From Flowerpot, Bruny Island and the D'Entrecasteaux Channel
It sounds final, doesn't it.
From the small hamlet of Flowerpot, Tasmania, is where, on September 27th, I start retracing my steps north on a homeward-bound curve. Flowerpot was a landmark useful to sailors navigating the D'Entrecasteaux Channel between Bruny Island and mainland Tasmania. A flat hillock was adorned at its top by a single tree. There you have it : Flowerpot. Thus are places baptised with the usual matter-of-fact Australian inventiveness.
It is just south of Woodbridge, close to Kettering and north of Dover. Thus are places called, making Australia feel like a parallel universe. A sort of parched, ever so slightly nostalgic, Britain where names of towns and villages are scattered haphazardly in an alternative reality. On my way out of Adelaide towards the great Ocean Road, I drive through Bridgwater, Aldgate and Stirling, all in the same confusing vicinity and, further on, through Peterborough, which shows little of the grey grottiness of its English counterpart, and up north towards Melbourne through Wye River, Anglesea and Torquay along a coast that has the grandeur of Majipoor, the huge planet imagined by Robert Silverberg in Lord Valentin Castle. A parallel universe indeed, with trees that don't give shade, animals with pouches and others that lay eggs and nurse their young. It's just a small leap of imagination for the Science-Fiction lover that I am. And I don't even have to hibernate on a long voyage through hundreds of light years, what a relief.
From Adelaide to Melbourne
But I am jumping ahead of myself... My last blog finished in Western Australia where I start heading back east. I briefly consider boarding a train between Perth and Adelaide. That idea soon dies : the Indian Pacific Train only runs twice a week and takes 2 days to cover the 3500 km between the two cities. I discard the possibility of renting a car, not willing to get glassy-eyed through the dry, vast expanses of the aptly named Nullarbor plain, Nullarbor meaning 'no trees' in Latin. 'An awful lot of not very much at all', was I told in Western Australia. And both options are pricy.
OK then... I fly.
The Peace Foundation supports peace through the Arts. Safe Harbour is one of their campaigns, focusing on 'increasing awareness about the plight of refugees and asylum seekers'. I meet with Sandra and David in Adelaide at an installation of 1000 little boats in front of of the Migration Museum. Painted by members of the community and school children, the installation raises awareness about the situation of refugees who have been in limbo for the last 6 years on the islands of Manus and Nauru. Sandra and David are there with their friends Mij and Sue to welcome visitors and chat with them.
Safe Harbour at the Migration Museum
I remember that, when I arrived in Australia in January 2019, Behrouz Boochani, a Kurdish Iranian journalist, had just won the Victorian prize for Literature and the Victorian Premier's Prize for Nonfiction for his book No Friends but the Mountains, composed one text message at a time within the detention centre. What a paradox for him to have his book recognised by the government of the same country that forbids him access. As I write, he's left Manus for the first time in 6 years and is in New Zealand, where he was invited on a one month temporary visa to talk about his book. It is likely he'll lodge an application for asylum there. Now, that's going to be interestingly embarrassing for the Australian authorities as New Zealand residents are allowed free entry into Australia... watch that space.
Most people in the state of South Australia, more than a million of them, live in Adelaide. The capital city is set in green hills and vineyards and the centre of town is surrounded by parks on all sides. North of this green edge, South Australia is pretty arid.
Years ago, in Switzerland, I met a couple of psychiatrists from Adelaide at a café. They were relaxed and friendly, in that easygoing, let's-not-stand-on-formality Australian way, and had a lot to say about their home town. I had pictured small cottages, little cafés and not the busy CBD with the usual globalised blend of shops. To be fair, the chilly and damp early spring weather doesn't encourage little tables to spill out onto the pavement and relaxed crowds to sip cold beers. I purchase yet more warm clothes.
As I walk with Sandra around her neighbourhood, she tells me about her friends' guerrilla gardening and how it spread in spite of the resistance of the city council. We wander in South parkland and admire the community garden, respected, cared for, used by all, never vandalised.
I love the independent, creative, hands-on spirit of this small city and its people.
The Art Gallery of South Australia is the most imaginative I have ever seen. It is curated by themes. A truncated Roman bust, a flowing marble tunic are juxtaposed with a modern black and white photography of draped women , the folds of cloth a visual echo. The statue of a young Roman boy, one of Rodin's Bourgeois de Calais and a modern androgynous man show different representations of beauty : perfection, the expression of raw emotion, psychological complexity. Furniture, crafts, paintings, contemporary and native art blend in a surprising and harmonious way.
