Field Notes: Merriwa, NSW Photo courtesy of hoejin-iwai-iK4ju_SCfTM-unsplash I’ve dealt with hay fever for the best part of two weeks — or is it three now?Already I feel it sneaking over the edges of my personality and burrowing like a worm as part of my identity. What does it feel like to live without managing… Continue reading Road life Reality: Between Dust and Direction
Category: Writing My Bones
Road life: A snapshot
I stayed last night in Wallabadah — at the First Fleet Memorial Gardens. After driving from Delungra, I was hot and bothered and surprised to find a Freedom Camp (campgrounds requiring a small donation while providing showers and toilets). The heat in NSW left me feeling hot and sweaty after driving for hours, so a… Continue reading Road life: A snapshot
Alone in a one horse town
Photo courtesy of Christine Writer It’s 7.25 a.m. I am in Delungra — about thirty kilometres out of Inverell in NSW. I left Glen Innes yesterday because it was time. Arrived here around 4 p.m. One servo. One pub. One church. One café (thats what the aero attendant told me, though I’m unsure where it… Continue reading Alone in a one horse town
Popcorn, chilly scrub and the one star feast
Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash Last night, I joined two friends at the top restaurant in Strahan for a farewell dinner. Shame I can’t say the food was terrific. My lentil soup came with a roll so cold, it must have been thawed straight from the freezer. The potato salad held barely cooked potatoes, the… Continue reading Popcorn, chilly scrub and the one star feast
Standing Stones, Ancient Sorrows
What I didn’t know when I rolled into Glen Innes was how familiar this small town would feel. From about ten kilometres outside its boundary, I felt an ancestral echo I can only describe as familiar — organic, internal. Strange, but something I won’t forget soon. Before arriving, I didn’t know Glen Innes is the… Continue reading Standing Stones, Ancient Sorrows
Reacher vs. Me: A Nomad’s Guide to Not Attracting Trouble –
Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. You never know when you’ll get the chance again. These are the rules one of my favorite characters live by—Jack Reacher* Living on the road, I may not live them by the letter of those rules, but yep, definitely, I might just be living a real-life version.… Continue reading Reacher vs. Me: A Nomad’s Guide to Not Attracting Trouble –
Road Life: Slipping the Moorings —After the Noise, There Is Peace
Six weeks ago, I drove from the other side of Tocumwal (the Victorian side) to Forbes. I passed through Tocumwal, bought a coffee, and fueled up. On the New South Wales side of the border, I felt that familiar sliding sensation— I’d just slipped off the ropes of connection that moored me to a civil… Continue reading Road Life: Slipping the Moorings —After the Noise, There Is Peace
When ‘enough’ means letting go
The art of knowing when to stop holding on Written in my final three weeks at Motel Strahan, when my body began whispering that it was time to go. This morning, I woke with one thought pulsing: three weeks to go. Three weeks until I finish at Motel Strahan. I’ve offered to clean on my last day,… Continue reading When ‘enough’ means letting go
From the Marrow: It’s so sad
Some silences hold more truth than words ever could. It's so sad. Is it? I caught myself judging a friend for her performative grief — diving instantly into the socially acceptable displays around death and dying: mock sadness, circling the fresh kill, and picking at the bones of another’s sorrow to feed a need for… Continue reading From the Marrow: It’s so sad
Bin Chickens (a.k.a. the Naughty Birds)
Van life / Road life reality So, yesterday I took a photo of what I thought was a sacred ibis. But it was white. I’m familiar with this birdlife from the peninsula in Victoria where I’m based, but I’d never seen a white one before. I watched it, photographed it, cropped the pic, and sent… Continue reading Bin Chickens (a.k.a. the Naughty Birds)
The Pistol Packing Pastor
Tales of the sacred and slightly ricidulous The retired pastor from the local church wandered into reception at the Strahan Motel one afternoon. I was a little askance—he lives in town, after all. Why did he need a room for the night? Yes, he’s stepped down from the pulpit, but no, he hasn’t retired from… Continue reading The Pistol Packing Pastor
Christine Writer 