Boat Harbour:childhood memories

I recently had a wonderful one night stay at Boat Harbour with my brother and sister on a quick sentimental Tassie road trip before my brother was to relocate to the UK.
We stayed in the shack which was right next door to our old family shack. Our accommodation is one of the very few "shacks" still owned by the original family.

Boat Harbour beach taken from The Point; circa 1967

Boat Harbour is like a little sapphire embedded  in the rocky capes, cliffs and outcrops of the far Northwest coast. It's a small pocket with gorgeous aquamarine waters, clean, white squeaky sand and black volcanic rocks. The sea is different and the sand is different.

Back in the 1960's our Grandad's shack was like all the others, constructed in the 30's or 40's, roughly, from second hand materials and filled with old cast offs from their parents.
Back then the journey was a long one and that final corner that twisted down the steep, narrow gravel road into the Harbour was always exciting. The road was flanked by huge pine trees providing a tunnel and added that dimension of entering a special, magical place.
Upon entering the shack there'd be that funny smell of an old place that had been shut up for some time and the old magazines that had been left behind by the previous lot of relatives who had stayed there.

It was a tiny building. My sister and I slept in the covered in verandah end to end on a divan under the window. At night I'd lie in the dark with the moonlight streaming in and listen to the muffled voice of my dad playing crib: "fifteen two, fifteen four and the rest won't score" with the gentle constant breaking of the waves on the beach a few metres below. A beautiful lullaby.

There was a steep little path leading down to the beach below. We'd stop and pick the bright orange nasturtiums, nip off the ends and suck out the sweet nectar. A huge boulder sat on the sand below upon which many an imaginative urban development was constructed involving my brother's matchbox cars, sand roads, bridges and dams. Icy pole sticks made excellent bridge girders. With the shop directly opposite and two cents a day allowance, we kids were in constant possession of treats. My sister would save her money over several days, but I would blow mine daily.

We'd often walk to the far eastern end of the beach past where all the shacks had stopped. At low tide amoung the craggy rocks formed a perfect swimming pool, a sandy bottom at one end, seaweed the other and deep enough to dive into and explore with a mask and snorkel. Nearby was an exact bath tub size pool that got so warm on the black rocks you'd just lie in it. The trek to the pool was long but along the way you'd explore rock pools containing a variety of life. Scurrying crabs, little orange starfish, fish darting about like arrows and anemones that looked like they were filled with blood. Occasionally an octopus and once I remember a shoal of garfish, shiny and metallic all trapped by the fallen tide.

Of an evening (I don't recall how often) we'd hear the ringing of a bell and all run excitedly outside. It was King Harris walking up the road announcing his tent church. All the kids would stream out and follow him. I'm not sure why this excited us so. Back home Sunday School was The Most Dreaded affair which we all hated. Perhaps my mind has blanked out any hours of boredom at our shack, we had no tv, radio, music, just games and colouring in once inside for the evening. Maybe Tent Church was a welcome distraction, but whatever it was we enjoyed it. A huge tent, a pedal organ and that ubiquitous tool for the religious instruction of children- the felt board!

Sometimes I think memories are like fish in the ocean. The waters have long taken many of them away, but sometimes you cast your line in and some are there to be retrieved. Grandad sold his shack in the 70's when his health declined and I didn't go back there for many years. Over the years the demise of the trees, the shacks and now the final insult of hot seal and concrete curbing have left the Boat Harbour of my childhood only a memory. Aside from day visits Boat Harbour is no longer the domain of mums and dads and kiddies with their buckets and spades. Now you see the Alfas and Mercs parked in the driveways and the upmarket beach houses belong to the city surgeons and accountants. But there is still a few special things that never change and it is good fishing for memories of a time when all was right in the world of a child and in my dreams I'm still often taken there.

                Boat Harbour beach taken from The Point; circa 1967

Two Hobbits, a Dinosaur and a War Plane.