I follow a guide who comments on chosen highlights but will wander the rooms again on my own, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, following my whim.
A delight.
And a delight to be in the company of Sandra and David who welcome me into their home with an open heart. There will be much laughter and quick-witted chats around the table. I do so hope that, one day, I'll be able to see them again.
I have to admit to have never read any tourist guide at any time since I started travelling, almost a year ago. I much prefer to ask friends and acquaintances, hear and see what comes my way, to be, sort of, 'shown' a direction. I am also careful to set aside some 'breathing moments', to not visit, to not being a tourist, to just meet, to just be, to just live. I am sure I've missed many incredible sights but I don't care. This is not what this year is about. Encounters make a journey, finding and nurturing friendships, creating connections and being enthused by endeavours, all this stays in the heart, with incredible sights thrown in at times because, oh God, the earth is so beautiful.
When I set off in December 2018, my plans were to see Gwendoline in Hongkong, Hsiao Ling in Taiwan and Helen and David in Canberra. The rest was a hazy blurred heap of dreams, ideas and desires. There was no certainty that I would go to New Zealand or Indonesia and I certainly didn't expect to embark on an anti-clockwise tour of a continent.
I continue east from Adelaide on another mini road-trip, the (almost) 1000km to Melbourne, with 660 km of it on the Great Ocean Road. Andy, the friendly car rental manager from Busselton (Western Australia) had planted the idea in my mind and it has germinated so well that I decide to postpone my departure to Tasmania and drive instead 3 days along this stunning coast, littered with no less than 700 shipwrecks. And no wonder... Close to mid-September, the weather is chilly and windy. At times, the clouds part to show a foamy, frothy seascape slamming its full Antarctic fury on sculptural cliffs. It is a wild and quiet road. I spend a night at Mount Gambier, near the border with Victoria in an eerily empty hotel and another night at Princetown's backpackers where it seems I will be alone there too before I am joined by three Argentinian ladies and a quiet Kiwi sitting in a corner of the dining-room in a happy reading bubble. I am always on the prowl for exciting new authors and don't hesitate very long before enquiring about the book he's so engrossed in. Very proudly he tells me his brother, Craig Cliff, wrote it and a fantastic story it is, Nailing down the Saint. Let me know what you think of it.
Mount Gambier Crater Lake
I drive on, in a stop and go, dotted line sort of way, mesmerised by jaw-droopingly beautiful views, snapping one shot after another, wishing I had more time for a wander through forests, along beaches and cliff paths.
And onwards I continue through little nooks and dents in the forbidding cliffs, where the combined action of sea and rivers have created welcoming bays, and further across the creatively named Reedy Creek, Grassy Creek, Big Hill Creek to finally drink my morning coffee in Appolo Bay. Someone had read their Classics, haha.
Views from the Great Ocean road
It is a long but not always lonely road. At the 12 Apostles, crowds suddenly materialise out of nowhere. The car park is full to the brim, coaches rumble in and out, people spill out, dawdle on boardwalks, helicopters take off and land... I resist the urge to flee and a good thing it is. The sights blow me away.
The 12 Apostles
I am no fan of big cities and arriving in Melbourne's late afternoon traffic congestion, under grey, drizzly skies, is not going to make me change my mind in a hurry.
I as told Melburnians pride themselves in living in a European city. As my car crawls through landscapes recalling the Paris péripherique or the London M25, I grumble to myself there must more worthwhile things to emulate.
Melbourne's CBD on another wet day
This dismal first impression will soon be dispelled.
My tired, grouchy self is warmly welcomed by the well-named Joy, a lovely lady. Even though she's more busy than anyone should be, teaching music and putting performances on stage with students, she's prepared a warm comfy room for me and we'll have more time over our few days together to get better acquainted and enjoy each other's company.
I soon meet up with Nicole and Jane, my two dancing friends from Alice Springs. From her practice of Zen Buddhist meditation, Nicole had achieved great calm, wisdom and energy. By contrast, Jane is a bubbling cauldron of emotions, dance and music spilling out of her with passion. They are very spirited ladies, both of them... We sit on the grass in a quiet corner of the Royal Botanic Garden and there, watched by a statue in a niche and the first blooms of spring, we sing an aborigine song. A song for women. A song of coming together. It is still now staying in my heart. Some of the most magical moments of this year of travelling are moments of shared music.
