We arrived in Albany in mid-afternoon and immediately set about trying to find accommodation.
It’s a big place. We were there at a time (we thought) that was not a high-demand season, but the place appeared to be booked out. The process of driving around trying to find somewhere actually gave us a general look-see around the city. Beautiful headlands, windswept scenery, the Southern Ocean at our feet with the only land beyond, Antarctica.
By the time we’d done one loop and stopped at a dozen places, we looked up local accommodation on the mobile phone. We found a likely-looking place and headed there. The room itself had no views, but it was a very short walk to the main street overlooking the harbour. Good enough for us.
To get to the main street we had to go through the pub. We had a quick explore on foot, found a few interesting shops before our stomach clocks went off.
On a Thursday night in Albany, you can get a feed without booking ahead. But it can be tricky. We’d had a tiring drive so opted for an early dinner.
Next morning the breeze from the Southern Ocean was brisk and chill. We wanted to check out the area (our usual MO) and plan our next two days in Albany.
The wind picked up as we drove higher above the town and drove towards the old whaling station. However, we were distracted by a sign to a wind farm. We’ve seen windmills in the distance, especially around Canberra. Through Europe we could also see wind farms and solar farms by the roadside (or by the railway line) but only catching glimpses in passing. In Europe, and even around Canberra, the ground beneath the giant wind turbines appeared almost manicured. Perhaps the cattle and sheep grazing nearby were responsible for that. Here, however, the windmills were set up in natural bushland, coastal native heath.
Albany Wind Farm has twelve turbines, each measuring 100 metres from base in the ground to tip of the blade reach. I knew I’d only be able to walk to the nearest ones, but the chance to get up close and personal to any wind turbine was not to be passed on.
Of course it was windy. And cold. My medieval hood once again was pressed into service to keep my ears from wind-triggered earache.
We’ve heard so much consternation about the disruptive sound of windmills and were prepared for the noise. But it was very peaceful there on the headland. It’s also a bird sanctuary of sorts, with a number of hides for photographers to enjoy. If the birds can accept the windmills, so can we. These twelve wind turbines alone supply around 75% of the energy for Albany. With the six more turbines from the wind farm next door, Albany is well supplied for energy.
We followed the sound to find the base of the nearest wind turbine. There was the crunch of our feet on the gravel path and bird song, and a wide range of native flowers as distraction. A seat nearby gave us a great view of the line of wind turbines marching to the tip of the headland. Turning back to watch the wind turbine, we watched the hypnotic, deceptively-slow revolutions of the turbine blades. The sound dopplered up and down which was the origin of the ‘thrum, thrum” we could hear. And for those concerned about the “damaging effects of the sound”, there’s an app for that. Using our mobile phones, we measured the dB level, the turbines generated 55 dB. Quiet conversation came in at 75 dB.
A notice board nearby gave us some useful statistics — the length of the blades, the height of the towers etc. I needed to rest my feet and it was warm in the sun, out of the worst of the wind. Another like-minded visitor nearby was musing about how fast the tip of the blades were moving, so we calculated it from the available data, and our observation of the revolution frequency. Taking all the available data, the speed of the tip of the fan blades, this particular day, was 270 kph.
We felt smug from the mental effort as we headed back to the car to continue our random exploration of the Albany area.
So that’s one more thing off my bucket list. I’ve been accused of being a tree-hugger (thank you, to me that’s not an insult) but I don’t recommend trying to hug a wind turbine. Your arms won’t reach.
Those things are a lot bigger than you’d think, but they do an amazing job.
I’ve been in Canberra overnight for another rehearsal with Brindabella Chorus, staying with family. A month earlier we’d come down to check out the National Multicultural Festival where Brindabella Chorus were on the program. It was my first performance with Brindabella Chorus that was not part of the competition package.
The Multi Culti, as it’s locally colloquially known, is a gathering from every representative national group (and associated activities) that can be found in Australia’s national capital city. The streets are filled with stalls, many offering food along with information about the people who have prepared it. Performance groups in various national dress wander through the crowds either on their way to a performance, or relaxing after one. Even when the skies opened with a generous thunderstorm right before our performance, it was a colourful and delightful place. As the rain stopped you could see the steam rising from the dark asphalt. After the Sunday performance we’d driven back home chasing the same storm, purple skies darkening to night many hours before sunset.
Only three days later I drove back again, on my own this time. We’ve learned that for us, a good midway point is the small village of Marulan. It’s a fascinating place, its claim to fame being that it’s the only town in the world on the 150th meridian. It also means that in this time zone, at the equinox the days are of exactly equal length here, sunset at 6 pm and sunrise at 6 am.
With the highway dotted with brightly-lit food and fuel stops, highly visible as you approach and easily accessible as a quick lane-slip off the highway, places like Marulan can miss out on the passing trade. As a result, the food is better, the fuel is cheaper, and the relaxing break is more therapeutic. I topped up my tank then drove to Meridian Café for a light lunch.
We first discovered Meridian at Marulan a couple of years ago when we took refuge in heavy rain on our way to Canberra. Other travellers mingled with locals gave sage advice on what to expect further along the road. We sat in the warm café watching the deluge becoming even heavier outside and waited for a break in the weather to continue our journey.
Since then we’ve tried other towns as ‘pit stops’ but we’ve always come back to Marulan. Goulburn is lovely, it’s still got a strong historic feel with its wide streets and late 18th century building facades, the Paragon Café in Goulburn has glorious old-world charm and the food is great. But Marulan feels like a cosy country farmstead, it feels like home to us.
We had a good rehearsal last night. I usually can only attend online, being able to come to Canberra for a rehearsal in person is hard work but full of joy. There’s nothing like being surrounded by the music to really help you learn it well.
Next morning I knew I’d be on the road early. I’m an early riser even when I’ve been late to bed. The sun was barely up but my granddaughter was already dressed and packing her bag.
