AUSTRALIA 1975. 3 Wilpena Pound

This is part of an autobiographical series. See right for links to the rest.

As I walked from one cabin to the next with my mop and bucket, looking up at the forested slopes dotted with frost, smelling the pine and feeling the early morning sun on my face, I was happy. This is so much better than London, I thought. Even though I have a lowly job, I’m happy. How strange. It went against everything I’d been taught.

It had been a long bus journey along empty dirt roads to arrive at the Wilpena Pound Motel where I was now working as a housemaid, but hoping soon to move to waitressing. Food and meals were more my thing than cleaning. And the waitressing hours were better too as I’d have the afternoon off and could go exploring. The wildness all around called to me.
 
At first, I'd panicked. I was with strangers for the first time, and with each new location I'd had to cast off more ties to home. I found a bookshelf of crime novels in the motel lounge – where an enormous log fire burnt all day in deference to the onset of autumn – and when not working glued myself to them, blotting out the panic and hoping it would go away before I ran out of reading matter.

 
The guests had neat modern cabins in a row near the main hotel building. The staff had older detached ones dotted through the trees. I shared one with Helen, who was 28 (ancient) and Scottish and had recently split up with a long-term boyfriend. She hardly talked. I think she would have preferred to be on her own.
 
Daryll ran the kitchen and dining-room and when I joined his band of waitresses he seemed to find me funny. He kept encouraging me to get a job as a Jillaroo, which meant working on a farm, or to ‘try one of the ships’. He obviously thought I needed roughing up. Quite probably. I'd found London scary, but here anything went. Most of the male staff were bisexual (which I'd not come across before). One of the men was consistently unfaithful to his lovely girlfriend. Staff had one-night stands with guests. People drank all day. 
 
Daryll organised an outing which meant taking a bus along dirt tracks. Clouds of white parrot-like birds flew out of the trees.
    ‘What are those?’ I asked, astonished
    ‘Galahs,’ he replied.
    I’d never heard of them. I had to ask him to repeat the word and spell it for me.
    The bus stopped at a waterhole and someone stripped off and dived in. What freedom, I thought. You never swam in fresh water back home. Either you’d catch polio or you’d be poisoned by discharges from factories. Or so they said. I wanted to join him but didn't dare. There were too many people around. How was I going to dry myself afterwards?

    We sat on the bare ground to eat our lunch and a band of emus wandered up and stood around watching us grumpily. Daryll looked serious.
    ‘Don’t go near them,’ he said.
 
A guest went out walking and didn’t return. They sent a plane to look for him but found no trace. I too went out, every afternoon, following a track that led to a nearby clearing with a ruined shack. I watched kangaroos chase each other round and round the clearing, and as I walked back in the dusk wallabies leapt out of the woods giving me kittens. I sat on a rock above the cabins, and unfamiliar thoughts wafted through my brain.

One night, at a party in someone’s cabin, a housemaid started to scream. The next day, with her left eye bright red from a burst blood vessel, she was sent home to New Zealand.

 
I knew how she felt. It was dawning on me that, while these people spoke English and even looked English sometimes, they were actually an alien species. The country too fooled you into thinking it was normal – with trees and birds and animals like everywhere else – but all of them were new and weird. It wasn't a different country. It was a different planet. But so long as you knew both those things you were OK.

I became friendly with the son of the motel owner, who was on holiday from school. We decided to climb together to the nearest high point, St Mary’s Peak.

The path to St Mary's Peak. (Sorry about the state of the photograph - it is 51 years old, after all.)

It took us hours and we made several wrong turnings but when we arrived at the top there was a 360-degree view of Australian bush. In spite of my borrowed shoes that pinched and a bout of diarrhoea that had sent me crashing into the undergrowth every half an hour, I was suffused with a feeling I didn't recognise. I think it was joy.

On St Mary's Peak

I'd been in Australia for four months now and was starting to catch up with myself. I felt better, stronger, ready to move on again.

Next instalment

AUSTRALIA 1975. 2 The Murray River, Streaky Bay and Adelaide

This is part of an autobiographical series. See right for links to the rest.

Bella, my faithful friend, arrived at last - in a pickup truck – and drove us to a shack in the woods where I was greeted by a man with long blond curly hair, wearing nothing but a turquoise-flowered sarong around his waist. I gulped. I’d never seen a man wearing a sarong before. Come to think of it, I’d never seen a sarong either in real life.

