"My Ramblings from The Centre"

Uluru Central Australia

‘People watching’ is one of my favourite hobbies. I could sit at a train station or airport or shopping centre for hours and just watch and invent other people’s lives with only my imagination and see say. My assumptions and conclusions are most likely wrong but I do find it entertaining and it vitalizes the creative juices in my veins, much like a blazing sunset or tranquil desert scene, so it is no surprise that my imagination was ignited on a recent holiday to Central Australia. It was like a box of Continental Chocolates; an assortment of characters to choose from.

‘Desert Beauty’   

She couldn’t see me watching her enter the baths but I had the feeling she knew everyone took notice. My spying eyes where camouflaged under the rim of my wide brimmed hat as I bobbed about in Dalhousie Springs.

She was obviously from the city; there was an air about her. Short cropped modern hair style wrapped in a swish band that framed a face that appeared to undertake a regular beauty treatment; smooth and flawless. She had the covering of an overfed city woman maybe the product of too many lunches, yet still firm from a daily workout. Who knows?

It was the way she held herself that stood out; her head raised slightly, chin up, eyes seemed to be caste skyward, almost like you would stand if you were about to receive an award – proud, sure, strong, self-aware. Her partner was a scrawny pale specimen sporting a long skinny plait. A pot smoking muso maybe? She could have been a singer in that case although I fancy she would have been a painter or designer. The way she cocked her head could have been her spirit awakening to the beauty of our surroundings – sniffing in the colours and sounds and smells of the outback paradise.

Maybe when she goes home she’ll design a cloth stained with the memories of her desert trip or paint a scene reminiscent of her dry dusty adventure….well part of it at least. Today she is bathing in 36 degree ten thousand year old water exploding to the surface naturally through a ‘mound spring’. She was wearing a swim suit that only one with self-assuredness would dare. It was a very high cut at the leg affair, that does a cheeky disappearing act and reappears at the small of her back. She had a singlet top on that probably hid an exposed midriff but from the back it made it look like she had no pants on! Her cheeky bits resembled her nature maybe…..

Later I saw her fussing about preparing dinner in her camp kitchen, the wrap no way possible meeting and covering her and when she bent over….well, I’ll not go there. I wonder what or who she thought was impressed by her near nakedness? I was impressed by her sheer nerve and say ‘good on her’, as I blushed and turned away.

*

 

‘Old Mate’

Old Mate as I affectionately named him had become more than just a watching game. We came across him three times on our trek through Central Australia. Still we had not exchanged names, yet a familiarity had formed; an anonymous alliance as we journeyed our distinct separate ways that always ended up in the same place, him the quest of a grey nomad, us our annual holidays. Our first encounter was on a green grassy knoll at Kings Canyon Station – an oasis after what we had previously endured making our way down the edges of three deserts.  Red and dusty all around but for our camp spot and he was complaining! He reckoned the watered grass bought mozzies. He rambled on about how he liked burnt out scrub for a tent site. “It’s a sure thing there’ll be no snakes around either,’ he said in his broad pommy accent. I reckon he was cadging for a meal, but I was not going to offer. Talk is pretty much all you get from your fellow traveller when on the road and I was not about to change the rules! Besides everything was rationed for the amount of days we’d be out. I didn’t cater for generosity. Mind you his paunchy stature was evidence that his diet was more than adequate.

Our second encounter was at the roadhouse at Kings Canyon Resort the next day after walking a gorge or two. We had our thermos coffee and crackers and cheese, him with his pie and coke. I could see the envy in my husband’s eyes, junk food not on our menu.  This is where we found out he was a pensioner spending as many days, or years even, adventuring. No retirement village for this happy chappie. Instead an old green Toyota 4WD ute loaded to the hilt with his tent and spare tyres and God knows what, haphazardly thrown in the back although I am sure he would know where everything was and could put his hand on it in the wiggle of a willy wagtails tail feathers! It all looked rather grubby really, dents and scratches on faded duco that may have never seen a polish rag. The tailgate of the ute was a display case for old car badges. Ford, Holden, Mazda, Toyota; a hodgepodge of all makes and models glued and screwed to the panel. He matched his vehicle; shabby maybe with torn and worn out shirt but not smelly and dirty. His shaven head smooth as a river boulder, a couple of teeth misplaced although I am sure he knew where they were and would have told us had we stuck around long enough to listen! His tattered sandshoes had seen better days. I am positive I saw a sockless toe peeking out through a split. He enjoyed telling us where he was headed and how he managed to get through fences and gates sporting NO ENTRY signs, to put up camp for free.  

