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.
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.
As the storms danced their way around the mountains, the temptation of rain teased the needy ground, desperate for a little bit more. Slowly the clouds opened up, unearthing more questions and false hope. Would this be enough for now? Will this get us through until the next fall? On and on the cycle goes, but ever vigilant that what we need is every little bit.
Down Kenyu Road the lambs play, darting optimistically to a new season and the chance of later rain. It's a road I've come to love, every turn, every rolling green hill nestled in the landscape and each tree guarding from the weather above. Just out past the coffee shop and bridge where it all started.
The week started with a hope of rain, molding a city skyscape of pessimists, while optimistic farmers took their chance to applaud every drop, secretly hoping for the next. Following highway lines, along country roads to home, the night took us to Biripi country to Teach a Man to Fish. Kattang words flowing, didgeridoo humming and tear filling tunes, the introduction to the film was enough to capture the soul of our people and fill us with hope. And somehow, the documentary sparked new hope, new reasons.
Following the wisdom flowing from our team last week, I was guided to listen. Just find the right people and absorb what is there, asking questions to chase the story and note what is not said, what is left in the space between us. Often they are words too hard to share, too painful to re-live as a memory or thought, let alone living in the shoes. Just listen.
Just over 7 hours is the drive between Gloucester and Boorowa, broken down into two seamless long extended straight lines with strong city lights to break up the trip. Yet somehow, the same tall trees seem to sing me into the little town where I grew up, a place that somehow still feels of home despite the distance. Ignorant to the time spent past, my mind still drifts to blocking the streets as a child to play cricket with anyone who stopped in, connecting with nature and animals like best friends and bonfire smoke that broke up the cool nights between the town.
500 horses dash madly across the country, as wiry young men, preferably orphans, make a constant 10+ mile dash full throttle. Jostling and riding spur in makeshift saddles, these men are on a mission- to deliver the mail as fast as they can through mail routes across the United States. Riding long into the nights, facing revolts from Indigenous People over land and with the news of the Civil War uprising, incredible respect and myth still fuels The Pony Express.
The last Saturday of the month signals that it's market time in the little town of Nabiac, where local farmers sell their goods proudly and share yarns about the season ahead. It always amazes me how the little town of a few hundred manages to attract such an influx of people, form seasoned farmers to those dabbling in the game. Under the spell of folk music and back paddock tales, it's hard to wonder how interaction in local communities and purchasing local has taken such a beating. Yet as the hawker carts of early years found out, sometimes the temptation of the exotic unknown is enough to trigger consumer response.