Lanes and Arcades of Melbourne
Rohmana, another lovely soul, recommends me to explore the lanes and arcades of Melbourne's CBD. Monday starts and will stay sunny so I wander through Cathedral Arcade, Hosier Lane, AC/DC lane, Centre Place, loving the buzz, the street art, the little cafés and restaurants to finally stop short, in the Grand Block Arcade, in front of the most incredible display of cakes in the southern hemisphere. If you are partial to that sort of thing (and I am), Hopetoun tearooms, established 1892, is for you. A long queue is snaking outside of its glassed frontage. I strike a conversation with three cheerful grandmas from Geelong, near Melbourne, who offer me to bypass the queue and share their table. They are in the big city to attend a Doris Day tribute concert. I am astonished to discover that today, now, in Australia, as I write, there are still Doris Day fans who are barely10 years older than me. Not just a parallel universe, a time warp too...
The National Gallery of Victoria is set in a contemporary building. Water runs down its facade and transforms the visitors sauntering in and out of its confines into blurred, ghostly shapes, to my mind a living work of art and the first taste of much more to discover... Children on a school outing eat their sandwich in the sun. It would be tempting to do the same...
But I zoom through the museum as I am keen to meet Jane for the last time. On the nearby north facing Yarra river waterfront, restaurant tables stand in the sun and we share a meal and a chat before I set off, lugging my rucksack, to catch the ferry to Tasmania.
The Spirit of Tasmania takes the whole night to sail the 392 kilometres across the Bass Strait between Melbourne and Devonport, on the north coast. I carefully inspect a map of the world and realise I am on the same latitudes as Patagonia and New Zealand's South Island, right in the path of the Roaring Forties. The name is self-explanatory but I am very pleased to report I don't need the recommended sea-sickness tablets. Smooth as a mirror it is. I can't help recalling my first, more agitated, crossing between Aberdeen and Lerwick, Shetland in 1991. Roughly the same distance and, in the bleary early morning light, the same soft slanted sun over low green hills but, here, in Devonport, I find a fantastic breakfast place, an old clapboard house with lace ironwork and a welcome fireplace where I wait for Tassie Car Rental to be open for business.
It seems that I am covering a lot of ground and I am, really. But then, when will I be back? It took me so long in my life to finally get there, on the other side of the earth. These last weeks have a melancholy tinge to them, an almost desperate urge to enjoy, meet, discover.... My return flight is booked in a few weeks. Not much breathing space this time. Not any more. I just go, go, go...
Tasmania is reputed for its excellent vineyards, good food and pristine nature, all three among my personal top of the pops. The north and east are predominantly agricultural and the west and centre wild and mountainous. It is stunning. It feels (and is) far from everywhere. It is perfect.
As usual, I follow my nose. In Deloraine, a small town set in green hills, shiny with winter rains, I am given friendly advice and head towards the mountains to walk along the Liffey (yes) waterfalls and onwards to the plateau, swept by icy winds under grey skies, to Pine lake, thus named for its 'Pencil' pines. Of the same family as the sequoias but no giants, they are survivors of the Gondwana forest and exist only in Tasmania.
Liffey Waterfalls
Pencil pines
Down in the valley, I drive through Exeter and Glengarry (yes, parallel universe again) and over the Tamar river to Bridport, a small seaside town, quiet and sleepy at this time of year. Caravan spaces stand empty by the beach, the odd dog walkers amble on the path along Trent water and Hurst Creek, only a few cafés remain open and the sole occupants of the YHA hostel are hard-working men from Vanuatu and the Solomon islands who toil in the vineyards. We are close to Pipers Brook, dotted with wine tasting opportunities.
Bridport
So, the next day, after a 10 kilometre walk in the nearby forest, where red-tailed black cockatoos congregate, and a seafood chowder at a sunny terrace, I set off for an indulgent afternoon, mindful of the fact I still have to drive back to the hostel.
Sinapius vineyard is the best. Behind the counter, Kym, happy of the company on this quiet day, is proud to tell me that their vines are all closely planted on volcanic soil and never watered and that they only use their own grapes and no chemicals. I sip an earthy, oaky red that has the bouquet of freshly fallen leaves and a Gewürztraminer that tastes of roses... yes, roses. A high quality, small vineyard.