Our last encounter was at Ruby Bluff Gorge a week later. We had gotten ourselves bogged in a sandy riverbed. It was ‘Old Mates’ fault. We saw him camped and decided to go further into the park to keep our distance from him. Ah…such is the workings of Karma. It was a feeling of guilt that made us stop and at least say goodbye the next day after spending a night stopped in our tracks and up to our axle’s in garnet tinged sand. He looked on with amazement as we told him our story and we, as he told us his intentions of driving alone across the Simpson Desert! He wouldn’t even attempt the riverbed here. How he thought he was going to make six hundred sand dune crossings was a mystery. His front end was jacked up due to broken shocks (new ones floating around the ute somewhere) and there, out on the track, forty six gruelling kilometres from the nearest road that was one hundred and fifty kilometres to anywhere, he was about to fix it! Pure madness. We begged him to please wait at Birdsville and tag along with other travellers. Mind you other travellers wouldn’t want a bar of him I’m sure. The police had even pulled him over the day before we met again and went over his vehicle, asking him all sorts of questions and breathalysing him. At least they showed concern.  They couldn’t find anything wrong so off he went on his merry way. At least he didn’t get bogged like we did! He didn’t seem to be the least bit worried…. smiley and cheerful and full of stories – probably a little bit full of himself, but harmless – Oh and very much so ‘living on the edge’.

*

‘A Childs Play Ground’

Drifting about the Outback and rummaging through historic townships you are bombarded with how hard the pioneers worked and of the difficulties experienced taming the wilderness. The Hall of Fame for men in Longreach and in Alice Springs the Pioneer Women’s Hall of Fame, pays tribute to those who risked all for the sake of earning a quid and making a life for their families at the same time opening up the country. Even though times have changed and machinery and communications have made things easier hardships take on a different hue. I couldn’t help notice how life is for the children in isolated areas. As a mother from a regional city I believe children need other children and socialising was a major part of teaching my lot. What if you are the only child of a family who chooses to live hundreds of kilometres in either direction from another town? I had the pleasure of meeting one young lady who lives with her parents and grandparents together running a hotel in such a place. That’s all there is…a pub after 150k’s or so from a Queensland border town, a building looms up out of the mirage. When you leave to continue your journey the road stretches for another century of kilometres. The hotel has withstood the tests of time for the last 149 years. Floods, wars, droughts and economic disasters, kings and queens and prime ministers move on into forgotten news but this little old pub remains… a comfort to the weary traveller, road gang’s drovers and stockman. It’s hard to imagine working in such a place all those years back without electricity and the creature comforts afforded today. It’s hard to imagine working there now even with all the trappings of modern day living, aircon and flushing toilets. What’s even more difficult is picturing how a child might cope.

We pulled up to what used to be a hitching rail for horses and wagons. We acknowledged a friendly nod and smile from the welcoming committee – four or five adults and a little girl about nine years old. Their party took up the entire end of the verandah. I thought at first they were fellow travellers pulled in for a rest stop just like us. In fact they were some of the owners. You couldn’t help notice the little girl. She stood out for all her smallness. Checked country shirt and blue jeans, dusty boots, hair pulled roughly into a coil – no regard for fashion taken into account – a need to keep it out of the way while she did her daily chores no doubt. Sunday must be funday as she was in her prime performing tricks in the dirt out front with her pink handled whip. Precocious and showing off her ability to control the stockman’s tool of trade and laughing at the sound it made thwacking the dirt. It was a spectacle.

