Last night I lost it – ‘it’ being my equilibrium, my sense of proportion, my love for human kind, for my husband, the whole shooting match. I exploded into the sort of raging fury that I’ve only ever experienced maybe twice in my life. In fact, Adrian confessed this morning that it was a first for him, so there you are. It doesn’t happen often. So why now? Why, when I’m on home territory, the country where I grew up, staying in the peace and tranquility of Géographe Bay, where everything is orderly and super clean and people are open, friendly and seem to be loving life?
For a start, the day is one of total enjoyment. We begin in Dunsborough, a small town on the bay, close to the Margaret River wineries, where there’s a street market in full swing. We pull into a convenient carpark (free, the facilities here are first rate), cross the road (withouth being run over) and are immediately drawn to a second-hand book stall run by a rather serious and very knowledgable woman who could perhaps be eastern European. With a bit of Australian thrown in, it’s difficult to tell. Her stall is perfect for us: restricted by weight, we need to acquire and discard books as we go along and she has an extensive collection.
But we’re not familiar with Australian contemporary writers, so we fall into conversation, talk about the sorts of books we enjoy and she recommends some titles. She knows her subject, but Adrian flicks through one of the books, the sort with loads of pages and rather large print and says, ‘I’m afraid this one doesn’t have enough words per kilo.’ She looks at him penetratingly for a moment, then gives him a brief smile.
Finally we settle on two books – all we can allow ourselves – and ask her to recommend somewhere for coffee. ‘The best coffee in Dunsborough?’ she says, ‘well, that’s at my house, but number two is across the road.’ Her face is deadpan, demonstrating that she, too, can do irony.
We’re about to cross the road, when Adrian spots a stall selling flip flops (I left my favourites under a bed in Malaysia). This particular stall owner has a beaming smile and a broad Lancashire accent, but it’s played at the wrong speed. It’s too fast, too staccato for the region and it takes a while to pick it up. We chat about here and there, buy none of her rather boring orthopaedic thongs and cross over to Hot Chocolatté where, as promised, the coffees (and peanut butter cookies) are very good. The punning French reference, by the way, comes about because this region of Géographe Bay was named by the French explorer and scientist, Nicolas Baudin, in 1801. It leaves the linguistic field wide open.
The road to Cape Naturaliste (our prime destination) looks as though it was laid yesterday, it’s so pristine. We follow it through the national park and, all at once, see a carpet of wild lilies spreading through the trees, covering the ground, and pull up to take photos. Wild lilies in the spring are the Western Australian equivalent of Britain’s bluebell season, only bigger, more abundant and, of course, white. They positively glow. And they’re everywhere.
Of course, we know about the spring flowers here, but we’re still overwhelmed as we walk the Cape to Cape trail along the coast from Cape Naturaliste lighthouse south towards Sugar Loaf rock. There are wild orchids, wattle, pimelea, iris and a cream shrub that smells of ammonia. We rub the ends of wild rosemary and peppermint trees and inhale the heady scent. And of course there are the displays of white lilies, set against the deep blue of the sea. We’re utterly enchanted.
Before heading back to Busselton, we drive south and a little east through the Margaret River wine region. There are literally hundreds of small vineyards here which produce twenty percent of Australia’s premium wines, the vines all neatly wearing their winter pruning and just coming into bud. We remark once more on how neat and clean everything is here, how good the roads, the facilities, the walking paths. And the coastline is stunning. It’s been a wonderfully uplifting day.
So why the outrageous rage? A hundred little things might have triggered it but that’s unimportant. The fact is that, while I’ve been calm, in control, engaging positively with the myriad experiences of our uprooting and travelling, my psyche (or whatever you like to call it) has been silently taking its own journey. Last night it threw its toys out of the pram, outraged by what it’s been expected to do. It didn’t last long and it’s over now, but it did give us both a little pause for thought.
