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
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…
We had just arrived in Perth to be met by wild weather coming in off the Indian Ocean. Three storm cells in sequence had been forecast with heavy ocean swells preceding them, making any outdoor activities, especially ones involving being on the water, totally out of consideration.
Perth wild weather feels different to Sydney weather. Or maybe where we were staying (at a gorgeous B&B we stumbled onto) was a bit more sheltered. The trees outside were tossing, we could hear rain (and hail) on the roof but there were still periods of less rain, when we could do a dash to the car.
Lunch with friends had been booked in King’s Park, the sun was even trying to peek out occasionally between dripping clouds. The road there was at times closed because storm surge had waves (on the normally quiet Swan River!) splashing over onto the freeway. We could see water levels well above normal. So much water!
Park truck piled with broken branches from the storm. Kings Park, Perth, 2022.
At lunch we apologised for bringing the appalling NSW floods with us.
Whatever the weather, Perth is a beautiful city. It glistens. Although at times views were obscured, the mist only served to add to the romance.
A lovely bit of sculpture in Fremantle Harbour, a nod to those returning by ship. That instant is captured, when the dog recognises his returning master.The old Fremantle Jail, now an arts centre.The old rock that was used to build the jail was carved from the area. It’s got a lot of shell in it, so it is soft and weathers easily.
Once the UK family arrived, a number of activities had been planned but had to be changed. Rottnest Island ferry was cancelled due to heavy seas, and the weather was foul anyway. So we went indoors. The aquarium!
It’s the Aquarium of Western Australia, or AQWA for short.
Getting there was a challenge. The rain had eased but the winds were blowing a gale. Cold, icy, the sort of wind to tangle your hair and make your ears ache. While the recent arrivals slept off the jet lag and the previous night’s excitement (they’d landed in Perth to a terminal in blackout due to storm damage) Jeff and I spent the morning exploring Fremantle. Once we got the nod to meet up at AQWA, we got on the road to Sorrento, in the north of Perth.
I’d brought some of my medieval clothing sewing to work on, including a caped hood (the buttonholes needed work). To save my suffering ears, I pulled on the hood then put my heavy jacket over the top. The jacket hid the liripipe of the hood nicely, nobody would know it wasn’t a standard clothing item. An unusual one, but I didn’t want to attract too much attention for my weirdness. And it did the trick — my ears were protected. Even the occasional rain scud didn’t soak through.
AQWA is a fascinating place to take a child who has never travelled outside the UK. Her head had been filled with stories of how scary Australia is, so we didn’t hold back. AQWA has sharks, rays and other denizens of the not-so-deep in a giant aquarium. Smaller tanks held other delights, but when you are safe from the beasts on a moving footway in a bubble under the tank, you can enjoy the experience once more. Our young friend was delighted to have sharks and a giant ray swim over her. Later, in a glass-bottomed boat, we floated over the sharks. In an aquatic petting zoo, she got to stroke a Port Jackson shark, a small, pretty gummy shark (no teeth). Sharks don’t feel scaly like other fish, they have skin like sandpaper.
Sharks up close and personal. AQWA, Perth, 2022Colourful jellyfish. AQWA, Perth, 2022
Out on the deck it was wet from waves splashing over the sea wall and into the aquarium. Somehow appropriate…
Wild seas, no boat to Rottnest Island today. AQWA, Perth, 2022.
The next morning was the dingo experience. The place we went to is a sanctuary, specialising in black cockatoos, but our young English friend got the chance to get up close and personal with a pair of dingoes.
People think of dingos like they think of dogs, but they are different. Even the species name reflects this — Canis lupus dingo. There is actually still some dispute over the scientific name. It used to be (and in some circles still is) Canis familiaris dingo. Dingoes can interbreed with domestic dogs to produce fertile offspring (this used to be considered a hallmark of creatures being the same species, just a different breed or sub-species) but the books are currently being rewritten.
We met our two dingo friends on harnesses being led for ‘walkies’ with their keepers. Dingoes greet by sniffing your breath and (if you are in favour) by licking your face. They have a very strong social rule system, and this was explained to us carefully. We spent a wonderful cuddly hour with these creatures before it was time to walk them back to their enclosure and meet the other animals in the park.
They look so gentle. These were… as long as the handlers were there. Kaarakin, Perth, 2022.Naaawww… Dingo Expefrience, Kaarakin Black Cockatoo Conservation Centre, Perth, 2022Major Mitchell Cockatoo getting friendly. Kaarakin Black Cockatoo Conservation Centre, Perth, 2022Black cockatoo eating eucalypt seed pods. Kaarakin Black Cockatoo Conservation Centre, Perth, 2022
Next day we took ourselves off to the WA Museum, and the WA Art Gallery. The museum had a special exhibition on dinosaurs, and as museum junkies, we walked our feet off (metaphorically) exploring everything we could about Dinosaurs of Patagonia.
