My South Australia has once again beckoned me. This time The Coorong extended its gentle hand. This mystical hundred kilometre narrow stretch of water makes my heart pound each time I catch first glimpse of it.
On the day I approached Meningie, Lake Albert was like a grey boucle carpet, lapping into the reeds at the road’s edge. Everything flat, no spectacular mountains but an understated resting place for this body of water – The Coorong – that keeps the pounding southern ocean at bay. If you stop and listen past the fluttering and scuttling of the folk of the dunes, you can hear the boom of big surf just over the furthest stretch of sand. It can’t be seen but makes your heart beat faster with imagining.
In spring I am going to do a Spirit of the Coorong cruise. Along the way there will be Dreamtime stories to delight me.
Near Woods Well there are four old shacks strung out along the water’s edge, absolutely nestled into the roadside flora. What privileged people own them? Built by fishermen of old I’d say. What a dream it would be to be tucked up in one – at this time of year – to sit beside a woodstove and stare out of the window at the open sky in its morning, noon and evening moods. Coffee brewing on the stove. A jigsaw puzzle in progress on the table. A rocking chair and a big good book. The louvre windows atilt to let in the fresh sea air, bird and distant surf sounds.
I wanted to book into a room at the Policeman’s Point Hotel Motel – as close as I could get to a shack – but I was told by the guy who owns it that they close for the winter. ‘Lucky to get a car a day through here in winter Luv’ he said. I asked him when he was re-opening. ‘Can’t tell really. I’ll wake up one morning and know its time.’
Its on my bucket list, and fresh Coorong mullet will be on the menu. Someone said to me the other day ‘You have become a very independent woman.’ ‘Yes, I know,’ I said, ‘but I’d prefer not to be quite so.’ Its nice to have someone to depend on for some things.
So I stayed in the Lake Albert Motel. As I’ve grown accustomed, on arrival I spread my things around the room to make it feel more homely. Phone, wallet and book (Bill Bryson’s ‘The Thunderbolt Kid’) on the bedside table. Jacket over the back of a chair. Bottle of water and snacks on the desk. Pillows piled up on one side of the bed. Made a coffee. My footy team was playing that evening, so I’d brought a light meal to eat while watching. This had me occupied till bed time.
Next morning I went for a brisk stroll along the lake and around town. Had an egg and bacon roll and coffee for breakfast at the bakery. No breakfast to be had at the motel. Then into the car and heading for Kalangadoo. Have old friends who live there. We spent three months with Tony and Helen at Yuendumu aboriginal community, in the seventies. They lived in this amazing desert place for around thirty years and have now retired to this exquisite sleepy country town in the south east. My friends welcomed me in their usual loving way and had a lovely room prepared for me. The house was warm with a thriving wood fire. We drew up our chairs and set about catching up with all our news over a glass or two of red and later a delicious home cooked beef roast.
Tony and Helen are some of the kindest and most generous people I have met. They both grew up in my town. Tony and I went to kindergarten and primary school together, so reminiscing and laughter abounded as we recounted stories about some of the tough nuts we’d had as teachers and the mischief we had got up to as high spirited kids. Tony was the kid who was tied to his desk by Mrs. Custance as he couldn’t stop wriggling. Just a high energy boy who only ever wanted to be outside.
Next morning, once the frost began to thaw, Helen and I went for a walk. Kalangadoo is a town that people like me just fall in love with – a bit like Kapunda on the north western reaches of the Barossa, although smaller, sleepier. Big river red gums. To follow is a poem I wrote about Kapunda which may give you an idea of the kind of towns they are.
I often take you with me on these walks
otherwise you’d never have the joy a far-off country town can bring
With the magic smell of gum trees in my nostrils
I see a mini world of quiggly-aggly cottages
full of unaffected country folk
Chattels spill from gaping sheds
Pepper trees on blocks with cast-off cars and freshdamp weeds
Memories of childhood not yet shared
What of the parts of our lives we leave in places we’ve moved on from
The energy of loves and fears and sadnesses
left in walls and timbers
fabrics
On I walk and hold your dreamed-up hand
Can you believe these old dirt streets
this unrestraint
this warm spring day
We wander down a country lane
and lie back near the bushy tree
duck-decorated lake
Although we haven’t done it yet
silent is something we could easily be together
Remember how excited I was to find chooks
in their sag-wired citadels
craaaking with contentment
scratching backwards through the garden castings shaded by a gnarly almond tree
Remember how I stirred the distant dogs
with whoopings of delight
There’s a lot more to this poem I remember but it must be somewhere else amongst my piles of writing. But hopefully it conjures for you an image of these kinds of sleepy towns.
I have had another friend lose a son recently. Mark was 52 and I’d known him since he was four. He died of a heart attack. Terry, my friend, lost his wife a year ago, and back in the seventies they lost their beautiful little girl at the age of four. Its hard to imagine the grief some people have to endure. To follow is another poem – my own interpretation of grief.
Grief has its colour
Grief is blurry grey
with sometimes shuddered streakings
of the vibrant golds of naive hope
Its taste is salty wet
Its sound is muffled
out of tune
distorted melody of battered memories
imprisoned
in
within
Well-wishers’ words are only soundless mouth-shapes
Its touch is clammy
fingering one’s nakedness
and cold
it creeps all over
Its smell is of the places one returns to
looking for some remnant
of the kinship
just as earthquake victims
pick through fragments of their other days
So I need to plan another trip. I feel some sort of comfort on these byways – in the warmth and safety of my car. I can and do stop when I like – to take photos, take deep breaths of the perfumed air unique to whichever part of the world I’m in, to listen to the hum of the universe.
To see photos, even if you are not on Facebook, you can google ‘Sue Grocke Instagram.’ I believe you will be able to see my holiday pics there.
To read more of my blogs, simply scroll down a little and click on ‘Previous.’
Until next time,
Warmly,
Sue