By the C

 

Despite leaving home a month ago, my solo journey began only a little over a week ago.  Although I've travelled solo before, the strength of the learning journey I’m on is Everest to my mind.

I’m writing this in the library of the Meningie Public School.  It also serves as a community/tourist library. Greeting me somewhat cautiously at first, the librarian informed me:

“It’ll be noisy in about half an hour, it’s lunchtime”.

Hmmm! I can cope with that. I’m a mother, it could be entertaining.

“… then it’ll be noisy again a bit later when the fire drill happens”.

Right! Maybe I’ll be gone by then …

 

Where to begin? 

 

The first three weeks I spent with family and friends in and around Melbourne, a spirited time of conversation, film and wine. When I reflect on those weeks I see faces, and food. The faces of family, of long-time friends, engaged and engaging, active, loved.  Sisters, their familiar ways, the comfort, and old restlessness.   Old friends - past work colleagues and travelling companions, memories of Iceland, of raising children, of growing old.  A goodbye gift of eggs, passionfruit and tomatoes sweet. You know who you are.  My love for you endures.

 

A couple of weeks with Raf my son, and his beloved Maraya, their cat Tilly, and brand new Cavoodle pup, Rupert. Rupi for short. I had to zip my unease re naming rights! Rupert be damned! Raf forfeited his spare time, bless his heart, fitting out my rig, installing an inverter, shelves, bed frame, awning, the works. Vroom Vroom is now ready for the long road ahead. Figs also characterise this time.  Kilos upon kilos from the tree on the pavement, ripe, stout, juicy teardrops of gods that I ate with gusto. As their oversupply threatened to spoil, we slowly dry-roasted their sweet flesh. OMFG!

Another highpoint, albeit bittersweet, was revisiting Pelligrini’s, Melbourne’s iconic Italian café.  The face of Sisto, one of its previous co-owners is like a tattoo on my body.  His smile a million hearts of welcome, I was regularly one of its recipients during my 25-year working life in Melbourne’s CBD from the early 70s.  He embodied hospitality and warmth, and flirted like a peacock. He was killed a couple of years ago in a senseless act of violence in Bourke Street. I miss his joie de vivre.

 

Bye for now Melbourne.

During the past week since leaving the city, I’ve clung to the coastline like age spots to the face.  The Great Ocean Road on Victoria’s southern coastline runs from Torquay in the east to Allandale, near Warrnambool in the west. Sometimes called the world’s greatest war memorial, work began on its construction in 1919 and was the effort of over 3,000 returned soldiers in remembrance of their fallen comrades during WW1. Driving along its 245 km stretch of coastline, famous for its great southerly winds, breathtaking views, rugged cliffs, snake-like curves and narrow lanes is a work of serious concentration.  For a 67-year old driving an old landcruiser that’s had a very gendered (sorry men) lift, the act of steering requires inflexible concentration. The centre of gravity is all wrong, the steering hyper sensitive.  I find myself thinking death, I’m legendary for it. It’s a brute of a vehicle and I’m still warming to its singular rhythm and style.

 

a view from my camp at Bay of Martyrs

Along a stretch of The Great Ocean Road between Cape Otway and Port Fairy, hundreds of shipwrecks lay to rest on the seabed, although only a small percentage of them have been discovered.  This expanse is home to the Twelve Apostles, limestone stacks which over the years have been falling victim to the seas and erosion.   Only seven Apostles remain, the stubborn, perverse ones, but I’m fortunate to have witnessed their happy dozen standing during my childhood.  

nup, not my pic!

Occasionally, I succumb to anxiety.  Leaving home to travel solo comes with a host of niggling little apprehensions.  Yesterday, for no reason other than curiosity, I discovered scum floating on the surface of the coolant, a milky layer that screamed problem to my overactive imagination. It shouldn’t look like that, I mused.  I began googling.  Cracked head gasket! A woman with her bonnet up attracts lots of blokes, and it was those blokes, who, furrowed brow, smiling blue eyes n all, assured me it probably wasn’t all that serious.  24 hours later, I’ve relaxed a little and because I’m close to Adelaide, will get it checked.  Motto: don’t trust Mr Google.  

bush camping, Mt Richmond Nat Park

I’m beginning to find my tempo, getting into the groove of the road. Solo travellers to this point have been very few on my radar.  Occasionally when I strike up a conversation with couples, I have to bite my tongue when the refrains ‘you’re travelling alone?’ in feigned worry, or ‘it’s not safe’, or ‘don’t go to Tenant Creek … Katherine …’, threaten to destabilise my reverie.  They're fear-based narratives I refuse to invite into my thinking. Trust the universe, but tie up your camel! My everyday routine of the past five years, sitting behind a computer for long hours studying is no longer, a new everyday occupies my lens.  I’m generally at my most content behind the wheel and camped in nature. I’m up with birdcall, down by dark. Travelling ultra-slowly through space and time, feeling Country, eyes attuned to the natural world, the coastal heath, pink-barked gum, salt lakes, and the insanity of pine plantation monocultures.  My camps in the past week, mainly in the Great Otways National Parks, remind me rich ecosystems, home to a multidiversity of species, are the soul of Country. 

 

Botanic gardens, Warrnambool

Cape Bridgewater 

Blue Lake, Mt Gambier

 

The magnificent Umpherstone Sinkhole, Mt Gambier

 

Despite the occasional unease, I'm content, the road beckoning. I see people from home in the faces I encounter, their body language and visage a reminder I'm never far from the community of the Northern Rivers I call home.