I have my two year old grandson staying. From time to time during the day he needs a little "quiet bed time" (as you do). His dad ratted about in the closets for some toys and I discovered I was sadly lacking in the toy department.
Two hobbit figurines, a plastic T-rex and a model war plane.
Hmm, bit sad. But actually, I got to thinking a great story could be made from that combination.
A bed is a fantastic place for playtime. A bedspread can become a whole land with roads and fields, put you knee up and instantly you have a mountain, valleys and cliff faces.
A patchwork quilt gives you a farm and the old chenille covers from back in the day give you labyrinthine paths.

So, as a creative writing exercise:

Two Hobbits, A Dinosaur and a War Plane. 

As everyone knows, hobbits are a gentle, meek folk, but true of heart and courageous.

One day one of the great overlords of the land, William of Hodgeman, came to two such hobbits.

He had heard of their great deeds and their great valour.

"I have a mighty quest for you" he told the lads, "a foully dangerous thing must be destroyed and banished from our fair land forever. You must journey to the Edge of the World and cast this object from us" he entreated to them as he handed them a scroll.

The brave hobbits set out on their unknown journey. The first days were pleasant. They passed through the  bouroughs of Paradise, the Promised Land and the delightful land of Belauh, where all is always lovely. When they stopped for elevensies they found that the rock cakes their mother had made them rattled about in the tin and became gravel cakes. This was the only difficulty on the journey.

As they journeyed west, they encountered perils. This was a wild and dangerous land, with strange and unknown inhabitants. They passed through Murderer's Gulley and emerged breathless but alive.

The land of Flowerdale, which belied it's name and bore no flowers had strange , silent figures watching the hobbits as they passed. Occasionally great and violent wheeled monsters roared past them. Once one of these monsters died and spewed it's evil load out. The young hobbits hid and watched.

They passed by the infamous Misery Mountain and to the dreaded Dismal Swamp.

 That night as they lay down they had the feeling they were being watched.

Their journey end was drawing closer. They were weary and afraid as the land grew hostile and perilous. They knew they were being followed.

"Did you hear that Mr Frodo?" asked Sam, as they heard a rustling of vegetation.

They turned around to see a great monster just behind them.

"Run Mr Frodo, run"

After many dangers. toils and snares they reached the Edge of the World.

They knew they were there because there is a sign. They unfurled the scroll.

"I must take a peep" said Sam

He read the title of the document. "The Forest Peace Agreement"

The brave hobbits wrapped it with a stone and threw it off the Edge of the World never to be seen again.

They heard a noise above them and a plane circled and landed behind them. Another of the Great Land Overlords disembarked and approached them. It was Sir Clive of Palmer.

"Good job boys, just checking you did the deed. Now I will begin mining and logging your fair isle."

"Have you met my associate?" 

He gestured to the great dinosaur. "Nice to meet you boys, I nearly caught up to you on the way" he said 

The hobbits, never a folk to take avid interest in politics, had not realised they were pawns in a political power play. They accepted Sir Clive's offer of a flight back to the Shire and so the two ugly dinosaurs and the two hobbits were returned to their respective lifestyles to live happily ever after.

P.S. I will be investing in some decent toys shortly.

The Countdown Years

On ABC talkback radio this week, the subject was Countdown memories, those moments, songs and mad crushes you remember.
To anyone my age, Countdown will never be forgotten. Even when we're senile and demented in age care, we'll probably still be babbling about Countdown amongst ourselves. The current Sunday night doco is incredibly evocative and it feels like yesterday we'd sit on the lounge room floor every Sunday evening and watch our heart throbs crooning at us.

I was thirteen when it started. The perfect age. Countdown came at the right time for me.
To view it now, I realise it was incredibly unsophisticated and fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants television. Very, very Australian. Molly was a particularly bad and unconsummate presenter, but his passion and skill as a music guru was undeniable.

