At the farm, it's evident that the drought has made its mark along the Coast. Surrounded by burnt ground from a raging inferno, the land wilters, begging for the few metres of rainfall that normally meets the ground. Instead, metres of rain is replaced by metres lost from dams and it's hard to think of the once kneehigh green grass that used to make walking through the paddocks difficult.
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.