This week

By Vita Forest

Fig tree on the way to Bush Bank Steam Mill, Kiama


This week I have been

READING

  • reports!
  • and Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow (nearly finished)

WRITING

VISITING

  • Vivid in Sydney
  • Gerroa with Sui-Sui and Alessandro and

REVISITING

Bombo headland

  • Bombo Headland
  • Kiama

Dry stone walls, Kiama

  • Gerringong (for a mighty fine burger – thanks Betty and Bob for the tip!)
  • Minnamurra Rainforest and

Suspension bridge at Minnamurra Rainforest

    DISCOVERING a new place in Kiama (my children were most surprised such a place exists)  – the ruin of the Bush Bank Steam Mill

    Bush Bank Steam Mill ruin

    SEEING lots of wildlife including

    • two lots of whales off the coast!  (From Gerringong and Bombo)
    • Fairy wrens at Bombo

    Jenny wren at Bombo Beach

    • Lyrebirds at Minnamurra Rainforest
    • Cows at Kiama (maybe not so wild)

    Cows with a view, Kiama

    • Wattlebirds, lorrikeets, king parrots, rosellas and more

    EATING lots of delicious cooking at the holiday home in Gerroa

    RELAXING after some very busy times at school

    Drowned World

    By Vita Forest

    In our own worlds

    Looking at the hidden worlds in the water 

    In the pools left by the sea.

    Balancing, bending, picking, choosing, rubbing rocks through finger tips

    Standing in a field of shells

    Speckling sand

    Shards of glass rubbed smooth by the sea

    The helmet of a crab 

    The tail of a lobster

    Beads of seaweed 

    Chunks of golden sponge

    Hefted lightly in my hand.

    Pockets percussive with clattering collections

    Watching monumental molluscs move

    Millimetre by millimetre

    Twisting paths over black boulders 

    Water winking in the indents of rocks

    Reflecting the sky, the clouds, the light, the face peering down to the flash of opalescence deep down amongst the dark 


    A row of molluscs huddled in a crevice

    Warrigal greens sprawling over black stones 

    Balls of raindrops rolling on the leaves of nasturtiums 

    Looking back at the rearing hill with its indents of cow hoofs and the chatter of hidden birds


    Through eyes, through camera lenses, through words shouted into the wind and the muttered impressions in my mind

    Saving them, holding them til I reach pen and paper, like a handful of sea-smooth stones.

    This week

    By Vita Forest

    Clifftop walk at South Curl Curl


    This week I have been

    WRITING

    READING About Grace by Anthony Doerr (Man oh man, I nearly stopped reading and skim-read the last part.  The main character really irritated me…)

    VISITING

    • a cafe by the river with some teaching buddies.
    • the Northern Beaches for a walk and then a swim in the pool at South Curl Curl.  I enjoyed it, the kids not so much…

    North Curl Curl

    • the harbour for a picnic afternoon tea with Lucy.
    • Lane Cove River Park for a walk with Briony and my parents.
    • Barangaroo for some sketching and where I was

    LISTENING to Alice Chance’s Aurora Eora in The Cutaway – a sublime soundtrack which turned the empty space into a cathedral.

    Barangaroo


    WATCHING Hidden Figures with my friend Diana.

    Not even the beginning

    By Vita Forest

    img_1709

    “You mean this isn’t even part of the walk?” face sweaty, voice grim.

    “That’s right.”

    I walked on.  We would not turn back, not now, no way.

    But now it was THE walk, not a walk from the station, not the walk down the hill but THE walk.  See – the dreaming poles marked it.  It was not the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end but it was the beginning.  There was mutinous muttering from Max and Lucy, Fleur whispered she could take them back.  But no!  We were going to do this walk and we were going to enjoy it…

    The kids took off their shoes to wade through the water at Werri Lagoon and did not put them on again on the other side.  They stalked on grimly in barefeet.  And I thought why not? And pulled my shoes off again too.  The grass was soft and buoyant and the wind from the sea felt good on my bare skin.  We stepped along up the hill, away from the beach, away from the shrieks of the swimmers and the drone of the cars and into the silence.

    The complaints stopped as we climbed the bare grassy slopes that hid the town and the road.  The kids fell silent and felt the breeze, saw the blue water sinking back from the black rocks, saw the green hills rising away into the distance along the coast and the wildflowers buzzing with butterflies and crickets.  All you could hear was the booming breath of the sea, rising and falling and the hundreds of birds hidden in the undergrowth.

    img_1720

    “Is this The Shire?” they asked, but we didn’t come across any hobbits.


    Further on, pelicans flapped by lazily in formation, so close you could hear the air against their wings.  I stopped and stared up at the hill rising to the west and even though it was “just grass” every blade was alive in the wind, not a solid monolithic mound but a writhing, dancing collection of stems, each one clutching a fist full of rattling, plump seeds.

    img_1711

    Later we went off the track into a stand of remnant rainforest – the rainforest that used to run all the way down to the sea.  We sat enclosed in the shady room fretted with tree trunks and ate fruit.  I climbed down deeper and found a circular cairn built around the sinuous roots of a tree that was totally enclosed by the scrubby foliage around it.  Cradled inside it like a snow dome.  Someone else had visited too.

    I had promised them cows and we saw some, staring and edgy at Max’s frenzied hooting.  We were disturbed to see an anxious calf on the wrong side of the fence.  We wondered how it had got out and how it would get back?  Barbed wire was strung tight across the top of the fence and the gate we eventually passed was locked.  There was also wild fennel, identified by rubbing its lacy leaves between finger and thumb and inhaling deeply.  Aniseed.


