Nundle - Writing Retreat: Day 2

I slept and slept and slept.

No division of church and state

Somewhere after nine, I had a shower.

Sometime after that, I actioned the bacon and eggs which lurked in the fridge, laying in waiting at the insistence of the owners.

The fog cleared, chased away by a winter sun. The fire sprang to life with the smallest encouragement and was licking a big log without baulking at the task, cracks echoing even upstairs, as flame caressed dry wood.

With breakfast done and dishes washed and racked, I set up my writing table. The most suitable furniture was upstairs. It had the temptation of views and the philosophical appeal of a room in the top of the house ... but it was too far from the music and a lounge room which told me to stay close. A small desk was bought downstairs and the big laptop positioned.

I walked into the village, passing no more than polite notice to old wares and over priced kitchen accessories. Museums were closed for mid wicket visitors but the hotel held no such prejudice. The ATM was restocked for my benefit ... reason enough to repay the hotel in kind with a later visit.

I am a creature - of habit and other distinctions - so mid morning demanded an attendance to my coffee habit. Sated, I had a long discussion with two pleasant fellow blow ins, looking for adventure and dirt roads. Luckily, I had suggestions which favoured them.

For my part, the unusual happenings of last night's hospitality continued. As I drank my coffee, the owner came out and offered me a take away container of pumpkin soup, wishing me the best with my writing and aware that I might become so obsessed with the craft that I might avoid interruptions in connection with food preparation. Staggered, flattered and amazed, I left, offering profound thanks.

The rest of the day was spent writing, fuelled by the enthusiastic encouragement of home made meals offered to ensure nourishment. With poems for editing spread across the lounge room floor, I chose, instead, to create new patterns of words and a sad but strong poem about separation ran out of me slow enough that I could catch most of it. I flung open the lounge room doors and drank black tea in the outside afternoon sunshine in celebration.

The Peel River in my back yard

Below the bottom fence of the property is the Peel River. Existing here in its infant state, it pretends to be benign, merely trickling across rocks, even flies are safe from it. The high undercut banks and logs abandoned high in casuarina branches are the detritus portraying the other side of its split personality. This is a pretty spot, with shallow still pools which bring down reflections of clouds and blue sky. Above the bank I had walked down, a gazebo in the back yard provides all the vantage point you need. I sat and read there for a while but retired to the soft leather lounge on the back decking and continued to devour pages before a granny nap consumed me.

Luckily, I woke in time to take my camera up to Hanging Rock Lookout, on the road which rose with abrupt rudeness behind Nundle. The sunset I watched - alone - was as spectacular as it was lonely. I wanted to tell someone about the geography of the situation. Even more, I wanted to talked about the romance of having watched a back catalogue of sunsets but not only was there no one to share with, but worse, the one I wanted to share it with was hiding ... performing the more important duty of allowing me space. I admired and despised her in the same instant.

The car wanted to go back to the digs, so rather than have an argument, I let it have its own way but walked back to the pub, looking for stories. I found none, just someone else who knew I was a writer and misunderstood what that meant.

Returning home, I cooked fish, drank red wine and watched Australia win at

Sunset at Hanging Rock

soccer. They won well but as usual with the round ball game, people weren't happy. They never are. The game was interrupted for twenty minutes when a knock at the door became an invitation to a local event. The writer thing again. Odd.

Don't they realise I just write the words. I don't own them.

Made some notes for tomorrow. Things about fog and sunsets and misplaced enthusiasm.

Finished the night with Bob Dylan and the Band, red wine and an episode of Star Trek (TOS). I am a man of simple, if oddly constructed means.