this was borne from a place of zero foreigners whatsoever. Perhaps, Little Britain style, a deluge of vomit ensued after my revelation that I was over here from Australia.

Not that anyone appeared to be really minding a pandemic the next day at Honeystreet Mill. Full tables feasting on bacon and eggs and sausages and beans and mushrooms and toast, emanating vapours with every loud voice and legume fart. I had come here with cake in mind, but it was hard to look past English bacon and sausages and HP sauce one last time. And besides, they do take away.

And so, packing cake, the journey continues onto that great city of London, steeped in drenching drizzle. It was a scaled-back visit in keeping with the times: one night only in a Paddington hotel, enabling an early start to the airport the next day. The hotel was everything you would expect of a Paddington terrace: behind the elegant façade, a labyrinthine warren of creaking floors and random stairs and polite notices. Washing muddy shoes in the shower wasn’t one of them.

For the remains of the day I endeavoured to make two brief encounters. This necessitated an adventure ride on the Underground to get to North London. From Edgware Road I hopped on the Circle Line which in my experience has always been a voyage that never seems to go anywhere in a hurry. On the plus side – I reasoned – it’s a subterranean affair, with opportunities for fresh air to mingle as you wait for no good reason at Baker Street. Occupying time, mask-counting is the new Metro-reading, and I would say an average of six and a half out of ten managed to comply on the Circle Line.

From Kings Cross I hopped onto the deeper, murkier Northern Line once more. Here I positioned myself by the windows at the end of a carriage to allow that sooty centuries-old air to take on my twin mask protection. I guess there are probably traces of the Spanish flu down here, along with Churchill’s cigar smoke and aromas from a Wimpy burger.

Maybe I just got lucky, but it was quiet, with mask-wearing approaching nine out of ten heading to those affluent, sensible suburbs of the north. The emerging light after Highgate never fails to bring relief, despite having done this trip hundreds upon hundreds of times in the past. And soon, at East Finchley, I hopped off into the late afternoon air.

The skies had brightened a little, prior to their disappearance into night. Cognisant of being on an aeroplane for days, I was keen to walk and talk with Caroline, aided by the thoughtful and cherished gift of some M&S chocolate biscuits. Through Cherry Tree Wood I remarked how I vaguely remembered walking this way once to Muswell Hill and lo and behold after not having a clue where we were heading we ended up in Muswell Hill. From there it wouldn’t have been so far to the Ally Pally but the drizzle set in once again and the pub sounded a better prospect.

Despite all the ridiculous nonsense spouted about freedom days and the sanctity of pubs from our self-styled post-war yearning libertarian warriors I rather enjoyed my two pints in the pub with an old friend. It just felt, well, normal. Like old days, like old lives. Yes we had our masks at the ready and sat far from the smattering of patrons, but it was almost as if a pandemic didn’t exist. Despite talking for 80% of the time about the bloody pandemic. I guess the alcohol maybe went to my head, but I remember that hour with much fondness.

I also remember dinner with much fondness, again propped up by a glass or two of wine and the company of more old friends. It was all too brief with Melita and Geoff and Orla and how I yearned to just linger and crash on the sofa and get up the next morning to walk to Victoria Park or up to North Finchley Sainsbury’s for hummus, edamame and more wine. The hope is for this sometime in 2022…

The final day of 2021 finds me sat writing this under a shady tree beside a lakeside bay in Canberra, Australia. A few families are scattered upon what counts for a beach, while a fluoro-white cockatoo shrieks from somewhere within a tall eucalyptus. Nursing me along, I managed to find one of the few coffee shops open – an Omicron lover’s dream – to pick up a takeaway. Accompanying shortbread comes courtesy of M&S at Terminal 3 of Heathrow. I had a lot of time at Terminal 3.

But I made it. After a PCR test, a cancelled flight, an airport hotel with buffet food, early coach pick-ups with whinging people, a nonstop coughing, nose-blowing man, Darwin, Sydney, driving down the highway to Canberra, three days of home quarantine followed by another bonus four, two more PCR tests and about six lateral flows. Horrible jet lag and a tired achy feeling that just wants to linger. Delights at being back and some disappointments. It was worth it all.

