Mother Land

I feel truly blessed to call Australia home.

She always opens her arms to me when I need her most.

She always opens her arms to embrace her children. Never questioning, never judging. Unconditionally welcoming home all the sisters and brothers unto her warm and nurturing bosom.

Yet she never grips too tightly. Just enough to let you know there is always a place for you in her heart, no matter how far you stray.

Freedom to roam is our national birthright. Global wandering. Following our own particular songlines wherever they may take us. For many of us those lines lead us to prosperity and fulfillment in far off places.

I am grateful for her generosity. For her kindness. For knowing how to heal my wounds. For providing a safe and clean and comfortable sanctuary. For always believing in me. For encouraging me to follow my dreams. For giving me the self confidence and drive to pick myself up and carry on. Always knowing she is there to support me.

I love her like a Mother. It is tumultuous at times. She gets on my nerves just as much as I can't live without her. She is the wind beneath my wings yet living permanently within her clutches is stifling.

Like many Aussie's who choose to live abroad, and especially in loud, crowded, mad places like London there is an enduring lightness to our spirit. An ease with which we are able to face each day, brushing off the dirt and grime that so quickly gathers.

My sister once explained this as a secret we all carry in our souls. A strength and resolve gained from the knowledge that a haven exists for us . A special place to which we may retreat, retire, restore.

I have used her for all of those reasons these last few years. I thank her for that privilege.

When next I call I know she'll put the kettle on and make up my bed, and there will be joy in her heart as she welcomes home another child to recount their adventures.

Wrapping her arms gently around me as I place my head against her chest and feel her warmth. All will be well in the World.

Kookaburra friends

Adventure is Life

When I left London in July 2009 it was dramatic to say the least.  I don't think it was unexpected but it was certainly fraught with concern.  A broken marriage and an uncertain future.  I hope the next exit is a little more graceful.

I watched as my house, my family home, was packaged into 72 pieces of freight.  Bound for Australia.  A land abounding in natures gifts, of beauty rich and rare, with golden soil and wealth for toil.  Home after 8 years in Europe.

We left Sydney in early 2002 with 2 suitcases and a 14 month old baby boy.  We took off on an adventure telling our family and friends we didn't know how long we'd be, could be 3 months could be 3 years, we said.

We spent the first year in Majorca, an island off the coast of Spain.  It was a magical year.  I like to say we did that thing people dream about doing when they retire, except we did it whilst we were young and vibrant and full of spirit.  We rented a beautiful apartment in the old Gothic centre of Palma de Majorca.  The Gothic part of Majorca is one of the best preserved in Europe as it did not experience any bombings during the wars.  The apartment was in fact a spacious studio furnished very simply.

Studio interior

The tiles were over 200 years old.  It had 3 french doors that opened overlooking a square with a fountain and a number of little bars and cafes on the edges.  Little Jack would spend hours peering out  over this scene from the balcony.  

balcony looking towards Gothic Church

Ours was the only apartment in the building.  After struggling with the original heavy wooden door, we had to climb an old winding stone staircase to reach our apartment on the 3rd floor.  It was really very charming, if a tad exhausting especially with an armful of shopping and toddler.  On the top floor was a terrace that enjoyed views across the rooftops of Palma and terrific sunsets.

Jack in the Plaza Mayor early one Sunday

An idyllic year in Majorca.  Sometimes I worked for the local film studio producing commercials for companies from all over Europe.  Other days we'd go to the beach or explore.  Brad, who at the time didn't have a European passport nor could he speak Spanish, spent his days with young Jack and developing his photography.  He'd shop at the local produce markets each morning and make delicious simple meals in the evenings. 

Meals were often shared with our friends late into the night, in true Spanish spirit, followed by endless rounds of cards.  There was an all night bakery just down our street where the baker also sold wine and beer and cigarettes (and we suspect a few other things).  We were some of his best midnight customers.

The weather turned and my work slowed down and we decided to take a look at big scary London town.  Brad was itching to work.  We arrived on New Years day 2003.  Brad got work straight away and I reluctantly agreed to stay for 5 months.  I was pregnant with Lucien and I didn't fancy having a baby in London.  I'd been there in my early 20's and it was a struggle, I'd hated it.

For the first 2 months the three of us shared a double bed in a mate's house out near Heathrow.  I remember lying in that bed looking out the window as the jumbos lined up to land, wheels out like giant bird claws ready to grip the earth.  It snowed.  Each day we'd trudge into the centre and scour for a place of our own.  It was really rather miserable.  But an adventure all the same.

