Saturday’s walk was busy. Four cars, and two stopped to ask for information. “Are you local?” seems like a simple question. I’ve been around here for more than forty years. It never is: I didn’t have the required information.
But I did have another distinctive patch of road. It wound past a house, down to a bridge across a creek with quite a bit of water: there I encountered the ghost of my daughter as a tiny girl (she’s now past forty). I don’t remember the details of her connection with the bridge, but there must be one because I always think of her when I cross it.
The day was hot. I remembered sunscreen and forgot insect repellant so I was buzzed by flies under a dense-clouded sky, and worked up quite a respectable sweat. The bellow of a bull, and the whiplash cry of the whipbird. Mint bushes flourishing beside the road. On the inhospitable-seeming rock of a cutting the purple of two species of fairy fans; the pink of the butterfly shaped flower on the trigger plant; the white of two different kinds of grass-flower; the creamy green of Bilhardieria. Elsewhere the pale yellow balls of black wattle, and the brighter yellow of two tiny flowers. Flowering vines filled the air with a heavy perfume, and amongst the grass were two minuscule old friends, pimpernel and scour weed.