It brought us lots of new and exciting Australian bands. Skyhooks, Sherbert, Dragon and the like were all skyrocketted to fame and teenage girl dreamboat status very quickly. I remember the Friday night that Hush came to little old Devonport. I wasn't enough of a fan to have procured a ticket, but I was outside the Town Hall listening to the pounding bass and screams of the ecstatic girls inside. That night the pounding throng smashed through the old timber floor of the hall, probably precipitating the complete refurbishment of the Town Hall not long after. It was exciting stuff, even if it was from the dark lane down the side of the Town Hall.

My personal Countdown defining moment came in 1975. I knew my life would never be the same again the moment I saw Freddy Mercury playing the opening piano riff to Bohemian Rhapsody.
There he was, black fingernails, kohl eyeliner and tight, white satin ( how much white satin was sold in those few years?). He just made the Mark Holdens and JPYs look so ....boring!  He delivered a six minute song with the first ever "video clip". Essentially a ballad, it told us a strange and tragic story. I had no idea what that story was but it was all immersing. And what Galileo and Scaramouch had to do with anything, I have no idea, but it was deep, theatrical and romantic. It followed no pattern. It wasn't the usual verse 1, verse2, chorus, bridge, upkey, final chorus. It had operatic passages, hard rock section, soaring guitar solos and ended with the striking of a huge gong. It had visual effects as layered and overlayed as the vocals.
It was ground breaking, new and like nothing we'd seen before.

I loved Freddy. That's the thing with fourteen year old love. It's real, true love and you know that if your paths could just somehow cross and his eyes could just meet yours, he'd immediately recognise that you were The True And Only One meant for him. Starcrossed. Sadly, he is in London and you live in Latrobe, so he'll never be with his truest love. Condemned to a life of searching for true love but never finding it.
 Poor guy.

Old Roads: Tullah

My husband teed up a weekend in Tullah.
Many people's reaction, including my own, was "what on earth can you do for two days in Tullah"?

Tullah is a tiny,old town on Tasmania's West Coast. It sits on a beautiful lake and is hemmed in by the two slumbering giants Mt Farrell and Mt Murchinson.

There are many Tasmanian towns, particularly West Coast towns, born of the two great forces: mining and Hydro. Tullah has had both these. The discovery of silver lead in 1900, and the dam building era more recently from the 70's to the 90's.

The Tasmanian landscape keeps her secrets. She takes back her history and hides her stories. There are many places that once were thriving townships, with streets and houses and huge mine workings, that now, unless you knew where you were looking, you would never dream anything once existed there.

Tasmania doesn't have ghost towns, even the ghosts leave and the landscape moves back in as if she never left.

But there is still plenty left at Tullah. However if you walk the streets you see the tell-tale signs of what used to be. Rows of streets and footpaths going nowhere and disappearing, larger open areas where there was once a school, pubs or other public facilities.

Hidden away on the edge of town is the old pioneer cemetery. You walk for five minutes down a very pretty little, well maintained gravel track to get to it.

The track opens up to reveal a spectacular landscape but also an immediate sense of sadness.

It was hard to tell how many plots were at the cemetery, but the most obvious one was this, of a six year old girl.

I've read quite a bit of West Coast history. It's well documented and it is fairly easy to find out about the men who pioneered the area, how many tons of minerals were hauled out of the mountains, or who the mine manager was. But this made me wonder about the history you can never read about. Particularly about the women who are rarely mentioned in the historical accounts. How did they cope in this hostile environment? How did they cope with the stress and how did they grieve their losses? What were their expectations? Was depression an issue? Men used alcohol as a coping mechanism, what did the women use?

And how on earth did they cope with children and babies and washing with all that rainfall?

Because women weren't the ones who constructed the roads, carved out the railways or built the dams, we'll never know their stories, but they'd have to be every bit as brave, tough and heroic as the men who did.

So Many Books, so Little Time

Trouble is, I'm not a book nerd. I want to read more but I have a few other things which have priority too.
Like watching a good movie, mind you, if I see it's from a book, I'll think 'I must read that book'.
Or patchworking, embroidery, listening to music or walking. Some of these things can be done simultaneous, especially if you use audio books.

