Author Archives: charlotte49

Homeward bound

I’m beside myself with excitement! I’m planning a trip back to England in October to see my parents and family and then tacking on an eight-day European adventure. It’s such fun organising it all and I have already imagined myself sitting in atmospheric cafes, walking along cobbled streets, wandering around ancient churches, tuning into different languages, browsing street markets and more. Although living in Australia I’m next door to Asia, it’s Europe that steals my heart.

I haven’t been over to the Northern Hemisphere since December 2012 when I spent three nights in Copenhagen on my way to England. It was December and yuletide was in full swing. I felt as if I were in a Winter Wonderland and relished every minute.

This time I had planned to return via Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia. A small and compact city, it would have been perfect for strolling around and soaking up the Central European vibe, but the flight times from London were limited and at anti-social hours. So where else? Berlin continues to be all the rage but I wanted somewhere that wouldn’t bring on a full-blown attack of guidebookitis. (see my post: https://thisquirkylife.com/2013/10/12//).

Then I remembered that I had read about Krakow being the 7th and newest UNESCO City of Literature joining Melbourne, Edinburgh, Iowa City, Dublin, Reykjavík and Norwich. And, of course, it’s Poland’s second largest city and stuffed with historic interest and significance – from the largest medieval plaza in Europe and Kazimierz (the old Jewish quarter) to countless churches and ancient tombs, a vibrant arts scene, a still-functioning salt mine and, of course, Auschwitz nearby.

I managed to get the second last thirty pound fare on Ryanair from London and, through Airbnb, I’ve booked into an artsy and affordable attic room in a share house in the old part of town. One of the hosts is training in Traditional Chinese Medicine (right up my street) and dances the Tango in his spare time, and the other is a landscape architect specialising in community projects. Reading the many enthusiastic reviews they sound like wonderful people to engage in conversation, but they also appreciate peace and quiet and do yoga in the mornings. I know I am going to love it there.

From Krakow I am heading to Vienna for just under 24 hours and from there I will get the train to Zurich. Researching hotels in Vienna and what’s on at the Opera brought back all sorts of bittersweet memories from my au-pairing days in 1982. When I worked in publishing in London in the 90s, I contrived to spend a day in Vienna after a sales trip to Germany. I think I met with a couple of publishers and then found time to go back to the street where my erstwhile employers lived. With a thumping heart I rang the doorbell but no one was home. Perhaps just as well. After all, we didn’t get on that well; I gave my notice in half way through and then had to grovel my way back a week later when things with a new family across town didn’t go so well. Although they had seemed much more fun, less stodgy and starchy, and the children were older and capable of more sophisticated games than Mr Wolf, I hadn’t reckoned on a fur-shedding cat taking up residence on my bed or that a very bossy and imperious cook with orange hair and thick blue eye shadow ruled the roost and wrote all the rules. I was highly allergic to cats in those days, something the red-haired cook used to her advantage. That and endlessly comparing me, unfavourably, to the previous au pair. According to my research on Google the father of my original employers is still living in Reisnerstrasse, but this time, inspired by a phrase a friend sent me: “the past is for reference not residence,” I won’t be retracing my footsteps.

The girls I looked after in Vienna

The girls I looked after in Vienna

Instead I’m staying in a wonderful-sounding old-style hotel called Pension Suzanne right in the centre of Vienna opposite the Opera House. I’m really curious to see what modern day Vienna is like. Is it still a bastion of stiff manners, etiquette, snobbery (the family I worked for were minor aristocracy) baroque interiors, quartets playing Mozart and lots of strudel, noodle soups and sachertorte? And are the Viennese of a certain class still wearing the green Loden coats and hats with brushes on? Scanning what’s on in November, I see there’s still plenty of theatre, opera and classical music performed in historic costumes in ornate salons, but there’s also Mamma Mia, Mary Poppins and Lady Gaga. I think I’m going to find Vienna much changed!

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Frost with parrots

English people are renowned for obsessing about the weather (well, if that’s true it’s because they get their fair share of miserable Northern European grey skies, rain and chill) but, from my observations, we’re all pretty tuned into meteorology especially now we can access the forecast via our Smart phones.

Melbourne’s winter this year has thrown all sorts at us and, as an all-weather dog walker (try telling Bertie it’s pelting with rain and blowing a gale and we need to wait till it’s cleared), I’ve been out in some pretty inclement conditions. That’s where my UK training comes in handy: you simply layer up against the cold, don wellies, mac, hat, gloves and scarf and get on with it. Forget the whinging Pom thing, we’re remarkably resilient when it comes to weather.

We’ve had one of the coldest winters for many years with snow blanketing many places around Victoria that are normally untouched by such extremes. On Monday morning I was amazed to see a sprinkling of frost in the park when I took Bertie for a walk. I found it rather magical and it reminded me of Blightly, apart from the parrots screeching overhead, that is.

In the Bleak Mid Winter, Frosty Wind Made Moan...