“Such a glorious view,” I commented at the vista of hills tipped with gold from the sunrise. “Look at the mist still pooled down low in the hollows!”
“That’s what we call ‘failure to load’,” my computer-savvy granddaughter remarked.
I chuckled. It did indeed look like a computer game that had started to load, then stopped with blank areas not filling in.
My stomach takes time to wake up in the mornings. With certain dietary issues (getting older really brings some shocks but it beats the alternative) it was easier for me to plan breakfast on the road. Sometimes it’s a fast-food drive-thru grabbing some bacon and eggs, nourishing but generally unsatisfying. As a result, I’d planned a fast getaway while around me the household got ready for a busy midweek day. Kids heading to school, parents heading to work.
I stayed long enough to be available should one of the kids miss the bus, but I was on the road by 8 am.
The mist had begun to rise quickly, the blue-tinted low, dense clouds warming and stretching in the early morning. By the time I got to Lake George the clouds were just resting on top of the hills on the other side of the lake, as if tethered to the wind turbines. The lake was silver with a thin stripe of pale blue on the far shore. It’s still very full of water, I wonder where the sheep and cattle are grazing now.
The highway was fairly quiet on the weekday morning, I had a good run for the next hour. There was a little excitement — traffic was slowed when we saw flashing lights ahead. A lot of flashing lights. Multiple fire trucks and some police cars, hoses being played on the carbonised wreck of a truck. No sign of a crash, it looked like the truck had simply caught fire. But all being sorted now, nothing to see here…
The Goulburn sign coming up. Advertising for various food stores and for fuel. Over the years we’ve tried them all, I’ve even written about some of them in previous blogs here. But this time I wasn’t tempted. Not today. I was enjoying the wide open spaces.
It was late morning when I finally swung off the highway for the short drive into Marulan. First to fill up. Then a minute or two down the road and I’ve gone back in time to a quieter, calmer place. I parked across the road and my stomach rumbled in anticipation as I headed up the steps.
Inside it was as welcoming as ever. Room for me, but definitely not empty. The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. “We only saw you yesterday. Same again?”
I ordered my breakfast (brunch by now) and ducked into the loo while I waited.
It was the best bacon and eggs I’ve had anywhere on this drive. They’d slipped some slices of lightly grilled tomato onto the plate as well.
All too soon I was finished, fed, rested and ready to head off. As I left the café it was quiet outside, bees buzzing in nearby lavender bushes clearly audible over the distant hum of traffic from the highway. I debated a visit to the antique shop next door but figured it can wait until next time.
It’s the first meeting of the year today for our writing group, Fellowship of Australian Writers (local branch). We meet at a local council building next to a car park. In the car park on Saturday mornings there is a farmer’s market, and I enjoy getting here early enough to browse the fresh produce.
Farmers Market produce is special.
I’m about ten minutes early but already a group is waiting outside the closed doors of the hall. I stop off at a stall and buy a couple of Portuguese tarts, then head back to the hall. The crowd is larger now, but still milling around.
The door is locked. But it’s not simply a case of who forgot to pick up the key. No, the new security system seems to be the problem. We have the pass code, we have the key, but the door remains stubbornly locked.
Various stallholders pass by on their way to the outdoor toilet. At the sight of our crowd milling around, a few express concern that the toilet is very much in demand. “No, you’re the only one in the queue,” we reassure them.
My impromptu work station, outside the locked hall. Meanwhile the farmers’ market is almost finished packing up.
Time passes. Various committee members have tried the key pad, carefully checking the numbers against the booking sheet that had been emailed to us and printed. Others try the key. Maybe it’s key pad AND key?
The secretary is on the phone to the council. “We’ve got nobody booked into the hall for today,” she’s told.
“WE’RE booked in, I have the confirmatory email in my hand, we paid and booked last year, in advance.”
Someone sees a discarded paving tile in the nearby garden bed and jokes, “We could throw that through the window.”
“If we throw that through the window, the alarms will go off and security will come.” “Good!” says the first speaker. “Then they can let us in.”
A stallholder emerges from the toilet in time to hear the conversation. “Don’t use the paver,” he says. “It’s too heavy. At my stall I have kilo packs of frozen lamb. That’d do it.”
Meanwhile the rest of us now number about twenty. We have some new people today, after our book launch a few weeks ago.
The guest speaker arrives. “Oh, dear! Has someone forgotten the key?”
The secretary announces, “They’re sending a man over to let us in, the key pad seems to be malfunctioning. They’re advising us to go around the back to the courtyard there. The man will meet us there to let us in.”
I stay put. There are a few more people possibly arriving late, and at least here, there is a brick wall for me to sit on.
I get out my laptop and start typing. I may as well put the solitary wait to good use. I contemplate the frozen lamb suggestion and wonder how we could explain this. “Well, the market was on, I was walking past with these frozen lamb shanks and they just slipped. Through the window… from the stall on the other side of the car park…”
Nope.
One of our members has gone round to the council library to see if we can use one of their rooms. She comes back, shaking her head. “We need to book online, I was told, and pay in advance.”
“A bit hard to book online and pay in advance when it’s already an hour after we were supposed to start,” I remark.
She shrugged. “Where is everybody?”
“Waiting around the back for the security person to come let them in the back door.”
It’s after 1.30 pm, an hour after the meeting is supposed to have started. The farmers market has left the car park by the time a man in hi-vis vest arrives. He comes past the loo, clearly heading for the problem door. Not the back door where everyone is waiting.
It takes very little time from here. We still don’t know why the door wouldn’t work for us, maybe you just need to hold your tongue in the right position. He walks our key-holder through the process, to practice how we should leave the place. “Don’t lock the door as well as use the key pad. That’s why you couldn’t get in, the door was locked with both. This thing has been giving us trouble all week.”
He demonstrates. The door doesn’t lock. “Hmmm…” At the end of the whole process, we’re going to have to lock the door with the key AND the key pad. The same process we were told initially to not do, and which is causing ongoing problems.