The dinosaurs were amazing and we were blown away by the size of the largest specimen. Jeff stood next to it and we realised, he was knee-high to the massive creature.
While much of a museum’s exhibits are not location-specific, there was a lot to learn about the area just from the building and the general exhibits.
It was the same in the Art Gallery (the buildings are next to each other). Some general art, but a strong focus on indigenous art from WA and we learned a lot about the state and its artists, especially their history.
A reimagining of “Shearing of the Rams’ by Dianne Jones. Perth Gallery, 2022“I Love You, My Baby, You Are My Firstborn”, a composite work of found items and cinematography by indigenous artist, Katie West. Perth Gallery, 2022.
We lunched in a kiosk between the galleries, sharing the space with some street-wise but reasonably well-behaved pigeons.
Jeff, knee-high to a dinosaur (Patagotitan mayorum). Perth Museum, 2022.
It was time for bed. We had an early start next morning, heading off to see what else WA had to offer. We could explore Perth in more outdoor detail, hopefully, when we returned.
It’s been three years since we last flew anywhere. Covid has had us in repeated lockdowns and our country’s borders were closed for all but the most essential travel. Government officials excepted, of course.
Even within Australia, crossing state borders was fraught. And at times, even going more than 10 kilometres from home for anything other than shopping needed a note from the doctor (not your parents).
But now, even as Covid still wreaks havoc (only more quietly, no more daily announcements at 11 am telling us how many more have died) restrictions are opening up and travel is once more permitted.
There’s an important family gathering in Perth, WA. That’s Western Australia, folks. Not Washington state in the US. So we’re flying over.
Given past events and challenges, we decided to go over early to at least get within state borders before any possible lockdown. Not likely, but not taking chances. Besides, weather in NSW has been horrible for most of the year, we’d like to get away from it and explore a sunnier state.
Our Sydney weather has been surprisingly pleasant over the last couple of weeks. The unfamiliar blazing ball of light in the sky has even had me dusting off my sunglasses.
For the week before, our usual stringent family Covid precautions ramped up a few notches. Masks when around anybody else outside the home; dash in-dash out shopping trips; no social events. We wanted no chance of catching Covid to sabotage the trip.
We watched weather forecasts. We wanted no airport closures to affect us either.
As flights have been coming back, problems have been exposed in the check-in and baggage systems. It became prudent to pack at least one change of clothing, plus essential medications, in the carry-on bags.
Weather reports for Sydney were for continuing sunny weather. NOW the sun comes out!!?! But for Perth, a negative Indian Ocean dipole was already spelling wetter weather there and across to Sydney, with news of three severe low-pressure systems coming in just in time for our arrival. Oh, joy…
By the time our day of departure dawned, we were already on the road. Our son was doing his weekend bread run early, just for us, dropping us and our luggage at the railway station before collecting his cargo of fresh loaves for the return trip.
We aimed to get to the airport early, we’d heard the horror stories of check-in queues and long delays. But in the end, it all went fast and smoothly. I had packed my sewing bag (small needle, no scissors or unpicker) with my book so I could sew on the plane. Or read. Security let it through. We kept our masks firmly on and did our best to stay away from the crowd. But as boarding time drew near, the departure lounge was filling up.
Nearby shops provided some distraction.
Comfy bed socks from Peter Alexander. Covid chic.
Boarding at last! Time to enter the tightly-packed steel tube about to hurtle through the sky.
I’ve been on bigger planes. I’ve been on smaller planes. This one was cramped, and packed full of people. Airlines are apparently determined to get as many fares as possibly on board every flight, to make up for the last two-and-a-half-years’ losses. We were warned that the flight was short on space for carry-on luggage and some people might have to send their carry-on via a later flight. So much for our planning to carry urgent essentials so they could stay with us, I thought. But we were lucky, our carry-on wasn’t offloaded.
Sydney Harbour view as we headed for Perth. If you look closely you can see ‘the old coathanger’ (Sydney Harbour Bridge) and Anzac Bridge (foreground).
I’m short, I don’t have legroom issues, but this plane was a squeeze for me. I could barely fit between the armrests in my middle seat of three. Wearing a heavy winter jacket didn’t help. The window seat passenger arrived, and he was a tall bloke. A landscape contractor, I later discovered. He did not fit well either, his long legs had to be splayed in order to fit in the space. On the other side of me, Jeff’s long legs had to be pulled in every time someone walked along the aisle.
Safety instructions are different now. They also include rules about wearing masks, including the injunction to leave them on, between mouthfuls of food or sips of water.
