The period between Christmas and New Year is betwixt and between. On the threshold adjoining the old and the new, it is a time of transition and much uncertainty. It is a time for introspection and taking stock of the year past and making plans for the year to come. On one hand, we know it is an arbitrary marker of time, on the other we eagerly await a new ‘beginning’.
This period can be disorienting. We hardly know the day of the week as one day flows into the next. We are both restless and grateful for a chance to slow down. Family ties are strengthened or strained. Sometimes both at the same time. We nibble on leftovers, go to bed, rise at odd times and may have visitors staying for extended periods. Or we may be the visitors wondering whether we have overstayed our welcome. Time stretches, attenuates, and warps which gives this interminable interval such a nebulous almost dreamlike quality.
I too am hovering in this in liminal state. I am ready to move house, but that time hasn’t arrived. Shelves have been emptied and boxes are packed and I am in limbo. My spirit has left this house but not yet arrived at its next dwelling. It is what I imagine purgatory is like – neither here nor there. I am restless, in a state of flux, a fluid, fitful phase which objectively will be over before I know it. In the meantime, I feel as if I am stuck in eternal twilight, like a somnambulist caught in that transitional state between sleep and wakefulness.
My mother-in-law, Jean, introduced me to fruitcake. I had tried it before but could never quite understand what the fuss was about. The fruit cakes I had eaten up to that point were shop bought and mass produced. Pretty ordinary, I thought. And they were. When Jean began sending us fruit cakes several times a year, I began to appreciate a good fruit cake made with brandy, soaked fruits and nuts. She liked to experiment with various recipes, and I loved them all.
One day, Jean announced that she would no longer bake cakes. She was getting old and found the process increasingly difficult. I decided to step into the breach and began sending her the cakes she had taught me to make. In time, I perfected a fruit cake with chopped almonds that is just perfect. And so I carry on the family tradition of making and giving home-made cakes.
This year, I decided to bake fruit cakes for many of my friends. Over a period of about a month, I made 11 large cakes and more than 20 small, muffin-sized ones. The only restriction I placed on myself was that I wouldn’t post any. The cost of postage has become prohibitive over the years.
Making one cake after another took on a rhythm of soaking fruit, zesting oranges and lemons and watching the mixture froth when I added bicarb. I stirred in the flour and poured the mixture into baking tins which I then surrounded with brown paper and tied with twine. This helps to cook the cake evenly and stops the top from burning. Finally, it would go into the oven for a couple of hours during which I had time to start the next cake.
What I enjoyed most about this process was that I always had the person in mind for whom I was baking. I thought about each individual, their special qualities and the joy they brought to my life. It felt like a version of a Buddhist loving kindness meditation practice. I dedicated time to think about each person, added a little more of this, a bit less of that to suit their taste and wished them well for the coming year. I found it a lovely practice to think about each person, rather than bake all the cakes and allocate them randomly. This way, I could add a couple of magic ingredients to the mix – gratitude and love for recipients of each cake.
Seven years ago, when I bought my house, it was under very unusual circumstances. Ruth, who sold me the house had only advertised it on Facebook. I turned up on her doorstep and decided to buy it on nothing more than the of strength feeling that this was the right place for me. I agreed to the price, we shook hands and began negotiating a long handover period. She trusted my word, I trusted hers and we kept in touch until three months later we could finally make it happen. We popped a bottle of bubbly and worked out moving days. There was no agent involved, just a couple of solicitors and banks. I’m sure we were both told that this was a crazy way to go about things, but we did it anyway and it worked out perfectly for us both.
This time around, I did get an agent involved mainly because he had worked closely with my late partner. I knew I could trust him implicitly. He too had his share of bad luck in the past few years – a stroke, which he survived, has left him with a lame leg and difficulty with movement. His once thriving business has suffered greatly from this setback. Yet his mind is as sharp as it ever was, and he is a good salesman. While I was close to becoming a nervous wreck in the process of the sale, he remained calm and optimistic and got on with the job.
When the eventual buyer came to look at the house, he was quietly optimistic. He answered her queries truthfully and when she requested to meet me after an inspection, he was happy to pass on the request and get out of the way. Gayle and I met and found that we communicated with ease and honesty. We had many things in common ranging from our love of books through to pens, inks and beautiful papers. There were other similarities too in our loves and our losses, in small, serendipitous moments that made one of us call out, ‘I was thinking about that just the other day,’ or simply, ‘me too!’ I knew she was the right person for this house while she felt the house calling for her. It had to be.
I have never forgotten Ruth’s generosity when I bought the house. She invited me to meet her friends, waited patiently for the sale of my house to go through and allowed me to store some of my belongings before we even signed contracts. It was time to pay it forward.