Gotta love bureaucracy…
The pre-meeting meeting while waiting to be let in.
Book launch was a couple of weeks ago. We’re a prolific group!
I got to the back courtyard where the others were waiting to be let in. They’d found some chairs and had started the meeting without me. It seemed a shame to ask them to move.
As I always tell my fellow writers, we have to always be adapable and ready to respond to the absurd when it throws story lines our way.
I Wish I Were as Thin as I Was When I Was First Told I Was Obese.
Hiding behind my wedding bouquet…
Anyone who knows me these days knows I am not slim. Some of my doctors have expressed concern about my weight, with regard (they say) to organ health. My view of myself is not flattering. But then, I don’t think it ever has been. In telling this story, I will be frank about my weight and my age. No more hiding.
When did I first start trying to hide my body? At the swimming pool in my pre-teen years I was aware of a slightly pudgy tummy, I would often drape a forearm across my tummy to hide behind. Or I’d wrap a towel around my waist. A friend at high school was at the local swimming hole at the river, reading a book while lying in the sun and told us the next day that a boy she really liked sat next to her and starting a conversation. He wanted her to come for a swim, but she declined. “I really wanted to have that swim with him,” she told us, “but I was lying down on my back and my fat tummy was flattened by gravity. I didn’t want him to see how fat I am when I stood up.”
The things we do to ourselves and to each other…
As a uni student, I’d go for a swim to Bondi Beach on hot summer days, wearing a purple bikini. Sitting in the car with my boyfriend driving, I’d once again drape my arm across my pudgy tummy, which was creased into folds under the seat belt. How could that boy like me, when he could glance across and see how fat my tummy was? Fellow classmates were beautiful and slim. One girl was so slim you could see a thigh gap as she walked through the campus. Magazines we read, including the newly-published Cleo, helped perpetuate negative body image while loudly proclaiming that we should love our bodies. Yet turn the page and there were clothing ads with stick-insect girls, often barely into their teens. The ideal female statistics were 36-24-36 (that’s in inches, pre-metric). Of course I know now, that the clothing we saw promoted in fashion pages were worn by girls who were far smaller than 36-24-36. My own measurements were not ideal — my waist was 28 inches. A whole four inches too big. My bust was 34 inches. Too small. Push-ups were recommended, to build up the pectoral muscles underlying breast tissue.
In November of that year I had my appendix removed. I remember at the hospital my weight was 62 kg. The women’s magazines said I shouldn’t weigh more than 50 kg. Embarrassing! I was 18 years old. I had a lot of growing up to do.
Me and my mother. I am now the age she was in this photo. As she did for all of us, Mum did the wedding flower arrangements.
Move forward a few years. I had finished with study and was working at the uni. During a quiet period, the uni was offering health checks to staff. I was 25 years old and weighed 65 Kg. The doctor I consulted barely looked up from his notes. “I’m concerned about your weight,” he told his desk. “At 65 kg and 164 cm, you are borderline obese. If you ever want to have a chance at starting a family, you must lose weight.”Thus began a lifetime of yo-yo dieting and eating various diet ‘replacement meals’. The doctor had recommended it. I had a physically active job, I would run everywhere, I was determined to work alongside the men as an equal. But the first day on the job, one of my colleagues was introducing me around the department and I knew I’d have to work hard to make it as an equal. “She’s the replacement for Brian, but she’s a lot prettier,” was the running joke. I knew I wasn’t pretty. But I was female and it was my lot in life to always work harder at it, whatever ‘it’ would happen to be at the time, in order to be accepted.
Despite the doctor’s concerns about my weight, I had no trouble getting pregnant. My first baby was born when I was 27. They say a woman blooms when she’s pregnant, I just felt fatter than ever. But at least I had an excuse. However, weight gained during pregnancy was also watched closely, and each prenatal appointment meant another date with the scales.
Losing baby weight is difficult. I went back to work when the baby was 10 weeks old, and continued to breastfeed. I’d take my morning tea break and lunch break and run to the child care centre nearby for the baby’s feed. She was just over a year old when I fell pregnant again.
We were on holiday in the Whitsundays, I was three months pregnant and defiantly still wearing a bikini. I remember on one fun afternoon we were on a large catamaran and they threw out the boom net to give the brave ones among us a chance to surf in the wake. Hubby held the toddler on deck while I had a turn clinging to the boom net and playing in the churning water behind the boat. I had to cling onto my bikini pants to not lose them in the drag of the water, to the amusement of the other passengers looking on.
Focussed on my baby, completely unaware of the need to hide my ‘ugly, fat body’. I was three months pregnant here and almost 70 Kg.
Let’s go a few more years ahead. I was doing further study. “The average human male weighs 70 Kg,” we were told. After two babies I now weighed 70 Kg. I was finishing my study when I fell pregnant again. Yes, I was still working full-time, and running between my workplace and the child care centre nearby. But my health was failing, the beginning of what has become a lifelong muscle weakness problem.
When my youngest was three years old, we travelled to Greece with my parents-in-law. While not fashion-conscious, I was aware of what clothing looked better on me, and what made me look fat and frumpy. New doctors were looking after me, but expressing concern that with my new balance problems I needed to avoid falls. “You’re a big girl,” one doctor said to me. “You could really do yourself some damage in a fall.”
Greece was amazing, but I no longer ran anywhere. I walked around what I could, using Canada crutches. With three children also tending to tire easily, I was happy to be the babysitter and rest when they needed to. But I was still trying to do as much as I could to enjoy the adventure.
More years have passed and I’ve learned to accept myself. I’m not pretty. I’m not slim. I’ve stopped caring, I tell myself. I wear a bikini again even though I get laughed at sometimes. A bikini (mine is quite modest these days) is simply more convenient. I still make jokes about my body and my weight, I try to eat healthily but in reality I’ve been on an extreme calorie-restricted diet for decades now. I’ve seen dieticians over the years — they tell me I don’t eat enough, but when I eat what they tell me to, I gain weight fast. So I’ve had to find out what works for me.