Recently three books I'd ordered from the library came all at once. All memoirs.
By the time I got through Steve Bisleys, then Peter Fitzsimons (both aussie guys retelling 50's/ 60's childhoods) I couldn't finish the third one. Too much of a good genre gets a bit much.
Like too much cake.

Our Book Club has just joined the library. We get six books a year to discuss. We tried to choose six different genres to widen our reading experience. Its made me realise my reading genre list is small.
Have I read.......
A Classic?
tried Wuthering Heights as a teenage, didn't finish.
Crime?
one only, a friend loaned me one  few years ago.
Sci Fi?
um, no
Romance?
um, no
Thriller?
no
Fantasy?
not really

So, what exactly do I read?
I'll say what I don't read. I have the pile of books waiting by my bed. The pile in the corner near the dining room table, the pile on a shelf in the bedroom waiting to move to the pile next to the bed, the bookshelf ones waiting to move to a pile somewhere. Its worse than a hospital waiting list!

Here's a few from the piles.

  

 

There's a bit of history, bit of art, bit of romance, a classic and not a memoir in sight.

Some of these are borrowed, so I'd better get cracking.

That Gratitude Thing

The three things I'm grateful for over five days (or is that five things I'm grateful for over three days?) has been doing the rounds on facebook for a while now. It's well known that the act of writing things of gratitude down helps us to actually be more thankful and gracious. More so than ever as we live in such abundance our default is to take so much for granted and complain about many things.

Here's what I complain about (usually just in mumblings and rants to myself) but that I'm still incredibly grateful for.

Clothes:

Every morning I dread it. That never-ending question- what will I wear today? I dread it. And it's worse because you know you need to lose a few (at least) kilos and all the clothes are uncomfortably tight but you refuse to go up a size.

I'm really grateful that I have this problem. I don't belong in a time or to a culture or religion that leaves me with no choices or insists I wear a difficult item of apparel. I can wear trousers freely, makeup, get my hair done, choose any colour and am pretty free to wear what I like.

Food:

Every evening I dread it. What to cook tonight. I hate it and after over thirty years of cooking for a family I think I've finally run out of ideas.

The cookery books sit unused, the pantry is bare and Jamie Oliver is telling me I can whip up a superb looking and highly nutritious meal in fifteen minutes. I'm supposed to have a global kitchen with voatsiperiferp pepper and chipotle morita paste on hand and know what they are for.

I'm really grateful I have these options should I wish to avail myself of them. We are very lucky. I am grateful I can still make the occasional Shepherd's Pie using Gravox and Worcestershire sauce as the most exotic ingredients and my husband really likes it!

Shopping:

Which brings me to my next topic. Supermarkets. Hate, hate hate, supermarket shopping.
I am not a list maker and I go in there dazed, confused waiting for inspiration for the domestic needs to hit me, which it never does.

I'm grateful that I can though. I'm grateful that my life is so much easier than my grandmothers before me. I don't have to churn my butter and if a wild fancy takes me I can make my own tomato sauce, but if I don't I know I can always pop down to Coles and buy some.

Exercise.

You are supposed to do an exercise you enjoy and that is sustainable for you. I hate gyms, I hate tv exercise. 

I love walking, so that's all good. But most days it's a bit of a chore. I know I (and the dog) MUST do it. There's a bit of a moan under the breath and out I go.

I'm grateful I can. I know there will probably come a time in my life when I am no longer able to keep up the border collie speed needed for our dog. Once I'm out there, it clears my heads and gives me thinking time. I'm so grateful I have the physical ability and freedom to do this.

Ageing and negative attitudes.

I love the BBC show "Grumpy Old Women" and I agree with everything they say!

There's plenty to be grumpy about as one ages, and I do my fair share of grumping. Weight gain, failing eyesight, aches and pains, menopausal symptoms, what's happening to my skin and hair...... oh I'd better stop. It is very easy to be negative.