Eventually we found a great flat in Islington.  Top floors, sunny and bright.  Brad got more and more work.  The spring buds started to emerge and the sun shone occasionally.  The city was alive.  A hub of culture and art and new discoveries.  Life was good.  I decided to have my baby in London.  It ended up being one of the hottest summers on record.

Seven years went by and with them brought another baby, our darling little girl Suki.  We made many wonderful new friends and we bought a house.  We travelled around Europe and made several trips back home.

Our house in winter

Our garden in the summer

It was a struggle living off one wage.  But we managed somehow.  Then I lost my Mum in 2004.  The phone call you hope you'll never receive when you are away from home.  After returning to Australia for a brief stay we went back to London.  It was home.  I was supported by friends and wrapped up my wounds in the anonymity of big city life.  London was my Mum's town too.  So I weirdly felt closer to her living that life.

A favourite photo of Mum in Trafalgar Square

However, over all those years we always struggled with our position in London.  We struggled with calling it home.  Like a broken record we'd discuss where we wanted to be, where we ought to be, where we could be.  Eventually we saw a life coach.  Amongst many of the things I quote from that meeting she said we had to choose a hemisphere and stick with it, because if you don't make roots then you never live your life fully in the place you are.  We had made roots without even realising.

Things stand out to me now which offer up some clues.  We'd often spend weekends away in Devon.  We'd usually drive back to London at night to avoid the traffic and let the kids sleep.  When I'd see the big road signs lit up with our headlights,  I always felt a great sense of excitement that we were going to LONDON, and that was our home.

Sidmouth, Devon

But I struggled with an unhappiness exacerbated by grief and post natal depression.  I blamed the environment, the cold, the grey.  It's true these things don't help but it was deeper than that.  And when we feel so broken we want to go home, to the place we feel nurtured.  Back into Mother's arms.

South Coast, NSW

The beauty rich and rare has been a great help.  A big blue sky can make a huge difference to how you approach the world.  Wealth for toil.  Well yeah.  It's been hard work to be sure.  I do feel wealthier in spirit.  Restored.  The kids have been able to know what it means to be Australian.  Maybe it's a curse we are bestowing upon them also, this heart in two places thing.  I like to think however, that they are lucky.  They know a lot about the world already.  From Europe they came here.  The peaceful small beach community.    But they will also know a busier life where many cultures mix and anything is possible.

We'll go back to London later this year.  I don't think it is our permanent place.  In fact I am not sure we have one of those.  I now think that this is us.  Hearts and feet in different places.  Global wanderers.  We'll be back in Australia.  Maybe sooner rather that later.  Nothing in life is permanent. We only have this moment to enjoy.  And what is life without adventure?

Dopey Pants

'There is no way in the world any son of mine is going to be caught dead in a pair of those dopey swimmers.'

Those were the words of the man of the house.  The fashion police.  The family style radar.  And I gotta say, those pants do look pretty 'gay'.  And I mean that in the playground sense of the word 'gay' because I reckon that any self respecting gay bloke would actually much prefer a good old tight fitting pair of budgie smugglers any day.

They can't be good for a chaps bits n bobs, let alone a wee lad whose bits n bobs are just trying to get off to a good start.  On top of that they cost a bloody fortune.  The marketing is great: World's fastest swimsuit, it says.  Less drag, lightweight, water repellent.  Aspirational stuff.  Who wouldn't want a pair?

What those swimmers say is: Hey I take my swimming pretty fucking seriously, and I am prepared to look like a complete twat to prove it.  You won't be laughing when you see what a speed demon I really am.  Shaves splits off my time?  Shaves seconds I'm telling ya.

But do they actually work?  That's what we all really want to know.

Well perhaps the marketing should add to its blurb: water propellant.  Today I witnessed the results.  Swimming in Australia is a science and a source of national pride.  We refer to our national swim team by their first names only, like members of our own extended family.  When you've been away for a while this obsession can make you feel a little uncomfortable.  A little like the smugness of the Aussie cricket team.  It's an embarrassment that makes you cringe.

Jack had his swimming carnival today.  Not being privileged (or self obsessed) enough, he doesn't own a pair of high performance swimmers (yet).  He placed third place in all his events.  The first and second places were taken by the same boys in each event.  Now don't get me wrong, I am super proud of my boys efforts.  This is a lad who didn't even swim so well just over a year ago, having spent most of his young life in London.  But what did those boys have that he didn't?

Aside from a consistent Aussie upbringing and probably having been in a pool since they were in nappies, there were two very obvious items missing from our kit.

