Tag: Tamworth

A delicious slice of reality.

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“Oh, you want a Power Pat do you,” my dad asks Bubble, one of my folks’ two new cats that I am not at all jealous of. The other, of course, is named Squeak.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he rubs the cat down with a vigour I’ve see him employ while chopping wood. The feline purrs as if it’s just spotted a milk tanker with a slow leak.

We’ve already giggled with mum about her daggy house-clothes and discussed whether the neighbour a few farms down is buying wood with her pocket money.

It’s hilarious post-sausage-sandwich entertainment.

As I soak up the winter sun, just east of Tamworth, I notice how sweet it is to be home, sitting and laughing with my beautiful parents.

The final few days in Shanghai were impressive with Tsingtao and tequila by night, dumplings and noodles by day.

My local mate from India treated me to the best street food of my trip. I’d wandered aimlessly through the French Concession with some new pals from Denmark and Russia. We’d watched the dancers dance, the kites fly and the musicians fill Fuxing Park with their Oriental tunes.

It was the perfect goodbye to my tumultuous love affair with the Far East.

I was torn at the airport; excited about wrapping my arms around my Nanna, sharing tea with my girlfriends (it’s been a complete boy-fest in China with few female companions) and curious about my new job. But I hated the idea of  myadventure ending.

A well-timed email from my ever-pragmatic mother informed me that I would “come down to earth with a bang when you get back here.” The promise of avocadoes and brie drove me toward the departure gate.

And, it has been splendid.

The sunrise, after my 5am arrival in Sydney, was one of the best I’ve ever seen. It reminded me of Australia’s bountiful offerings. I’m lucky to call this country home.

My Nanna’s hug a few hours later was more warming than a glass of vintage liquor. She squeezed me hard, noting the six kilos I’ve carefully collected on my already-voluptuous frame. “You need to do some shrinking,” she instructed me.

“Aw, c’mon Nanna,” I pleaded with her. “It just shows I’ve had a great time.”

She frowned at me, clearly unmoved by my grin.

“Men love women with curves,” I cried, clearly clutching at straws.

“Not that many,” she laughed at me. I winked at her, delighted by her cheeky company.

I cooked a lamb roast, ate my (enhanced) body weight in salad and we looked at photos, lazing around like well-fed pandas.

Coming home ain’t so bad, I thought.

The dollar issue is a sore point, but my finances are so sorry I’ll just skim over that briefly. The cost of a bottle of milk is the equivalent of a night’s accommodation in China. That roughly equates to about 6 beers.

The Australian political landscape is also a sorry sight.

But, what Australia lacks in political smarts, it makes up for in the deli section. I decided to continue my train affair, broadening my rail horizons with a ride to Tamworth. It was the perfect time to catch up on some cheese-eating with my old pal Costello blue.

I luxuriated in the stark open paddocks with Dorothea Mackellar ringing in my ears. The contrasts to the obsessively-cultivated Chinese landscapes were fascinating. The stretching plains screamed to me that I was home.

My cheese-cravings were obsolete by the time I hugged Ma and Pa at the station, tears brushing at the corners of our eyes.

The detox plans I’d cleverly crafted a few nights ago flew out the window as I took in the contents of my parents’ cellar. We sat by the fire talking and laughing, as Dad’s queries about my trip became increasingly inquisitive. Luckily, my honest answers impressed my mischievous father.

Today, we cleaned and chilled, happy just to be back together. Ma even attached her halo and did my washing! I called a few mates and went for a jog. Pa and I rode bikes around the lucerne paddock and made plans to go fishing tomorrow, after our Mexican feast.

Now, as I sit in front of the fire at my folks’ pad with a glass of Pinot and Dad vigorously patting the cat, China feels like a hazy memory. That bang my Mum predicted I’d face – I’m determined to brush past it, my resilience honed after 10 weeks on the road.

The next adventure is about to begin. And, I’m certain there will be another adventure after that.

Reality: it’s what you make it.

A festival with a flogging.

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Street theatre, gold panning and local honey. The Go for Gold festival at Nundle, about 15 minutes from my folks’ house or half an hour from Tamworth, shot to pieces my expectations of a country shindig. I know these people like to party, but I did not expect the show-bag collection to outdo the Sydney Royal Easter Show.