I'm grateful that I'm getting there though. Those of us who have made it this far are the lucky ones. I might make 101 years like my grandmother, I might not make another week. I'm so grateful for what I've had to date. I've seen my children's children. We have a life of abundance and privilege. So many have none of it. My hair is greying and difficult to manage and my skin is wrinkling and sagging. I'm grateful for this, it means I've lived a life and am now "past my physical peak" haha. I'm struggling to lose weight and I can't understand the lives of teenagers today. I'm grateful. This is what's meant to happen. I can commiserate with all my friends of the same age and they all understand. I'm grateful. I'm turning into my grandmother and I'm grateful.

The Book That Changed My Life

Our Book Club had this discussion again recently.

One member brought along the book that did just that for her. It was a dutch book, dated 1961, and was one of the treasures she brought with her to Australia when she emigrated.

She described that exact memory of when the words actually made sense to her and she knew she could read and her life would not be the same again!

It made me start thinking about my own memories. I can't say that I remember that moment. 

I certainly remember when I couldn't read. On the back page of our local newspaper when I was very little was a cartoon strip called "Louie".

"What's Louie doing?" I'd ask my dad pretty well every day, and patiently my dad would explain to me what Louie was doing and why it was funny. "What do the words say Daddy?" I remember pestering him, referring to the words underneath. "No, no, they are just about the paper, they aren't anything to do with Louie" he'd explain to me. I never quite believed him, thinking he was brushing me off and that really there was more to it than he'd say.  Of course now I look at it he was right: Printed and published by The Advocate Newspaper.....blah blah.

But that moment of reading myself, I don't remember. I remember sitting in Grade 1 on the mat. We'd learned the alphabet parrot fashion and I was proud that I knew it well. I loved flash cards. The teacher would sit there holding these in her hands as we repeated the words on them. I knew words were powerful, you could whisper them, shout them, they made you cry and they made you laugh. You could sing them and make them rhyme, and sometimes if you picked one and said it over and over it turned into a strange and unrecognisable sound.

And here she was, the teacher, holding one in her hands, an actual word. A word incarnate, sitting there in front of us on a piece of cardboard and we knew what it was. "apple". I knew, I could say it and I knew what it meant. We'd strung five of those letters we'd learned together and something was created. I didn't know what it would do for me, but I loved it!

"The Book That Changed My Life"

A couple of months ago we had the Festival of Golden Words, a weekend writer's festival held in the town of Beaconsfield in Northern Tas.

Free hour long sessions were held in two large marquees with some fantastic speakers. Steve Bisley, Wendy Harmer, Rachael Treasure, Sally Dingo, Fiona O'Laughlin just to name a few. We were so lucky to have such a wonderful event so close to home.
The first session we attended was featuring Richard Fidler, Philip Nitschke and Tristan Bancks.

This was a thrill for me as I'm a huge Richard Fidler fan. He is a great interviewer.
The topic they were being asked about was "The Book That Changed My Life". They each spoke on their chosen book and why it affected them the way it did.
The audience was then asked to raise their hand if they were able to identify their own Book That Changed My Life. Probably only about 20% of hands went up.

We decided to raise this question at our Book Club and to take turns to bring our book and discuss it.

Snugglepot and Cuddlepie.

That's been one so far. One member shared that this was the first book that utterly engaged her and transported her to another world so completely. It was read to her in early primary school by her favourite beloved teacher.
Even now when walking through the bush she sees a banksia flower and imagines a Banksia Man.

I did have the same experience with this book. It was read to a enraptured class sitting on a mat by an early childhood teacher. I don't recall anybody fidgeting or being disruptive, we were all just enchanted.

Now everyday I walk my dog through bushland. I often stop and run my fingers over a banksia and think of the evil characters when I see the old ones with their "mouths" and "eyes".

