Tag: Country

Dakers Oval – Blayney

A small patch of mossy grass stands apart from weeds around a fenced oval. On the spur of the moment, I take off my sandals to feel the spongy softness under my soles. It has been a long time since I have taken off my shoes to walk in grass. In my own backyard there are bindis, thistles and countless other weeds that have invaded the lawn. But here, on this small patch, I stand and feel a spongy softness under my soles. I am reminded of times in my childhood when I would find a clearing in the woods and lie in a meadow of wildflowers, protected by tall trees and the birds of my youth. There were the chatty finches, the trill of blackbirds, monotone thrushes, and the incessant hammering of the woodpecker. I close my eyes and listen. Here there are magpies warbling to one another, repeating a melody that echoes across the field. They are accompanied by the incessant chirping of crickets, who provide a high-pitched drone above which the birds improvise their songs.

It is hard to believe I am standing no more than a hundred meters beside a large carpark and local supermarket. The dogs I am walking sniff the ground and roll with unbridled pleasure in a smell only they can identify. Their joy is palpable as they leap and chase each other around a field beyond the cricket pitch.

There are not many small places like this left where dogs are welcome. Ironically, it is more difficult to find open spaces for dogs in the country than in the city, where dog owners congregate in groups with their much-loved pooches in suburban parks. Still, I’m happy to have my own company without the intrusion of other peoples’ chatter.

Between the fences and the farms just beyond this small green space is where the Belubula river meanders, making its way to feed into Carcoar dam and flow on to Canowindra and eventually into the Kalari or Lachlan River, near Gooloogong. One of my dogs throws herself into a creek that feeds into this river, not for a swim but to wade and cool down. She heaves herself back up the bank, shakes and rolls in the dirt to dry off. For a moment I think of the back seat of the car, but I could never deny her the pleasure of a dip on a hot day.

Near the entrance to this precious piece of council land, I find discarded cans of ‘Mother’ and the plastic packaging of Arnotts Kingston biscuits. On previous walks I have seen young workers from the supermarket sit here to have their break, smoking, laughing, enjoying a little freedom. I’m saddened that they don’t look after this place, a place of refuge from stacking shelves or serving on checkouts. After all, they choose to come to here rather than the carpark where there are plenty of seats close by. Something must draw them towards this spot, surrounded by trees, birds and the burbling creek. Are they hoping that someone like me comes to pick up their rubbish or are they content to sit in their small, soiled nest?

I walk twenty meters to place the rubbish in the bin provided and decide not to let their actions befoul the pleasure of this scenic stroll. After all, it is a magnificent morning to be walking on this lush land.

Courage to share his story

Photo: Andreas F. Borchert

He approached us after casting his vote. A stranger who needed to share his story, to explain himself and his actions. A stranger who trusted that two women supporting an Aboriginal Voice would listen as he gave voice to his own story. 

He began to tell us of his Irish mother, a woman he loved dearly. She always claimed he was ‘fey’, alluding to his intuition and ability to sense things from beyond. He showed a keen interest in his Irish roots and had wanted to take his mother back, but this was not to be. After she died, he decided to make the trip on his own.

He sought out the places that were dear to his mother and met long lost family. The more time he spent on his mother’s Country, the more he felt the place holding him, welcoming a lost son. This feeling finally overcame him when he entered a small church in the village where his mother was born. As he stood at the baptismal font where she and generations of her family had been baptised, he succumbed to a flood of tears, held back for the longest time.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. It was the parish priest.

‘Welcome home, son,’ he said, and our traveller felt he had truly arrived.

It was a moment akin to transcendence, a knowing that this was where his roots were, no matter where he would live out the rest of his life.

I too have experienced this sense of homecoming. A homecoming to a place that I can no longer call home, but a place where I feel the pull of my roots stronger than any other place I know. It is a feeling of merging and becoming one with the land, the trees and the birds that roost within them. I expand to take in all that is and experience both rapture and rupture between me and what lies beyond. Words cannot capture what happens in these moments, they will always stay ineffable.

Like my stranger, after experiencing what the Irish call ‘Thin Places’, where the veil between heaven and earth momentarily falls away to reveal the transcendent, I have but an inkling of Aboriginal people’s connection to Country. But like the man I met ever so briefly, I know where I stand and why I have chosen to take that stand.