I also didn’t expect to find a Chinese festival in the middle of the New England, especially five days before my flight to China. But, as sure as my brother can light a fire, the Chinese rolled into Nundle to celebrate the gold rush in years gone by.

Of course, there was dancing. The Chinese rocked out their dragon costumes to an adoring crowd.

I was delighted by the Chinese lanterns strung up across the town. The country pub, especially, was a paradox. It looked like a timeworn establishment being dragged, reluctantly into multicultural Australia.

But, if the difficulty getting a park is anything to go by, it was good for business.

For a town with an official population of less than 300 people, it was 289 at last census; it has its fair share of amenities. This included the aptly named Mount Misery Coffee Shop. These guys had a gold panning gig happening with sediment from the local Peel River. As if on cue, we passed a few local kids with pans on our way to the festival. This place is the Real Deal.

On the back of a helpful volunteer’s tales of finding 100 pieces of gold while panning yesterday, my brother has found a new career.

“It’s lucky you weren’t born in the 1860s,” my mum remarked, “because you would gone chasing gold as soon as you could walk.”

We left him at BCF looking for a pan.

I thought I’d be better suited to a career as a witch.

The local woollen factory, which looks like an antique museum from the outside, is a carefully-crafted, high-class shop on the inside.

Plus, the novelty value of the looms is irrefutable.

Unsurprisingly, the Chinese festival attracted a few foreigners. By a few, I mean a handful, but check out this beautiful Pakistani family who were ambling around.

The ten-gallon hats and country music was abundant. My dad, an avid connoisseur of country music, could not shift from the front bale.

And those bales do not make comfortable chairs, of that I am certain. Seriously, spiky hay, who thought to sit on that?

But, my dad’s shirt sums up why he can hack the hay bales and I cannot sit for more than a moment on them.

That’s not to say the music wasn’t rockin’.

The band had this lady’s foot tapping. She said the colourful vest came from a stall at the festival.

Further down the street I came across the obligatory honey stall. Dorothy and Max are manning this stall. These guys are a very cute, country couple.

I introduced myself as Penny, “like the coin,” I said, trotting out the usual cliché I employ for almost-deaf folk. I underestimated Max. Instantly he came back “you may be called Penny,” he said. “But you look a million dollars.”

It’s the hat. Some people in Tamworth will love you instantly if you’re wearing an Akubra.

Dorothy was not going to be outdone with the country hospitality. She wondered if I was related to Betty Langfield. “She lives just down at the end of the no through road. She used to be married to Fred, but he passed away a few years ago. I think her family is from Grenfell.” I am not certain of how my heritage could be linked to the lovely-sounding widow, but Dorothy’s bachelor son sounded slightly more interesting.

And the best, of course, was the street theatre we caught on our way out. Watching a man being chained up, stripped and given 14 lashes was highly entertaining. I was even enlisted to count the lashings.

The Cat of Nine Tails whistled through the air delivering a sharp blow that gave a macabre touch to the afternoon. “This flogging has been bought to you by the Nundle Festival,” the Sergeant at Arms yelled through the pedestrian-filled main street, lightening the mood.

“You were the best counter we’ve had all day,” the Sergeant told me. I skittered off, delighted at my booming voice.

This place, it is deeper than it looks at first glance across the lucerne paddocks. Its history, the charming folk and the ubiquitous flowering poplars are enchanting.

Country music aside, I am besotted, already, with Tamworth.

Mooching made easy.

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I can almost hear the vegetables and the grass growing out here. It is luscious near Tamworth at the moment. And the ardent agriculture provides the perfect backdrop for some mooching.

Early in the mornings I like to go out and check how much rain we have had. I see little sense in this country routine. I guess it’s more spectacular when there is something in the gauge to check. For now, it seems like polishing boots and putting them back in the cupboard. An utterly useless pursuit that makes you feel like you’ve done something useful.

After I have confirmed that, yes, my suspicions were correct and, no, there was not a spectacular weather event in the night. I will ponder the horizons for a moment. Mostly this involves walking around the house very aimlessly.

It’s not a bad view, really, for my morning espresso. Strangely there are no men in lycra in these parts.

Inevitably, I’m drawn to dad’s vegies like a kid to vending machine. This is dad’s killer tomato that I mistook for a pumpkin. I think he is waiting for the Tomato Festival so he can show it off to all the other vegetable-growing freaks around here.

