I’m on the way to join my son and his family on their bush block. I’ve negotiated my first dirt road in many years, keeping a wary eye open for macropods, potholes and large rocks. I’ve crossed two concrete fords with an inch of water running over them, but when I reach this …
… I know the Yaris will be going no further.
So I pull out my chair and settle down to enjoy the silence as I wait for my son in his 4WD. There is occasional bird song; a plane far overhead; the creak of my neck as I turn to look around me; and the rarely-noticed pulsing of my heart. That’s all. Trees tower overhead.
I make desultory forays to photograph: bright berries; a forest of moss in a tree stump; leaf shadows on the back of my car; a slightly furry pale green unknown plant.
Then I hear the sound of a car approaching and I’m greeted by my son and grandson.
We transfer my ridiculously huge supply of camping paraphernalia – a tent, two doonahs, three blankets, two bedrolls, a suitcase that apparently has vintage status (a 21st birthday present), and my trusty walking stick – and move the car to a spot off the road. Then we begin the very steep descent over tree roots, small bushes and washaways, the rocky bluff to the right, and emerge on the flat by the river, that little piece of paradise.