I’ve been on the road again, although not so much ‘on the road’ as at the beach. Two different things in this case. A straight run from Tanunda to Aldinga – not much to look at except expressway traffic, until we got to the coast. A girlfriend and I had booked a yurt at Aldinga Beach. A lovely thing – octagonal, all natural timber walls, big sky-light in the middle. Not a tent like the traditional Mongolian ones, but comfortable with two bedrooms, a bathroom and spacious kitchen, dining, lounge area. Situated in the Aldinga Conservation Park, we were surrounded by native trees and shrubs that hugged the yurts and were alive with birds. The air – a heady mixture of sea and native flora, just begging to be breathed deeply.
Thankfully we arrived two days before Australia Day and had Silver Sands beach pretty much to ourselves, until the public holiday when the sands exploded with people, cars, tents, eskys, barbecues, chairs, blow-up dolphins and towels, as far as the eye could see. I have the before and after shots that I’ve put up on Facebook.
On our second day we walked the beach, got our feet wet, and as we sat on the sand in silence afterwards, became lost in our own thoughts as we drew in deep draughts of sea air – eyes closed as non-coast-dwellers are inclined to do. Gentle waves surged and receded, mesmerising me in a deep, restorative joy.
We then sat out on the deck of the Aldinga Bay Cafe, frisked by a gentle breeze and sipping our icy cold glasses of bubbles as we talked the wholesome talk that Gerlinde and I can do. Fresh Coorong Mullet was our choice from the menu – a sweet, deliciously textured fish. Somehow a fish’s texture adds to its flavour for me. Coorong mullet one of my favourites.
As I am usually inclined to do, I watched the people around me – fellow diners. A large Greek family epitomising next-of-kin closeness – three happy generations, totally engrossed in one another, but also seemingly in a state of euphoria at being in this beautiful place. Ya-ya at the head of the table being coddled by her attentive daughter, boisterous kids in a bunch – pushing and pulling at each other, laughing. A few older couples (always makes my heart ache a little), a pair of young lovers.
On the first hot and crowded beach day, we pretty much stayed in, had a swim in the park’s pool, read, did cross-words, watched the tennis, ate our specially prepared holiday food, drank some good wine and talked. On the other day we drove up and down the coast, visited some friends of Gerlinde’s who live in an Eco commune. They built their architecturally designed, curvaceous, straw bale house about fifteen years ago. The village has no fences, most people grow their own food, and there is a community spirit that binds them. This couple that we visited are now in their eighties but have led a full, rich life. She is French and he was a geologist.
Sometimes on my travels, something will bring up a childhood memory. Often it’s hard to know what prompts it. For me I think it can be a weather moment. This time I suddenly recalled driving as a family, in our FJ Holden, up to visit my father’s sister in Grafton. I was about thirteen, and remember vividly the excitement I felt as we drove through forests with understory of huge tree-ferns. Coming from mostly dry and arid South Australia, I felt as if I was in another world. Although summertime, it was raining – a little tropical. The smell of the damp forest, the feeling of the humid air caressing my lightly clad body, the overcast light and its effect on the glistening road, all were just heaven to my senses.
I think it took us three days and two nights to get there. We’d brought a tent and the first night camped in the bush off the road a bit. Next evening we pulled into a caravan park at Taree where we had a shower and joy of joys – a swim in the pool. Now I have a vivid memory of a boy about my age who took my eye. Not a word said between us, but a bombardment and playful splashing around me that I guessed indicated interest. Then looks, smiles and a furtive waving good-bye to each other as we drove out next morning.
I always take my Bluetooth speaker with me on holidays these days. Pair it to my iPhone and listen to Spotify – often in the middle of the night if I can’t sleep. What a rabbit-hole the music takes me down. I have discovered so many wonderful musicians this way. Listened to some old Richie Havens stuff whilst in the yurt the other night. I love his voice but was surprised to find that he didn’t write a lot of his own songs. I love his covers of Dylan’s ‘Tombstone Blues’ and ‘Just Like a Woman.’ His ‘High Flyin’ Bird’ was his number one hit and of course he is best known for his improvisation of ‘Freedom’ at Woodstock.
My most recent discovery, however, is Chris Smither. You must listen to him sing ‘Old Man Down.’ For those of us who are getting on in years and who have lost a loved one – a friend, a brother perhaps, this song has some beautiful lyrics.
‘I was pushin’ he was haulin’
My whole life we were callin’
back and forth,
keepin’ movin’
steady slow
His end is lyin’ slack, my end is still on track
But it don’t seem there’s anywhere to go
And my balance isn’t right
I need to hold on tight
till I see how the world is spinnin’ round
The centre now is me
but its difficult to see
till I see how to lay the old man down
….. one step left, one step right
A little dance to bring my heart around
To feel a little steady
to think I’m mostly ready
to finally lay the old man down
It IS a sad song but obviously written by an old man contemplating his end days – perhaps as a result of having lost someone dear to him.
I saw a clip with Bob Dylan recently. The interviewer, Peter Stone Brown, asked him if he ever wonders about how he wrote some of his early songs. Dylan said he didn’t know how he wrote those songs. ‘They were almost magically written,’ he said. ‘Try to sit down and write something like that.’ He cites ‘Darkness at the break of noon, shadows even the silver spoon, a hand-made blade, a child’s balloon…’
‘There’s a magic to that. I did it at one time. Couldn’t do it today.’
There were hundreds of comments about that interview, many of them suggesting that Bob must have been on something heavy to have written them. But there CAN be magic in writing poetry. They can almost write themselves. I’m with Bob on that. And I also don’t think I could write the same kind of poetry today as I did back then. No drugs then or now.
I will put one of them up here for those of you who may be interested. When I read over them now I do wonder ‘Where did that come from?’ My current poetry is much more narrative and I will put one of those up next time.
HOUSE GORGONS
Wrath leans on the window sill
and scowls with belly full of shot up reasons
Churlishness in dingy corners
persecutes a silver tongue
Adagio in avenues of gunfire
Painted jar on mantle-shelf
as full of picked through fragments
as the basin of the past
Pink petal falling
Loss of grip to Sunday’s doily
Tidy scalloped edging
Concentrate of rose and purgatory
Weariness of cushions
shuts the eyes of anguish
Fluff the feathers of the sag of bad relations
On the table pale hands
forlorn
No flattery or courting
Feeble arms dress down the princess
of the crumbling castle
Portrait walls of waxen smiles smirk
The blues and greys of dungeons’ hallways
hang like mist
The candles wane
Well friends, thank you for reading. I see on my analytics graph that my blogs are being read. I don’t know who you are but it keeps me writing.
Till next time, keep safe, and happy,
Sue
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