The other garden is still in that phase I liken to a baby before it is crawling. It looks so neat and tidy, but it is not actually able to bring anything to the table, yet.

The day is broken up when Ma and Pa return from their jobs in Tamworth City. This means dad sits in an office and dreams about his country music career that has been cruelly halted by his love for mowing the lawn. As soon as he is home it’s straight to the mower for my dad. He is never happier than when he’s just had his afternoon fix behind the Rover.

After this, we watch the sunset. Out here they seem more crisp.

 The colours don’t linger quite so long.

And, as soon as the sun disappears behind the hay shed it is instantly chilly.

Hibernating at my parent’s house is, obvioulsy, fairly relaxing. It’s also nice, because it gives me an insight into their lives. I’ve been blessed with some pretty awesome parents. They’re great fun and nicely open-minded. As their kid, I’m lucky in that they still seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

All around the house I have spotted the places where Ma and Pa (I used to call them mum and dad before they moved to Tamworth, FYI) hang out. It’s very cute.

This must be where they sit and have fires, I have surmised.

And this is the sunset-watching possie.

Or, as it happened yesterday, that’s also the spot Ma and I took up to watch dad mow the lawn.

So, you see, there’s plenty to do in the country

A country life.

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Birds were trilling outside my window as I woke up in my idyllic new neighbourhood today. Of course, a tractor was humming too, but it was refreshing to breathe in the crisp country air. Such is life beyond the city limits.

I grew up in the country and have always considered myself a bush rat as opposed to a city puppy. It’s a mindset, really, being a Country Girl, and it comes with a learned set of eccentricities.

My heritage was called into question recently when I was escorting an elderly gentleman to an appointment. “You must be from the country to have a car this dirty,” he remarked as he got into my Apollo.

Then, while he scraped bits of toast, pens, carrot stubs and my horse whip from the front seat to spruce it up a little, I basked in the idea that my country inheritance has given me a lifelong excuse to have a filthy car.

However, after living in cities for six years, I have a greater affinity with metro living. I still love the open paddocks that stretch for miles and the silence that is broken only by the wind whistling through the trees and a tractor making hay. For instance, today I was thrilled to wake up and realise I had sporadic phone reception. I loved that my view was not interrupted by an overpass or a tall building.

But my inner-city-theatre-going-latte-swilling side came to the fore as I switched on my laptop and connected to the web. Thank God there is internet out here!

I dragged my espresso machine out of the car and got down to the business of checking news headlines, Facebook and, of course, blogging.

I emailed a few mates then got on the blower and called a few others. Clearly, I’m happy to live in the bush, but less impressed by the idea of going it alone. Or maybe I’m just easing myself into the new way of living.

The best part was that I could be sitting outside, overlooking a succulent crop of hay or lucerne or rice or something like that, and be chatting to my mates about the shenanigans at the party on Friday night. And so the divide between city and country lessens.

It astounds me that when I’m engrossed in my city existence, which I’m already romanticising into a life filled with art gallery visits, top-notch restaurants and non-stop parties, I forget so easily about what’s on offer elsewhere.

I have seen three people so far today. One was on a tractor, another was in a truck and the third in a boring old car. Without prompting, all three waved at me as they passed.

Not an exuberant wave-goodbye-as-i-drive-off-into-the-sunset-and-pop-your-should-from-its-socket type wave, but a laconic subtle wave. Just four fingers coming off the wheel to say ‘you’re here, I’m here and ain’t that great.’

I love that gesture and the sense of community I feel even though I’ve been here for all of five minutes.

Or perhaps I’m being all city about it and over-thinking a wave. Typical.

But, to me, that’s what the country is all about. I find it slightly simpler lifestyle and that’s a good thing. It’s waking up in the morning and not hearing a thousand SUVs rushing to get their kids to school, but instead noting the bus trundling past.

It’s the ease of trotting out to the garden in the morning to grab some lettuce and tomatoes. I have to add here that my father’s vegie garden is prolific. I came across a pumpkin today sitting up with some flowers about a metre above the ground. “That’s not right,” I thought. “Pumpkins grow on the ground.” A closer inspection revealed that, in fact, it was a tomato grown on my dad’s secret compost mix.

It’s all so lovely. Maybe it strikes such a chord because it reminds me of my childhood, sitting in a garden and devouring an entire crop of beans in one sitting.

