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.