In the Bleak Mid Winter, Frosty Wind Made Moan…

But on Sunday, the wind and rain held off and we enjoyed the most glorious winter sunshine. It was as if the weather Gods had called a truce and bathed sky and land in gentleness. I took Bertie on our favourite walk along the coastal path from Hampton Beach beyond Sandringham and towards Half Moon Bay. And what a wonderfully nurturing experience it was. As we descended the steps to the dog beach at Hampton, we passed a man chopping back some branches that had blown onto the path. He also had an orange ukulele with him and said he often came down to the beach to practise. Sadly I missed his practice but I did hear a Chinese woman singing a bit further along. She was sitting meditatively on a rock oblivious to passers-by and walkers. How I admired her insouciance! Then I met a South African couple walking Gorgeous, their Staffy. What a wonderful name for a dog. Everyone seemed to be smiling, even the dogs.

Looking towards Melbourne

Looking towards Melbourne

Looking towards Half Moon Bay

Looking towards Half Moon Bay

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For once I was not caught up in my head and felt really alive to what was going on around me: the calling of gulls; the gentle lapping of waves; the salty briny smell of the water; and the busy high notes of the fairy wrens as they flitted about. It was a day to breathe in, to feel the expansiveness and to be thankful.

Half Field Spaniel, Bertie loves being in the grass

Half Field Spaniel, Bertie loves being in the grass

We walked on and on, clambering up and over rocks, up and down grassy slopes, onto the path then back onto the beach for a bit of ball throwing and paddling. After a couple of hours, we stopped off at my favourite cafe, the Sandy Beach Kiosk by the Sandringham Yacht Club. It’s cosy, casual, scruffy, wonderfully unpretentious, serves hearty food and is dog-friendly. Over a cup of English breakfast (what else?!), I caught up with some other spaniel owners and their little girl, read sections of the Sunday papers and generally put the world to rights. A perfect Sunday morning.

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The lure of the past

When the going gets tough there’s no better distraction than escaping back into a rose-tinted version of the past via a soak in my aforementioned claw-foot bath.

I’ve had some tricky work on of late; the kind of work that turns into an all consuming worry, so much so that it’s almost impossible to do your best work. A bit like the housemistress at boarding school who shone a torch in my eyes to check I was asleep, the manager of one particular job made me feel a bit like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights.

And so I’ve been climbing into a Time Machine most evenings and reading favourite books from my childhood (what could be more soothing?) such as Sheila Burnford’s The Incredible Journey, Kipling’s Just So Stories and The Adventure of Hadrian Hedgehog by Candida Lycett Green (John Betjeman’s daughter):

And that, said Lady Hedge-Hog
Pointing at a shrivelled shrew,
Is the Minister of birds-nests
Who likes a drink or two.
And over there, behind the flowers,
Lord Tortoise of that Ilk
Is making wild advances
At a shrimp in watered silk.

Don’t you just love it?

Then I went back to Vienna as there was more to explore. This time I found sachets of sugar brought back from a trip to Hungary along with some pretty stamps and a map of Lake Balaton, a flyer from Cafe Schwarzenberg in central Vienna where a friend and I once forgot to pay for our hot chocolates and never went back to correct the error (tut, tut), tickets from the opera (it seems I upgraded from a Stehplatz (standing place) to a 50 Schilling seat with a restricted view on one occasion, a beer mat from a restaurant in the shape of a fish, and a brochure of the beautiful Gmundner Keramik range (http://www.gmundner.at/en) – I gave my mother a jug in their Streublumen pattern back in 1982. Only last year I found two matching pieces in the trash and treasure market in Bentleigh – a napkin holder and a candle holder. How small the world can seem.

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Then there were more letters – from a boy who had met me in a plane on the way to a French exchange in Paris and wrote to me a year later because he was bored, from Jerry with whom I had my first kiss. He was mad about me and maddening with it. Everything in his world was either goofy or neat and he would score things out of ten on a goof-o-meter or a neat-o-meter. Needless to say, a P.S. on his letter dated 18th August 1978 ran: You’re very neat – 10 out of 10 on the neat-o-meter.

I think I would have been very happy as a museum curator poring over historical documents, objects, letters and eye-witness accounts of lives and events. I think I may have found it more fulfilling than working as a freelance writer where every assignment involves writing to order and strict word counts and deadlines; it’s all so very straight-jacketing and left brain.

And it’s a shame I’m not famous because I have enough letters, diaries and journals to write a memoir or series of memoirs. I had such fun last reading snippets of travel diaries: “For lunch we had very French prawns as their uncle had caught them and they were boiled alive.” (I was 14); “V.brash people on the plane – as soon as we were in the air they got out their booze and got rather pissed and smoked in the non-smoking areas. One man came and plonked himself on Dad’s knee.” (This on a trip to Southern Spain with Mum and Dad in the 1979/80). On that same trip the oven blew up singeing the front of Mum’s hair and we were offered the ubiquitous flan, as in crème caramel, for dessert every night!