After such a long day we decided to have ourselves dessert… after all, there in the bar was a chalk board that stated for $5 you could get yourself a coffee and a slice of cake. By this time all sunset watching was done and verandah sitters now became cooks and order takers and yarn spinners. Grandad was the yarn spinner specialist, mum was the cook, dad, when he wasn’t flying copters served a beer, grandma was absent tending to other family business in a real town..

“So is the sign up to date?” I ask. “Is that cake still available?”

Grabbing her pencil and order pad the miniature waitress announced that it was. “Yes and the Raspberry cake is the best ‘cause I made it.”

How could you say no to that?

She flicked an errant wisp of her dark hair away from her face then wrote down the order before rushing off to the kitchen. I ignored the fact that her hands had probably not seen a cake of soap since bath time yesterday and that her clothes were not appropriately ‘food handler’ clean. There is a time and place for such things and here was not the place or the time!

Her conversation was more like that of an adult not a child.

“Hey Grandad, we took seven dinners tonight. That’s a good day, hey. Not bad for a Sundy”

The adults both agreed, “No not bad at all” the old man nodded.

Sitting up at the ancient bar along with fellow travellers I listened to all the questions being asked. I sensed that all these inquiries had been asked before and the old man’s answers were dependant on his mood. There was a tad of sarcasm and annoyance having to respond over and over to the same old, same old, when on the wall was a history of how when where why and who about the place! I prefer to listen and wait….

“So where do you come from Boss” the grandad asked me.

My patience paid off and all the information came forth. I read the historical account but how he lived now with his family in this isolated place was what I was interested in. As it turns out he is sick of it and he’s looking to retire. “I’ll swap ya” was what he said to someone pulling up in their Winnebago earlier. “Bus for the Pub”.

Negative reply.

We all get tired; that’s why we were on holiday but there was a child no more than nine years of age willing and able to carry on when grandfather finally gives up the ghost. Before that though she will have to endure formal education; school of the air and probably boarding school. If she is lucky she may get a taste of another life and never return like so many of the young do from remote areas. Or she’ll be here till she is an old lady too or at least till the pub withers away.

We were camped across the road under a rickety old shade covering that was originally a horse shelter. It’s off the road and had a table and rough-hewn benches to sit on. We had our fill of beer and cake and it was time to jump in our swag. All around the makeshift camp area where signs of a little girl at play; a dolly’s pram and bits and bobs that furnished a cubby. It was her play ground when off duty from bar and kitchen duties and there, next to our tent lay something else, hidden.

How he saw it in the dim light of our torch is a miracle. To miss it would have been a shame although of course I’d never have known.

 “I have found some ones stash”

What” I reply. “What do you mean?”

Stash to me was….well it could be anything!

“Where?”

“See those rocks in the corner; well they’re hiding a box.”

My curiosity was always going to get to me, no chance of it not.

I carefully unstacked the rocks and exposed a clear plastic lunch box. I felt like I was an intruder. I nearly put it back and left it but something apart from curiosity urged me on.

There were Macca’s toys, Minties, miniature dolls, hairclips, an assortment of treasures and in a plastic bag a small note book and pen. Dare I read it? I felt ashamed of my prying.

The small book was a place to leave a message for the little girl. Others had found it before me and written a few lines and left a small gift. What a find; Comments from all corners of the country from other prying travellers!

 I rummaged through my bag and retrieved a pin with some bling on it that I had as decoration. I could live without it but even a nine year old, whip slapping, future manager of a  pub in the middle of Australia needs a bit a bling, so that is what I wrote along with thank you for being so creative and allowing us to share a small piece of her life.

I’ll never know what she thought of her small gift and it doesn’t really matter. For someone so young to invent such a game intrigued me. Did she watch out the window and spy on us spying on her stash? She trusted us with her stuff though. If that was here in the city it would be nicked!

I looked in the rear view mirror as we drove away the next morning… I couldn’t help wonder what the future held for the only child in at least a hundred kilometres. Maybe one day I’ll get back there to see.   

*

Look what I have now?

Isn't she the most beautiful little creature you have ever set your eyes on? Spoken like a besotted Nana for sure. I love being a Nana! She is so much like her dad at that age...but hey...her beautiful mum is there too.