Wilderness is never very far and, on the way south, I embark on gravel roads to reach a reputed waterfall. It looks deceptively shorter on the map but it's easy to take a wrong turn (and I do) and I notice too late that I have. So, on I drive, my car rattling and shaking towards an elusive goal for what seems to be for ever. This is not the time to let anxious thoughts run amok. But... there is not a soul in sight. I could stall on an upward gravelly slope (and I do) and not be able to start again (and it happens. Twice). I could get lost (and I am) if the definition of being lost is not having a clue where one is (and I don't). I could have a flat tire. It is very likely. But I don't, hurrah, and I arrive somewhere unexpected and fantastic, Evercreech forest, where I walk, spellbound, through giant white gums.
Just before Freycinet National Park, my destination, I feed kangaroos at Nature World in Bicheno. The Tasmanian species are black nosed. Their mouth is soft and furry. They hop behind me, keen for more grub and I keep a eagle eye at the impressive claws on their hind legs. I spot a wombat in its lair and quolls, small carnivorous marsupials that early settlers kept as cats in their homes. In the coming dusk, I walk among Barren Island geese and their goslings, saved from the brink of extinction, see Sugar Gliders, small nocturnal marsupials that fly between trees, not unlike flying squirrels... and Tasmanian devils, the biggest carnivorous marsupial alive, since the disappearance of the Tasmanian Tiger in the 1930s.
Though I have been told that, in the west of the island, in the wilds, men, after a beer or two, tell stories. They have seen signs. They have heard them. They still exist.
The smaller version is fiercely deserving of its name, with jaws more powerful than hyenas for their size and a healthy appetite. They could eat all day (Mind you, I know people like that.) They crunch with gusto through whole bits of joey and gobble them, bones, fur and all. The story goes that, when convicts escaped, the growling, snapping, slurping sounds of the devil feeding in the darkness of the night was enough to hasten them straight back to camp.
Speaking about the devil, I encounter yet more angels. They have dotted my path since last December and they keep popping up.
Cia, a talented young lady, has an affinity with stones, yoga and nature. She's been on the road for 5 years and the spirit of travel lives deep in her bones. The first day in Freycinet National Park, East Tasmania, rain lashes the windows and we stay inside the almost empty hostel, cook local scallops with paprika and watch a rom-com on Netflix, snuggled up under a blanket on the sofa and wasn't Nicholas Cage Cage dangerously gorgeous when he was young... We wake up to every bloom and every leaf on every tree shining with light and the sun blesses us around Wineglass Bay as we chat and share and walk in awe... I am wearing, as I write, a necklace she made, an opal that, to my eyes, shows a continent set in sparkling waters. A dear sister, a younger branch from the same tree.
With Cia at Freycinet National Park
There, I also meet Heeyeon, from Korea, and she offers to rendez-vous for a breakfast buffet in Hobart. But I'm feeling a bit distracted in front of the lavish spread of omelettes, salmon, sausages, home-made baked beans, granola topped with tropical fruit, pastries, breads, jams, etc... (burp...) because, it so happens that my phone (a travelling life line) has just stopped working and ... it so happens she's an expert. With infinite patience and kindness, she sets it to rights. Bless her.
Together, we visit a women's prison. Not much is left but it is easy to imagine the misery. Half of them were Irish and were sent to the other side of the earth for 'crimes' such as stealing bacon, a shawl, some bread... From 1803 to 1856, Van Diemen's Land was a big labour camp. It was then named Tasmania in memory of Abel Tasman who 'discovered' the island in 1642.
It's got to be mentioned that its original native name is Lutruwita and that Fanny Cochrane Smith, who died in 1905, is considered to be the last full blooded Tasmanian Aborigine and the last fluent speaker of her language.
On the way south to Hobart, rain clouds in the distance
Hobart is nothing much to write hope about, except for its stunning location, the friendliness of its people and the craft shops of the Salamanca District. I amble in its little alleyways and, further along the waterfront, will discover an oyster and seafood bar that serves the freshest platters.
Views from Hobart. Salamanca District
and the harbour
I had met Audrey and Oliver at the Subud World Congress in Freiburg, Germany, in the summer of 2018. They were running an 'Uplifting Singing' workshop and... wasn't it just so! I promised myself I would go and meet with them in Tasmania... The title of this blog is Audrey's idea, by the way.
Throughout this last year; along with friends and friends of friends and well met new friends, there has been a warm and open Subud network of brothers and sisters who invited me into their homes, drove me around, took me out, gave me advice and info, in Wellington, Palmserston, Nelson, Christchurch, Uki, Sydney, Cairns, darwin, Denpasar, Djakarta, Palangkaraya, Adelaide, Melbourne...
