Looking for the magic

My partner and I do not have an anniversary  because despite being an item for 20 years, we were too lazy or too cheap to ever bother getting married (or when we are feeling rotten we tell each other that the reason is that we are waiting for a better offer. Yeah, good luck with that.)

But last weekend we did have an anniversary worth celebrating as that was one year since we arrived here.  It has been an unforgettable year with a few ghastly lows and many wonderful highs, all the while watching from afar as the city we left behind unfortunately copped a truly unforgettable year too.

So last weekend we headed out to celebrate our milestone. On Friday night we went to the shiny, new and gobsmackingly gorgeous State Theatre Centre (above) for a night of fresh, funny, poignant and original theatre in the form of Perth Theatre Company's production of The Pride. The next night we drove to Fremantle to a tiny club to see one of my favourite acts all the way from New York: the amazing, inspiring, ridiculously cool yet charmingly chatty Joan as Policewoman.

Magic and magic.

So how have we done compared to what we'd hoped when we moved here? Well I've certainly come a mighty long way since our first day when we drove past Mandurah's many enormous and to my mind architecturally bankrupt houses and I glared at my partner and scowled "You said it wasn't like the Gold Coast!"  I've recovered from the shock of discovering that the two predominant styles in these parts are cashed-up bogan and doing-it-tough bogan. I've discovered that there is much, much more to Mandurah than initially meets the eye; this is a good thing.  When people ask how I'm finding it here I say "very interesting" and I am not telling porkies.
 
We are now on a roll finding the joy and fun that comes with living in a new place.
 

 
We came here to explore,
 

 
discover and learn,
 

 
to find challenges and thrills,
 

 
and to be fascinated and intrigued.
 

 
 We came here looking for new things to try, new things to love and new versions of the old things we already loved. 
 

As the marvellous Joan would say, we came here looking for the magic.  We're finding it,  but we sure aren't finished yet, and for now we aren't the slightest bit interested in better offers.

Keeping up with the older set

Most of my new friends here are quite bit older than me, in some cases many decades older. I guess that's what comes with mixing in booky, crafty, textile art circles and living in this particular neighbourhood in this particular city. These women are as sharp as tacks, involved in everything, voracious readers and take some keeping up with.

But there is one grand dame I have given up trying to keep up with. Her real name is Tammy but Australians like to give things nicknames so in following local custom we now call her "The Tamster". (My son, the chief dogwalker, is known as The Tamstermeister.) Her owner scored her from the dog rescue place so isn't exactly sure of her age, but she is at least thirteen human years old.  Nobody believes us when we say how old she is.  This summer was so long and hot that she ended up having to have two haircuts (she usually only has one a year) which made her look even younger. 

Before we met her Tammy hadn't been for regular walks for quite some time.  At first we took her for shortish walks around the neighbourhood, then longer and longer ones.  Now she has decided that what she really wanted is runs.  Now I love walking, but running, not so much.  That is a job I leave for the now quite tall people I used to call TheShortFolk.

But the most fun we have with The Tamster is when we take her in the car to the beach.  Last time we went was a beautiful evening and she sprinted down the beach then leapt around in circles like a great big puppy.  In the car on the way home she kept slobbering on my neck as I was trying to drive which is apparently how she says thank you.

She has so much energy and such a zest for life that it is like she is taking some kind of youth serum.  When I'm her age I hope I'm just like her.  Only I hope I can resist any urges to roll in piles of rotting seaweed.  And maybe not so slobbery.  And definitely not so hairy.

Bad day in birdland

Despite the fact that our rented back garden belongs to the "Missed Opportunity" school of landscape design, it is still heaving with birdlife.  This is largely due to the fact that our neighbour, Tammy's owner, has an beautiful garden full of mature native plants. 

Another neighbour has a cat.  That cat's garden is from the "Scorched Earth with Naff Ornaments" school of landscaping so doesn't get many birds visiting.  The cat is too scared to venture back to Tammy's garden after it had to get rescued by a bunch of firemen after spending a sad night up a tree crying, so it sometimes lurks in our garden instead.  I suspect it hung out in our garden yesterday as this morning I found grim evidence.  Somewhere out in birdland there is a very sore or very dead twentyeight parrot.

We are not allowed to have pets in this rental home.  When we do eventually move to a home of our own the children hope to get a pet.  It will not be a cat.