Then in 1995 on an organised tour of “Middle Eastern Highlights” I got a bit stuck with Pete from Sarfend (Southend) – “Pete danced just like a hippy, holding onto his belt and diving forwards or playing an imaginary guitar.” I also mention a character called David, a teacher from a smart boys’ school who wore his jacket and tie teamed with a woolly hat even when we went on rugged walks. But most annoying of all was Bob who, swot-like, had read up on all the Dead Sea Scroll literature, barged into every conversation, demanded ketchup on his eggs every morning and insisted on ordering beef at every restaurant as he couldn’t eat it back home due to the BSE scandal.

But the thing I enjoyed most in my home-made museum was my autograph book from the 70s. We all used to write poems and witty verses in each other’s books. I suppose that today we would be uploading pictures to Facebook and madly liking each other’s posts. How much more treasured is a little book with orange-coloured pages filled with signatures of my erstwhile classmates and people around me than a here-today-gone-tomorrow online post? Most of the rhymes concerned lavatories, lovers and garden gates (love may be blind but the neighbours ain’t), boys, the physics teacher or worse, but they were all harmless and affectionate fun. One of my favourites is from an elderly man who lived in our village – Norman Spence.

Autograph book

A trip down memory lane

At last I return to my blog. This time it was work that stopped play. I’ve had a couple of assignments that have proved tricky and overwhelming. From an article on aged care legislation to a government tender and a newsletter for a university, they’ve all been a bit dense, brain-clogging and writers’ block-inducing. Anyway, today I’ve come up for air and, so far, have celebrated by going out for lunch at one of my favourite cafes and reading the paper over a bacon and egg sandwich. There’s some so comforting about bacon and eggs – I think it must hark back to childhood.

Talking about childhood, I’ve now got to the fun bit of my home renovations and am unpacking boxes of ‘stuff’ (there is no better word) that I shipped from the UK about 18 months ago. As well as books, plates, ornaments and decorative bits and bobs, there’s quite a bit of memorabilia. The Life Laundry gurus might disapprove but I’m really happy that I held onto some treasured items before I moved to Australia. Unpacking them years later (I was too deluged with work to celebrate but, as of last Wednesday, 9th July, I’ve been in Australia for ten years) I’ve smiled, laughed, cried, felt amazed, incredulous and deeply respectful for times past.

I’ve got quite a few letters spanning about three decades – remember those beautiful hand-written items we used to pop in post boxes before electronic communications took over? I’ve got some of the first letters I wrote to my parents in the late 60s when they were away and I was staying with family friends. The spelling is atrocious, there are no punctuation marks anywhere and the words on the page are jumbled reminding me of magnetic scrabble letters on a fridge. But I’d been to the sea and thrown sticks for the dogs and was excited about going with Susie and Gillie to the laundrette and having hot chocolate from a machine. Then there are letters I wrote home from my brief stay at boarding school (where I was miserable) telling my parents: “I love Queenswood. It’s just at night the people in my dormitory talk till about half past ten and when the horrid old house mistress, who is equal to the size of four elephants, comes along at night she says I should be asleep otherwise I’ll have to go to the doctor for some tablets.” Later on I insist: “I am extremely happy here,” and I concluded another letter by saying: “Don’t forget I’m tremendously happy here.” Methinks that I did protest far too much.

1960s letter>

Letters from both grandmothers brought tears to my eyes. My maternal grandmother told me she was expecting lots of guests over the summer and shared her menu plans with me. Memories of her signature dishes came flooding back. I must ask Mum for the recipe for Granny’s Bombe Surprise made with blackcurrants. A tactful letter from a boy I had a crush on in my teens let me down gently by asking about my love life and sharing holiday plans to go to America where there would be “lots of lovely girls!!.” Another male friend (I wonder if he ever realised I had a thing about him?!) wrote me a long, long letter in 1978 full of his pre-university adventures (toad racing, potato picking and meat packing) travelling up the East Coast of Australia. He sent me a special full-colour fold-out souvenir of the Great Barrier Reef (when it was still pristine) and apologised for his writing style: “Out here everything is said backwards or abbreviated.” He was in Queensland at the time… Little did I ever dream that I would end up living in Australia! Back then it was a faraway land, dry and dusty, and full of kangaroos called Skippy.

I’ve also got many of the letters I wrote from Vienna in 1982 when I was an au-pair girl for a family. A bit like at boarding school, I was terribly, terribly homesick not helped by the crushing routine of having to walk the two little girls every morning in the Stadt Park whether it was minus five or plus 30 degrees. But I did enjoy Vienna itself and still have programs from the Opera House (Carmen, La Bohème, Arabella etc) complete with the playlist for that day. You could get a standing ticket for six Austrian Schillings – a bargain! I’ve also got programs from the Volksoper (the less fancy ‘people’s opera’ where I went to operettas by the likes of Offenbach), brochures from Schönbrunn Castle, a poster advertising a Festival of Clowns, a postcard of the Prater (the famous Ferris Wheel) and a glossy program from the Spanish Riding School (those wonderful Lipizzaner horses).

The Opera House Vienna - this postcard looked dated even in the 80s!

The Opera House Vienna – this postcard looked dated even in the 80s!

