This week started on a high- watching my sister speak language, on country, educating youth. Nothing was more powerful than this display of strength and longevity- always was, always will be. Meanwhile, Gloucester chilled-out to a spate of food trucks in the evening, backed up by old cars and market stalls.
Saturday morning was an early start, but in fairness the hours of the night before seemed to tick slower than a second hand drawal around the watchface. Like a beating rhythm of uncertainty, all fears fell when the 60 year old Wolseley lit up, matched only by my racing heart and Dad's eyes. If asked, I would have struggled to recite the sound before, but upon hearing the engine purr my childhood came back to life.
It started on the road- back to hometown feels, tall trees and running sheep. Out under the rain filled skies, new screws held old tin against hand cut beams on the shearing shed. Then from the farm, we piled in on a trip to Goulburn via Crookwell. Greeted by chilling winds and the promise of snow. The Southern Country has nostalgic charm.
On a centre stage I connected. Blessed, and in the presence of a greater strength, words flowed about my family, climate change and agriculture. I look back at my family's history and find hope. Hope for a better future. Hope for change.
After recovering from the worst of the flu, it was back to it. The weekend provided the chance to pause and get things back in order. Slowly our new mailbox was erected from an old plough and milk can, a timeless testament to components of the history of agriculture. There it stands- captured in time, awaiting future meaning.
I'm writing a bit under the weather today, dragged down by the flu but fighting on as best I can. It's been good to catch up on some sleep, spend some time at home and just clear the mind a little. All with time to recover and gear up for the next financial year.
By the waters edge, a story swirls and seems to play out as it is told. The story written in the landscape proves the legitimacy of each word, confirming the time some 7,000 years ago. When the sea's shore was over 120 kilometres from where it is now, it's obvious this changing climate of ours is now speeding up.
Old books filled familiar places to inspire future thinking. Filled with the thinking of the time, an old Farmer's Weekly provided advice to fix anything, while the old show results of another show provided hope for progression of breeds often ignored now. History stored for another day, wondering when it will be acknowledged and learnt from.
On a distant fridge, a picture hangs with a single clydesdale. It's what dreams are made of, reflecting the perfect horse of the judge over the weekend's proceedings. His eye casts over the 60 odd horses on display, filtered by that distant view, as he selects his favourite.
Cattle bids made the auctioneer sing of prices not so bad, as he danced with an old rogue steer around the pen. The silent manoeuvre renders the crowd quiet, as the Boorowa lad lets out a familiar call, mirroring his late Dad. As the murmuring heartbeat starts again, the bustle continues on- this pen makes way for the next, the bidding starts again.