The other day, hubby bought a new scanner with the express purpose to digitise old slides and negatives. The first photos he scanned were our wedding photos, from when we were 22 years old. And then we found the photos of the Whitsundays holiday. And Greece. I remembered how I’d felt about myself at the time, my self-consciousness over my weight. I looked in astonishment. I remembered seeing the wedding photos years ago, I recognised the Whitsundays. I knew my face in the photos. But I was pretty! How could I have remembered otherwise? And I was slim! Where was the pudgy tummy I remembered?
All those years, and I’d accepted being second-rate as my lot in life. Some women are born beautiful, I was born ordinary. It is what it is.
Until I looked at the photo of the young bride, who did her own hair and make-up, who’d made her own wedding dress out of a bolt of cotton broderie anglaise, who thought she was fat and plain. And the photo of the young mother, already pregnant with her second child and wearing a skimpy bikini in the tropical Queensland sunshine. The young woman whose doctor had said she was obese, and who had not been able to lose weight but only slowly gain it over the years.
I have more important things to worry about these days. But the reminder as I looked at those photos and realised how wrong I have been for all my adult life, tells me that as always, I still have a lot to learn. As do we all.
I weighed 96 Kg this morning. And I still wear a bikini to the beach. But I will no longer drape my arm to try to hide my pudgy tummy. Hey, I’m nearly 70 years old. And with what my body has been through, it’s done pretty well, considering.
I have the body of a goddess, I’ve decided. Even if it’s more Venus of Willendorf than Aphrodite these days, it’s about time I value what I have. I have to accept, you’re never as fat as you think you are. Or as others make you think you are
My daughter and I were packing for travel to Louisville, Kentucky, with Brindabella Chorus. Just as we were getting into an early summer here in Sydney, we faced spending Halloween in the US. And we’d never been to the US before.
What to pack?
When travelling, or living, in a time of changing seasons, layers will always get you through. So they say…
When I’ve been rehearsing through winter in Canberra with Brindabella, I’ve learned to pack multiple layers of clothes in the car. I’d start out in coastal Sydney in t-shirt and jeans and by the time the car reached the Southern Highlands I’d be pulling on a jacket and scarf. At the first toilet stop I’d either add leggings under the jeans or simply switch to track pants. At rehearsal, though, no matter how frosty the morning in Canberra, we’d start out warmly-clad then start to shed layers as we warmed up.
We watched weather forecasts in two countries to try to spy a pattern. Nope. About all we could determine is that snow suits won’t be needed.
Over the fortnight before, I stuffed t-shirts and track pants into my luggage. Expect weather similar to Canberra early spring weather, we were told.
Then some notes arrived from the chorus management. Among the packing instructions included warm jacket (fair enough) and SWIMSUIT? Well, okay… it’s a layer, I guess.
Shoes. Hmm… Costume items need to stay in our carry-on bag (if we lose the uniform shirts, they’re irreplaceable). Other shoes have been stashed in my big bag. Make-up is carefully packed, but if we lost that, it could be replaced. Just an expense we could do without, is all. I debated wearing my ugg boots, but they’re bulky. I packed thongs (aka flip-flops for the non-Aussies). I’m happiest with feet unfettered, but I realised I’d have to concede for the cold.
Then two days before departure, I got my bags together, opened up to see what I’d collected, threw about half of it back in the closet and re-packed my bag.
Would I be warm enough? I wouldn’t know. I stuffed in a shawl which I bought in Spitalfields Market in London in 2019 when we were caught by surprise by cold weather in June. The shawl is made of such dense wool that not even clothes moths can make a dent in it. I’ve got one warm jacket (my chorus uniform jacket) but we’ll be indoors most of the time. And a rain poncho.
I added in several packs of Tim Tams (the best chocolate biscuit in the world is an Aussie Tim Tam) and several packs of small souvenirs. Next came medication and some essential dietary needs (lactose-free milk, decaf instant coffee, various supplements).
Closing the two bags (one carry-on, one hold bag) required a lot of help and careful arranging. Even so, I eyed the zipper nervously in case it decided to rip loose from the side of the bag.
We arrived at the hotel near the airport and, needing meds and night wear, opened our bags carefully. So much pressure could take your eye out. I’d opted to sleep in a t-shirt (doing double duty as day wear) because we’d been promised pyjamas on the plane. Although I had no idea where I was going to put them…
Next morning we closed the bags again (the cliché of sitting on them isn’t as effective with soft-sided bags) and headed to the airport. One carry-on each, a hold bag each, a large handbag, a computer bag and wearing tracksuit pants and a fleecy jacket. It was already a very warm day, at home I would have been in t-shirt and shorts.
In the courtesy bus we explained our odd appearance to a couple of other tourists. “We’re heading from a Sydney where summer is starting early, to head to the US four weeks before winter. We’ve had to pack for layers, it’s a bag for all seasons.”
They nodded in agreement. “We’ve just left the US to come to Australia for a holiday. We’ve got our warm clothes to go back home in, so we’ve had to pack for all seasons too. All our warm clothing will be of no use here.”
“Where are you going?” we asked.
“We’re heading for Melbourne,” they said. “Ah, yes, Melbourne,” we grinned. Melbourne weather is notorious. “Every season in one day. You’ll get to use it all. It’ll be fine.”
Rehearsal weekend with visiting US coach, Gail Jencik.
I love to sing. I think I’ve mentioned this before. I also enjoy travel, especially after three years of mostly being stuck in one place when even a walk to the letterbox was the travel highlight of the day.
Macquarie Pass, winding up from Wollongong to Southern Highlands.
Thanks to my daughter leading me astray, I’m now a member of two Sweet Adelines choruses (all-female a cappella close harmony): Endeavour Harmony Chorus (based in Sutherland Shire); and Brindabella Chorus in Canberra (where my daughter lives). Both are a very high standard and Brindabella Chorus will compete internationally in the US this month.
