Road to Tarraleah.

Today we went for a drive down the road to Tarraleah.

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We pulled over on a logging road and went for a brief walk.

 

On this route, tentative spurts of native forest suffer the interpolation of power lines, roads and budding pine trees. 

Tomorrow we are going to Lachlan.

                                      

Down at the dam.

The countryside surrounding Ouse is somewhat reminiscent of certain locations in Ireland.

Ouse, Tasmania

Kerry, Ireland (image retrieved from http://www.geograph.ie/photo/425649.)

I think the similarity lies in the fact that the hills in this part of Tasmania are uncharacteristically devoid of trees.  We are also surrounded predominantly by farming country, acres of green that fade to brown in summer; the trademark forest-laden vistas are not as prevalent here.

Today we went for a walk to Repulse Dam, near to where we are living.  Wylie enjoyed himself.





Our neighbours.

They're pretty lively...

Stock droving.

On the highway, outside my bedroom window...

Dog days.

Life in Ouse.

We are now living in Ouse, pronounced ooze, a town in Tasmania's highlands with a population of approximately 150 people.  The house we are staying in is a veritable palace, as evidenced in these photographs...

Leaving London.

We are back in the UK after a month or so in Ireland. It's our last day in London. I ate gourmet vegan chocolates and was therefore happy. Good-bye Camberwell, for now; I will like you forever and remember you when I hear the Martha Tilston songs I have been listening to here in my little room, and when I think of chocolate, and I will feel good.  But cities are just too much for me to bear.

Meath.

Last night we walked beside the castle in the twilight. It was down a trail swarming with midges that we went, next to a river full of furrows where the water folded over rows of invisible rocks; fish flashing white, springing out of the water to snap air. The castle was illuminated by tinted artificial lights, making the walls look green as if mossy. The sunset turned some nearby ruins pink. It was not cold.

We walked for quite a long time as the sky grew darker, and, unexpectedly, we reached a priory built in 1202. The roof was missing and the walls crumbling. It was still and perfect. Graves cluttered around it, as if they had grown there with the tall grass and grabbing nettles and bent trees. I sat on a decaying old headstone and looked at the outline of a cross against the flat blue-toned sky, feeling the darkness around me and the sense of space and quiet.

On Sunday we went into Dublin to see Mariee Sioux play at a bar called Anseo. We walked through Temple Bar and it was transformed, full of music emanating from the pubs and tourists and buskers bustling about on the streets. A guy screaming out The Auld Triangle; someone singing Mustang Sally. We walked and walked and walked.

Yesterday we went and gave the donkeys some carrots. I like the donkeys. One of them is very friendly. I ate some vegan chocolate and did not do much else. I do not want to go.

Donegal, Derry, Armagh and back.

We are staying in Meath now.

Knots of bright yellow dance in my mind as I sit here listening to the fridge sighing. The scenes we drove through today recurr to me. From Donegal to Derry to Armagh. The highlands of Donegal all brown and bronze, tussocks of grey grass studding the fields, black rows trailing in the wake of the plough, squat mountains swathed in cloud. That piece of the landscape had a certain wildness to it that is notably absent here in Meath. Then there was the city of Derry, and one town after another; they suffer some kind of synthesis when exposed to recollection; mercilessly flattened into a single idea.  I guess that happens when you drive all day; you see a lot but don't really see anything.  Hopefully I can go back and see them again.

Tipperary travels.

Yesterday we went for a drive to Tipperary. We passed through Offaly and Laoise. Low hills became more abundant as we moved further south, away from the flat centre. We saw again the old house where the family used to live, now impossibly overgrown, decaying under a net of brambles and nettles.

More flights have been grounded today due to the ash.

Living the dream.

It is almost six in the morning. I can hear birds singing. The sound of voices downstairs. Water running. It is not quite light outside, the sun having yet to establish itself in the sky. I think we are going to go to Euston today, to book our tickets. Sirens yelp in the air outside.

This morning, we went for a walk in Ruskin Park, passing the Maudsley and King's College hospital. The air was cold; I forgot my gloves. There were people jogging in the park; one man running in a suit, his coat flying open in the breeze, arms oustretched, as if he were being chased. Planes circling overhead. The park was big and lush with lots of flowers and leafy trees. Gnarly black crows were cawing gently, ducks waded about in the water, grey squirrels darted skittishly here and there.

It is hard to cross the road because the traffic is so dense. Dilapitated old buildings, pubs with names like the Nag's Head, old churches with the faces of women sculpted onto the corners of massive window frames. Outside a bicycle shop there was an incredibly old whizened woman with stark white wisps of hair and black dots for eyes and shrivelled olive skin, gesticulated emphatically with her tiny hands to a placid looking police officer in a tall hat. These lasting images. An unkempt homeless man with matted hair, sitting at the bus stop, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words 'Living the Dream'.

Tomorrow we leave for Dublin.

Walking in Peckham.

We are staying with my aunt in her little flat in Camberwell. An hour ago we went for a walk.

This place hasn't changed at all!

We walked to Peckham. I really love it; it's a bit addictive. All the durable old buildings with scruffy shops that have epic names like The International Beauty Salon built into them, and the multitudinous fruit and vegetable stalls, and the 99p shops selling things like biscuits and curly orange wigs, and the newsagencies that are hardly big enough to fit more than one person inside, and the salons with all the haircuts listed with prices in Nigerian dollars, and the Camberwell College of Art, and the numerous restaurants boasting food from every culture imaginable, and the array of churches offering varying degrees of salvation.

Landing in London.

I am in a hotel room in Heathrow, London. It is very silent because of the dense double windows. It is almost five o'clock in the morning and as dark as night outside (excepting all the artificial light from the street lamp in the car park below). Sleep, now, is not forthcoming.

We arrived here at about seven, ejected from the bland enclosed world that was an aircraft into the tumultuous maze that was the airport. I can still feel the ground swaying with the motion of the plane, as if my body has been programmed to a new rhythm.

It was in the black of early morning that we left Perth yesterday. I woke up at three and got all of my things together. We called a taxi and loaded all of our luggage, three guitars and two bags, into the back of it, and then it was off to the little international airport to board the plane for Dubai.

The sun has come up now, the sky lightly veiled in blue clouds. From the window I can see the street outside. It is quiet. A car glides by every twenty seconds or so. There are men in fluro yellow vests shuffling down the footpath, and others wrapped in smart coats presumably making their way to work. A red bus just sighed as it went by. It looks damp and cool out there. The skyline is a mess of tree branches and the tops of buildings.