Going bananas for gone bananas.

I've been having a recurring dream.  It is about a gorgeous, curvy, tasty creature.  The creature is cheap, but in my dream certainly never nasty. The creature's name is Bonita.

Yes I have been dreaming about bananas.  We haven't eaten them for months and are in serious banana withdrawal. I can now blame all my incompetencies, inadequacies and inefficiencies on being deficient in all the things I usually score from my banana intake.

Cyclone Yasi swung by in February and wiped out most of Queensland's banana crop and since then prices have gone up and up and up - just like they did a few years ago when Larry swung by.  Apparently Australia does not import bananas though my deprived brain cannot come up with any good reasons for this.  Today bananas were priced at $18.95 a kg at my local supermarket.  After weighing one and doing some calculations I worked out that at the rate this household usually disposes of bananas that that would add at least another $80 to the weekly shop. Given that my weekly grocery bill is already almost double the number I used to spend in New Zealand, I yet again went home bananaless.

Well at least I have my dreams.  Of banana cake, banana muffins, banana pikelets, banana fritters, banana and jam on toast, plain old emergency handbag banana .....  

..... and of September when affordable bananas will apparently start making their way back into the shops.

Busselton

I'm a shocker for going on holiday to a scenic spot, falling in love with the place, then staring longingly in the windows of real estate agency windows there.  I've swooned around Robe in SA, Port Fairy in Victoria, Brunswick Heads in NSW and dozens of tiny towns in NZ while kidding myself "I could live here". 

The latest object of my completely impractical infatuations is Busselton WA.  See if you can see why.

Last time we were there we did The Busselton Jetty Experience (thanks Nicola).
 

This has to be one of the loveliest touristy experiences in this region.  It involves catching a dinky train to the end of the newly refurbished 1841 metre long jetty, then heading downstairs into a viewing chamber to observe the marine life living in the waters around the end of the jetty.  This is not an aquarium, but simply a window into the natural environment.  It is a superbly clever, simple and effective way of turning a natural asset into an excellent tourist attraction.

The weather was perfect so we skipped the train ride back and walked instead.

Back at shore the other members of my party went snorkeling in what I now realise was probably our last swim of the season.  I decided I needed to see more of the town so trotted off to check out the galleries and op shops.  Having decided a few days beforehand to add something new to my pared-back op shop wishlist, I then immediately found some of it: some Annemarie (Figgjo) for Annemarie (Gumbootgirl). Busselton, you kill me.

I know I can't live in Busselton as a two hour drive to work and school each day is a tad excessive.  But happily I also know that at that distance away, Busselton is the perfect spot for a regular weekend escape.

Rapture in Harvey

Great excitement this weekend as of course Saturday was not just any old Saturday; this Saturday was Rapture Day!  By 6pm I had the dishes done and the house nice and tidy just in case.  6pm came and went and nothing happened.  I sat down and watched Dr Who with the children instead, which was nice. 

On Sunday morning I wondered whether it was actually supposed to happen at 6pm Saturday in Mr Camping's hometown.  This would give us a few more hours of normalcy; what a shame to spend those hours doing laundry and going to Open Homes. This might be our last chance to get out and explore this fascinating part of the world.  An outing was obviously in order, but where to go?

Today I grabbed my folder labelled "Harvey - not the boy".  There are a lot of Harvies around these parts. Harvey is a town, a food bowl farming region, a river, an estuary, a dairy company, an orange juice company, a cheese factory and many more things besides.  In my folder I'd stashed maps, brochures and clippings about that town and region and today we set off on a Rapture Day Sunday drive to Harvey.
 
I believe there is a real art to concocting the perfect Sunday drive.  According to me, they must:
- not involve too much driving and preferably be a loop route,
- be to places that are actually worth getting off the couch to see,
- include a variety of sights and activities of interest to all participants,
- cater to the individual requirements of all participants (e.g. constantly hungry, require scenic car-sickness stops), and
- cater to the differing abilities of all participants (can't walk, can't walk far, dream of walking fast for two hours without stopping).  
According to my father Sunday drives also had to include a stop at at least one major feat of engineering.  According to my mother they also had to include an enormous Tupperware container of carsandwiches. (I'm not mocking.  I love carsandwiches.)

Harvey township is only 77 picturesque kms from Mandurah and the journey is through countryside filled with farms, vineyards and orchards.
 