    ‘He and his girlfriend were caught in The Darwin Cyclone,’ whispered Bella as she showed me around. ‘They’re very Traumatised. This is the bathroom.’
    She turned on the shower which produced a trickle of rusty water and pointed to the lavatory. ‘Best avoided if you can.’
    ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ I said.
    I was finding it hard to keep up. A few days ago I’d been in filthy, grey, strike-ridden London, working in an office. Now I was . . . what?
    ‘Watch out for snakes,’ said Bella, ever thoughtful.

    She was three years older than me and had supported me through the miseries of the last two years.
    Five minutes away I found a river. It was caramel coloured and warm to my hand. Sandy beaches and unfamiliar trees lined its banks. Large black birds, like pterodactyls, swooped and squawked above my head. I felt that I was somewhere very old, somewhere before humans, from another era of Earth’s history.
    I’d completely forgotten about Bella’s warning.

The river

We rose before dawn the next morning and drove to the vineyard in the pickup truck, where I was paired with a middle-aged Italian woman. We worked together down a row, one each side. She was expert and I found it hard to keep up.

 

Arriving at work

On Bella’s advice, I’d brought a scarf from England and she’d shown me how to tie it round my head before we’d left that morning. I needed it. The sun was merciless and we ate our packed lunches in the shade of the vines.

Lunchtime

On our day off, we all swam across the river – the Murray, I now knew – and sunbathed on one of the beaches. The Australians wore nothing. Bella and I wore our bikini bottoms.


Two weeks later, sunburnt, scratched and stained with red grape juice, I headed west with Bella to Streaky Bay to stay with Tom whom she’d met on a bus in South East Asia. He lived in a shed roofed with corrugated iron. He was a gentleman, lonely, bewildered and in love with Bella. Bella and I slept in his bed while he slept on the floor.
    He took us to a nearby beach. It was deserted, thunderous with breakers and stretched as far as the eye could see. We shared the sand with seals and dived into the water to get away from biting flies. I think we might have seen dolphins too.

Seals on the beach near Streaky Bay

Then we went to Adelaide and stayed with some more friends of Bella’s. She’d travelled much of the way to Australia by land and made friends everywhere. These friends were arty and cagey and reminded me of English people.
    ‘What on earth do you want to go to Australia for?’ people had asked me back in England. ‘There’s nothing there.’
    Exactly, I thought. I was sick of it all – culture, class, rules, money.
    I didn’t want to be anywhere or do anything in Australia that reminded me of home.
    Another friend of Bella’s took us lobster fishing on his boat. That was more like it.

 

Lobster fishing with one of Bella's friends

Bella had an offer to fly over Ayers Rock*.
    ‘You could come too,’ she said excitedly.
    ‘Thanks but no,’ I said. ‘I need to get another job.’
    My father had been against me going to Australia but had still given me the money for the plane ticket (£600 – a fortune - even though I’d bought it from a ‘bucket shop’). I'd decided to assuage my guilt at going by saving enough money to pay him back.

    Now, I also wanted to set out on my own, away from Bella’s protection. As for leaving her alone to meet up with D, her lover – that didn’t occur to me.

I caught another bus. This time I was heading for mountains – South Australia’s Flinders Ranges.

Next instalment

* Many Australian place names have been changed back to their Aboriginal versions. I've left them as they were known in 1975 when I was there.

AUSTRALIA 1975. 1 Sydney

This is part of an autobiographical series. See right for links to the rest.

 

I’ve got a job grape-picking’ said Bella’s letter. ‘Why don’t you come too?’
    It was February. I was 21, eking out an existence in London, trying to forget a failed university career and staggering round the broken glass of a dying romance. My days were propped up with bars of chocolate and my nights with interminable parties.
    Bella was in Australia pursuing a lover who’d been coming over to England on business once a year for the last few years, picking up with Bella for a mad few weeks, and then going back home to his wife and children.

Four weeks later I stepped into the arrivals lounge of Sydney airport.
   ‘Welcome to Austrilia,’ said a large sweaty man in a pale grey uniform.
    I was pleased to be welcomed but it was disconcerting to travel halfway across the world and find people still speaking English.
 
After a few days with friends in that brilliant white-blue-and-green city . . . 

Here is Sydney and some members of the family I stayed with

. . . I set off in an ancient bus piled with mail and newspapers. Every few hours we stopped at one-horse towns with wooden sidewalks and saloon bars.

   People hurried from side to side of the street. The older men wore immaculate baggy white shorts with long white socks and brogues, the younger ones flipflops and tiny, bum-hugging black items which I later learned were called ‘stubbies’.
    I wandered round to the back of one of the rows of buildings only to find stretching to the horizon a pulsating plain of red earth dotted with squat blue-grey bushes. I couldn’t breathe. It was terrifying. There was nothing human anywhere. What on earth had I done?
 