Endeavour Harmony Chorus will also be competing internationally next year, but that will be another adventure for a later time.
It’s big stuff.
I can attend most Brindabella rehearsals online, but intense workshops needed personal attendance usually on a weekend, so we would combine a quick visit to the family with rehearsals. I also would make the occasional mid-week rehearsal in Canberra.
In June we drove down to Canberra via Wollongong because Jeff had to drop off a crate of stuff to a friend. From there it was closer to drive up the Macquarie Pass, an amazing scenic trip through lush forest and a steep climb from the coastal plain to the Southern Highlands. We stopped at the pie shop in Robertson but it was too cold and crowded to eat there. A chapter of bikers were happy to show off their machines and were on the road soon after we left.
Beautiful bikes at Robertson Pie Shop, Southern Highlands.Lake George still in flood. Sheep no longer may safely graze … for now.
I’ve made a few of these trips this year, a couple of them alone. I’d attend the Tuesday Sydney rehearsal on Tuesday night, drive to Canberra on Wednesday, attend Brindabella rehearsal with my daughter, then next morning leave at sunrise and drive home, so I’m there in time for the Thursday night Renaissance choir rehearsal.
Did I mention I love to sing?
In the last few months we had two intense weekend workshops with as many of the singers as possible. It’s more than singing, we have to really present the music with movement, sound and emotional engagement with the message of the music. I won’t go into details yet of exactly what we’re working on, but it’s fun, it’s hard work and I love it.
You mightn’t think it’s hard work if you were watching, but even in a Canberra winter, women were shedding jackets, scarves and beanies as we got intensively into the program.
I had planned on taking a lot of photos, but I also have to respect the privacy of the other singers. I’m sure they would be happy for me to post pictures, but I have to ask them first and… well, we were busy.
We stopped for a quick morning cuppa then later on for lunch. Over lunch on the second day we were chatting about various topics. The subjects ranged from a recent deep-sea submarine disaster (“they shouldn’t have relied on the carbon fibre technology, it fatigues like metal and can shatter unpredictably”) to stories of deep sea divers surfacing too fast due to technical difficulties, and suddenly going from 9 atm pressure to 1 atm, with resultant disastrous results on the human body.
A nearby singer protested. “Hey, we’re at lunch, remember? We’re trying to eat.”
Another said, “No, go on. I’m fascinated.”
The lunching person stuck fingers in her ears and sang, “la la la…”. Very well sung, now I think of it…
While continuing lunch discussions on safer topics, those of us who are from “out of town” learned more about each other. Among these women, who when performing are coiffed, made-up and dressed in so many sequins it can be blinding, were engineers, doctors, lawyers, physiotherapists and an occupational therapist currently working on a PhD. And even an astronaut-in-training. There were more Masters degrees and PhDs in one place than would be found in most company boardrooms. I felt inadequate with a mere science degree.
Saturday evening of the rehearsal weekend, cocktails and Corona (the good kind) after a hard day’s work. George, with Kate (my daughter) on the right.
The stereotype of women being brainless bimbos could be an ignorant person’s first thought when they see a group of us blinged to the max for competition. But to be able to perform at such a high level takes drive, dedication and intense focus, the sort that is often found in high-achieving positions elsewhere in life. And don’t forget the few who are “just mothers”. That takes drive and dedication too, to be able to out-stubborn a two-year-old kid mid-tantrum. These women are steel butterflies.
On the Saturday afternoon we had our first (and only) audience performance in Australia of the final package. It gave us a chance to gauge audience response and reaction times and get a feel for what was working and what still needed tweaking.
It was a very productive and effective weekend. On Sunday we worked more on polishing the whole planned performance together into a seamless whole. An area that is weak for me is the way I move. I was raised to just stand still when I sang, any choreography limited to not distracting from the lead singers at the front of the stage. I also have some physical limitations especially with moving my feet, so my old habit of staying still when I sing is something I’ve had to learn to change.
As we stepped down from the risers at the end of the second day, the woman next to me (a regular with this chorus) said, “I’m so glad you were next to me. I’m not confident in how to move, and having you there and moving so well the way you do, has encouraged me to move more too.”
I could have hugged her, and I told her how much that meant to me to be told this. When my daughter and I finally climbed into the car to drive back to her place, we were really tired. We compared notes on how much we had achieved as a group, and how good it felt.
The director’s pep talk was very much along the lines of, “We’re going to get out there and show the audience a good time.” But don’t get me wrong, this isn’t complacency talking. We’ve been rehearsed and drilled thoroughly, but we also sing from the heart, part of the whole story of our mini-show. We will have fifteen minutes to win the hearts and minds of the audience, all of whom are also international-standard performers. A standing ovation from such an audience would be high praise indeed.
The weeks have flown by, final details are now nailed in place. My bags are packed, our itinerary is full.
In a few days’ time, we head to the US for international competition
We’re staying a couple of nights in a luxury hotel which shall remain nameless, in a city which shall also remain nameless. We were dropped off yesterday by a family member who was waiting to take us out to dinner, so we checked in as quickly as we could.
The staff are friendly and efficient. However, if (Covid forbid) we were trapped here for quarantine, we’d go insane.
On entering the room to begin with, we were assaulted by sheer bronze curtains channelling the only outside light into a weird sort of glow. The uplight on the bar was the same bronze-gold, throwing anything on it (coffee machine, kettle etc) into dark silhouette. The bar cast a bronze-gold light on its contents, making them the most visible thing in the room begging, “Eat me, drink me!”
Apologies for the blurry photo of the bar. The lighting was that low! That’s a coffee machine and a kettle on top of the bar. Trying to see the level when adding milk is impossible, we had to take the cup into the bathroom.
The bathroom is a delight. Lots of space and open-plan. But again, everything is dark. Even the bath robes are black. Their own advertising describes the place as ‘funky’.
Can you read these labels in the shower in the semi-light?