I invited Gayle to come up for a weekend so I could show her around Millthorpe and Orange, get a feel for the house and let her measure rooms and spaces. Unusual, yes, but also very sensible and welcoming to a new person in a village that is known for its inclusivity and friendliness.
Gayle arrived on Friday, and we took a stroll in the main street of the village. A couple of the local shopkeepers were sitting on a bench in front of their shops drinking bubbly. The moment we approached, we were offered a glass. We sat and chatted a while and met more people on our way back. Gayle was trying to remember the names of all the people she had met. Everyone had stopped to chat and welcomed her the way I knew they would.
The next night I had a couple of neighbours over for dinner. Over wine, cheese, and risotto we told stories and jokes, enjoyed each other’s company and parted with great fondness for the good people in the neighbourhood.
Today we visited the markets, bought Christmas presents and then took the dogs for a run. I showed her the closest large supermarket, hidden in a back street of Blayney, which only locals would ever know was there. Over the weekend, I showed her many little hidden gems that otherwise would take months to discover. Where to buy the best bread, how to get to the hardware store, the best cafés in town and the best op shops to find a bargain.
Why did I do this? I wanted to pay Ruth’s kindness forward and because I genuinely love this village and will shout its praises to anyone willing to listen.
I enjoyed having Gayle as a visitor to ‘our house’ and wish it were possible for more people to do business in such a civilised and caring manner. It was as important for my leave taking as it was for her arrival. I consider this handover as a rite of passage which will have ripple effects for us both for years to come.
To hurkle-durkle is a wonderful old Scottish term which means to lie in bed or lounge about when one should be up and about. It reminds me of words like shilly-shally, dilly-dally, argy-bargy, topsy-turvy and hoity-toity. Their humorous effect derives from the rhyme or alliteration. They are fun to say and capture a sense of their meaning.
I have come across hurkle-durkle from a number of sources lately. I first heard Susie Dent speak about it on the Something Rhymes with Purple podcast, then a friend reminded me of the word not long ago. Since then, I have seen it pop on Facebook and Instagram. It clearly accommodates a need in the English language.
Whether it is driven by jealous parents of teenagers who hurkle-durkle from their mid-teens through to their early twenties, or by blurry eyed workaholics who can only dream of such a luxury, it seems to have touched a nerve in the productivity driven twenty-first century. It is interesting to see the word make a comeback at precisely the time when the double-shot morning espresso has become a badge of honour for many.
As far as I’m concerned, we should all hurkle-durkle a lot more than we do. I’m sure we would be less stressed and more satisfied with life, if we allowed ourselves this little luxury more often. It is difficult to think of a hurkle-durkler committing road rage or being rude to shop assistants. We all behave better when we are well-rested.
We are now entering that crazy part of the year which we euphemistically call ‘the silly season.’ It isn’t silly at all. If anything, it should be called the frantic season. The list of things to get done before Christmas seems to get longer each year. Things ramp up at work as we approach the final weeks of the year and then there are all the social commitments, presents to buy and cards to write. No wonder we wind up cranky by the time we get to Christmas Day. You know my answer to this insanity. Sure you do. Go and spend some quality time hurkle-durkling and ride out the season in style.
One morning while having breakfast, I tuned in to sparrows chirping. They like hiding in an overgrown hedge out the back providing them with ample shelter. It is never one sparrow that sings but a host of them. Their simple song, made up of only a few notes, is sung mainly by the male to attract females or fend off invaders. I can’t help but smile at their incessant bright chirruping. It isn’t very loud and provides a pleasant soundscape as I sip on my cup of tea.
Soon another sound gets my attention. The blackbird’s song is one of my favourites, mainly because it reminds me of my childhood. I even named a dog after this bird. While its song varies for each verse, it always seems to start on the same mellow note. Their phrases are short and often include ‘djuk djuk’ clucks. No other birds have the same slightly melancholic effect on me.
Scientists have found that listening to bird songs is conducive to mental health. It surprises me that we need this confirmed through research. This revelation reminds me of the recent discovery of ‘silent walking’. Those brave enough to try this new trend have reported a reduction in feeling distracted. Who would have thought. It turns out that being in touch with nature is calming.
I can now hear my three tenors warble at the font of the house. This is what I affectionately call the magpies that come to feed on the front veranda. Magpies often get a bad rap for being aggressive. In a small town like Millthorpe, they know all the people and can distinguish between those who treat them well and those who do not like their company. I am often rewarded for being kind to them with their mellifluous warbles as they sit on the railing, necks craned, beaks raised skyward.