The Spanish Riding School, Vienna

The Spanish Riding School, Vienna

There are years of diaries in my boxes including a lockable five-year diary that I wrote for three years, love letters, papers and magazines marking special occasions such as Royal Weddings and much more. Some of it will undoubtedly end up in the attic or the shed and I’m not mourning the things I threw out – such as folder of beer coasters and matchboxes of every restaurant I went to in California in 1984 – but I’m happy to have created a small and meaningful time capsule.

Renovations stopped play

It’s been a long time between blogs (writing my own and reading others) but not that long between drinks; which is not to say I have turned into a boozer but I have found that a medicinal whisky and soda (my maternal grandmother lived till her 90s on little tots of whisky) while soaking in my new claw-foot bath has helped soothe my frazzled nerves. Let me explain. Having sailed through my renovations by avoiding the whole thing down in Anglesea, I ran into a few issues on my return.

But it wasn’t the dust (even if it did find its way into EVERYTHING including the freezer compartment), the dirt, boxes and general chaos of drop sheets and furniture piled up in the middle of the living room that got to me, or the clothes dryer jammed next to my bed, or the chair that developed a coating of white fuzzy mould in the shed, or the wires hanging down from the bedroom and living room ceilings where light fittings are yet to be chosen. It was the Paint Problem (capitals intended). In my attempts to cut costs I had told my builder that I would not be using his painter, but would instead get my handyman to do it. Interestingly, my mother, when she was over, did express concern that I didn’t know about Mr H’s painting, but I chose not to listen. And, boy, do I regret it now!

Where do I start?!

Where do I start?!

The truth is that Mr H is not great at painting. So you can imagine my distress when I first got back to the house and noticed patchy painting, wiggly lines between walls and cornices, paint spots on the tiles (my gorgeous new black and white bathroom floor blemished already…) cupboards, mirrors and the timber floors. And that, a bit like Bunnings’ lowest prices (incidentally I’ve been to Bunnings about ten times in the last month) was just the beginning!

As diplomatically as I could (oh the speech rehearsing that went on beforehand), I told Mr H that he had done a good job but it was clearly too much to expect of him so I had decided to get professionals in to finish the job. Far from taking offence, Mr H was clearly relieved. Phew. One major hurdle overcome.

Someone recommended a team of professional painters to get it all into shape. Their price was similar to the quotes I had had from professionals in the beginning and so I thought it was worth the financial stretch (yikes). What’s more, a team of four were ready to start and blitz the place the following weekend if Bertie and I could vacate. I hadn’t much enjoyed evenings camping out on a sun lounger eating takeaways in front of the TV in my guest room (the sitting room was still under dust sheets), so was quite happy to decamp to my brother’s house just down the road complete with Aga cooker and cocker spaniel playmate for Bertie.

But the so-called professionals ripped me off and did an appalling job. And it still hurts. Every time I lie in the bath, wash up, sit on the loo (sorry but you do notice things from that vantage point), I see blobs and blotches of paint, paint on the floors, and lots of rough, uneven areas on the woodwork.

I found out that the boss guy of this dodgy outfit has one service for the mansion owners and one for the rest of us. One of his staff, a lovely guy and trainee painter (that makes him cheaper you see), let slip that the boss had told him: “Don’t take too much time on this job. She’s not paying much.” He had the cheek to tell the student that I was paying 50 per cent less than I actually was. Needless to say the woodwork didn’t get properly sanded down or prepared. And the belligerent boss insisted on using oil-based enamel even though I requested water-based. “No worries (his catchcry), I’ve already bought oil-based paint,” he said in his thick Eastern European accent. Perhaps he had purchased a job lot, I couldn’t help thinking afterwards. So the place STANK when I finally moved back.

Dusting off the contents of my wardrobe

Dusting off the contents of my wardrobe

What’s more, the painters (well it was just the student for the last two of the four days) didn’t seem to know what was and wasn’t included in the job. So I had to yoyo back and forth to my house, checking on progress. But the biggest challenge was standing up to the boss man when he came to collect his money and refusing to pay the total amount until the work was brought up to an acceptable standard. I was scared; he’s an imposing man, four times my size, a bit of a bully and, I suspect, a misogynist. If I had rehearsed my speech to Mr H, this time I wrote a dissertation. The bastard tried to intimidate me, to pull the wool over my eyes blaming an old house for imperfections in walls and woodwork (for someone that grew up in houses dating from the 1700s in Britain, a house built in 1969 is NOT old.) So that didn’t wash. Then he was rude to me (If I had known you were going to be so difficult…) but I stood my ground and went round pointing out the areas that needed attention, such as a door that had clearly not been sanded. Grudgingly he agreed to send back the student for a few hours (it turned into a day) and apologised for not project managing the job more closely. Something about his son having bad asthma.

There were 56 bits of masking tape highlighting areas that needed fixing when the student arrived. He did his best, and in fact unbeknown to his boss, is coming back this weekend to fix up more areas but we’re never going to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. At some stage I will stop looking at the place with a magnifying glass and let go of the drama of it all.