 
Our first stop was The Big Orange at Harvey River Bridge Estate winery.  How could we resist?
 

 
Then off to Harvey Dam;  my father would be proud.  A damned fine dam it is too with a lovely picnic area, a superscenic walk to the top of the dam, the cutest little amphitheatre in the South West and the tidiest public toilets I've ever seen.
 

 

 

 

 
Next stop was the tourist precinct.  There we saw some beautifully maintained historic buildings, various tributes to May Gibbs who lived in Harvey for a couple of years, some pretty gardens and a shop selling a huge assortment of cow ornaments.  The member of our party who is allergic to tweeness did a top job of keeping it seemly. 
 

 
Finally we headed out into the wopwops for the main reason we went to this neck of the woods and the reason we'll go back; this time of the year is perfect for bush walking. 
 

 
The bushland we walked through was blackened from a fire but full of plants that have a "yeah, yeah, whatever" attitude to fire.  Fresh green foliage was bursting through the blackened trunks.

 
The more I see of the Australian bush the more I love it.  The plants and colours and textures are beautiful. 
 

 

 

 
By the end of our walk none of our party had rapturously disappeared though by now some felt in danger of fading away through hunger.  We drove back towards Mandurah via a different route and at 3.40pm stopped for lunch in the town of Waroona.  I figured that what with Rapture and the Apocalyse coming we could lay off our usual lentils and chickpeas and eat whatever we liked.  Delish burgers at Dizzy's Diner hit the spot.
 

 
We drove home through low wintry sunshine.  When we got home Harvey the boy walked Tammy the dog, whose owner is very holy but thankfully still here too.  I cooked dinner and drank a glass of Harvey wine.  The children watched Merlin then helped their father with the dishes. 

No rapture today, which was nice.

Good Old Dawesville

I spent four days of last week at home minding sick children. (And every time I tried to use Blogger last week it was busted.  How dare this free programme I use not be available when I want it! What a flipping liberty!)  So I didn't get nearly enough exercise last week and by this week I was quite antsy.  I needed something faster than the usual stopstart stroll with Tammy as she pauses to sniff every bit of footpath grossness.  I needed something more interesting than the familiar sights offered by my local streets.

So yesterday morning, after finally dropping two well children off at school, I headed straight to a spot that I'd been meaning to explore further.

Mandurah is full of suburbs that have an older, established part and a newer, all-built-at-once part.  Some people prefer the old bits of town and some like the new.  Three guesses which parts I like. (I can't tell the houses in the newest areas apart. I have promised the children that if I do succumb and buy us a house in one of the shiny new suburbs, then I will help us find our way home by employing the same technique we use to help us to identify our belongings on baggage carousels: I'll tie a huge red woollen pompom to it.)

The place I headed to yesterday morning was Old Dawesville.  When I arrived there it was only 8.15am.  It was raining and cool and deserted and fabulous.  Due to an unusually high tide it was also somewhat picturesquely flooded.
 

I set off uphill. Old Dawesville has an eclectic assortment of newer homes dotted amongst the remaining original beach shacks.

 

 
Both sorts of homes have glorious views across the estuary and all the way to the hills many miles in the distance. (Yup - saw dolphins.)
 

 

Unlike the scorched-earth look of the new suburbs, Old Dawesville has established native flora and is heaving with wildlife, including a peewee casually pretending to have one leg,
 

 
a butcherbird that made me get a Leonard Cohen song stuck in my head,
 

 
and the biggest spider I've seen outside a museum drawer.
 

 
 I pounded down tree-lined pathways,

past washed up boats,

past the many picnic settings left on the shore - some now draped with flotsam and jetsam,

and some that had been claimed by the flood -

and past more birds.

I got a bad case of the "I could live here"s.

My thighs protested and my face turned the colour of my raincoat (raspberry), as it does. A kindly old chap used the flooding as a conversation-starter.  It turned out that he really just wanted to know whether the startlingly bright colour of my face meant I was likely to soon need the services of ambulance, as kindly old chaps often do.

I noted that not all the locals are so friendly.

But even so, on a soggy, foggy morning I decided that Old Dawesville is good. Very good.   So good I could even see why some people might be sorely tempted to spend several hundred thousand smackeroos more than their entire house-shopping budget to buy an uninhabitable asbestosy hovel there.