Pretty scary character really.
I guess among all the British stories we had, this was one we could identify with in our own surroundings. We could actually almost see these little fairies as we walked through our local bushland as children.
Whenever I see the little flower 'caps' from a gum flower, I still know a gumnut baby has lost her hat.

"Do one thing everyday that scares you."

This would be a challenge, and we might ask why would I want to?
Lately I've done some very scary things, but not every day. Most of us prefer to live safely and our own self-talk likes to keep it that way. We are our own biggest limiters. How often do we hear things like "I don't do that" or "I could never be one of those people" or "I haven't got the patience for that" ?

And even if we do step out of a comfort zone, go out on a limb, say yes to something scary, we often sabotage our very own decision with our negativity and fear.

The story of Peter in the New Testament when he walks on the water is exactly that. It's all good until he gets afraid. While walking on water probably isn't going to be one of our problems, what about when we have to do something scary? Speaking publicly for example. Putting ourselves out there for the good of others at the risk of embarrassing ourselves. Or it could be something as simple as getting dressed and leaving home.

You've really just got to let go and do it. Decide that in spite of all these negative thoughts and self talk, I'm going to do this. Be bold, grow a backbone, drink some cement, laugh at danger and face the bear!

Fake it till you make it!

I loved the interview with The Eagles on Sixty Minutes last weekend. Always been a huge Eagles fan. These guys are arguably among the top, most successful bands of my lifetime. Guitarist and vocalist Joe Walsh admitted he had no idea what he was doing. "In the music industry if you pretend that you know what you're doing, then everybody actually thinks you know what you're doing" he said with a look of perplexed amazement, "I just didn't want everybody to find out that I didn't have a clue, in retrospect, none of us really did."

It's true not only in the music industry, but in many areas of life. pretend you know what you're doing and go for it!!

Taboo Subjects

Last night's Q & A brought up the subject of Taboo topics. The panel were made up of writers and artists. Comedienne Jean Kitson stated that menopause was the last great taboo in our society, and she has written a book about it to try and change that. I bet she's right because if I had any male readers here, I bet they stopped reading when the "m" word was mentioned.
It's certainly much talked about among middle aged women, in this day and age anyway.

I am at the tail end of the Baby Boomer generation. I remember the times when many subjects were taboo.
I remember when the word cancer was said in whispers and various topics were alluded to with strange words, metaphors or eyebrow raises. I remember a time when there were great uncles who had served in the war. These were usually strange, scary men to a child, and I was told they refused to speak of it. Post Traumatic Stress was not coined back then and these damaged men often turned to alcohol.

I still recall a time when there were lots of taboos. Things like divorce, death, race, illness, convict ancestry and even pregnancy. I remember as a child asking my grandmother if she had convict ancestry. She didn't want to exactly lie to me, but she was very uncomfortable about it. "Oh I think there may have been one way back somewhere" she told me.  When in later years I looked into this, I discovered he was her grandfather, hardly way back somewhere!

Happily many of these taboos are now broken. I do think it can be the responsibility of one who suffers from one of these difficult subjects to speak of it and try and bring awareness.

I suffered quite severe post-natal depression twice. At the time I would not have admitted it to anyone. I was ashamed and felt a failure. I hid it as best I could, successfully, I don't know? I looked for signs in my friends who had babies too. I knew what to look for. I felt very alone.
I wonder if I had my time again have things changed now? Would I more freely admit to it nowadays?
Fortunately mental illnesses are more openly discussed and understood now.
Tara Moss was also on the panel. She has just written a memoir about her personal experience of rape and abuse. "People call me brave" she said, but she stated that to speak of it and empathise, she had to tell her true story.

As for menopause, I'm not so sure. Richard Flanagan said his women friends all talked openly about it, he was quite relaxed about it. Tim Storrier was squirming in his seat when his turn to comment came, it was quite funny!



“The conflict between the will to deny horrible events and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma.” 
― Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery


 P.S. Menopause can be a horrible event at times!!