Anyway I’m not going to question why I love it so much. I’m just going to indulge in one of the delightful pumpkin scones my mum picked up at the Pumpkin Festival yesterday – yes, that’s right, a festival for pumpkins. It was one of the better festivals, according to my dad. It was certainly much better than the Brussels Sprout Festival.

So, I’ll enjoy my scone, but I’ll tell you all about it on the internet. And maybe next time I’m driving through the city I’ll try waving at every passing motorist.

Let the adventure begin.

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Driving out of BrisVegas this morning after saying a final farewell to an era, a seven-hour abyss stretched before me. I was a mixed bag of emotions, but I had plenty of time to sort the Wizz Fizz from the snakes on the way to my folks’ place at Tamworth.

Herein lies the brilliance of a road trip. Time is your friend. I could indulgently ponder saying goodbye to Brisbane, the great mates I had there and other important issues, such as whether tequila shots would be ok with limes or if it definitely has to be lemons. Of course, due to the driving I could not test out the limes versus lemons issue, but I could certainly think about it at length.

I’m a big fan of car trips. It’s a product of my childhood. Every school holidays Ma and Pa would lug my brothers and me to Sydney or Cowra or Bundaberg or Pindari Dam. They would go anywhere, as long as it meant at least eight hours a day in the Commodore.

Cricket season was the best, at least according to my Dad. We would start the driving about 20 minutes before the first ball and stop for sangers when the cricketers were called in for lunch. The cricket commentators were great company.

Sometimes we’d arrive at a location, park a few streets away and listen to a nail-gripping finish, all packed in the car like prisoners being transported to a new facility. At least it felt like prison to a young girl keen to play with her dolls and get away from her stinky brothers after eight hours of noogies.

Today, there was no cricket. But I managed to get through with help from Triple J and a bit of ABC Radio National. There was one rather interesting radio documentary about why humans have hair and why women get it waxed. It was incredibly interesting. And the best part was I could dedicate the entire stretch between Tenterfield and Gen Innes, which takes about an hour, to thinking about why a woman should or should not get a Brazilian wax. Fascinating stuff.

I had time to think about the mammoth clean we did at the house yesterday. Ten hours of wall scrubbing wore Shorn, Amber and I to thin shadows of our former selves. Today I marvelled at the sense of achievement you get from cleaning and Lowry’s ability to turn anything into a game.

Cleaning the fridge, for example, involved seeing how far away you could be from the Westinghouse and still stick a magnet on it through Frisbee-like throws.

A pile of rubbish on its way to the tip becomes Junk-enga.

Reflecting on those sorts of shenanigans and the underlying optimism took up a good 20 minutes.

The scenery and sunset also impressed me. Of course, it’s no Tasmania but the area around Warwick is stunning as it looks out to the ocean. The shadow of Bluff Rock near Tenterfield was eerie. Luscious pastures turned to burnt brown grass like a game of Wheel of Fortune as I meandered south. Further into the New England hinterland the lanky poplar trees in a stunning autumn-yellow reminded me of my time at university Armidale. Recalling the goon-fuelled shenanigans took up at least an hour.

I even drove past an entire field of sunflowers. That was like staring at a sea of smiles.

Stopping in for a few cuppa at the Driver Reviver, that really put a smile on my face. I mean, it’s tea and it’s free. Wow!

And my car, a 22-year vintage Holden Apollo, she purred down the highway, pleased to be unleashed from the shackles of city driving.

The whole trip was lovely really; exciting, thought-provoking and relaxing. It was all of those good things until I was about 50 kilometres from Tamworth. That’s when time stood still.

I busted open my second bag of carrots (emergency rations) and called my Mum. She was getting dinner ready. “Anything you’d like,” she asked me, excitedly. “Yeah, maybe some tuna and steamed vegetables,” I replied.

“Well you’ll just get what you’re given, Pen,” she says. Looks like it’s oven-roasted spuds.

So after saying goodbye to my mates and a few hours behind the wheel, I drove into Ma and Pa’s. Dad came out in his boxer shorts and directed me into the yard as if my car was a Jumbo Jet. “Penny! Welcome home,” he yelled. I was so pleased to see him.

I know in this adventure, indeed in our life, it’s all about the journey, not the destination. I know that, but seeing my folks tonight put the field of sunflowers to shame.