For the duration of my flight I was sat next to a well-masked older lady who was off to Sydney to see her son, his partner, and their son. A boy born under the shadow of COVID-19. This was her third attempt and I shouldn’t have been surprised at the obscenities flowing from her mouth at the first aborted take off. She just wanted to see her grandson for the very first time.

For ourselves and for others. This is why we do it and would do it all again. All the time holding on to the hope in our hearts that some sequels are better than the original.

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About town

A part of me was dreading going into Plymouth City Centre. The goal: obtain cheap greeting cards, find a secret Santa present and see if I can pick up any of those free tests for the covids. Entering Card Factory double-masked felt every bit the gauntlet run, as old dears shuffled slowly through the narrow aisle, perusing every single Christmas card for every single family member. I swiftly picked up a box of impersonal festive cards, another random selection of five for a quid, and – unfortunately in haste – a birthday card for a non-existent sister-in-law. Meanwhile, my secret Santa exceeded the five pound limit, an extra two pounds worth it for the relief of not venturing into multiple stores rubbing up against bare faced contaminants.

The fresh air, ah the fresh air. Unfortunately it is also quite dull air as I reserve such conditions for trips to town, rather than waste good sunshine on Primark and Costa. This means the view from Plymouth Hoe today is rather monotone. The red of Smeaton’s Tower is subdued, while the placid water of the Sound passes a blur of Drake’s Island as it meets a similar shaded horizon.

By time I reach the Barbican, the gloom lifts a little and I feel in the mood for a coffee on the quay. Nearby Boston Tea Party offers potential for something half-decent but ends up with me confronting the prospect of sitting inside for a whole five minutes. It’s something to do with the worthy cause of not using takeaway cups. Never have I drunk an average latte in such rapid a time.

It’s kind of nice to wander Plymouth, even though it feels as if I am skimming through. As I pass, people continue to vape like there is no tomorrow (or airborne virus), queue along Royal Parade for a Citybus home, arrive en masse at Poundland. There are new things and old things and things which have simply changed their position. New things like ‘The Barcode’ and ‘The Box’ – while hardly inspiring in name – at least offer the sense of a city progressing. Old things either decay with neglect or prosper in their complex history.

One thing unchanged for a while are the two bridges crossing the River Tamar. I head to these later on the same day hoping for some kind of repeat of a previous sunset. I was intending to view proceedings from the Devon side but inadvertently get stuck crossing the road bridge and end up in Cornwall. While this provides a touch of charm down by the river in Saltash, I am fuming inside at the prospect of paying two pounds toll on the way back. I walk over to Devon nonetheless, and back to Cornwall again, as the daylight fades.

From this lofty vantage I can see further down the Tamar as it passes the Dockyard and enters the Sound. It is around there that Devil’s Point and the adjoining Royal William Yard provide a pleasant outlet from city noise and grime. I find myself in that vicinity the next morning, the gloom having well and truly lifted to a blue sky day. Being November, a chill remains in the hard stone buildings and shady wind tunnels of the Yard. Better seek the sea for reflection of warmth.

Nearby, Firestone Bay has risen in prominence thanks to the growth of wild swimming, visiting wildlife and posing figures on Instagram. I take time for a coffee and delicious slice of some kind here; these slices always propel the quality of the coffee in my memory. It’s only then that I notice the latest resident seal, chilling out on the shingle as the odd swimmer and paddleboarder lathers up. Calm and sparkling, it feels a long way from the city, and the congested aisles of Card Factory.

This is the Plymouth I could see myself in, the one where it is eternally sunny and I am literally strolling around beside the ocean with a decent coffee without having to work or shop for cut-price greeting cards. It is an unattainable Plymouth in reality, only appearing in these brief snippets of circumstance and good fortune. In such fleeting passage, they are of a Plymouth to treasure and remember. And to hope for in time again.

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Off track

Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t say I’m especially fond of a cracked phone screen on top of a magpie attack on top of an earthquake on top of a lockdown on top of a pandemic. Served up with a hearty dollop of impending nuclear Armageddon intersecting with blistering fire and dust super tornados. No, Wednesday you didn’t particularly rock my world.