Her name is Brynn Charlotte...born at 12:43 AM 20th June 2011

Visiting Friends

Dijana and me!

Lots of catching up and sifting and sorting through lifes challanges, a few glasses of effervesence al la 'Yellow Glen'. Summary for the delightful visit from a friend I have not seen for over two years is, two out of three ain't bad!

Crafty Memoirs







Front of bag!





Back of bag!

 Crafty Memoirs: I am to become a grandmother in June. Another  first for my list of never before achievements! I am very excited to say the least. I have made a tote bag for my daughter-in-law Kia to cart all the baby bits and pieces around when she is out and about. It's made from the jeans worn by Rob way back when they were in high school together. There is a small white rosette on the fob pocket that is off  her wedding gown, a trinket that used to belong to my Mum is pinned in with one of Robs nappy pins. There is reference to their love of the ocean as well as dogs and cats. The back side is literally being booted. Probably something I could have done more of but being a softy ....well I have sewn on his first booties instead. A labor of love! I had been keeping the jeans to make a skirt for myself. I am so glad I didn't get around to it. I am keeping my fingers crossed now, hoping she likes it!

I would like to say thanks to Annette Sibson for the inspiration! She is a very talented artist. You can see her latest creations on display from 15th April to 22nd May at Umbrella Studio. 

 

The bag!





 



Dya Singh Group at Woodford Folk Festival 2011 - Fire Event

Aquapella World choir first nights practice 2011.

ode to joy german chorus

CYCLONE YASI



The day before Yasi came to visit

 The thing that strikes me is that even though it is still blustery and a tendency to squalls, birds are about. Even butterflies are back on the scene. Where did they hide in the wake of Yasi. Surely not in my garden. My garden doesn't exist anymore.



St Andrews Cross a happy home maker 1st Feb  2011





I loved my driveway. It was always a stroll worth adventuring, always shaded and cool  in the heat of the day, always coveting a treasure for me to find whether it be a giant spider in it's web  or a Ulysses Butterfly and sometimes if I've permitted their freedom, our hens would  loiter in the garden bordering the the stony path.

There is no such place exists anymore. Last night amid the howls and screams of a woman demented with power and destruction all but a few of my palms laid down and ceased to exist other than to be reclaimed back from where they came; mulchified earth teaming with fertility.

Our home stood up to the test and even it's normal creaks and groans hushed in the wake of it's foe. It's as if it stood, planted, fists clenched ready for whatever was dished out. Her window sills seeped barely a mop full of  moisture as the cagey contestant tried with her might to infiltrate and overcome. I had been worried. I imagined my homes beautiful timber ceiling peeling like  frivolous match sticks into the blackness while we huddled in the smallest room downstairs. Instead we stayed upstairs feeling safe and confident ,waiting for the battle to be over.

Our pride for the house withstanding the war short lived as we viewed the battle field at dawn. Tears streamed down in silent anguish as we counted the dead. Much easier to count the living there are so few.




Driveway looking towards the road.

 

 I can hear the buzz of chain saws; a sound that usually makes me cringe however today it's the sound of music, melodious soprano grinding as metal slices through wood- wood that used to be my shady tranquil garden-garden that has become my prison. I used to love my trees, now they are my enemy keeping me confined to quarters . I can't even start the clean up. Whole palms hang precariously in the forks of a neighbouring gum. No one dare go near for fear of them coming down. The cat doesn't seem to mind though. The vertically challenged has become the horizontally advantaged. Great viewing spots for  feline  activities. The animals seem to have come through the cyclone unscathed. The dog snuggled into her pillowed bed during the rage outside as did the cat. It was as if the roaring wind tearing away at my garden may have only been  coming from the telly. Even the chooks produced eggs from the darkness of their protective cavity at the back of the garage .
All it produced from me was  rage and frustration. I am not sure if it was Yasi or a combination of things like, the day before 'she ' struck my friend said "Ya palms wont survive." She was right but why my palms? The neighbours stayed up. She jinxed them. Bitch! Then there is the fact that we have 90 year old grandma with us. The plan was to put her to bed with talking books strapped to her head and she wasn't allowed to turn it off. She woke the next morning happy enough but complained that her tea was cold and that there was nothing on telly that she liked. She also managed to mix her Webster pack up and take 3 days pills in 2. I would trade my turn for hers to get power back on so she can get back into her routine at her home! At least we managed to keep her from being afraid. We got that right! I vented my anger at a foolish manager at Super Cheap too. She threatened to call the police if I didn't  leave. Never had that happen before! I am not ready to apologise yet...may never. I'd prefer to do penance doing someone else a good deed instead which I have as we all have done through this diversion from normal life. I can't imagine what it must be like for those in Cardwell and Tully. I have only lost a garden and my patience, easily retrievable. The long hard slog of getting your life back together from scratch must be over whelming.
We have no phone as yet which is a little daunting with a 90 year old who insists on wanting to clamber over cords and leads from the temporary power source to make a cup of tea.   We have a generator and gas stove so the stubbies are cold and as of today (5 days later) we have ice cream. My friend rocked up with a tub of chocolate crunch to even the score with her premonition. I forgive her.