The flight was expected to be about four hours. We were ahead of the forecast bad weather, they said. But we might meet it along the way. The worst of the blow would be after our arrival.
I just wanted to get it over with.
I spent the flight squeezed into my seat, struggling to find where to plug in my headset then struggling again to find the buttons I needed to access to work the darn thing. I wanted to tilt my seat back but no way could I find THAT button! Meanwhile, to my left and right, both were manspreading into what little remained of my space. It was an unfortunate necessity for them due to the small legroom. While I have no concerns touching thighs with my husband, I did find it awkward to be on closer leg-rubbing terms with a total stranger.
We managed the meals, and a couple of glasses of juice. It was tricky, but we didn’t spill anything. I gave up on trying to do any sewing. I had no elbow room. Reading my book was enough challenge. I dropped my pencil at one point, and had to do without it for the rest of the flight. No way could I reach down there. Not without evicting both my fellow passengers and getting down on the floor.
Through the flight there were increasing announcements of our delayed arrival. Turns out the bad weather had sent its advance party, and we had a strong headwind. The flight eventually took five and a half hours. Cabin crew kept coming round to tell people to put their masks back on, and my brain was visualising Covid viruses floating freely around the cabin.
As we were coming in to land, the cabin crew urged me to tilt my seat back to the upright position. I was surprised — I hadn’t realised that my squashed thigh had been pressing against the seat tilt button on the armrest.
When we arrived we chose to wait in our seats while other passengers impatiently waited in the aisles for the next twenty minutes. Our fellow passenger continued to browse through catalogues of earthmoving equipment. We chatted a bit more. “I’m a FIFO worker,” he told me. [That’s Fly In, Fly Out]. “But this is my first flight to WA in years, I’m off to see a mate up north. I’ve been nervous of flying, with Covid. Hate it. Especially crowds.”
At last the crowd cleared and we had space to get out of our seats, grab our bags from the overhead locker, and get off the plane. It couldn’t happen fast enough for me.
It took another hour to get our bags, and after all the stories we’d heard, we were delighted to claim our own once more. It was a short walk to the car hire place, that process was much quicker.
It was cold, windy and damp, but the forecast torrential downpours weren’t happening. Yet. We’d rung Aunty Meg who said she’d made a batch of her famous creamy vegetable soup for us.
We got to Aunty Meg’s in mid-afternoon. She welcomed us with a fresh cuppa and a welcome chat. I got out my sewing.
The wind rose outside but the sky was still clear. It would be a cold night, but we’d be warm inside. Aunty Meg put the heater on, then commented, “It’s two hours later for you. I’ll put the soup on to heat up.”
Just then, the power went out. “It’s been doing that all day!” Aunty Meg remarked. “What a nuisance! The whole neighbourhood has been having momentary drop-outs in power.”
But not this time. Aunty Meg called the neighbour. “Is your power out again too? No?”
“Maybe you should check the fuse box,” Jeff suggested. “In case it’s a circuit breaker or something.”
With nothing to look at inside, all three of us traipsed out to the fuse box. We could smell burning plastic and could see sparks arcing across the circuit breaker, which hadn’t tripped. It should have. Jeff found something inert and used it to force the main breaker switch off. The sparks stopped.
“I think I see the trouble…”
It was a Sunday night. We rang emergency electricians and found nobody available. Aunty Meg’s previous electrician had moved ‘up north’ and she eventually found a new contact who was unable to attend that night but would be out first thing.
The power company came out to inspect, said it wasn’t their problem. “A good thing you managed to shut it off so promptly,” said the power company electrician. “The way this was installed originally, fire could have gone up into the ceiling, you could have lost the house.”
Meanwhile, nobody was going to have any soup so Aunty Meg and Jeff went searching for easy takeaway to eat by candlelight. I stayed and waited outside, where there was still a little light to read by.
It was a cold, dark night so we went to bed early. I’d used my phone briefly to connect to the internet and get emails. My battery was getting low. Meanwhile Jeff charged his in the car.
Next morning we were up and dressed early when the electrician arrived. We’d been able to tell him what had happened and what model of board components we had, so he arrived with the right parts and within fifteen minutes, we were back with power and light.
Expert on the job. Aunt Meg has a new favourite electrician!
“It’s good it happened yesterday and not today,” he told us. “With the three big blows coming in, I’m going to be real busy for the next week, from tonight.”
The next night Aunt Meg’s daughter and family arrived from the UK. The big blow had hit hard and the airport terminal was in darkness. Most flights had been diverted, but with a plane low on fuel after a long haul, they made an exception.
Despite all this, Perth is really a very welcoming place. And at least we were here, not trying to cross the country by plane, in a narrow metal tube packed with mask-wearing people.
Helen Armstrong - writing on the move 