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Thank Goodness I had a comfortable base at my brother’s house as the whole episode knocked me for six (add a few noughts and you’ll appreciate just how painful it was!), but it wasn’t just the money or the bad craftsmanship, it was all the nervous energy it gobbled up as I vainly tried to juggle work, tax demands, backlogged paperwork, cleaning and scrubbing paint-flecked everything, unpacking my house (I couldn’t find anything) and spending weekends flogging round IKEA, Bunnings and Masters looking at carpets, fixtures and fittings and trying to track down someone to lay a bit of vinyl in the laundry.

I went through about ten days of total brain fog. I got lost in several car parks, went shopping for milk and came out with everything but, struggled to focus on my work and would spend hours on one paragraph, sent invoices out with the wrong number, left the oven on one night, tried to turn the television on with my phone and so on. You get the picture. I was totally overwhelmed. And into the bargain I had a severe migraine (Bertie dog took advantage and kept me company on my bed; what better therapy), another massive paint-induced headache a week later and several episodes of bursting into tears. But there was an upside; I changed the colour from Hog Bristle quarter (too beige) to Antique White USA and it looks great.

Thank god for soothing baths!

Thank god for soothing baths!

And we’re winning now and it is beginning to look like home. I love my new bathroom, my breakfast bar in the kitchen and my $180 antique shop period sofa shipped all the way from Gippsland makes a cosy spot to curl up of an evening. If I haven’t lost you in the drama (yes, I’ve bloggd on a bit long haven’t I?), stay tuned for the next episode; next week my builder returns to get the place ready for carpets and to install fixtures and fittings and I’m awaiting quotes to lay vinyl in Bertie’s bedroom aka the laundry.

Postcard from Anglesea

Now that my return to the Big Smoke is imminent – in between writing this I’m packing boxes, cleaning out cupboards and trying, and failing miserably, to clean the front windows (WHAT is the secret?) – I thought I would share some photos of a few of my favourite coastal views, things and places. So sit back and take a little tour with me:

Morning view of the 'Back' Beach - popular with surfers, walkers and dog walkers

Morning view of the ‘Back’ Beach – popular with surfers, walkers and dog walkers

Bertie on his morning walk

Bertie on his morning walk


I have a collection of stones at home, but in the interests of de-cluttering left this one on the beach.

I have a collection of stones at home, but in the interests of de-cluttering, left this one on the beach.

Point RoadKnight

Point RoadKnight

Can't see the wood for the trees? Moonah Woodland along the coastal path.

Can’t see the wood for the trees? Moonah Woodland along the coastal path.

Anglesea River - a very different vibe from the beach

Anglesea River – a very different vibe from the beach

Life by the river was very tranquil until Bertie noticed there were ducks in the water...

Life by the river was very tranquil until Bertie noticed there were ducks in the water…

Leafy glades, butterflies, birdsong, dappled sun and trees bring fairy tales to mind.

Leafy glades, butterflies, birdsong, dappled sun and trees bring fairy tales to mind.

Anglesea General Store - I recommend their breakfasts, ginger and lemon hot toddy and take-home meals such as slow-cooked beef cheeks. Yum!

Anglesea General Store – I recommend their breakfasts, ginger and lemon hot toddy and take-home meals such as slow-cooked beef cheeks. Yum!

Freshly picked olives at McGain's Organic Shop

Freshly picked olives at McGain’s Organic Shop

Not quite Vidal Sassoon but they rescued my hair from a previous hatchet job!

Not quite Vidal Sassoon but they rescued my hair from a previous hatchet job!

My love affair with op shops continues. Here I found books, an Arzberg bon-bon dish, a drape for my sofa and an ovenware dish for Shepherd's pie, my menu du jour when I had visitors.

My love affair with op shops continues. Here I found books, an Arzberg bon-bon dish, a drape for my sofa and an ovenware dish for Shepherd’s pie, my menu du jour when I had visitors.

Looking towards Aireys Inlet and the Lighthouse

Looking towards Aireys Inlet and the Lighthouse

The garden at Mr T's café in Aireys Inlet - 'Easy as a Sunday morning'...

The garden at Mr T’s café in Aireys Inlet – ‘Easy as a Sunday morning’…

And the last word goes to Bertie - Do we have to leave tomorrow, Mum?

And the last word goes to Bertie – Do we have to leave tomorrow, Mum?

A Stay of Execution

I was due to go back to my newly renovated house in Melbourne today and had been gearing up for a while, bracing myself even for the rigours of city life. But when I learnt that the painting was way behind schedule and that one of the shower screen panels and a pedestal basin had to be replaced, I was only too happy to postpone my return for another week. Well, what could I do? How would I manage the increasingly bumptious Bertie (all the beach romps and sea air are making him super fit and harder to tire out) around paint pots and wet surfaces? I was envisaging white paint on his paws and nose and chocolate brown hairs trapped in newly painted walls.