My Warrior came through unscathed!

 


Not for the pagoda.
Anyone for a cuppa? Sorry madam no seats available!



Swimming pool resembles a brackish pond which could be infested with crocs!

12th Feb: Apart from the mess in the garden we are back to normal...the power is on and we have a phone. Ten days without the Internet and phone ..(.I've been to Woodford...I can do anything)! We were asked out to dinner last night just as we were leaving the phone came on. The question was will we stay and catch up with all our friends on facebook or go out? We went out of course     and lucky for us we had a delicious dinner finished off with pavlova made from primary point! Yummo!

  



The Homeless!

  

My Woodford Story or The Invisable Gumboots

Aquapella World Choir. First concert at Woodford 27th Dec 2010

My hand fumbled in the dark looking for the clock. I was guided by the light of the telephone stable. A little to the right of that...got it...3 am. Words moulded into opening lines of a story rumbled through my head. I should get up and start my version of the Woodford experience now before it is watered down. My bladder is beckoning too. Get up, get up... get up quick!

My last thoughts before this  when I put my head on my pillow at 10:30pm were  'How beautiful the smell of clean white sheets, how soft and comfortable the bed that cradles my tired and sore body, how quiet and peaceful the space outside my bedroom, no thumping beat that penetrates the still washed air. There is no river of mud a metre away guarded by my gumboots, there are  no damp  foul smelling socks  hanging over my head and no bag of soggy soiled clothes patiently waiting for their journey through the wash cycle to destroy the colonies growing rapidly in the armpits and crotches of my shirts and shorts...indeed all over. Everything has returned to normal...well almost. I can still feel my gumboots on.

Boxing Day 2010, ‘flight number J 375 leaving Townsville for Brisbane at 11:10am cancelled. Please ring and discuss your refund,’ read the text.

“Refund! I want another flight and today. No! I can’t go tomorrow. Tomorrow will be too late.”

Tears run down my cheeks after nearly an hour waiting on the phone.

“Okay she said....wait a moment...Qantas has a flight at 4:40pm.”

“I’ll take it!”

If I at least get to Brisbane I will worry about the rest of the trip from there.

Nothing of value comes easy. Anything I have taken on in the past that has been really worthwhile has always been accompanied by mini dramas. Mind you doors falling off airplanes could hardly be called a mini drama which is what happened once while embarking on a life changing event, so by comparison  a cancelled flight and a bit of rain seemed trivial never the less a hurdle.

Thankfully the doors stayed on my Qantas flight and I arrived around 6:30 a little ahead of time. I raced to the baggage collection and searched the vastness of the airport lobby for a sign that said ‘WOODFORD’ possibly attached to a person who would take me to a transfer bus.

Found her! She pointed to the direction of a coffee lounge at the very end of the airport.

“Go wait up there with the other artists.”

Artists?

 Is that what I was?

Then it dawned on me. I am an artist. I felt rather strange finding myself in a position of being with company who called themselves performing artists. Something new to ponder.

Mud outside our tents. This was the track to the road
which crossed a flowing creek when raining!