When we returned after dinner, the room was dimly lit. We took the time now to look for the light switches to turn on the stronger overhead lights so we could see what we were doing. That’s when we found that what we had WAS the full lighting. Now how to turn things off so we could sleep… that turned out to be trickier than it seemed.
In a black room (highlighted with bronze-gold uplighting) we finally found some light switches. They were black, on a black wall, in a dark room. Memories immediately came to mind of reading Douglas Adams’ Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and the description of Hotblack Desiato (lead singer of the band Disaster Area, who was spending a year dead for tax purposes). Disaster Area’s stunt ship (subsequently stolen by the main characters) is described as being black, with black switches which light up a black bulb which says, “Do not touch this switch again”. The ship turns out to be programmed to crash into a nearby star as the climax to a Disaster Area show.
By groping around, we finally found the light switch to shut off the bronze-gold glow from the bar.
We spent a very comfortable night, we do like the place, but the lighting is so weird! When showering, I put my clothes on the edge of the large bathtub. However, after showering, one item was missing. A black t-shirt of mine had fallen onto the black floor tiles, and in the dim lighting we had to feel around for it.
We’ve got a day out today in sunshine and light.
We’ll need it as a relief from Disaster Area.
The corridor at the elevators. They are black inside with black doors. Very hard to see when the lift is there with its doors open.
I first heard about it when someone tagged me on Facebook. A garage sale with a difference! Opera Australia was retiring some costumes and having a two day “everything-must-go” fire sale.
There was a bit of confusion over where and when, conflicting information. But I knew it would be bringing the punters in. We’d have to get there early to be sure of finding what we wanted.
And what did we want?
We’ve got new members of the Renaissance choir, and while I don’t want them scared off, they need to be appropriately attired for a winter’s evening entertaining the lord who is our patron. At least, that is our back story. So peasant clothing is not acceptable. However, we can put more decorative layers on top.
We also have older members of the Rennaisance choir whose costumes need to be brought into a more opulent style. We all need a change, and we perform in all seasons, so that can mean a need to still look fabulously Tudor, for example, in an Australian summer outdoors.
I told my choir director about the sale. We’d get going as soon as we could by car.
road trip for costumes
I told my history-loving son and his partner. They went in by train to the city.
When the director and I finally arrived, an hour after the doors opened, the line stretched round the block. We were in luck, however. There was my son and his partner, only thirty metres from the doorway. We slipped in with them and to their credit, nobody minded us jumping the line. I’d grabbed a plastic shopping bag to carry away purchases. That came in very handy when it began to rain. A few umbrellas popped up, I put the bag over my head, but nobody was abandoning their place in the line to seek shelter.
Still so much to choose from!
A pity we don’t need these!
I’m sure I can turn this into something…
When we finally got in, most of the good stuff had gone. But what we wanted was sufficiently specialised, and I can adapt stuff, that we still left with as much as we could carry. Inside each item was a tag often indicating which production it had been used for, who had made the item and sometimes who had worn it.
The people checking us out were also the staff who made the costumes. How would it feel to see your creations walk out the door?
Quite a haul — Waiting in the line to pay for our treasures.
Since then we’ve been having fun trying on various items, mixing and matching, and slowly finding homes for bits. One pair of leather turnshoes fit me well, and others that are too big (but were only $2 each) are finding homes among the men in the choir.
There were familiar faces and new friends, all brought together with a common passion for costumes and history.
You meet amazing people at sales like this.
On the way home we stopped off to inspect a pillory that has been made for possible use at our Renaissance performances. A novel way to deal with hecklers, perhaps?
So once more, my poor little car is overloaded with fabric, costumes and colour.
We were driving from Margaret River to Albany and desperately needed a comfort stop. But towns were few and far between on this empty country road.
The bushland to either side of the alleged highway was too open and too muddy. Intensely green, though.
Green, rolling hills somewhere on the road to Albany, south-western West Australia. August 2022.
We’d planned to stop for coffee but there was nowhere en route. We had s long drive to go, to get to Albany and (as usual) we had not booked ahead. Soon morning coffee was drifting into an early lunch, but the need to find a loo of sorts (in Australia on the roads, I won’t dignify these with the euphemism “bathroom”) was becoming more urgent. Even an outback hole in the ground would have been welcome. Avoid the snakes on the path, check under the seat for redback spiders, and relief!
Then — a town! Well, a village… no, maybe just a collection of buildings. “Welcome to Rocky Gully” was on a sign somewhere. No shops we could find. We’d done one loop of the whole housing settlement (two minutes and about 100 metres in total) and headed back to the main road.
Hang on, a fuel stop! We pulled in. Mean Street Café was stencilled on the wall. At the door, a sign with yellow L-plate warned, “”We are still learning. May stall unexpectedly. We thank you for your patience.”
“Sorry, we’ve not got any petrol yet,” the proprietor told us. Today’s our first day open, we’re still getting ready.”
By this time we were walking awkwardly with our breakfast cuppa having thoroughly worked through our bodies.
“Can we use the loo?” I asked.
“Sure, no worries,” they said. “Thataway.”
Lovely. Scented soap, pristine porcelain, not snake or redback spider in sight.
When I emerged, the next pressing need surged to the fore. “Is there anywhere around here where we can get a feed?”
“Well, we’re a bit short of food supplies, the delivery was due yesterday, but we can do a ham and cheese toastie for you. And coffee, of course.”
It was too much to hope for, that they could do lactose-free, gluten-free, but we were travelling with my lactose-free milk and gluten-free bread. I dashed back to the car for supplies which mine hostess skilfully turned into a delicious, if impromptu, meal for us. While we waited, I wandered around the small shop. They were selling some very bespoke t-shirts and the rock ‘n roll/biker theme was obvious, especially with a perfectly-chromed Harley-Davidson parked beside the pot-belly stove.
