In this phase of leaf-soft Autumn weather, I am gloriously in love with where I live. As a young girl, the traditions of our European ancestors were strongly woven through our valley – food, music, family gatherings, picnics, mushroom-gathering, baking, wine and small-goods making, church-going, home-making, the kitchen garden, festivals of thanks-giving. I am forever grateful to have grown up with all of this. Our valley has changed now, but it still has its own unique ethos. The blood-line of the first settlers is thinning. We recognise each other in the street – we Barossans. We always stop and chat – small-talk mostly – enquiring about kids, grandkids, the old ones (there are a few left). But underlying are our common memories of those old times. Back then, the busy-ness was about providing for the families. Buck-boards carting produce – from farms, factories, timber-mills, brickworks – to stores of distribution. Men riding push-bikes home from work at five (a little shickered from a knock-off cheese-glass or two of sherry or port), kids riding their treadlies home from school and loitering in the creek. Today the streets are buzzing with who knows what? Work is around the clock, so knock-off is anytime, kids are driven to school, and in the afternoons to after school activities of every shape and form, appointments, sleep-overs. Every imaginable item is being shipped in trucks and vans, and ultimately dumped as refuse. I’m beginning to sound cynical. I don’t mean to be. The Barossa is now becoming a haven for artists and artisans, and I like this. There are talented people everywhere, producing amazing works of art, food, wine, and many providing stunning accommodation, cafes and restaurants. Business is booming here, and you can feel it in the air, in the hustle and bustle. People are happy. The landscape makes us smile. Stunning pics of sunsets and full moons over vineyards or the ranges go up on Facebook and Instagram. Pics of still-standing historical cottages, barns, sheds, wineries. You will find some such photos on my Instagram page.
Speak to any of the enterprising new-comers and you’re likely to find an intriguing life story. I know someone whose family was caught up in the Hungarian revolution of the fifties. As the Soviets marched on her town, her family scattered. She hid in a rubbish bin of rotting food. When they’d passed she and her family fled on foot. She remembers stumbling over dead bodies in the forest. They escaped to Australia where they lived on rabbits and mushrooms in the bush until her father found work and they eventually made their way to the Barossa and prospered.
Another of my acquaintances grew up on Geurnsey in the Channel Islands. His parents had the inn and a dairy farm on Herm. The family then moved to Australia where they settled in a small town north of Melbourne. Neighbours helped them get on their feet – with gifts of food, clothes, books, transport. Now he lives in the Barossa with his family and is an author. I am encouraging him to write his autobiography. An intriguing life story waiting to be told.
I have a friend who grew up in one of the most socio-economically poor towns in Australia. He ran away from home with a mate at thirteen, was found by detectives a few weeks later, a state away, and brought home. He left home for good at fifteen and hitch-hiked across the country to find work. This was the beginning of his life as a man, and he was determined to do well. He has since travelled the world, on his way to success. There are hundreds of heart-stopping stories in his life journey.
What I am planning, and beginning to mull over is writing a book that appears biographical but will be fiction – based on some of these stories. About a character – like Jasper Jones. I am intrigued with how Craig Sylvey made his story seem autobiographical – it was Charlie’s story, but about Jasper – biographical. It will take research, talking to these interesting people, gathering their anecdotes, their landscapes, their tastes, smells, sounds. I am fearful of starting, but know that once I have written the first page, the story will have me as its slave. A good kind of slavery.
I have another writer friend who is at the moment compiling some short stories. Have read some brilliant prose dug up in that process.
Well must get this posted – as usual on the death-knock – last day of the month. Feel free to contact me.
Keep safe,
Sue