The Shut Eye Train

Inspired by a poem by Eugene Field.

Last night I missed the Shut Eye Train to the Land of Nod. I almost got on, but then "toot toot" the whistle bleweth, "ting a ling" the bell it goeth, and off it went without me.

I waited on the platform, with much tossing and turning and fluffing of pillows. I started playing the alphabet game to pass the time and to lull me into a slumberous state. The theme I chose was rocks and minerals. Alabaster, Basalt, Crystal, Dolerite, E....E....E....stuck. Go on to F....F....F....stuck again.
Try another theme. Plants. Hang on, are we going to allow trees? No, no trees. What about flowers? No, not flowers, just shrubs or bushes, medium sized flora. Agapanthus, hang on that's a flower, yes but it's also a bush...okay we'll let that one pass, Briar, Catmint, Dahlia. E....E....E...stuck, F....F....F. Obviously this was not working for me tonight.

Eventually another train came and I boarded. Alas, this was not an express. It stopped at every station. First stop, I knew I'd been asleep but checked the clock some time after midnight. Next stop, an hour or so later. Finally got to Shut Eye Town in the Land of Nod, but I had the most disturbingly awful dream, you know the sort, you can't even begin to describe?

I heard a sleep expert interviewed on radio this week. Apparently the functions the brain performs during sleep are unlike any function of the awakened brain. We do things in our sleeping brain that we cannot when we are awake. Fortunately sleep brings with it a complete paralysis, or else we would be acting out our dreams. Now that would be bad. Neuro scientists are still at a loss to explain why we sleep, and why so much. Evolutionary science is at a loss too, as sleep leaves us so utterly vulnerable to danger, as all our senses are on shut-down. We are not like other animals, dolphins for example. They sleep half a brain at a time. The best explanation is that sleep and dreams de-frag the brain (like a computer) and sort and store memories.

Well, I love my sleep, and usually I love dreaming (flying dreams are The Best).
Today I might need a little Nanna Nap after last night's train ride.

A Writing Excise: A Modern fairytale.

Once upon a time there was a young and beautiful princess. She was from a small European principality and descended from a long and wide line of royalty. She was taking a gap year and touring Australia. That was how she found herself stranded in Lower Wilmot, Tasmania. Her car had broken down. She walked to the nearest homestead to garner help.

"Come in dear" said the friendly local lady upon hearing her plight. "No you will simply stay the night here with us. Brian will get the car going in the morning."

As it happened, Brian was also descended from European royalty. His wife Marlene was quite proud of her royal connections but never mentioned the fact that her husband's great great grandfather was shipped off to the colonies as a matter of convenience for the family.

Marlene had high hopes her son Shaun would marry well, but well connected aristocracy didn't surface much on rsvp.com. Now here she was, at her door, beautiful, young, excellent english.

"Brian make up the guest bed" Marlene said. "But use the KMart sheets. If she's really a princess, she won't sleep a wink in them."
In the morning the Princess emerged looking very well rested. "I slept wonderfully, thankyou" she replied when asked. "Brian, get her the Black & Gold brand Corn Flakes' Marelene whispered "if she's really a Princess, she'll choke on them". The Princess ate them with enthusiasm. Marlene was getting suspicious.
"Now the bathroom's down the hall, go have a shower dear" said Marlene.
"Brian, get a new block of  Country Fresh soap, if she's really a Princess that stuff will bring her out in an awful rash."

She emerged happy and refreshed. Marlene was getting surer this girl was a fraud. "My you speak excellent English dear, did you learn that at the Sorbonne?"
"No, I watch lots of Disney movies" she laughed "somebody poisoned the waterhole" she said in a perfect American accent. Brian walked in. "Got your car going love" he said.