So, I’m still here with the pounding of the ocean my bedtime lullaby, the chatter of birds my morning wake-up call and starlit skies unblemished by light pollution my night-time vista. And this week’s full moon sunsets have coloured the sky magnificent shades of purple and pink. Gaining an extra week here feels like precious time I have stolen back. You see, I’ve rather fallen in love with life on the Surf Coast and haven’t really missed city life at all. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Life is gentler here, quieter, slower and calmer and it feels GOOD. I’m not missing the traffic, the cacophony of caffeinated chatter and clattering of coffee cups in Melbourne’s many ‘go-to’ cafes, nor the one-upmanship and competitiveness about who is busiest or the most tired, the running around from thing to thing, the tail chasing and endless pursuit of the latest thing in retail, culture, sport, fashion or food. It’s easy to get trapped in wanting to keep up with it all and follow the crowd.

Here my phone rings less, I write fewer lists, am less wakeful in the night and am more focused in my work. Some of the concrete-like tension in my neck and shoulders has softened, and I’ve become fitter, even running (well more or less) up the steep beach steps and doing mini jogs with Bertie. I’ve had moments of feeling like I did when I was a child; more carefree and in the moment without one eye constantly on tomorrow.
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There’s a more laidback vibe here what with all the surfer dudes, coastal dwellers and retirees, and things are less of a drama without the intensity of urban living. The other day, for example, I lost my internet connection and didn’t know why. I was working on a big project with a tight deadline but took it all in my stride. I drove up the hill to see if it was a signal problem (it wasn’t), so then rang my ISP provider and finally Telstra – whose 4G WI-FI device I am using here – only to find out I had run out of credit! It turns out that video calls on Skype gobble up lots of data. Lesson learned. Anyway, I lost about half a day but remained unperturbed, instead of going into a spin and wasting time and energy.

Yes, I know, I’m being escapist and can’t run away from my other life forever. If I had moved here permanently, I would no doubt have regretted it by now, and felt I was missing out on the many advantages of city living. I’m talking as someone who has had a brief taste of country/coastal life and enjoyed it knowing my other life and everyone in it would still be there when I got back.

But I think it goes deeper. I grew up in small rural villages in England or on the edge of small towns. Rolling green fields, country walks, dogs, tuning in to the seasons, peace and quiet were all part of my landscape – all low key stuff rather than the high-jinx and high-life. I think perhaps I’m a sociable loner who needs regular periods of solitude, preferably in nature, in between interacting with others.

That’s why I so enjoyed reading Ailsa Piper’s account of walking the Camino (Sinning Across Spain) and her quest for solitude. Many fellow walkers wanted to be her friend and to barge in on her space. Ailsa was one of the writers at the recent Lighthouse Literary Fest in Fairhaven. She talked about the city as having no gaps and compared it to music in elevators; one of the many ways we block out silence.

I’m going to luxuriate in the space, silence and serenity of my coastal surrounds this weekend. But, and here’s the social loner in action, there are a few excitements planned as well. A trip to Torquay tonight to see the local acting troupe in Twelve Angry Jurors, dinner with a writer and wine-maker tomorrow night and an opportunity to get up close and personal with a bee hive on Sunday.

Owning your (my) own style

I haven’t seen my house for a few weeks but the renovations are nearly finished and I’m dissatisfied already! But only in my head, you understand. I think it’s a case of renovation envy. It all started when I visited a lovely new friend in Anglesea – she’s a writer and artist – and had lunch in her beautiful home. You can see her artist’s eye at play everywhere; the triangular patterned tiles echoing the earthy shades of terracotta and blue on the walls and in the boxed shelves, the art on the walls, the huge (and well-fitting windows) framing views of gnarled and forked gum trees, the marble-top kitchen and chunky pottery dotted around, the funky butter dish, the lime green weighing scales, the brightly coloured mosaic tiles in the bathroom beautifully toned in with the sink, a colourful Mexican-looking ceramic bowl. And then there’s the wood burner with the sliding glass front warming the room and adding another stylish touch.

If only I’d seen her house before I chose the white subway tiles from Bunnings, I thought going all Discontented Pony (anyone else familiar with the Ladybird Books story from childhood?), and maybe I should have persisted in getting the shelving unit in the living room re-done the way I wanted. And then what about my kitchen bench top fiasco? In truth the kitchen tops are the only part of the renovations that have gone a bit ‘off message’ and it’s one of those situations where it’s not really anyone’s fault. My builder – and I can’t praise him enough; he’s absolutely meticulous, punctual, professional and gentle with it – noticed that the laminex pattern I had chosen was 30 per cent more expensive than the standard range. So he hunted around and found a match from another company. He showed me the sample when I went up to the house at the end of March, and I approved it.

What neither of us noticed (the sample was the size of a match box) is that it had a strange indentation which, over a large area, looks like a series of scribbly scratch marks. While it’s not what I would have chosen, I’m going to make the best of it. The bottom line is that changing it would stuff up the budget bottom line by $2000. And once all my things are dotted around – yellow lemons on my grandmother’s green cake stand, my Italian ceramic fruit bowl (also featuring lemons), my blue and white candlesticks and all the other paraphernalia and memorabilia currently stacked floor to ceiling in various cupboards, the strange scribbles will fade into the background.