Frankly, out of all those, the bloody magpie irks me the most. How dare you take away the satisfaction and soothing of my allotted outdoor exercise time in lovely spring sunshine. And mean another pathway is added to the blacklist. The pathways are busy enough as they are with all these people in various states of mask undress discovering pathways for the very first time. Why don’t you attack them, stupid magpie? Oh, that’s right, you remember me, but yet conveniently you don’t remember how I have never once tried to steal your babies in all those years, you bloody shit.

If there is any positive, the magpie at least adds a bit of frisson to another daily outing in the same part of suburbia. Six weeks in, the confines of living within a vague radius or region are starting to grate. There are only so many times – for instance – you can wander upon Red Hill without getting weary of the same route. On the most recent occasion, I found myself annoyed with an endless procession of joggers and dogs not on leads and family gatherings. Eroding the sensations usually associated with an escape to and immersion in nature. Sounds, sights, space shrinking.

An actual problem looking for a solution, I find myself more often than not heading off track. A little out of the way. Not exactly bush-bashing, more weaving between weeds. There are still a few spots in which to escape around the Woden zone. I probably shouldn’t share them here but figure a readership of six people – many of whom are not in Canberra – is not going to cause a sudden ruination of my life. If it does, I’ll know who to blame. And set that magpie upon you…

The Old Mugga Mugga Way

If Red Hill is akin to Fitness First every goddam afternoon, Mount Mugga Mugga Reserve is more like that rusty bench press underneath a pile of boxes at the back of the garage. Fringing the weirdness of O’Malley, it seems the varied diplomats and consuls who inhabit the area rarely go out to exercise. Perhaps like most aliens they have been cowed by those great tales of deadly inhabitants of the Australian bush. Preferring the safety and comfort of their own little piece of soil.

The Centenary Trail runs through the reserve and introduced me to the area back in the good old days of 2020. A few people still come and go along this thoroughfare but it’s simple to veer off onto a number of faint tracks and choose your own adventure. The landscape is a very Canberra mix of weedy incursions and precious Yellow Box-Blakely’s Red Gum grassy woodland, replete with gnarly old eucalypts and their generous, homely hollows.

One particular tree has fallen, and I have taken to it on several occasions to perch and drink tea from a flask and eat a treat and watch Gang-gangs fly past while kangaroos graze and deadly inhabitants of the Australian bush lurk in the crevices of the fallen tree on which I am sat.

The whole flask of tea thing has become another more frequent happening in my life in recent weeks; I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it much before. Perhaps I simply wasn’t quite of an age. But pandemics and magpie attacks have a way of adding on the years, transforming a simple flask of tea in the middle of the bush into something that feels much more precious.

Isaacs Off Piste Ridge

Mount Mugga Mugga itself is scarred by a quarry and the summit appears fenced off, thus remaining that rare Canberra hill not trampled upon by my own two feet. Yet it’s just one lump in a broad range extending from Red Hill south towards the Tuggeranong Valley. Adjoining Mugga Mugga, Isaacs Ridge proves popular for its pine trails and dog walks and boasts an archetypal trig marker summit loop with 360 degree views.

That all sounds a bit mainstream for me at the moment, so I veer off the fine balcony trail lapping at the foot of the ridge and decide to head up cross country. There is a very faint track at first, which slowly blends into a landscape of open grassland and rocky scrub. Over a false summit, a field of thistly plants remains quelled by winter – give it a month or two and the going will come with greater hazard. A random copse of casuarina appears as if some long-forgotten scientific experiment, offering a landmark to follow slowly upwards to the top of the ridge. And lo and behold, a photogenic gum tree, with some fallen logs for a rest (and possible tea).

From here, there are views east to that far off land of New South Wales. There is countryside and Mugga Lane and quarrying work and possibly even just a little part of the tip. But mostly it’s countryside. There is also the white trig marker visible to the south, acting as a beacon to aim for, navigating the rocky boulders and grasses of the ridge and returning to the mainstream.