I wasn’t there long when Kristine arrived, my tent buddy for the week. She had taken a later flight. I was supposed to get there and set up camp before her. In hindsight, if I did we probably would have got a closer tent and not had to wade through all that mud and a river to get to it. Even a few steps less would have been a bonus! I was due to get on the next bus to Woodford but gave my seat up so Kristine and I would at least be together to find our lodgings. First mistake was to not have gumboots on when I stepped off the bus. At least the track to the tent was still firm even though wet. The first tent already had a lake in it due to a hole in the floor so we decided to check the next one out. You could feel the water under foot but at least there was canvas and a carpet mat between it and us. We took no notice of the two tarantula spiders that had taken up residence before us. As a matter of fact I took it as a sign that we will be dry. I had a chat with them both.

“You are welcome to stay just don’t walk on me through the night or you might find yourself out in the wet.”

Damn thing run up my arm when I was foraging for my clothes the next morning. It had roamed through my bag. It would not have wanted to do that on the last day what with the smell of damp socks and all! I think it got more of a fright than me and I didn’t see it or its friend again .

Unzipping the tent door, tent city by daylight lay before us. The tent across from ours had a hole in each end of the floor. Water was literally washing through like a creek; in one end and out the other. It was empty. Figure that!

We were starting to feel very grateful for our arachnid infested river front lodgings.

At this point in time neither of us had been officially booked in. We had been scurried through the system to our final resting place the night before to avoid getting wetter than necessary (actually I think the bus driver didn’t know he had to stop, it was his first run.) I made a dash back to front gate to get my tag...a tag that said I was an artist. It was official now!

It was on my journey through the village and to the other end of the facility (that doesn’t feel like the right word to use for Woodford does it!) anyway ...I realised that I would be spending the next week lost as I attempted to find my way through the maze of streets... Left-hand Lane, And-off-he Road, Lois Lane, I-love-a Parade . Whoever thought up the road names must have had a great time. I can picture hysterics as they tried to outdo each other.

My first day was a big one. Practice with the Fire Choir and then AQUAPELLA WORLD CHOIR'S concert and meeting up with Gail after nearly a year was of particular importance. I was chastised for waving to her while still at practice; it was bought up every session after as well. I am usually disciplined but it was just too much to expect. I have been running on automatic since her departure. Seeing her sitting there watching I wanted to be next to her. Mind you it made me also want to really be the best I could be for her as well as the choir.

Gail Cyn and me.

We had made a plan some weeks before over the phone that we will stay up all night and play. She was only having the one day at the festival so I would follow her around and do and see what ever she wanted. After all I had the rest of the week to play. ‘Stringmansassy’ had to be one of the top acts....amazing voice and guitar. The sounds that Kacey made where inspired by natures perfectionist, birds. And I thought it wouldn’t be possible to do better!

A bit of Dance Therapy and then off to find a place that sold socks to sort the blisters forming on my feet. I hugged the woman who sold them to me. I had socks but they were back at the tent. I didn’t want to go there any more than I needed to, which was a plan adopted for the rest of the week!

I was lucky to see Kate Miller-Heidke’s only show. She was amazing also. She finished off a song with a burst of operatic gusto. I was doing that for the rest of the night! I am waiting for my chance to do it at practice when I get home. Yeah...I learned something Beat!

 Monsieur Camembert, Sally Seltmann and I think a comedy act finished the night for me. It was 1am. Eyes drooping, feet dragging I left my friend to find her way to her car while I took a left instead of a right and ended up at the furthest end away from my humble lodgings, something that would happen more than once during this week of finding my way around the maze called Woodford.

View from tent looking towards Amphi hill.