Firstly, a swimming cap.  Jack has worked hard on his luscious blond surfing curls over the summer and my God, who wants to hide that glory under an ugly plastic cap?  He might not be self obsessed when it comes to the racing gear but he spends an awful amount of time (for a ten year old boy) in front of the mirror perfecting the hair.

And secondly, you guessed it.  The dopey swimmers.

I guess maybe there is truth in the blurb.  Maybe those swimmers really do have little propellers that pop out under water.  Or was it repellent?  Same thing.  If you wear the swimmers the water repels you, pushing you away.  Those boys were streaks ahead.  The combined streamline of dopey pants and plastic caps has to account for a few seconds surely?  All those Olympic champs can't be wrong.

But hey, never let great science get in the way of great personal style, I can hear the man of the house say.  Winning isn't everything!

The Story of a dog named Olly.

Olly was a part of a fantasy I created in my own mind.  He is, however, the real world manifestation of that fantasy.  And as we all know, reality rarely beats the fantasy.

Olly in the fantasy was the family pet.  A companion for us all.  A luxury we weren't able to fit into our busy schedule and small flat whilst living in London.  A part of this new Australian life we'd come back to immerse ourselves within.  Part of the Aussie dream.  Large backyards.  Trips to the beach.  Picnics in the park.  It was going to be great.

So I became obsessed.  A dog website stalker.  Looking longingly at photos of puppies.  Imagining how this little creature would improve our lives.  Fill a space that was empty.

I should mention that my husband, the errant one, was away for a total of 7 months last year.  Our first year back in what was to be our new life in Australia.  The one we'd been pining over for years.  Boring all our friends with the incessant argument of the pros and cons of life in London vs life in Australia.

Not wanting to sever ties completely with London, B spent 4 months working back there over the European summer.  For a freelancer, your regular contracts are the bread and butter that keep you going.  The other 3 months have been contracts in other locations upon the globe, usually 6 weeks at a time.  This wasn't how our life was in London.  And certainly not how I'd imagined our life to be back home.  So perhaps the dog fantasy also took root in the loneliness the separations highlighted.

I have been living in the semi rural south coast of NSW.   A far cry from the life we knew in London.  But it was for the kids.  And they have benefited from all this fresh air and freedom.  A summer spent without shoes and with salt encrusted in their golden locks.  Aren't they the Aussie childhood memories we sought for our children?

In many ways the dog represents so much about the struggles and triumphs of this last 18 months.

I set to work researching the right dog for us.  Finally I took one of those online questionnaires.  They ask you all sorts of questions about your lifestyle and this results in a list of about 4 or 5 dog breeds to suit.  There was our dog.  A whippet.  Of course.  Why hadn't I though of that myself?

I have always loved the look of these hound type breeds.  I lived for a number of years in Ibiza, an island off the coast of Spain, and the local dog they call the Ibizan Hound.

It harks back to the ancient Egyptian hunting dogs and is considered one of the oldest breeds of dogs with hieroglyphic representations seen on tomb walls.  It is thought the dogs were brought to the island by the Phoenicians around the 8th century BC.  I always thought they were beautiful and majestic with quirky characters and elegant physiques.

So finally Olly became a reality.  Life would never be quite the same again.

On his first night with us he fractured his back leg.  On advice from the breeder she suggested we let him sleep in the laundry.  What none of us had considered was that quirky and slightly flighty nature of the hound dog.  Of course he freaked out.  Alone for the first time.  Pack instinct taking hold.  He desperately sought company and in the process attempted to leap on the dryer.  Six hundred bucks later we had our brand new puppy back from the vet in plaster cast from hip to toe.

Six weeks rehabilitation.  Strict cage rest.  No running, leaping, excitement.  Basically all the stuff puppies and indeed kids do with puppies.  The poor little bastard was sent back to the laundry and this time in a cage.  If he were a human it would probably cost a fortune in therapy later in life to recover from his fear of laundry.  As a result he now sleeps inside the main house and usually on the sofa.

There began the journey with Olly.  We named him Olly like the skateboard trick.  Maybe the name precipitated the accident prone nature.  Later whilst staying at my Fathers farm he tore about six holes in his skin leaping through a barbed wire fence.  Another six hundred bucks later he now sports what perhaps in the dog world could be seen as characteristic or charismatic scars.

Whippets can be highly strung and sensitive.  Olly is no exception.  They are also escapologists.  On one occasion having been left indoors alone he managed to find the only open window.  In order to access the window it required some serious shimmying along sideboards where priceless antique ornaments were smashed to the floor.  Further still some skillful creeping along window sills was required before the fly screen could be pushed out to freedom.  He was waiting calmly for us on the front porch when we returned.