Special moments are shared in Oliver's and Audrey's house in Flowerpot, in the harmony of a well-loved old house, surrounded by a verandah where a hammock rocks and by a garden exploding with flowers, where I feel welcome, held, fed... where I sing in a choir, where friendship blossoms and I feel the peace of the home sink into the very core of my being...
Those Flowerpot angels have also welcomed Liana and Asep, the Wwoofing angels, and their two children. The warm Aga is the heart around which we gather. Appetizing smells waft from the kitchen and all sorts of things are handmade, bread, almond milk, washing-up liquid, delicious dried apples... Winks, a tame fluffy rabbit, waits for scraps of carrots to fall his way and nibbles at my trouser legs when he wants petting. He shares the music room with me at night, in his cage, and I discover that rabbits actually snore.
The house gives onto Bruny island, 'Lunawanna Allonah', that lies beyond the quiet waters of the D'Entrecasteaux Channel. I walk its southernmost reaches for 4 hours, along the pounding surf, under moody skies, feeling literally at the end of the earth.
Upon arriving in Tasmania, I had the stage feeling that I was entering a very different land, not unlike Canada, a Canada with gum trees but never mind. Audrey had the same impression when the family first settled there. Actually, research has shown that it was a part of what is now the west coast of the USA. Split form North America about 1.5 billion years ago, it travelled with Antarctica 500 million years ago and drifted north towards Australia.
I drift back north too, under a heavy rain that discourages any remaining touring ambitions, and find the Spirit of Tasmania's reception desk decked with yellow and black balloons. 'Someone's birthday?' I enquire at the reception desk, eliciting their mirth. How can anyone not know it is for tomorrow's Melbourne against Richmond (I think) football game, I am asking you? How can anyone not know there is such a thing as Australian football, I am asking you? And don't think it's either soccer, rugby or American football, by the way. It's Gaelic football, I'll have you know, played on an oval field with an oval ball.
So there.
Unable to summon any enthusiasm for it, beyond the mere polite curiosity, I forget about it, underestimating its importance. A mistake...
I will understand later why Sachlan and Rohana find their usual breakkie haunt closed. Those two Melburnian angels are immensely kind. They insist on picking me up from the ferry at 7 and take me out to a restorative treat after my long sail. 'We're always up early', they declare, as we attack our egg Benedict, spinach and avocados at a miraculously open breakfast joint on the beach.
They drop me at the tram for the CBD, I dump my bags at the youth hostel and wander the streets in search of a nice café where I could plonk myself to write and watch life go by, while sipping one of those deliciously creamy Australian cappuccinos. After a couple of hours traipsing through empty streets, I would settle for anything. It's because of the footie, I am told. It's Saturday, the sun is shining and everybody is glued in keen expectation in front of their screen. Damn...
Australian youth hostels are generally pleasant, comfortable, well-organised and cheap. I have had many interesting conversations and encounters with the 20 something crowd that passes through them or lives there long-term, on a working visa.
After my not altogether peaceful last night in Melbourne in one of those establishments, I'm taking a wicked pleasure in drawing categories. Please, bear with me.
Walking the streets of Melbourne around the youth hostel. The flowery, the old and the new.
Type 1 is the Working Visa Traveller. They are not tourists. They are on a mission and have plenty of good inside stories. They can include any of the following types except the last one.
Type 2 is the Fun Loving, whose sole purpose is to have a good time. I am rather fond of them though a bit less so when they stomp back into the dorm at 3am like a herd of elephants.
Type 3 is the Know-it-All: they have gone everywhere, have found the better deals and have lived the best experiences ever. They can be irritatingly smug or be a welcome wealth of information that they love to share (type 3B).
Type 4 is The Couple : they are (with the notable pleasant exception) in their own impermeable bubble. Michelle de Kretser in Questions of Travel (the 2013 winner of the Miles Franklin Award), illustrates this particular type very well. 'Travel was only really tolerable when solitary. Two was a group barricaded between we. It offered conversation and someone to blame for disappointments.' Quite cynical.
Type 5 is The Harassed. They have been travelling for far too long without pause. Everything is a hassle and their patience, love of discovery and readiness for the unexpected are exhausted. They should go home.
I am just an old bag. That's the last type. Double the age of the hostels' population. They didn't seem to hold it against me.