My spare room cupboard packed to the gills

My spare room cupboard packed to the gills


And that’s the thing. My style is my style. Although I am a little restricted by a modest budget, my choices reflect who I am and where I hail from. I’m not an artist with an eye for the Tuscan look and triangular tiles, but I am a homemaker through and through, and the interior of my house is a somewhat eclectic mix of classical English meets country cottage meets suburban Melbourne. I’ve got some treasured antique pieces from both my grandmothers, a fair few bits of charity shop chic, a bit of IKEA and lots of pictures on the walls, none of them which could be described as modern or abstract. So when I embarked on renovation plans, my aim was to keep a classical, if slightly quirky, look. Hence the claw foot bath, black and white tiles and hand-crafted cloche light in the bathroom, and the white painted shelving unit on either side of the fireplace so I can – at long last– display all my treasures from an antique ginger jar to more modern glassware, favourite books, tea cups, jugs and ornaments.

In fact the older I get, the more I love antiques, not just the look of them but the stories behind their design, creation and use. I’ve been watching a British program on SBS called Antiques Uncovered hosted by an historian and an antiques expert. In the last episode they went to Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire to look at the history of tea cups, sofas, Georgian glassware, chandeliers and more. It’s all a bit broad brush as they cover so many items in one program, but I particularly enjoyed the bit about the history of porcelain. The Chinese, of course, developed porcelain in the tenth century, but it was not until the British discovered the magic ingredient, Cornish soapstone (talcum powder), that porcelain or, ‘White Gold’ as it was known, became all the rage in the eighteenth century. And it said something about your class as to whether you drank from translucent china which held hot water without leaking, or from a rough, porous earthenware cup. The upper classes could pour the hot tea straight into the cup and then add the milk, whereas the lower classes had to put the milk in first to prevent the cup from shattering. That’s why the ‘right’ way is still considered to be the tea first method.

Tea cup

It’s like Downton Abbey – I’m an unashamed fan (although the last double bill episode of Series Four was terribly implausible and a big anticlimax) – it’s all about class and what’s going on Upstairs and Downstairs.

To that end, I also saw a program featuring Downton producer Julian Fellowes going behind the scenes at another of England’s huge stately piles, Burghley House. Burghley was built by William Cecil, treasurer to Queen Elizabeth I. He was the one who ordered the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. The house is still owned and run by his descendents today. It was a fun program looking at parish records, letters and diaries to unearth some of the stories of the lords and ladies and their servants. As Fellowes said, “we’ve all got ancestors that were giving or taking orders. History belongs to all of us.”

Embracing Community and the Kindness of Strangers

As I approach the final furlong of my Sea Change in Anglesea (for new readers, my Melbourne house is having a bit of a makeover), I’m really getting into life down here. As a not-for-profit grant-writer, I often talk about promoting or creating community connectedness and a sense of belonging. Well, recently, I’ve had the good fortune to experience both.

Last Friday, I joined in a monthly ‘Big Sing’ in a local township – well more like a hamlet actually. I was welcomed with open arms and felt instantly at ease to join in the warm-ups which, a bit like at my Melbourne-based choir, require a total absence of inhibition – blowing out your lips like a horse, wailing like a siren and generally waving your arms around. We then sang in canon using the words of a GPS navigator to the tune of London Bridge. After a few gospel numbers, a Maori song to mark Anzac Day and an Aboriginal Stolen Generations song, it was time for supper. With candles dotted around and gum tree leaves decking the walls of the community hall, we tucked into home-made soup and crusty bread. This was definitely choir Country Style.

Then on the weekend I went to the Lighthouse Literary Fest at nearby Fairhaven. I had booked back in February (just as well as it sold out fast) and knew I would need to find childcare for Bertie; I couldn’t leave him in solitary confinement in the laundry for two days running. Nearer the time, something or somebody would turn up I told myself. But the dog-sitter I left him with on a return trip to Melbourne was booked up, my neighbours were going off to Hawaii and I couldn’t really ask 89-year-old Dolly over the road. As it was, Bertie had already barked imperiously at her when she put her bins out.

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Early on in the piece, a lovely woman, Pauline, came up and admired Bertie when we were sitting outside a cafe. We got chatting and she told me her daughter had a cocker spaniel called Theodore aka Teddy. So when I bumped into her again several weeks later (she runs one of the thrift shops here), I mentioned that I was looking for a dog-sitter over Anzac weekend and wondered if one of her children might be able to help. It turned out that her kids were busy but, sure enough, Pauline and her husband Andrew volunteered. What’s more they refused to take any payment.

What I find so wonderful and generous about their gesture is that they hardly know me and yet they were happy to spend their weekend minding Bertie. Needless to say they fell in love with my boy who had – excuse the terrible pun – a ball. They took him to church, out to lunch, lavished him with cuddles, treated him to few choice snacks and several walk, and on the Saturday, invited Teddy down from Melbourne to keep him company.

