Other Things...

... for Knots in the String.

A holiday.

We’re tired and haven’t the energy to venture far, so decide to make the cottage our Air Bn’B. Everything is familiar and gentle, we don’t have to pack, unpack or battle the highway or crowded airports and planes. We have the coast, the boat, the garden and the bushland – plenty to choose from and perfect when one’s body and mind are in need of a rest.

We switch off from the world. In my case no news at all. The world could be combusting and I wouldn’t know. Husband takes a week away from work. I don’t attend ballet and cancel outstanding appointments.

We breathe.

It is complete and utter balm.

Day One: laziness. Dog and I have the whole beach to ourselves and I ponder on life and the universe as I keep my fingers crossed for my cousin who battles in a Melbourne hospital. The sky clears to blue and I take it as a sign for better things.

I swim. I’ve signed up to raise money for the Daffodil Day Dip, an initiative run by the Cancer Council to raise money for cancer research. I do it because we are told 1 in 2 adults will be diagnosed with cancer by the time they turn 85. I’ve lost three friends to breast, bowel and pancreatic cancer. My father had bowel cancer, my husband had prostate cancer, my cousin is dealing with a massive cancer issue. And I have repeated dances with squamous cell skin carcinomas.

Because the sky is blue and the day mild, I forgo my wetsuit and wear a light neoprene zip top, swimsuit, booties and gloves and the minute the water hits my calves, I know I’m going to freeze. Later, I find the water temp has dropped back to 11 Celsius. I manage to walk out to neck height, ducking my shoulders under, walking here and there. But my bone marrow is frozen and despite going home to pull on dry clothes, sit in the sunroom, and have a hot drink, I’m unable to raise my core temperature. It takes a bath, polar fleece and bed before the thaw begins.

I watch Alone Australia set in Finland, and they talk of being in trouble when the water is 9 degrees. It’s pause for thought…

I resolve to do the rest of my swims in my wetsuit. That way I actually do swim! Not just duck under and out! Value for money. If you’re in Australia, please donate to the Cancer Council and make my swims worthwhile. Thank you so much in advance.

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And then, as with all good holidays after a busy few months, we catch a bug – aches, pains, a sniff and little energy. But it’s bearable – we’re on holiday, no schedule, no commitments, just doing whatever from day to day and there’s always Panadol. I sleep for nine hours overnight.

Day 2: and despite being lacklustre, we drive inland along as many backroads as we can find. Heading to a favourite historic town. We take the Womble, ambling along the streets, admiring the golden sandstone Georgian buildings and the lichen-mottled drystone walls. I visit a special little boutique (the only one in town) and find linen shirts to die for, knitwear I love and promise myself to return when I feel better.

We have lunch outside the small restaurant, and I listen to the sparrows chatting cheekily in the bare branches of silver birches and hawthorns as the sun shines, gilding the whole town. I see the church where my oldest friend’s funeral was held and remember her with such fondness. She was the one who told me the day before she died that I must keep writing, and so every time I face the keyboard to progress another novel, I thank her for her support.

We eat the best pumpkin soup I’ve ever tasted and when I compliment the restaurant owner, she tells me the secret ingredient. I resolve to try and turn our remaining pumpkin into a similar magical meal. We dip toasted sourdough into the soup and sigh happily, and follow the savoury with a sweet hot chocolate and marshmallows drink accompanied by a warmed blueberry friand that is as light as a feather. (Something else I want to make when I buy a friand tray). Replete, we walk more but I find my steps lagging and am glad to sink back in the car. Back at the cottage, I sleep for another nine hours.

Day 3: The sun shines. We both feel marginally better and walk our deserted beach. The Pupsicle wanders and sniffs off-lead and turns the happiest face toward us. On returning to the cottage, I decide to plug my immune system into the mains by having another swim, this time with full wetsuit. I walk straight in, swim back and forth and float on small southeast swell. But I can feel my body cooling and decide to retreat before it becomes an issue. People walking their dogs look at me as if I am odd and I wonder if I should ask them if they would donate money to the Cancer Council’s Daffodil Day Dip.

We decide to potter in the garden, weeding, mulching, cutting back. Not strenuous because we have no timetable. We head to the tip with garden rubbish, and the dog discovers the joy of an open window, standing on my knees and letting the breeze part his hair. His amber eyes dance and I can hear him snuffling at scents on the air.

Bed looks and feels heavenly.

Day 4: Better but still in low gear. We decide to head along more gravel roads, noting how dry and pinched so much of the backlands are and can’t conceive how summer will be for the native bushland and for farmers.

But before we hit the backroads, we visit a sculpture and native garden to get names of trees to plant at the farm. The mature specimens give us an idea of how they will grow. Reassuring to hear the throaty burble and pop of native frogs in a small dam at the foot of a cliff. They stop the chorus when they hear us talking.

We head further to a beach over the range – its exposed, windy and cold and we don’t walk far. But we have a picnic from the back of the car. Fresh bread, McHenry’s sloe paste, beetroot chutney, and Spreyton apple and cider paste with a selection of Tasmanian cheeses. Then fresh grapes and water.

Pootle along a very rough forestry road and I cringe as we bump over holes. But we end up at one of our own favourite walking beaches in the shelter of Maria Island and let Doggles run free. He knows where he is, zooms and shoulder rolls, digs holes and grins the whole time. A good, unhurried day.

A holiday here has meant only wearing what clothes the cottage contains. Nothing smart or citified, no jewelry, no one to impress and who cares anyway? Mostly we’re wrapped up in over-large squishy quilted jackets and vests. The Womble of course, travels in his fine fur coat and wonders what the fuss is about.

Days 5-7: We walk, I make birthday cakes for our grandson and daughter-in-law. We attend the Grandson’s 8^th birthday at the farm, having pottered some more in the garden. His party is in two weeks time when he is having some friends to a sausage sizzle and marshmallow-toasting by the creek. He asked if I would make dinosaur cupcakes for the occasion.

However on these last days, I do of course swim in the hope that it jogs the immune system to fight this nuisance virus. As well, a little bit of money is donated. I have till the end of the month, but people are feeling the pinch, I think.

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We welcome the chance to power down. More than anything I embrace the chance to observe, to read, to think, to do whatever whenever. In this current society, it’s not always easy. Even here on this island to the far south of the globe, there’s still hustle and bustle and life flies by. I’m aware of time slipping through - hourglass stuff - and I want to slow it down. Quite by accident, it appears I do exactly that. I take the Pupsicle for a walk after we return to the cottage on Day 2 and video the almost dusk scene. Suddenly time slows and I am glad, because one can see the clarity of the water and the patterns of light flick-flacking this way and that. It seems I had clicked on the wrong ‘frames per second’ button but do we care? Of course not. The water is breathtaking…

Music for this week? Gosh, what indeed? Something indicative of quiet holidays…