I have now been back in Europe for more than two months and it has taken me all that time to finish this blog, so reluctant I am to close that page, say the last good-byes...
With hindsight and with the infernal and terribly distressing bush fires that have devastated the forests and killed so much wildlife, I can see a pattern. The Australian government should pay me to stay because, see, rain seemed to accompany me wherever I went. I saw water flood the Todd river in Alice Springs, a rare enough occurence. It poured in Fremantle, Margaret River and Pemberton, WA, the first they had had in months. I saw Adelaide and Melbourne under grey drizzly skies, with brief sunny appearances. I won't mention Tasmania, lush and even lusher during my stay. Ah but, then again, this is what happens at the very beginning of spring, with the coolness of winter still lurking in the air.
The hills behind Fadden, Canberra
Canberra was no exception and, one night, a thunderstorm rocked the dry hills around Helen and David's home. They thought I shouldn't leave and, gosh, do I love this country. We enjoyed the easy togetherness of old friendship, chatting, walking the dog, playing word games at which they are fiendishly good, making marmalade... I rested, cooked, wrote... On her day off, Helen and I attended Floriade, its displays of spring flowers, garden gnome competition (don't ask), cheerful bands on stage and various stalls by the lake across government buildings. We tasted local wine and got back home very cheerful. Sip sip hurrah!
Good-bye, my friends. We'll see each other again before long.
And good-bye, Sydney, toasting Champagne in Coogee with Sue, Pilippa and James, marvelling at baby Harriett now walking under her own steam, recollecting the magical Easter in the bush block.
Goodbye to you, Maggie and Allen, to lovely time spent together in your house with cats by the park, to the streets lined with red bottlebrush, to Mariamma and Yasmine, to the restaurants and alleyways of Newtown, to Helen and David's girls, Merry, Sylvia and Catie and to baby Fin pulling my hair.
It's goodbye Australia. For now. You filled me with friendship, wonder and fun for 5 months of this year.
After the coast and a fringe of green, my plane flies over kilometres upon kilometres of your deserts, crisscrossed by straight roads, the skeleton of one long-dried mighty river, your baked red earth and your golden edge as I go north, hanging above the ocean in that no man's land between the sadness of leaving and the anticipation of homecoming.
In spite of distressing news about protests and police violence, all clicks like clockwork at Hongkong airport, the fast train speeds to the centre, high rise buildings loom ghostly in the fog/smog, the lift carries me to the 20th floor, where Gwendoline and Jason live. It is so good to see them. Last time was on January 2nd...
My lovely daughter and I celebrate in style. She has vouchers for the infinity pool in a 5 stars hotel. We toast with Bellinis on the terrace, chat, read, sleep, eat fusion dishes at a food market. The sun sets red over the channel. We have our feet and shoulders pummelled in a massage place and get our nails painted. In the evening, we play board games and have pasta with truffle sauce at an Italian place.
Nothing much has changed but the disabled man who used to feed the pigeons under the 'Don't feed the birds' sign doesn't sit any more on the stairs of Ladder street. I walk up and down the old roads, forever astonished at the stubbornness of roots and leaves amidst concrete, amble along the antique dealer stalls by Man Mo Temple, have lunch at the Taiwanese café at PMQ, both rejoicing in the western familiarity and in the alien culture that permeates it like the fragrance of incense on the air.
As I wait in the hustle, bustle and bling of Hongkong airport, I spend my last HK dollars on a comforting dumpling soup and a pot of Chrysanthemum tea. Chrysanthemums, the flowers we put on graves in France on All Saints Day, are a symbol for optimism and joy in the Far east. How paradoxical and how apt... what a confusing emotional cocktail...
Images and sounds collide in my mind... New Zealand flax, spiky against the crashing of waves, a red Morris Minor Tiki tour, a helicopter ride over glaciers, hot bubbling, steaming earth, ecstatic dancing, Tibetan bowls in a gnome dwelling, many laughters around many tables, tall trees in vibrant forests, potato-shaped boabs, cheeky seals, mighty whales, rainbow lorikeets and sulphur-crested cockatoos, music in Uki, Cairns, Rungan Sari, Sumampan, Balinese smiles and the air warm and soft on the skin like silk, picking a passion fruit and digging up ginger, multicolour fish and corals, baby turtles and crater lakes and serene dwellings by rushing rivers, tropical isles and jade seas, orang-utans and far too big scorpions...
When I land in London, it rains...
