Flying back from New Zealand last week, I put on a movie and grabbed out a notebook to jot down some thoughts. To be honest, most of the thoughts are the same- the dream of farming on rolling hills, restoring and rebuilding the love of agriculture that flows from the blood of my ancestors, and understanding the role of my People in all of this today. The Worimi air and The Dance lyrics promised more, reminding me of the cause.
Anachronisms created mixed feelings this week, focused on farming across seas. While being exposed to some of the newest ag-tech at the MobileTech Conference this week in New Zealand, it's hard to remove the thought of Braford cattle roaming ancient Worimi country and Clydesdales pulling antique carts. Tech, or no tech, this joy keeps me awake at night.
I'm still not sure the ground is there, other than in soul and spirit singing out loud. Country tunes have guided me across familiar roads, as my phone revives from exhaustion from the constant calls. My tyres are tired from running, weary eyes peer outside the bags amassing under my eyes. But this week, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Rams roam in the front paddock along a tree lined driveway, connecting the Kenyu Road to the old farm homestead. Time trapped, stagnant, the old promising home seems a mere ruin to the naked eye. Yet in my heart, I know it promises much more.
The sun awakened to the waves crashing, calling for the beach and nearby dolphins to bathe in Worimi beauty. Nearby, a child's laughter warms the day, as pelicans play for attention and a feed. Saltwater, saltwater people, owned by this glorious county.
It's been a week since work finished, a time to celebrate and share, relax and unwind. The coffee consumption has slowed, naps occur frequently and the sun's rays kiss the skin more often. Worimi country lights up, translucent water illuminating dolphins and ancient trade routes, the nearby beach sparkling and glistening in the sun.
Inevitable. This is the word I've been reflecting on this week as time slows, then jerks closer, forward. All in time they say, or all in a days work. But surely, one day, it will come.
In a world subject to changing fast and trying to keep ahead, gentle giants and a few old maps question the revolutionising change. Amidst the rush, a wave of slowing paces the hallow hallways, screaming for a recognition of the past. Often unnoticed, it is still here. Always was. Always will be.
After a quick yarn to the owners of the new hardware in town, I left the workshop where my Grandfather worked for 50 years, with photocopied picture in tow. I can't recall ever seeing it before, somehow hidden or forgotten in an old album, but there's something about it that makes me light up. With it, old facades embracing early model Holdens, a testament to the changing times.
Early morning fog lifted as the pressure from a lone garden hose released to the sight of purple horse shampoo. Touching up the soft, flowing feathers from just a few hours the night before, it was then onto the float and back inland for the Dungog Show. It was the first horse show since May, but Izz took it in her stride and reintroduced herself to the ring.