My Coorong holiday. I drove down to my sister’s in the Adelaide Hills. I always enjoy the drive from here through Williamstown, Birdwood, Woodside, to Belair. The cooler hills climate keeps everything greener for longer, and the countryside with its farm-houses, sheds, sheep and cattle, creeks, and ancient redgum trees creates a moving picture I never tire of.
I stayed with my sister overnight. She is a lovely person, and when we get a chance like this, we talk a treat. One on one, personal stuff as girls do. Got to get it all out.
Next morning we drove to my brother’s place where we hopped in his car and headed for Goolwa. He has a friend who owns a shack on Hindmarsh Island – right on the edge of Mundoo Channel. Oh this dear little shack. The real deal. Probably ten steps to the water’s edge. We sat out on the verandah the first evening – a glass each of Prosecco in hand, the requisite happy-hour platter on the table, and we talked and laughed and watched the birdlife go down. Then a most amazing thing – way out in the middle of the channel we saw a kangaroo – swimming. The current must have been fairly fast as he seemed to be passing at a rate of knots. We watched him until he made his way to shore further downstream.
After dinner that night, and as there was (understandably and delightfully) no television there, we played Trivial Pursuit. Much laughter over ridiculous answers as the evening wore on.
My sister and I slept in a little semi-detached room. Traditional lino on the floor, non-matching floor mats, candle-wick bedspread, a mish mash of basic furniture – bedside table, dressing-table with shells, doilies, a clock, odd lamps, hanging space behind a curtain. All just right.
After a long leisurely breakfast next morning, we headed to Goolwa’s main wharf where we boarded the Spirit of the Coorong for the unique cruise that had been on my bucket list for years. There were twenty or so passengers on board. First up, included in the price of the cruise, was a good lunch with a glass of crisp cold Riesling. The skipper, impressively knowledgeable on the history, topography, animal and bird life of the Coorong, gave us a running commentary that lasted the whole four hour journey. The birdlife on the water was tumultuous. Since the flooding of the Murray, the fish are thriving, which of course provides abundant food for the birds.
This amazing stretch of land and water has a palpable spirituality about it. We disembarked at the turn-around point and walked over dunes to the Southern Ocean. There’s such a contrast between the calm, protected Coorong and the wild surf-pounded beach on the other side. I have always loved this place, and to be in a group like this wasn’t to see and experience it ideally. For me, strange creature that I am, I prefer to immerse myself in these places, alone. The Coorong has a soundtrack playing. Its predominant music, I would say, is the booming surf – wave after wave, never-ceasing, always was, always will be. A base drummer in an orchestra would know how to make this sound. I love to see and hear the small birds flitting about, at work in the low flora – their tiny squeaks and chirps. The wind, no matter how low, plays a sustained but changing tune through the grasses. There are remnants of thriving aboriginal culture – middens, charcoal layers from thousands of years ago. I have always wanted to spend some time in one of those shacks deep in the dunes – further away from civilization, so that I can hear and feel the purity. There are only a handful of these humble camouflaged dwellings, that go further back than Storm Boy.
On a morning just recently, here at my home in The Barossa, I stepped outside at about 6.00 AM. I heard something I don’t recall ever having heard here before – silence. It lasted only about a minute but was so arresting, so loud. Not a breath of wind, not the bark of a dog, not a car or an engine of any kind to be heard, and strangest of all, not even the song of a bird. For a second I thought ‘Is this the end of the world?’ In this minute, in this place, the Earth’s music stopped. I was so surprised that I didn’t think to see if I could hear the bigger sound of the Universe. I have only ever heard that sound in the desert. It has a spine-tingling hush about it if you focus.
Here is this month’s poem. I found it, as usual, in my archives. Thought it relates a little to what I have written above. If you’re reading on your phone, turn it sideways for a better read.
Now my eyes shall
(hour-glass steady)
still the landscape and impress
even more than the just-moving spear-grass
upon the latitude of my mind
The brittle last year blades submit
to the rigor of a dogged breeze
(one cycle of the seasons grace enough)
whilst the young and supple greenness
hastening the other’s inevitable decay
spreads strong and pushing
morning-dew glistening
into being
Tin-whistle birds flit gamely round my insignificance
while a leaping inner joy strains boisterously
at my breathless stillness
Each species is an instrument
in an avian symphony
and I am on a Utopian balcony
The music
permeates my soul
The sun
caresses my entreating body
while cold uncertainty
bleak aloneness
dreams unrealized
are finally thawed and thinned
I am looking forward to our next poets’ gathering in a couple of weeks. One of my happy experiences is to sit with fellow writers (as I do in between these meetings). A girlfriend of decades, a new friend and myself get together periodically to talk and read poetry and literature. It makes me feel alive, keeps the pot stirring.
I have just recently discovered the writing of Charles Bukowski. The first I read was a book of his poems. I just loved his style. Each poem is a little vignette about something he has seen – usually people behaving in a way that attracts his attention. It made me think I should sit in cafes more often. I was in one the other day and observed a couple, behaving a little differently. I could, and probably will, make up a little story around them. People can be so interesting and worthy of a story.
Well, bewitching hour. Must put this up and get down to my feathered farm-yard friends.
Live life. Try not to waste a minute. Love unreservedly, boisterously.
Take care,
Sue
For more scroll down and click on ‘Previous’.