The Murrumbidgee Vista Rocky Outcrop

For several weeks, Cooleman Ridge was proving one of those ambiguous places in the application and interpretation of local coronavirus restrictions. Is it in the Woden, Weston and Molonglo region or is it Tuggeranong? Is it within five kilometres of home or six and a half or eight? The answers are yes and sometimes you just have to ask the question does it actually matter?

One of those days was a lunchtime and instead of a flask of tea I packed up some crackers, nuts and cheese and went on a quest for the perfect place to snack. Eschewing the usual, well-defined summit rocks and strategically-situated benches I veered off towards a hillock I had eyed up in the past. A few gum trees stood atop resistant, hosting flurries of wattlebird and passing rosellas. Imagine by delight that under one of them was the perfectly positioned, home-crafted seat.

Someone had been here before looking for the ideal situation to escape to the country. A kindred spirit. And if a backdrop of lush farmland cloaking a river valley beneath forested hills isn’t enough, check out those crackers and cheese and nuts from Kingaroy. Off track snack pack perfection.

The Oakey Dokey Hill with bonus Hummock

Along with off track adventures one of the permissible things I have been doing virtually every day is picking up a takeaway coffee. It is the stuff of contact tracing nightmares and triggers the inner COVID police in me every time. Quit loitering. Stand away from me. Stop touching your face. Don’t order multiple coffees with various shades of milk for your entire bubble.

I’m also – naturally given current confines – alternating my takeaways between a mere handful of proximate cafes, constantly hoping they fail to materialise on the exposure site listing. In Lyons, Stand By Me offers something that is walkable from home and – should I wish to venture further – can be incorporated on a climb of Oakey Hill.

Of the six hilly nature reserves forming a horseshoe around the Woden Valley, Oakey Hill is probably the least fashionable and most unkempt. Power pylons compete with decommissioned water reservoirs and temporary fencing. The flora seems more degraded, more weedy, more battered and bruised by the elements. Still, there is a nice bench beside the trig marker if it’s vacant and a little used side track that offers good views out to the mountains.

Across from the reserve, a green corridor lines the divide between Lyons and Curtin. From here, more slivers of green penetrate into suburbia, one of which hosts a determinedly vicious magpie. Nowadays I avoid that particular route and instead continue around the outside of Curtin on a track that at one point takes on the appearance of pasture. It forms part of what has become a fairly regular ten kilometre bike jaunt which culminates in a different takeaway coffee at Red Brick.

Along this way, at the back of Curtin, there is a hummock which takes me away too. Behind, fences protect garden refuges with trampolines and lemon trees and potting sheds and shrubs of shady bottlebrush. But in front there are fields of green and skies of blue. On the horizon, the distinctive angles of the Brindabellas promise at much more freedom. And I am whisked away to a place far from busily exercising humans and irritating magpies and daily case numbers and limited coffee options. I am taken again off track.

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Constellations

My better instincts tell me not to add to the infinite pile of mediocrity written about lockdowns. Enough of the wry observations on human behaviour and knowing, self-satisfied quips about sourdough. But forgive me one indulgence: I absolutely hate myself every time I realise I am rolling my eyes or muttering under my breath about a misplaced mask or a small cluster of people sitting on open grass simply trying to get through life as best they can. I absolutely hate that we all now have a little COVID police officer within us.

When out and about I should really focus instead on the threat of magpies and the impending advent of flies hassling my face. These are, perversely, bright spots of our times. Reassurance that there is a normal, no matter if that involves a petulant bird trying to peck out your eyes. There are many bright spots right now.

Take Sunday morning. Scenes of Emma Raducanu and an awesome kid on a bike coming together with an awesome adult on a bike. Out in the real world another awesome kid on a bike warmed me with a good morning greeting on the way for coffee. Sun was out, bees were buzzing, magpies were lurking. Shorts were on.

Bare legs couldn’t remain all day, the weather typical of spring: one day it’s all throw open the doors, the next retreat back into your cave. Nonetheless, the joy of spring is as enduring and as uplifting as ever.