It was a cold day outside, grey clouds hanging low and heavy. We enjoyed the break from the long sit in the car, enjoyed the toasted ham and cheese sandwich and the coffee was excellent. The company was fun, we grooved along to Meatloaf and had a lovely chat to the staff. For their first day’s customers, they did very well. But then, the level of friendliness is typical of almost any Aussie country road stop.
I stashed my milk and bread back into the car and we got back on the road again. Only a few more hours to go…
Bedraggled, tired chorister on the train home — from December 2021
As background, I’m in two choirs. One is a choir specialising in ‘old’ music, medieval and Renaissance in a number of different languages (including various archaic English dialects). We perform in costume (see other articles of mine here about going slightly nuts during various lockdowns when making historic clothing).
The other choir is a female close harmony acapella group.
I love singing with both these choirs, each has a very different style and is focussed on performance with a difference. The look, and the sound, in each case is part of the public appeal.
When performing out in the open, it is much more challenging to be heard. There is a lot of background sound from traffic, people passing by and even birds (it’s the time of year for the dreaded koel and channel bill cuckoo, both predatory cuckoos that make a lot of noise). Sound can simply dissipate into the wide open spaces, so performance is harder work. The payoff, however, is seeing random members of the public stop and listen.
Informal carols performance in the street — our last rehearsal for the year. 2022
Around Sydney there are multiple performance spaces for Christmas. The prized location is by the Christmas tree in Martin Place, Sydney’s answer to New York’s Times Square. However, it also brings challenges. The chiming clock, for one. The old GPO (General Post Office) is one of Sydney’s historic landmarks. The GPO is now the Fullerton Hotel, but I have fond memories as a small child going to the GPO with my mother, and hearing the clock chime out the hour to be heard around Sydney. It’s a Westminster chime that calls out the quarter hours too.
The Renaissance choir was one of the first choirs to help launch Sydney’s 2022 Christmas entertainment program at midday on 26 November. We’d done the same gig in 2021 and had experience of the challenges as well as the delights. Competing with the clock is one challenge. The Christmas tree is a whole other level of loud kitsch.
This year at that first gig, we had random members of the public, generally children and some other individuals with no social filter, come and stand next to us mid-performance to take selfies. One young woman actually ‘conducted’ the choir while standing next to the choir director who, amazingly, maintained her composure.
ROH at the big Christmas tree, Martin Place, Sydney, November 2022
The public are wonderful, appreciative and enthusiastic. Some more so, especially those flying high on various substances with dubious legality. We soldiered on and chalked it up to experience, and learning how to value every member of the public who is happily enjoying our performance each in their own way.
We’d travelled to this gig by car, as I was a bit frail. I had a small stool to sit on, a challenge in a Tudor gown, but it got me through. It was thankfully not as hot as it can get in a Sydney summer, but we were facing into the western sun and we had to manage.
The gown is a work in progress. So’s the hair. Martin Place, Sydney, November 2022.
For this first gig we had access to a changeroom, but for most of these, we have to turn up already in costume, often having travelled by public transport. Renaissance clothing is not always compatible with train travel, so a lot of us have basic clothing which simply goes underneath the costume.
Martin Place was a venue for other performers too. Immediately we finished, we heard a violinist (well amplified) playing carols on the other side of the Christmas tree. He had very considerately waited until we were done.
My other choir had a performance two weeks later, in the Sydney Botanic Gardens (New York analogy again, think Central Park). Getting there was more difficult than usual. There was trackwork on the nearest railway station, but thankfully the light rail was in operation. My costume was a white pantsuit (sparkly scarf on top) and I didn’t want to risk it getting dirty on public transport so I wore a voluminous dress over it all as a sort of protective smock. I had a short walk from the light rail terminus past the Sydney Opera House and up a set of steps to the Botanic Gardens. There was a pleasant evening breeze blowing from Sydney Harbour. I found the destination and removed my cover-all at last, and put on the sparkly red scarf. Visually, we’re a lot about bling!
The performance space here has been decorated with perfectly conical Christmas trees coated with sparkling LEDs, a veritable forest of delight. Around this was an array of market stalls. Another larger sound shell was the main performance space. The area opened up to the public at 6 pm, and mike checks and technical run-through was set for 5 pm.
The performance space in Sydney Botanic Gardens. Christmas 2022. My masked main groupie on far left.
Both stage areas.
Here is where we began to feel we were in a duelling match. Of course both performance spaces would need to do their sound checks at the same time, the other performers in the sound shell were scheduled to start at 7 pm, just as we finished. We still had choristers arriving and needing to be added to our sound check, while we could hear the loudly-amplified rehearsal from the big sound shell of various Christmas songs. They also had a brass section — very good players, but very loud. There was a lot of overlap in repertoire — we heard the other performers singing some of the same pieces we had also scheduled to sing. Different arrangements, thankfully. Our acapella choir had microphones provided but we needed to place our singers in such a way that the sound would be balanced. We also needed to hear the pitch pipe notes, and when the sound shell was loudly playing, “We Need a Little Christmas”, this was challenging. However, after so much Covid lockdown and cancellations over the last few years, we definitely felt we needed a little Christmas at last.
By the time the gates officially opened at 6 pm, all sound checks had been finished. Our performance got under way with no competition from the sound shell. Everything was actually well-organised and timed to perfection.
When we perform, our energy is up and we’re focussed both on watching the director for cues, and ensuring the audience has a good time. As a result, there is a performance high that follows. When our last set finished, we heard the sound shell start up with their show. Our audience evaporated and headed towards the new entertainment, and we followed, audience ourselves now. We had time now to shop for fudge and floss, to sing along in the crowd and just generally relax.
Fudge and fairy floss (aka cotton candy for those in the US) do not a meal make, so hubby (my main groupie) and I headed back to Circular Quay to find food. We avoided the Opera House concourse which is not only potentially expensive, but populated with roving gangs of marauding seagulls. “Nice seafood basket you have there,” you can imagine them saying. “Shame if something happened to it.” But as with most protection rackets, throwing them a few morsels only serves to encourage them. I’ve eaten sushi there in the past, having to eat with hands constantly covering the food and still almost losing my lunch to the feathered fiends.