Marlene was very keen to find out more before she let this girl go though, she really wanted Shaun married off well. "Your family, they are financing this trip for you?" she asked
"haha, no" she replied "my job at Maccas financed this. Even before the GFC my family had long since lost their fortune and sold the jewels".
"No castle?" Marlene further enquired.
"No, there may be a slight ruin left."
"No tiaras, orbs, sceptres?"
"Haha no, none of that old rubbish."
Marlene sighed. "Oh what a shame my dear. You'd better be off them"

The young Princess lived happily ever after and Shaun moved to Ulverstone.

A Bit of Gothic.

I do love a good ghost story.
I have just read "The Woman in Black" by Susan Hill. This is the first time I've read anything of that genre as my reading genres are pretty limited :(
Susan Hill is a classic writer and this book is a traditional gothic story.

My love of a good ghost story stems from childhood when my friend and I would scare each other witless with repetitive recounting from our repertoire of cheesy, clichéd stories. This is the best way. Oral retelling, at night, by candle light or camp fire. We were about age 11, the perfect age. Too old to need to run to a parent for comfort, but too young to be a cynical non believer. There was The Black Hand, the slightly less scary Brown Hand and a few local tales such as the Stone House in Dunorlan where no man would dare spend the night.

I first came across The Woman in Black as a movie in 1989. This was one of those old school movies where less was more and it was your own imagination that scared you, not the visuals. What could be more scary.... walking into the old nursery of a completely deserted, remote old house to see a rocking chair rocking as if someone had just been sitting there? Or seeing a woman in a distant graveyard, wearing Victorian mourning dress and then mysteriously disappearing?

The recent remake of this starring Daniel Radcliffe, while having some good elements, was not in the same class in my opinion. I don't like the use in recent years of graphic horror and over use of creepy supernatural themes.

The book was great, a classic tale. Set in the deserted house of the late Alice Drablow, a young lawyer must sort through her affairs. The house is only reached by a causeway which the tide cuts off every day. This story has every element needed. A great unfolding plot and a scary, haunting location.
I wouldn't call it horror, I wouldn't call it supernatural, just a good old-fashioned haunting.
I did avoid reading it at night though!

Winter Reading.

Is reading seasonal? There's the summer holiday read, but is there spring, autumn and winter reads too?

"Woman at Beach Reading" Marie Fox               "Woman Reading in a Forest" Gyula Benczur

Summer and Autumn.....

"Woman Reading" Tavik Simon
Spring, you can tell by the peonies on the table.
It is warm enough to have the window open, but not warm enough to have a summer dress on.......











and winter.

"Woman Reading on a Settee"
William Churchill

Trying to catch that winter sun.






We are well into autumn now with the prospect of winter upon us. Thoughts of snuggling up with a book (or a movie) are wonderful.
So...three winter books from me:

The Lion, the Witch and the wardrobe, also a movie.
This is a lovely winter book because it places you so well into that snowy, wintry environment, you can almost hear the crunch of snow under foot and feel the warmth of the collar of the fur coat on your face. One of the wonderful things about winter is the promise of an eventual summer. This book shows the bleakness of a prospect of an eternal winter. Always winter, never Christmas. The cover says it all though, spring does come and the White Witch is defeated.

The Remains of the Day, also a superb movie.
The story of Mr Stevens, the old-school butler at Darlington Hall, recalling his life and his relationship with Miss Kenton, the house keeper. After serving Lord Darlington for many decades, the estate is purchased in 1950 by an American , Mr Farrady. It is a story of duty, loyalty, memory and loss. It's about the winter of life, the passage of time and eras that are no more
I must confess, this book sits by my bedside still as yet unfinished.

Wanting.
A Tasmanian book, by a Tasmanian author. I love Richard Flanagan, but he's no lightweight summer read that's for sure. This book tells the story of the young Tasmanian aboriginal girl, Mathinna, adopted by Lady Jane Franklin in the 1840's. But it is the interweaving of the story of Sir John Franklin's disappearance in an Arctic expedition with the failing of the marriage of Charles and Catherine Dickens that is chilling and heartbreaking. It's a cold and crushing book, but one that you can't forget.