Favourite – and very local – spring spots include a clutch of trees next to Chifley shops transforming into a tunnel of pink, a cul-de-sac in Curtin that is equally as resplendent in autumn, and the natural blooms of Woden Cemetery.

The cemetery is a funny one, not that you hear anyone laughing. Here is open space on my doorstep that I conscientiously tiptoed around for a few years, driven by some hallowed sense of not wanting to intrude. Should a place of grief and loss really also be a place for me to ramble around seeking joy and delight? Well, in the full gamut of emotions that make us human, yes, or at least I have convinced myself of that in a lockdown during spring. And there is something undeniably poetic in the new life flourishing among the tombstones that I suspect many passing souls would beam a broad smile at.

Nearby, the rocks and stones scattered on a small piece of bushland between Garran and Hughes marvel at equally magnificent transformation. This is most apparent in the explosion of golden wattle, so full and vibrant and unashamedly Australian that is hard not to feel borderline okay about the batting average of S.P.D. Smith. Gang-gangs and galahs and annoying myna birds provide the backing for the exquisite melodies of our wonderful magpies. Everything feels industrious here, with a touch of ornithological romance and floral perfume in the air.

Each bead of effervescent wattle bloom is a bright spot. As is each elongated creak of a Gang-gang, each delicate petal of cherry blossom, each sun-glazed afternoon where you can throw on some shorts until the chill returns. Marry these with uplifting moments of human endeavour and achievement and connection and compassion and you have enough bright spots to form a whole constellation. A sky of stars so powerful it can even eclipse those inner COVID police, for a while.

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Warmth

Back in January, when we were in the midst of that horrible summer, I proclaimed out loud that I would never complain about winter in Canberra ever again. So there you go. I am absolutely loving the first day of May, with its frigid drizzle and single digit tops. It’s even better than yesterday.

On Tuesday afternoon I was still in shorts, walking up Mount Ainslie. Such are the inconsistencies of change, the indecisiveness of an autumn spanning thirty degree highs to single digit lows. Sunburn in the suburbs and snow on the hills, closed off and out of reach.

I was curious how autumn would pan out this year after the terror summer, the massive hailstorm, the rain, and now the chill. But I shouldn’t have worried because – on this most dismal of days – there are still riots of colour in every other cul-de-sac, around every empty circle. And I’ve had plenty of opportunity to investigate multiple nooks and crannies in these recent weeks. From COVID-walks around the corner to expeditions along the Centenary Trail, there is always something of wonder on offer to brighten up the dark…

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Walks from home, discovering every single street in an effort to mix it up a little

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If you can walk clockwise and put up with the zillions of people getting their mandated exercise, Lake Burley Griffin offers all the usual spectacle

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Red Hill: the street sweeper’s dream

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It’s not only the cockies causing all the shenanigans. Flocks of pretty gang-gangs, vibrant king parrots and stately yellow-tailed black cockatoos are a regular sight feasting on the fruits of summer, and not practising social distancing

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Colours in Campbell, sidestepping from the Centenary Trail

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Look close and there is autumn magic around every corner

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Park

Imagine where we would be without the existence of parks. No climbing apparatus for kids to fracture a wrist on. No sunlit uplands upon which youths can illegally sunbathe in eighteen degree scorchers. No shady path where you can stare intensely at your phone while supposedly immersing yourself in the outdoors. No blessed congregation of trees and flowers and birds and butterflies. No shared refuge, unifying a community.

Parks are wonderful things and have so often been overlooked for canyons, mountains and bays. Sure, there are the iconic parks of great cities that make many a pouty influencer’s backdrop. And there are sprawling reserves weaving through suburbia. Vast green lungs hosting squirrels and spiders and pigeons and pigeon poop. But it is perhaps in those small neighbourhood enclaves, the park around the corner, that we find greatest solace and celebration.

In the restricted state of Coronaland our local parks have taken on a newfound appeal; in some cases proving too alluring. My local park around the corner remains open, never likely to close in the generous open space and placid gentility of Canberra. I think I’ve been going there pretty much every day, some days twice. Not because there are no other spots where I can appreciate the outdoors. It’s just so goddam handy, especially when work from home is generating more procrastination than productivity. A mid-morning stroll in the park has become followed by an instant coffee. At least let me have one thing I can enjoy.