We found a quiet corner inside City Extra, a 24-hour eatery originally founded to feed the media packs and hacks of yester-year. Outside the window we watched the Manly ferry on its regular commuter runs across the Harbour while the sun set over the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
Last night the Renaissance choir was back at Martin Place. I had asked the director in jest if she’d permit me to wear red glitter nail polish for the performance, because the modern acapella choir had performances bracketing the Tudor one. Her response was expected. “Rich fabrics yes, glitter nail polish no. It was not a thing in the Renaissance.”
This time I arrived by public transport with my main groupie, about 45 minutes before our call (which was itself an hour before performance). Plenty of time for coffee, and to get changed.
Again, what we wear when travelling is directed by what we need to wear during performance. I travelled wearing my white puff-sleeved pirate shirt (another lockdown sewing project) and green linen pedal-pusher pants. My tie-on pocket was useful for easy access to my phone and travel card (payment is a simple tap-on, tap-off) and would remain for access under my Tudor gown. Hair tied back in bunches. Not too weird for a Sydney summer.
The street-ready under-gown wear. The pirate shirt doubles as chemise. The pocket hangs from a belt and is accessible under the Tudor gown via pocket slits. Note the fallen bark from the gum tree — Australian trees are snarky in summer, they trash the yard.
We ordered the coffee while I was in pirate-garb, then while we waited, I unzipped the costume backpack and started to put on the layers. Underskirt (it ties on front and back apron-style). Then the outer skirt, and this is where people began to notice. The outer costume was once upon a time a quilt cover. It’s red-and-silver brocade, and very full.
Sewing the Tudor gown at my pop-up driveway sewing station.
The bodice is boned (half a packet of cable ties) and doesn’t allow the wearer to lean back in an armchair, for example. So I waited and enjoyed my coffee. Other bits went on instead. Wrist ruffles (stitched to elastic bands, easy to pull on). A ruff. The two parts to a French hood (red satin and black velvet). Finally the bodice. I had begun to hand-sew this while in hospital a few weeks earlier (kidney stone) and managed to finish the costume at midnight the day before the first performance on 26 November.
Hospital bed sewing — cable ties as boning. Laptop had some useful instructions. Nursing staff were very understanding.
Completed boned stays (‘pair of bodies’) ready for brocade outer layer.
I laced on the bodice at last. I must have been eating too much — the front of the bodice seemed to have a wider lacing gap than usual. However, by the time I’d finished my coffee, the lacing was loose as my body warmed up the boning. I laced in tighter with no difficulty. I’m still learning how to wear this gown.
Lacing up over coffee in the Fullerton Hotel, Martin Place, Sydney.December 2022.
By this time, other choristers had arrived and were costumed. We made our way to the warm-up space and met our ‘handler’ from the organisers. She looked about 40 Kg wringing wet. “I know I’m tiny, but I’m feisty. If anyone hassles you, I’ll be there keeping them away.”
We made our way to the now-familiar position by the large, green and red Christmas tree. It’s huge. And, as we know, it’s wired for a sound and light show to start at 8 pm. We were to perform four sets of 25 minutes each from 6 pm, ensuring to pause over the hour so we weren’t competing with the GPO clock striking the Westminster chimers in full plus the hour.
We swung into our sets and quickly gathered an audience. One of our choristers is a very strong bass, he led two of the ancient carols in Latin and despite being completely unaccompanied and unamplified in an open space, was easily heard through the entire area. He is very impressive.
As with our first performance there, we not only had an appreciative audience, we also had a few interesting interlopers. We were very impressed when our handler deftly redirected a small child who was running around the choristers. A group of women already well-lubricated for a fun night in the city posed for selfies, but far enough away to only attract a single step forward from our handler. But she was ready. The partying women joined in and sang along with one of our better-known carols, but were not disruptive.
Then a tanned cowboy ambled up. Bare chest the texture of old boots, wearing only threadbare jeans with decorative buckle. And a cowboy hat. He came right up to our harmonium player then tried to lean over to inspect the mandolin. Our handler came in fast to redirect him, but he was determined. However, she was polite but firm. We paused our performance while the audience was being distracted by the alternative floor show. Finally Cowboy began to make his way from our space, but suddenly he fell and lay on the ground, not moving. Our handler held up her hand to us, asking us to stop. We’d just blown the pitch note for our next song, but paused. And waited. Our handler signalled for a security man to come over. Phones were out, possible calling for an ambulance. Cowboy started to sit up and dust himself off. He appeared mostly unhurt despite landing hard on cobbles with absolutely no fabric protecting his upper body. He had a large bruise rapidly developing on his elbow, which swelled alarmingly fast. Alarming to me, that is. Cowboy didn’t seem to notice, he was clearly feeling no pain.
The audience waited patiently, but also were watching the whole show closely, as if perhaps wondering if Cowboy was part of the entertainment. He was finally led off towards the first aid area so they could check him over. All told, the organisers managed the event safely and efficiently, with consideration and compassion. Our handler was back with us even as we began our next song.
We finally sang what we thought was our last song, only to hear our handler say, “You have two more minutes.” So we began “Pastime With Good Company” (written by Henry VIII) but only got one verse in before, behind us, the huge Christmas tree woke up and began to sing. We were finished. For the evening, and for the year, with the Renaissance choir. As we assembled for one final photo, we heard the amplified violinist start up, as soon as the Christmas tree was finished its set.
Group shot after the performance. Time to put the costumes away for a few months.
Tomorrow I have two performances with the acapella choir. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve almost finished applying multiple coats of glitter red nail polish. There are two more acapella performances after tomorrow (including another one at the Martin Place Christmas tree, which I now know to be set to go off two minutes early — duly warned).
Red glitter, tinsel, bling, sparkle. Because We Need A Little Christmas indeed.
Helen Armstrong - writing on the move 