Our time on Straddie passes in a relaxed routine of stunning walks and equally stunning meals. With an endless supply of fresh seafood on the island, a barbeque on the verandah and some very competent, very imaginative cooks in the house, we can’t fail to eat well. What’s more, there’s always a volunteer Sous chef (only one of whom is actually called Sue) and a highly efficient pot-wash. I can only dream of my kitchen functioning this smoothly.
Our last morning dawns sunny and warm. We pack up, take the ferry back to Brisbane and say our good-byes. As we hug each other, it briefly crosses my mind that everyone is going home. Everyone except us. But there’s little time to dwell on how that feels. Our next three days need all our concentration as we house-hop our way over the border and down the northern coast of New South Wales.
Adrian has known Pete since early childhood and there’s no way we can drive through Tweed Heads without calling in on him and his wife, Kerry. As Adrian will tell you, Pete, a retired English teacher, has always cut ‘a bit of a dash’ with his white hair and beard and penchant for flamboyant dress and behaviour. Kerry, I suspect, is the anchor of the family: open, caring and unfailingly solicitous. They tolerate our late arrival, our need to take a run before breakfast and provide us with the largest, most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.
Before our next stop, we revisit the wonderful Tweed Regional Art Gallery, home to the vibrant paintings and house reconstruction of Margaret Olley. The variety of Australian modern art, the view into Olley’s life and work is utterly engrossing and quite unique. What’s more, the cafe overlooking the Tweed valley and mountains, serves very good lunches. If you’re ever in the area, don’t miss it; you’ll be delighted.
My sister, Jorel, lives on thirty acres of sustainable land near Yamba with her second husband, Philip. They’re all but off-grid with solar electricity and bore water and they grow everything from broccoli to macadamia nuts. It’s the dream life made real. Jorel is also a wonderful cook and she knows just how to make the best use of the produce.
Over a delicious evening meal we catch up and reminisce. We’ve seen each other only occasionally over the last thirty or so years but, back in the day, we shared not only a Melbourne flat but the highly disciplined, exacting life of the ballet dancer. It is perhaps this very particular shared experience, just as much as our sibling relationship, that has shaped our understanding of each other and our undoubted connection.
As we walk the forest paths behind the house, we note the lush green of the grass, shrubs and trees that stand in great contrast to the blackened trunks of our last visit. The 2020 wild fires might very well have consumed their house if Phil hadn’t defied advice and stayed to hose off the sparks and embers as they dropped onto the roof. Since then, New South Wales has had two torrentially wet winters. It’s not for nothing that Australia is called the ‘land of droughts and flooding rains’.
On Sunday evening, we arrive in Newcastle at my eldest sister Julia’s house to find her granddaughter and partner preparing supper in her kitchen. Her eighteen year old grandson is there too and we’re very touched that these young people want to spend the evening with us. But in truth we know just how close and supportive of each other Julia and these two grandchildren are. Between them and within the last twelve months, they’ve lost a husband, daughter, grandfather and mother. It’s more than anyone should be asked to bear and it’s brought them even closer. But there’s no gloom tonight and we enjoy a lively happy family evening.
Now we’re in Lake Macquarie and my ninety four year old mother is sitting reading the British crime novel we brought from Britain for her. She’s a great fan of Kate Atkinson’s Jackson Brodie. The house is metres from the water’s edge and, as I write this, I can hear the lake lapping against the retaining wall and jetty. Mum is still well and fit with a lively mind and a great deal of chat. She’s keeping me busy and I have little time to write. As she opens the new Brodie novel, she bursts out laughing and shows me what’s amused her. I read a Zen quotation: ‘Before enlightenment I chopped wood and carried water. After enlightenment I chopped wood and carried water.’ In the closing years of her very tough life, my mother appreciates the irony.
We might have to ban A&J from visiting Oz again, last time we got Covid, this time Liz 😩