Nature plays a vital role in our quality of life especially for those who live in cities. We are seeing an increased willingness to consider the health of urban environments through improving biodiversity. I’d like to see a greater variety of birds in the heart of Australian cities beyond pigeons, gulls, and ibises.
Of course, not all bird sounds have a positive effect on us. Some can be downright irritating. Take the Koel for example. To be subjected to the coo-eee call of a Koel rising in pitch and fervour is akin to torture. The kindest thing I can say about them is that I am grateful that they are migratory birds. I’d much rather listen to a flock of local sulphur crested cockies. Noisy as they are, I have a soft spot for these larrikins. They are mischievous, funny creatures who relish play and pleasure. I love the way they hang upside down from the gutter to look through my window or find novel ways to open my garbage bins to see what is hidden inside. Curious, cheeky and utterly uncontrollable, they are the epitome of the rebel without a cause. Cockatoos often wreak havoc, yet I can never be cross at them for long. Theirs may not my favourite bird call but they make me laugh like no other bird can.
There is so much to learn from pausing to listen to our natural environment. Tuning in to bird songs helps me get out of my head and pay attention to my surroundings. I focus wholeheartedly on listening rather than looking. It’s a skill many of us neglect.
I have always loved the smell of bottled ink. It has a distinctive acrid smell that takes me back to learning to write in my first year at school. While today I find the smell nostalgic and comforting, the experience of forming letters on a page was torturous. Unlike children in Australia who learn to write using large, soft pencils, in Austria, we were expected to master the vagaries of the fountain pen at the age of six.
My memories of that time are shrouded in tears and ink blots on the page. Did I push too hard or was the pen leaky? Was the nib too thick or did I not hold the pen at the correct angle? Fountain pens can be tricky at the best of times. I don’t think I ever had ink free hands for the duration of my primary school years.
While quills have been used for centuries, the modern fountain pen was only invented in the early 1800s. It continued to evolve, with advances made by Lewis Waterman in America. His pens were able to be refilled and he invented a mechanism to allow ink to flow more freely. To this day, Waterman fountain pens are renowned for their style and reliability.
My pen clearly wasn’t a reliable one. My inky fingers no doubt made their way into my mouth as I turned pages. However, unlike with the forbidden book in Umberto Ecco’s Name of the Rose, there was no danger of any intellectual threat emerging from my scribbles. I was hardly going to be poisoned for my inattention by licking my blackened fingers. The only danger I faced was the wrath of my teacher for messy handwriting and blotting my copybook.
I am heartened that even King Charles has experienced the painful exposure to inferior pens even if he does own a Montblanc Solitaire among other prestigious pens. His outburst at Hillsborough Castle was beamed around the world. The newly crowned king was affronted by a leaky pen and let everyone know it. My own outbursts were met with a dressing down, a stern directive to stop moaning and to try harder. Not that any of this helped.
I don’t quite understand why I have persisted with fountain pens. Mine still leak and from time to time my blackened fingertips take me back to being a six-year-old. While I love all the wild ink colours that are available, I usually stick to black, just in case my signature needs to be validated or a page photocopied. Still, I love my Japanese murasaki-shikibu purple ink, named after the female Japanese writer who wrote the exquisite Tale of Genji in c.1010. This Japanese ink has a much more pungent smell than the inks I associate with my childhood. The shade of purple reminds me of my paternal uncle who would only write with a violet biro. Every time I use purple ink, it is a nod to my Hungarian uncle Lajos and his slight eccentricity which he maintained throughout his life. In a country where only blue or black were commonly available, it is hard to imagine where he sourced his pens.
I, on the other hand, am spoilt for choice. Besides the Pilot Japanese purple, my favourite Lamy colour is turquoise. In the Waterman range I adore absolute brown which is perfect for a nostalgic sepia look, harking back to the early twentieth century. For durability, however, I can’t go past Montblanc permanent black.
There is something almost subversive about writing with a fountain pen in the digital age where uniformity is prized over individuality. Colour is definitely not to be encouraged. But as always, I am happy to be counted among the renegades.
Since my house has been on the market, I have bought flowers every week before the next inspection. It makes the dining room table look cheerful and inviting, adding colour and a touch of whimsy. I always choose brightly coloured ranunculus in a riot of hues. There is nothing serious about these flowers, and like gerberas, they make me smile each time I glance at them.
The flowers are grown by a local hobby farmer who brings half a dozen bunches to the local coffee shop each Friday. Her smile is every bit as bright as her flowers. The last time I saw her at the shop, she insisted I take a freshly picked bunch, so that the joy they bring lasts a day or two longer. I thanked her and paid my twenty dollars, an extravagance to some, but I love their impact on my house and mood.