My tent mate and I had telepathically arranged that we would eat breakfast at the tent. I took a weeks worth of Muesli, juice and milk plus bowls and spoons. She had a mini gas burner with tea and coffee and jug. That cuppa in the morning was the thing that got me through I am sure. It is the simplest of things that make a difference. Everyone should do a Woodford type experience to bring back the simplicity in your life; boil it down so to speak, back to basics. Makes for a whole new approach to life and see things in a different light. For instance I had packed a pillow that I would not take home with me. My intention was to have a bit of space to bring home treasures. It was old and deflated and the stains were beyond removing. Its life would end at Woodford. Packing up done, the last smelly dead sock stashed away and now to remove the pillow slips hiding the shabbiness of the pillow. What’s this I see? A transformation before my very eyes! This pillow doesn’t look so bad after all. That is what a week of living in the damp and muddy hole has done. Things that look grey and dull, now have shining new aura. I still threw it away. I was not going to be fooled by my euphoric state! It was the same with smelly wet socks as I sniffed to measure the degree of repulsiveness each day. “I may be very glad of these sometime this week” as I hung them out to dry.    

I decided to have an early night that second night to make up for the previous outstanding achievement. I couldn’t see me doing that for a whole week. Mind you I don’t think I did too badly overall. I didn’t have Nana naps at all and stayed up till 11pm most nights and New Years Eve 1am. By that time I was a bit of a Dya Singh groupie along with the Tibetan and Mongolian singers. Weird I know but I did tap into the spiritual side of their music without any trouble at all. I thought I may have even been able to transport myself back to an ashram in India! 

Hare Krishna Wagon

I was in the line up at the Green Room confirming my bus back to the airport on that last day when a  nice young man who looked a lot like James Mathieson ( I am sure it was him) was guarding the door and checking that the queue was not jumped. I asked him if I was real...was I actually standing in front of him. He gently ran his hand down my arm and said ‘Yep...you’re real alright. Don’t worry ...it’s just Woodford.’  I had been feeling invisible for a couple of days. I felt like I was drifting through the crowd unseen, moving with the horde undetected, leaving no impression just being. No I wasn’t on weed or alcohol either!

I wasn’t aware that there was still the best yet to come.

We had to be at the Amphi at 7 pm, in white and hydrated. Our practice sessions as it turned out was not going to prepare me for what lay ahead. I have a new found appreciation for performing artists as of that night. The choir stood for 2 hours in total, waiting for the Fire Show to start...the closing ceremony....along with the bands and a children’s choir. As the story unfolded before us with the weeks work of street theatre and creating of lamps and other effects, we sang or played the accompanying songs. Every now and then fireworks would light up the hill and you could see the hundreds of people watching...watching us. It was breathtaking. From where I stood in the choir I could see minimal. Nothing could stop the intensity of the emotion that flowed numerous times during the show though. It was awe-inspiring. The sacrifice and discipline required was well worth the effort for the gratification of both us performers and audience.

Kristine had gone back home earlier than planned, to see her hubby off to another job in another country. Can’t say I blame her sentimentality. I would have been too. I have to say at this point if it wasn’t for the concert I would have gone too. I was over it by this stage... Woodforded out! An entire week was too much for me. What I’d almost kill for was my lounge room or office, QUIETLY sitting and doing nothing! I was still in awe of the concentrated artistic creativeness though that I was immersed in. I had been to more concerts in these last few days than I had in my whole life. I think if I was a true artist I would never be sick of it. At least I was there (and loving it really). I tried to read the programme and plan my days but once I got into the village and wandered around I was mesmerized and ‘channelled’ into shows that I didn’t even know who they were. I just knew they were worth watching and I enjoyed it. There had been so many acts and concerts that I would have loved to see. My disappointment so far now that I am home is looking at the programme I see what I have missed. I don’t think it humanly possible to do all of Woodford even if you had a month!

As the year ended and the new one began I felt nostalgic. It was the first year that Tim and I had not been together at New Year. I decided it was an omen of change for the better...a better time for us...new and improved! I miss him and the comfort he brings me.

Zoe Quinn at Mr Perceval's Singing workshop.

New Years Day I rose early to participate in Mr Percival’s singing lesson. What a treat. I wish I had been able to make it every morning. His program crossed our practice times. He was amazing and especially so that morning with Zoe Quinn a little 8 year old girl whom he coached. She was amazing and the crowd went berserk! I applaud the experienced and stage wise Mr Percival and Mal Webb for the care and enthusiasm shown for the talented artist in her foundation years. Standing ovations for all three! The crowd laughed as both seasoned entertainers danced in the mosh pit as she had done throughout the festival at numerous concerts.