His year with us is peppered with stories like these.  He once broke into my Father's house on a stormy night.  Escaping from the garage looking for comfort and human reassurance, he found a way in through a small window.  He nearly gave my poor Dad a heart attack when he felt the wet touch of a dog nose upon his cheek in the pitch black of night.

I took a break from dogs and children and went to Italy to visit my husband.  I had time to reflect on the year and found the courage to admit defeat.  Trying to raise three kids alone, as well as trying to engage in meaningful work is hard enough.  The dog was like the final drop in the cup that is too full.  At times I felt I teetered on the edge of a nervous break down.  Something had to give.

Those moments when we'd all be frolicking on the beach with the sun setting and gentle waves lapping at our feet or throwing the tennis ball down the empty golfing greens in the late afternoons, they were bliss.  That was the fantasy.  Happy family fun.

Perhaps the dog questionnaire got it all wrong.  We needed a more docile, less intelligent and agile animal.  Or perhaps the questionnaire ought to ask you a few more probing questions about your mental health and the other responsibilities you already have in your life before it allows you go on to the further stages of pet selection.

It's taken some time to find the right place for Olly to go.  I have finally found him, what I believe will be, a loving and spoilt rotten home.  A single stay at home Mum and her 12 year old daughter.  Previous whippet owners and lovers living in the hills north of Sydney.

Strangely I have grown really attached to him this last month.  He's matured and settled.  He's a great companion.  In fact he's pretty close to the fantasy I had imagined.  But we are going back to London now.  The grass wasn't that much greener.  There are always pros and cons in all of life's decisions.

Olly was a symbol of the life I had hoped to find back here.  A life I now accept isn't our pathway.  For now at least.

Grateful Four.

Living Here

Having them.

Loving him.

Sandy Bums!

Inspired by Maxbella Loves

What's with the Kookaburras?

Travelling up to Sydney from the south coast of NSW, my Mother and I stopped into an antique warehouse in the charming township of Bowral in the Southern Highlands.  I share my Mother's love of old things, antique jewellery was her passion. She'd once had an antique jewellery business, Greentree Antiques,  housed in a corner of an old theatre in Windsor.  A cavernous and magical place filled to the brim with the most fascinating objects.  A place you could spend hours and still not feel like you'd seen it all.  My sister and I would get lost in that theatre during school holidays.  Upstairs there was an area which was off limits to the public to house the overflowing horde.  It was, of course, the most intruiging place of all.  There was a heavy dusty theatre curtain that drapped across the stairwell to stop customers going up.  We would sneak up there whilst nobody was looking and spend hours trawling through boxes and admiring obscure curiosities.  It was here we once happened accross a box of vintage erotic photography.  We'd never seen anything like it in our lives, little eyes popped out of their heads, we swore ourselves to secrecy and emerged unusually sheepish from our regular adventures.  That old school erotica is still so much more exciting than the modern adaptions.  It was an era when less was more, the imagination was allowed to create the fantasy.

That day, with my Mother in Bowral, was probably the last time we mooched about an antique shop together.  Some months later she was gone.  I'd been searching for little bits of Australiana to take home to London, it had been the general theme of my holiday purchases.  It was in that antique warehouse in Bowral that I came across an old painting of three kookaburras sitting on the branch of a gumtree.  A little rough and a little damaged but framed in a beautifully carved wooden frame.  I fell in love with its rustic Australian charm and had to have it to brighten the walls of my dark basement flat in London.  It would be a little reminder of our sunny roots.  Mum had always been a brilliant business woman, clever and charismatic, I called in her help to negotiate a good deal.

That painting has adorned my walls ever since.  It's a symbol of so much more to me now than my Australian heritage.  It represents family and memories, respecting the past and taking care of the future.

The kookaburra is a family orientated bird living in small units with the older generations taking care of the youngest.  The famous kookaburra laugh is both a greeting and a territorial warning, but once one group starts off it seems the whole neighborhood will join in, often just as the sun is rising or setting.  I like to think that both ends of their day are marked by this calling to one and other, a good belly laugh enjoyed with family and friends.

Where I currently live in Australia we have a family of kookaburras in our backyard, they seem so confidently assured and majestic in their domain and I feel somehow that we have become a part of their family too, so intently they keep watch over us.

So why have I called my blog Kookaburra Laugh?  I felt like life with a family of my own was constantly throwing up a variety of amusing and often challenging situations.  At the end of the day it's often a case of: if you don't laugh, you'll cry.  I prefer to take a leaf out of the kookaburra's book.