At last, along with a bundle of newspapers, at the intersection of two dirt roads, it was my turn to be dumped. I sat on the bundle and waited. Bella and I had arranged our rendezvous weeks ago by letter. How could it possibly work? What would I do if it didn’t?

Next instalment

What happens when we die

 

The stark beauty of the new saltmarsh on the Otter estuary in East Devon. Ellie and I walked here at the beginning of the month

I read on Instagram this morning that scientists have now discovered that energy leaves the body (of both humans and animals) when we die. Tibetan monks comment, ‘You need science to tell you what silence already knows?’ 
 
I agree with the monks. It's our own experience that matters. Science is a clumsy tool. As my little book of Chinese wisdom says, 'Why light a candle to see the sun?'
 
When our first dog Brindle died (and Frog, Brindle and I were out in the garden with the vet), I saw Brindle's energy fly from her body like a puff of smoke and zoom northwards over our shed. It was a discrete entity and it was in a hurry. I presumed it was her soul. Brindle had nearly died a year before and I’d prayed for her to stay alive because I wasn’t in a position to deal with her death at the time. She’d waited for me, even though she’d wanted to go. I write about this, and more, in a previous post.
 
I feel annoyed when I read about things like the above because I don’t talk about most of what I experience because people mock. They need science to ‘prove’ things. Then the world catches up with me and I wish I’d had the courage to speak sooner. 
 
This blog is one of the few places where I do speak out, and my time here now without either parents or Frog is for me to learn to be my whole self without shame or doubt (not that Frog ever caused me to feel either of those, but my upbringing had). That’s something else I ‘know’, and I knew it as soon as Frog died.
 
I didn’t see Frog's soul go. It vanished in a second, as we stood together halfway up a hill admiring the view and he dropped to the ground with a cry of surprise.
 
Then the emergency services arrived - by helicopter, two ambulances and a car - and spent about an hour trying to revive him at the side of the road. Then they took him to hospital and tried some more with bigger machines.

When they stopped trying and pronounced him dead, I was almost relieved as the resuscitation attempts were gruesome. I was also unsurprised. And that’s something else I’ve never admitted before. He wanted to go. It was his time to go. He was removing himself for the moment so that I could learn without pressure. (My grief had yet to kick in.)

And none of that is what I intended to write in this post. I intended to tell you about another moving film from the Right to Roam campaigners. In September I directed you to a film about their mass trespass swim at Kinder Reservoir. This new film is about looking after a neglected river in East London and about what they call ‘wild service’. And I hope to tell you more about that when I know more myself.

Sunset last week as I walked home with Ellie

PS I realised after I uploaded this post that today is the winter solstice - the shortest day. How appropriate then to be talking about death - and resurrection perhaps. But that's another story.

Sharpham House - retreats, reedbeds and rewilding

Even on a wet winter’s day, nature’s beauty can still astonish me. Here’s a pond I’ve walked past countless times, but it was only yesterday that I suddenly realised how picturesque it was and was inspired to take a photograph of it. Perhaps it was the season revealing the bones of  the corner.

 

Pond. (I wanted Ellie in the view but she raced off to bark at something at the critical time.)

I love tree skeletons, and here is a row of them that caught my eye as I sat in a soggy field a few days ago having my quiet moment.

 

Tree skeletons

I’ve now been on my retreat (mentioned in the previous post - I lied about the timing) and it was a wonderful experience. Beautiful warm house, fabulous setting, excellent teaching and lovely people. Here are some pictures.

 

The view from my room. That's the River Dart you can see below.

The house was built in the eighteenth century and here is its marble staircase - lethal if you're not wearing proper shoes

As a result of the retreat, I’m trying to meditate regularly - currently short sessions three times a day. The explanations make it sound so simple but the practice is anything but, and the more I try to meditate the more questions I have about it. Maybe I need to go on another retreat, such as Mindfulness for Beginners – another Sharpham event that’s caught my eye.

I do feel different though, so I perhaps I did have the ‘reset’ I wanted.

Here are some more of the pictures I took at Sharpham.

A sunrise from my room

A strange henge in some reedbeds down by the Dart

Pristine mudflats and reedbeds stretching back upriver towards Totnes. I spotted herons, geese, seagulls and a little egret, but I know such habitats are of international importance and I'm sure there was a lot more that I didn't spot. (It's drizzle, not my technique, that's misting the picture.)

Sharpham is rewilding a chunk of land leading down to the reedbeds, but I didn't have time to get much further than this information board