    We peeled eggs under a tree at lunchtime and looked back across the path heading south.  And after lunch we came to the stile, THE stile and I told them the story of how, years ago, I had looked at this stile, every day, every time we came down to the beach, the stile in the distance on the headland, near the dry stone walls.  How I’d watch walkers climb over it and hike along the headland, coming from who knew where?  How I stood rooted on the sand, small children at my feet.  Them.  And I had wondered – what had those people seen?  Where had they come from?  With their backpacks on their backs, while I watched, anchored to the beach.  Now I knew.  They were us.  Ten years later but there we were, walking out of the wild.  Walking north along the track.  It was us all that time.

    We stopped again at Easts Beach, Lucy tumbling and dancing on the sand and falling into the splits.  Max watching critically and remarking, “When she laughs, her bum shakes.”

    And it did.

    Max and Lucy swam in the surf (Neptune’s son). I made do with a paddle and Fleur with a siesta under the tight shade of a juvenile pine.

    Walking on, I watched a bare-chested man saunter past the “No dogs on the beach” sign carrying two black Chihuahuas, one tucked under each armpit.  He carried them into the water where they bobbed serenely, safe in his arms.

    img_1696

    Can you see the Chihuahuas?

    I guess they were never on the beach.

    At the end we found we were all sunburnt despite hats, sunglasses and slathered sunscreen.  There were red stripes where we had been absentminded with the lotion.  And my toes… well they appreciated the cool dip at sundown in the rock pool at Blow Hole Point.

    img_1732

    And Fleur said that she doesn’t know if she would do it again.

    But she’s glad she did it once.

    At Bombo

    By Vita Forest


    On Wadi-Wadi land, where Charmian swam, we walk out to Bombo.  We fill up our water bottles from the last tap, pull our hats down low and sling our thumbs through the loops of our backpacks.  The sun grinds down, shadows crouch and hide from its glare, pulling their knees up to their ears.  It’s nearly noon.

    We crouch on the cliff and watch the surfers below as they bob lazily, straddling surfboards and squinting out at the horizon.  Watch as one paddles, then stands and streaks along just in front of the curl of a wave.  An admirer claps and a friendly dog rubs her snout into our open palms.  Watch as another surfer scuttles down a goat track beside us, board beneath his arm, runs, runs down the spit of rock, runs at a retreating wave, then hurls himself onto the fizzing foam.  The sea is wild today.


    We walk on and pause to see A View.  A long-haired boy heaves rocks, chucks them with all his might so they land, just past his feet.

    Heavy.

    “I can do this,” he explains, “coz now I’m six.”

    The water boils and roars and surges high through the red columns.


    His mother shouts, “Stop throwing rocks!  There are people about!”

    And high above on the rocky hill, built with boulder and facing the sea, a shriek, a whoop as the sea slaps down those reckless climbers who sauntered past us moments before.  We make sure they emerge again.  No need to call for help.  Just yet.


    We follow the path deeper, between the tossing grass and humming insects which scatter yellow as we approach.  Into the bowl of the headland, into the hollow, the hole, the crater between the land and the sea.  See how the water rises?  Angry, foaming at the bit.  Seething.  We dare not climb the columns as I’ve done before on another calmer day.  We stand back and feel the spray as the sea finds a crack, smashes hard on solid rock.  It will hold, I imagine, I trust, I hope.  Fishermen peer out to sea behind the barricade of boulders, slinging a line out to sea like a grenade.  The water exploding with a Boom! against the cliffs.


    We pick our way across a desert of red rocks.  Sun scorching down, burning the backs of our necks.  Lizards scurry at our shadows and I stamp hard, warning off the serpents.  I had seen one at this very spot.  Not rainbow but a killer, red and black.  Red for danger!  It lay on the path, soaking up the sun before sinking back into the waving grasses off the track.  Sinking back like the sighing sea as we tiptoed past as far away as we could manage.  We pick our way across the desert of red rocks, calves flex as we balance on those boulders.  Like those surfers on the sea.


     

    Neptune’s son

    By Vita Forest


     

    Max

    Shrieking though the crashing surf

    Slings strands of seaweed

    Festoons his shoulders

    Drapes his head

    with Rapunzel’s hair gone green or

    A khaki feather boa or

    Rusty rapper’s chains

    Strung with salt-filled beads.

     

    Max

    Rolling and leaping over the breakers

    Flinging a length of kelp

    Around and

    around

    Over his head

    Like the blades

    Of the curious open-topped helicopter we watch

    Tracing the coastline overhead.

     

    Max

    Amid the islands of kelp floating

    In and out on the waves

    Throwing himself backwards over the

    Foaming breakers

    Like a

    Happy seal

    Falling back against the force of the water

    Grinning fit to burst.

    This week

    By Vita Forest

     

    This week I have been

    VISITING Kiama for a holiday with a rotating cast of characters – Max, Lucy, Fleur, Betty and Briony.

    WALKING

    • from Gerringong to Kiama with Fleur, Lucy and Max (Lucy, Max and I did most of it barefoot too…)

    • into the strange world of Bombo Headland with Briony – massive waves smashing against the rock columns, very dramatic!

      SWIMMING in the beautiful waters of Kiama’s beaches and rock pools


      SEEING the Kiama blowhole “goin’ off!”


      SKETCHING at the same time as my sketch pals – they in Sydney, I sitting in the seabreeze looking back at the pines around the Kiama showground.

      WRITING Southerly Buster

      GETTING lots of inspiration for future posts

      READING

      • Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling (How wonderful to visit the world of J.K. Rowling again and this is one of my favourites!!  I was not the only one enjoying J.K. Rowling – there was also Fleur reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone and Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and Lucy reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban too – a very Hogwarts kind of time)
      • The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

      GENERALLY relaxing