All the while I was free to immerse myself in two days of cultural nourishment and stimulation. Much as I have loved all the beach and river walks, prolific bird life, friendly cafes and charity shop fossicking, I was ready for a bit of bookiness and bookish company. From the venue – a newly built Surf Life Saving Club with big ship-like timber beams overlooking the ocean to yummy paper bag lunches and a program of talks and panel discussions with actors, ABC radio presenters, journalists, film directors, emerging and established authors –it was a treat from beginning to end.

One of the discussions look at health and what makes us sick. Much of the discussion revolved around the corporatisation of food and the inability of those who are socially and economically disadvantaged to make healthy choices. We learnt about fast food producers and doctors being in cahoots on corporate boards and that wherever Coca Cola features on the world map, there’s obesity.

Other sessions explored memoir writing: how do we write about friends and people we know – do we disguise them (change their hair colour, sex and geography), do we write about them as they are and get their permission, or do we ultimately betray them? And how do we tackle writing about parents, whether dead or alive? Then there’s the dilemma of self-exposure for those that have written memoirs. Are we introverts (shrinking violets), extroverts (show-offs) or what American writer Susan Cain refers to as ambiverts, a mix of both?!

At the end of each session a musical double act, Nice Work, performed a song with a ukulele accompaniment. A bit like a sorbet cleanses the palate during a rich meal, the two young men (pretty much boys really) provided the ideal inter session refreshment.

The festival ended with a fascinating and humorous presentation by screenwriter David Roach in conversation with Graeme Simsion (of The Rosie Project fame). A chance meeting with a Master of Wine on a plane was the genesis of the documentary, Red Obsession, about China’s voracious appetite for wines produced by the great chateaux in Bordeaux. We saw clips of the film, one of my favourites featuring the owner of one of the big name chateaux (I forget which) in Bordeaux. He said it all came down to love (or lurv in his French accent) – loving the wine, loving drinking it and loving the cultivation of it grape by grape. He should know; he’d drunk something like a couple of bottles with lunch day.

Coming back to the kindness of strangers, I gave Pauline and Andrew a bottle of local Shiraz as a thank-you for looking after Bertie. Not quite in the same league as the top notch Bordeaux wines the Chinese are buying for up to $250,000 a bottle, but a token of appreciation nevertheless. I’m going to miss my new coastal community.

On sea dragons, mindfulness and writing in bed

I’m so excited! Well no, I haven’t spotted the Easter Bunny but, even better, I’ve seen a weedy sea dragon. Sea dragons, despite the fearsome-sounding name, are the most beautiful and delicate marine fish belonging to the same family as sea horses. In fact, the weedy sea dragon is the marine emblem of the State of Victoria. I was walking along the beach with Bertie dog (thankfully he was too taken up with his new ball to notice the long-snouted creature washed up on the sand) and there it was. What struck me most apart from its elongated form were the amazing colours on its body: reds, pinks, yellows and oranges. What a wonderful creature to behold!

A weedy sea dragon

A weedy sea dragon

Later that same day I was reminded of the deep red patches on the sea dragon as I was slicing beetroot to roast for a salad. And, for once, I was really absorbed in what I was doing. I noticed the marbling inside the beetroot, the shapes reminding me of the knots and rings you find in wood. There’s something so richly rewarding about slowing down the mind and its incessant chatter so that we notice and really see what’s around us. And our focus and concentration improve dramatically.

Much as we think we’re getting ahead by multi-tasking, research in neuroscience shows that we’re actually creating scrambled wiring in our brains when we do two or more tasks at once. And, apart from damaging our brains, the bottom line is that it’s impossible to give our full attention to two things simultaneously and do them both well. To quote from Mind Gardener (mindgardener.com) the average person has up to 50,000 thoughts and 12,000 internal conversations a day. It’s amazing we manage to get anything done at all!

And so I was fascinated to hear Sir Michael Dobbs, author of the best-selling House of Cards and, more recently, his Winston Churchill novels, telling Phillip Adams on Late Night Live that he does some of his writing in bed. Dobbs described going back to bed in the morning when the family house is quiet and he can write with a pen and paper without being interrupted by flashing icons on a computer screen. Of course, as Phillip Adams reminded listeners, Barbara Cartland was famous for penning (churning out) her romantic novels in bed wearing one of her pink negligees. Incidentally, according to Wikipedia she left behind 160 manuscripts which have now been published as ‘The Pink Collection.’ I don’t like taking to my bed to write as it reminds me of being ill and confined to barracks. However, I like to take a notebook around with me and write long hand in a café or park. I often find it overcomes writers’ block and frees up the flow of ideas. Staring at a screen – especially one with distracting emails and messages popping up – does little to stimulate creativity.

I can fall into the mindless, multi-tasking, rush-rush-rush, go a million miles an hour habit as easily as the next person. But when I tap into a bit of mindfulness, I remember why it feels so good. Although our natural tendency is to speed up to get things done, slowing down actually creates more time and brain space. And that’s when we spot treasures like a sea dragon on the sea shore. Wishing all my followers a mindful and restful Easter. Watch out for the bunnies!

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