The moods of Woodford are varied. The ups and downs flow over the week; intensity – compression of community. A part from the weather and some of the loud music I decided to take ‘Woodford’ home with me regardless of my sense of fatigue. I was there a whole week and I never heard a person swear. Can you believe that!

Quote from my diary on the day of our departure.

 “This morning  urgggh! I feel like crap. If I have taken my boots off then why is it I can still feel them on? I would kill for a cuppa. I packed up the cooker to be taken home by someone else, yesterday! I will have to be content to wait till the airport. My bus leaves at 9am. I got out of the tent at 7am. I couldn’t stand it another moment longer. My boots still feel like they are on. I know they are not as I see them on the volunteer’s feet as she runs hither and thither chasing after this one and that one. I wouldn’t be a volunteer no matter how many free days at Woodford I got! She had a sign up ‘donate your wellies’. I made a B line for it. One thing for sure the relationship I had with my boots was fast coming to an end. I did not want to risk the association of me and my boots ever trying to make it for a second time round. I told her they were new and that my feet were clean’ish....apart from the mud under my nails. She must have needed them as a few minutes later there they were...on her feet. Yet why did they still feel like they were on my mine?”

A paper cup drops to the floor blown by the industrial fan which is attempting to circulate the stagnant  moist air. Lounge chairs are starting to fill with artists waiting for the bus to take them from this slimy sludgy viscous hell. The pong of wet socks wafts across the room. My feet are now free but I still feel like they a encased in gumboots. The Green Room is now transformed into a bus station. An older lady struggles with an errant sleeping bag that has escaped from its unclasped bag. Much laughter as it snakes its way across the floor. Some of us look particularly fresh and lively...not part of my demeanour though....not yet.

Boots still feel like they are on my feet. Maybe my feet are suffering separation anxiety.

Hire blankets and sheets are being interrogated. They come in all screwed up and in a pile. After shaking and folding a wayward sock and jumper emerge. Lucky that’s all! The girls who were working the office at 11pm last night are still here this morning....have been everyday...smiling and cheerful right to the end!

At last no mud. We wait at the front gate to catch the bus to the airport. Already I am beginning to feel human again. I meet up with a few of the choir and we have lots of discussion about coping and fending for ourselves in almost 3^rd world conditions for the last week and how life looks very different to us now...how we appreciate the finer things in life and from now on we will not take our near perfect lives for granted. Lots of laughter and relief that it’s over for another year...the wettest on record...and my boots still feel like they are on my feet.

Once off the bus it was a B line for the check in. Get rid of the bag that feels like it weighs 10kilos over what it was when I arrived a week ago. I decided it must be that I am weary as it weighed the same. Food, coffee, water, clean dry tables with clean dry floors...ahhhhh!

I love travelling....the people, faces, colours and styles of extraordinary frocks and attire. I could snap away but I dare not. I feel bogan by comparison. Bandaids on my blistered toes are outlined with mud...under my toe nails too. My linen pants crushed and flecked with Woodford Mud from those last steps taken back into the real world...the only testimony that I was there. Hope my washing machine copes. Hair is brushed but only just...who cares? Not me. My boots are still on though, is how it feels. Damn feet are as big as balloons.

I am busy taking notes as I wait for the plane to take off. Cheeky hostie says to get his name right ...DANNI. I assure him the story is about him and he shall have the first copy! I remember saying one time that I would never fly Virgin ever again for some reason ( may have been the time the door fell off) but the nice young man made me feel visible again. He asked me if I was writing about him.

‘Of course I am...how do you spell your name?’I ask.

My ears pop...EVERYTHING IS LOUDER NOW.....feels like we are going downhill descending into Townsville. Yep...turbulence and cloud. Must be nearly home.

Yawning now....sleep stolen during flight has been insufficient. I am really looking forward to my soft comfy bed....clean white sheets, walls that don’t seep, floors that don’t ooze and only the sound of the frogs. Oh, and I hope my boots come off!