The Land

I've been reading a chapter by Linda Hogan called 'Creations'. It's part of a book called The Heart of the Land : Essays on Last great Places, edited by Joseph Barbato and Lisa Weinerman. The book came out in the 1990's but it still has great relevance today, perhaps even more so

Linda Hogan writes with astonishing beauty and love about the connection between the land and people, all living beings. Her words are a call to memory, renewal, the sacredness of life

.'We remember our ancestors and their lives deep in our bodily cells', just as turtles she describes return to the beach where they were born. The deep mystery of it all.







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Holidays

Holiday time. The population here in Victor Harbor doubles, sometimes trebles when there's a long weekend. Nothing by British standards when small towns like Penzance have long lines of cars weaving through the town. Nonetheless, more people means more cars, more queues. Locals get disgruntled, unless they're storekeepers or retail managers.

It's an especially poignant time now. Tomorrow is ANZAC day and commemorates those who've fought and fallen and those who've survived the overseas wars that have traversed Australian history.

Nearby is Port Elliot, where servicemen and servicewomen came for recreation. A memorial garden, the type found in many an Australian and New Zealand town, has pine trees dedicated to the memory of those who perished. It's a sobering place, sad, and yet beautiful too, with the sweep of Horseshoe Bay below the gardens.

People often marry in the Gardens, ourselves included, and so the cycles of life are lived, shared and remembered in this special place.

Autumn Days

Autumn days here, warm with that cool breeze cutting in from the sea. A BBQ day in England, that sort of temperature, the low 20's centigrade. I've just lit the fire, not for a BBQ but the indoor wood combustion stove. It gets cool here quickly in the late afternoon, and this house can get cold. The stove's brilliant for slow cooking. We often cook ahead, preparing meals for the week, sometimes only for tomorrow's breakfast. I like it, it's light cooking, even. More natural. Perhaps it's the tending of the fire, not too quiet, not too active. The waft of the food as it cooks, gentles its way down the corridor to here where I type. The sun's slanting in too. The dog waits patient in her little basket. She knows dinner for her is soon.