So, in light of the times, while I usually focus on bringing you turgid text about canyons, mountains, and bays, let me instead take you on a tour of the local. A very 2020 trip…

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I tend to pause for a rest on this bench. And sit there and browse my phone. You know…appreciating the outdoors and all that. When I do look up I often find a gang of magpies plotting how to poke my eyes out. One in front and one behind. But it’s the stealthy little bleeder unseen in the trees that you’ve got to watch out for. Especially between August and December. And probably January to July too. So it’s a really relaxing place to sit anyway.

Other entertainment from this bench can sometimes come about from observing truant EMOs playing disc golf. Some of them are really quite impressive. Who would have thought Frisbee would be so cool? There seem to be many holes scattered about the park. They consist of a green mat, from where you launch your disc towards an orange metal post adorned with chains. Kind of resembling a useless bin. Perhaps that’s part of the appeal for the EMOs, I dunno.

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It looks as though the most challenging hole is the 14th, with an occasional water hazard to the left. The Yamba Channel Storm Drain adorns the eastern edge of the park, transporting rainwater and sewage from Canberra Hospital. In times of flood it’s quite the Venice. However, this storm drain pales into insignificance compared with the nearby Woden Central Rainwater Complex. Street art, dope-smoking, feral cats. It really does have it all.

park04It’s not all magpie terror, bin Frisbee and occasional canals in my park. No, there are plenty of structured entertainment opportunities, from workout contraptions dotted along the path at intervals, to swings, slides, tunnels and a concrete skate park. I don’t tend to linger here lest people get the wrong impression. I also avoid the skate park, determined to avoid catching baggy pants, hormones, acne and that kind of thing.

Of course, nowadays, no-one can linger there.

We can, however, still access the wetlands. I say wetlands but I mean pond and the bit of water that overflows because they didn’t factor in the concept of rain. Which is kind of fair enough when you think rain was such an alien concept two months ago.

To be honest, they’ve done a decent job on this part of the park, having recently completed some improvement work. It must be an election year or something. The pond has been reinvigorated by a water fountain, which makes you want to rush home to pee. No unnecessary lingering here. The ducks also seem seriously pissed off with this addition. Imagine the peace and quiet ruined, the stagnant water now a stormy sea.

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The work does appear to have improved the water quality though, and provides habitat for an array of deadly spiders and snakes. I have also seen a few different birds come back: a pair of herons, some masked lapwings, other indeterminate duck-like things. They make their presence shown on one of the highlights of the park, pooh bridge. Like Pooh Corner, only less poohey.

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From the boggy wetlands it is worth the climb to higher ground, courtesy of the grassy hummock, which represents the highest point in the park. The grassy hummock is extraordinarily regular, as if it was some ancient burial mound or – more likely – a site for discarded radioactive waste from the hospital. There is – naturally – a disc golf tee up there and exquisite views of the fine architecture of Woden Town Centre. A landscape ever-changing, as essential apartment building continues.

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From here it is just a short walk home, but I may just linger longer, especially if all that awaits me is work and instant coffee. I might just dwell under the warm glow of a tree, sunlight filtering through leaves transforming gold. I may hesitate beside the shrubs, following the fluctuating course of a butterfly looking to settle. I could just spy a gang gang in a gum or the cluster of red rump parrots hiding in the grass, watching a while as they get on with getting on. And I may just decide to perch again on my bench, avoiding hand contact and voracious magpies, thankful for this, thankful for the park.

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Beyond the Park: A 2020ish Adventure

Meanwhile, given I pretty much ain’t going anywhere in a hurry I came up with the idea of embarking on an adventure from home. Keeping to the confines of the Australian Capital Territory and contingent on a lot of things, I thought I would try and walk the Canberra Centenary Trail. This is a loop around the hills and reserves of Canberra, stretching for 145km. Obviously there’s no way I am doing that in one go, but over several, shorter, more convoluted stages.

I wrote a fair bit more about the plan here.

 

Australia Green Bogey Society & Culture