I went for a walk on Saturday. It was miles from home. The starting point a spot in the bush in the far south of Tasmania. I was unprepared. I had on jeans, my old running shoes, thin cotton socks, a work shirt, a wooly jumper. I left my water bottle in the car, (don’t be scared, you can read on, none of this mattered.) What mattered was that I had got to the start of the track at all. Months ago, last year probably, the women I walk with had planned a weekend down in the deepest south where one them has a shack. It’s a proper shack. Not on the grid. Added onto over the years. A forest behind and wallaby cropped grass ‘lawn’. A shack in the finest tradition of Tasmanian shacks. There’s no frills, only soul. Bring a sleeping bag and a pillow, she said.
Walking, L, who was in front, said what was that? I saw a bird twist, its wings a beat, like snipe or quail, but its body green as grass. Ground parrot, swamp parrot, button-grass parrot. Blur of bird and heart stilled. Pezoporus Wallicus. I’ve seen them before, but only in places where you had to fly there in a tiny plane, or walk for 6 days, or sail to in a boat.
We walked on through tall grasses, sometimes on top, other times ankle deep in water, and I was happy for the cold, cold air that meant we did not worry about snakes. Behind us the southern ranges glinted with the first of this season’s snow. Ahead, the thump of surf.
The swell bent softly around the westerly headland, a southern secret, a place surfed by people prepared to carry their boards an hour and a half through bog and swamp to the break. The beach was empty. I had to swim. The green grey gleam. The ocean was soft and cold and tender and open, the swell a seduction of push and pull. I left my friends on the beach and sunk and resurfaced and sunk again. The waves benign. The water a tightening. A demand. Then turned and laughed for they were stripping off, running in, out of their comfort zone, a plunge of unashamed women.
We walked out through the swamp. The track clear of birds, testament to our earlier passage. The ranges fierce, sharply defined in the crisp winter light.
Back at the shack, a fire kindled fast, the leap of flame into the edge of night. Our talk poured out. An ease, abandonment even, to be far enough away to be useless for an emergency at home, to give ourselves to the just now. My ribs ached - from laughing. We ate and drank like queens and then danced. I left them to it and climbed the ladder to the attic where I’d laid out my sleeping bag.
I love sleeping in a sleeping bag. I love the containment of it. It’s like a portal, a shortcut to a different time. My breath fogged in the cold air, the crack of flame licking wood downstairs, the beat of happy voices, but beyond that quiet. The trees holding all the bush sounds, waiting for the flames to die down, for the music to stop, the voices to grow muffled, waiting for us to sleep and then all the creatures would come out.
In the dark of early morning I woke to rain on the roof, just above my head. The sharp tattoo of it a blessing. I won’t hear the birds greet first light. They will be waiting out the rain. According to my bird book the ground parrot calls at dawn and dusk, high-pitched, rapid, morse-code like, beautiful, measured, bell-like notes tee…..teee…stit. I’ve only seen the whir of their flight, their clumsy scurry, I haven’t heard their song. They are listed as vulnerable or endangered in NSW, SA and QLD, their stronghold is Tasmania.
The shack was quiet, everyone in their deepest sleep, bodies curled against the cold. Soon L will get up and stoke the fire, put the kettle on, rustle us from our nests. We will make our way north, leave the tall trees and button grasses, the sedges and bogs to the quiet of winter. The week ahead feels full of overwhelm and busyness, but I have this pocket of time to revisit: the whirr of wings as a grass-green parrot breaks from cover, the seesaw of laughter, the low hum of shared stories and the defiant march into the sea in our middle-aged bodies, the glow of friendship. All of it creates a pocket of peace and I am grateful.
mm
Reading
This essay on the Jubilee. This review of This is Not a Pity Memoir. It’s written by the screenwriter Abi Morgan (The Spilt, The Iron Lady). This review essay on the biography of the poet Gwen Harwood, My Tongue is My Own has me searching for my copy of her last book of poetry. I’ve been reading The Year of the Horse by Courtney Maum. I keep changing my mind on what this book is doing every few pages, but I am invested. On the courtyard table is a new publication The Bush Journal. It arrived in the mail and I cannot believe it’s only $10. The photographs are wonderful and it’s packed with great stories - there’s no highly stylised lives in this publication. Sarah Sentilles in Lit Hub on writing about people you know. But it’s an essay that is so much more than that - it’s about rage and generosity, loss and hopelessness and how to write these things.
Listening
On Being podcast - they have been going for 20 years and this interview right at the beginning with Dr Rachel Naomi Remen on living with loss is so full of wisdom.
Writing
The new issue of Graziher magazine is out. I’ve got a little story in there on wool. Watching this magazine grow is a delight. You can buy it in so many newsagents and even the supermarket now. And, exciting book news! On my way down south I met with Sarah Bird who is going to do the bird illustrations for the book. She’s a talent. You can find her art here.
Doing
I had the privilege of driving up the Derwent Valley to interview Fiona Hume for the next issue of Graziher. Goodness I loved meeting her. And I came home with the most sensational fleece - more on that too.
Events
There’s two spots left on a retreat I’m teaching at organised by the awesome MeTime Experiences. If you’re thinking about this do contact Sharon or Pauline - all details here.
That’s probably enough for now. Have a good week sitters. mm
I am sitting in my workroom on Bribie Island SE Qld. It is 10 degrees and I am cold - just not used to having such a chill in the air. I have just finished reading "A Plunge of Women". I can't imagine how cold it must be in Tassie but when you walked through ankle-deep water I froze. And then you went for a swim! I became an ice-block just thinking of it and glad to be enjoying my 10 degree coldness.
I saw Ground Parrots in Strahan in 1996. It was the only time I have ever seen them and I am always on the alert. Love your posts! Keep them coming. Marj Webber
Your winter swim stirs the envy juices. I have yet to begin this year - and it will be with wetsuit, boots and gloves. You're much braver than me.