As international flights have enabled cut flowers to be flown around the world so that orchids could be enjoyed mid-winter in Canada or Norway, it feels so much more intimate to buy freshly picked seasonal flowers.
In my twenties, as a student living on a small allowance in Berlin, I bought flowers each week to conjure up the sun in the eternal twilight months of winter. This small weekly ritual helped to soften loneliness and feeling lost in a new city. It brought hope of new life to come in spring, when the clouds would clear, and days lengthen.
Today, I am buoyed by the same message of hope. This period of my life will pass – clouds will part to reveal whatever comes next. I don’t need to know the details yet; all I need to do is to invite grace. And if flowers are to bring me hope and joy, they are worthy of a special place at my table.
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.
I’ve been too much in my own head to pay much notice to the world around me. I’m anxious about the sale of my house, the upcoming move, and the demands of my job. My nervous energy has no place to go now. I have done everything I can to display the house in the best light. It is fresh, clean and utterly appealing. I am spring loaded and restless. My energy needs to dissipate, so I take the dog for long walks around the village.
Recently, I’ve barely been able to keep in touch with friends and have not contacted family overseas. I know I should pick up the phone, but I am too distracted. When friends call, all I can talk about is what is happening in my life. At present, I am not a good listener. I am much too preoccupied.
An old friend called me this morning to see how I was travelling. I must have spoken for at least ten minutes about all my petty concerns before he said that he too was finding it difficult to concentrate. He mentioned his apprehension regarding the unfolding situation in Israel. I had no idea what he was talking about but, with a sense of foreboding, made a mental note to follow it up once the conversation ended.
I checked the ABC website and noted what had occurred while my own thoughts were spinning out of control. I read with increasing dread about the aftermath which will surely follow the Hamas strike. Regardless of the side you are on in this conflict, no good can come out of this unforeseen attack. Innocent people have paid and will continue to pay the price for this offensive. Opinions will be hardened, and the two sides will not be able to negotiate a viable settlement for years to come. There is a very real possibility that war could erupt, drawing in players from surrounding countries.
I am dismayed. I think about two incredible fathers I recently read about. One is Palestinian, the other is Israeli and both have lost young daughters due to the violence caused by this long-running conflict. Bassam Aramin and Rami Elhanan choose to build bridges rather than burn them down. They advocate dialogue instead of gunfire. Over the years, their grief has led to an unlikely friendship through which they are able to put their differences aside and show the world that reconciliation is possible on a personal level. As Rami put it, “instead of sharing the land that God gave us, we will share the graves underneath.” If two enemy ex-soldiers who can find their way to friendship through shared grief, what is holding us back from reaching out?
Maybe like me, the rest of us are too preoccupied with our own small problems to see beyond securing our own backyard. But the time has come to reach over fences and begin a genuine dialogue. Let’s engage in this radical act: listen to understand and allow for space to pause before responding.
I am blessed to be able own my own house, or at least a substantial part of it. This cottage is exactly what I have yearned for all my life – an old wooden home with loads of character that greets me with warmth the moment I come in.
It has old, pitted floorboards that tell the story of the many feet that have walked on them, walls that bear the marks of furniture, and windows that creak and groan every time I open them.
Every room has its own story of past renovations which add to its overall charm. It is like an archaeological dig, unearthing the unique stamp of previous owners. I love how the floors tell of walls that have been removed and rooms that once were used in very different ways. And I also have put my own stamp on this place through the addition of a functional bathroom and laundry as well as a kitchen, in keeping with its heritage.
My studio out the back is a real luxury. It is a converted shed but when I open its doors, I am in a light filled space that is bigger than most one-bedroom apartments in Sydney. I have loved working on mosaics or writing in this space and of course my friends have enjoyed the comforts of a self-contained room. I have never had so much space in my life!
The wild cottage garden invites birds, insects and for me, contemplation. While I have never been a gardener, it is a calm place to enjoy. As there are four seasons in Millthorpe, it is possible to grow both deciduous and native trees and roses thrive in this environment. I have loved the explosion of blooms in spring and the colours of autumn. The garden is a testament to the passing of time as different plants take centre stage, depending on the season.
But it is time to move on. Now, I have to convey my love for this place to strangers who will no doubt find fault with what I consider are charming anachronisms. I have to declutter, downsize and get ready to relocate 300km away. It is a daunting task. I am eternally grateful to have spent seven years in a community that has welcomed me into the fold. Together with the friends I have made and the memories of a love that I will cherish for evermore, Millthorpe will always have a special place in my heart.
From Quill to Quote 