They say “absence makes the heart grow fonder’.  If this was love for a place I longed to visit, ‘The Cedars’ - Hans Heysen the artist’s wonderfully preserved home, studio and garden at Hahndorf, South Australia - was it.   A living museum I had waited several years to visit, having missed doing so on a previous trip to Hahndorf. 

The family home holds a collection of Hans and his daughter Norah’s art.  The rooms are as they were when the family were/lived there.  I could imagine sights and smells of their daily life.

The garden wrapped around the home, showing much love and care to maintain it as it had been, nestled in the shade of the original Cedar trees.

I stood by the small picket gate that opened to the garden, taking in the warmth of the morning sun.

My wish fulfilled, an 80th birthday gift from my family.
 

"Querida México (Dear Mexico),

I am writing to you to thank you, almost forty years later, for allowing me recover in your beautiful country after an exhausting year teaching in Canada in 1982. 

My friends Peter and Anne had bundled me on to the early morning train at Kamloops Station in late December 1982, my overnight bag full of papers which I needed to finish marking before my students returned after their short Christmas/New Year break.  I wouldn’t be returning to ‘Kam High’, where I’d been on an International Teacher Exchange for the past year.  Looking up from time to time to the terraced views of the Canadian Rockies, this marking needed to be returned before I left Canada after visiting friends in Vancouver to say farewell. 

The next leg of my journey would be from Vancouver to Mexico City, before returning via LA to Melbourne for the beginning of the school year at a new school in Melbourne’s bayside suburbs. 

The timing of my trip to visit you was fortunate.  I arrived at the Bureau de Exchange of the Aeropuerto Internacional de la Ciudad de México to discover that there had been a significant devaluation of the currency overnight.  My US traveller’s cheques fetched at least twice as much as I had expected!  Flush with funds, I booked in to a small, comfortable hotel suite in the beautiful central area of Mexico City rather than my usual single room in a fairly basic hotel.  How wonderful!  I was so tired after my year teaching in Canada.  I remember sinking into the comfortable bed, sleeping for hours and having meals delivered to my room, before eventually venturing out to the hotel restaurant and then on to the streets below.

The Mexico City I remember, the city of artists Diego Riviera and Frida Kahlo, was a city of wide streets, blue high altitude skies and temperate weather.  I’d arrived during the smog free Christmas to New Year holiday break.  Industries had closed.  Many people had left the city to visit families in rural areas or to take a break at one of Mexico’s many beachside holiday destinations.  The Art Galleries and restaurants which remained open in the city were by no means crowded, the people friendly and welcoming.  I eventually surfaced to explore the city, to undertake day trips to Mayan temples.   I particularly enjoyed discovering restaurants and finding waiting staff who had time to chat – I’d lived in Spain five years earlier and was thrilled to speak Spanish again.  Indeed, this was one of my reasons for choosing to return home from Canada via Mexico.

Just as I’d sought out the flamenco restaurants in Madrid, I sought out Mariachi music in Mexico.   In Mexico City (and later in Acupulco and the beach resort of Ixtapa on the Pacific Ocean), I came across Mariachi bands at local markets, restaurants and theatres.   I also followed up the music of a singer I’d seen perform in Madrid, Nacha Guevarra, who was living in Mexico.  On New Year’s Eve, I shared my table with a handsome traveller, recently divorced and keen to have company.  Serenaded by a mariachi band, we were the only diners in the restaurant.

An interest in matters political also tends to surface during my travels.  I had received a letter from friends in my social justice oriented embroidery group at home in Daylesford.  They were working to raise awareness of the work of ‘The Mothers of the Disappeared of El Salvador’ and understood that they had a base in Mexico.  My task?   To locate, and hopefully make contact with, ’The Mothers’.  I love having a project while I am travelling, however found this task enormously difficult.  I contacted a group of women’s lawyers who might have been able to give me a lead.  They couldn’t do so, however were keen to tell me about the work they were doing to raise the profile of women lawyers in Mexico’s legal system.  I sought out alternative music stores for possible leads – again without success.  One store owner showed me artwork and let me listen to cassettes of the music of El Salvador, including a revolutionary song written to lead its disenchanted people through the task of assembling a gun.  (I wonder if that is in an intelligence gathering file on me somewhere?)  Somehow I managed to bring the artwork and cassettes back to Australia to show my friends in Daylesford, eventually giving them to a young musician, an exile from Chile. 

After a year in Kamloops, in the hinterland between Vancouver and Banff in Calgary, I found myself longing to see the Pacific Ocean again.  I left Mexico City’s bus station bound for Acapulco, a rather windy but interesting journey, buying simple silver rings embedded with amethyst at Taxco along the way, rings not worn for decades, long ago taken to a local opportunity shop.

My recuperation continued rather blissfully in an historic, still beautiful but needing refurbishment, hotel in Acapulco situated high up on a hill side, its view of the ocean including the cliffs of La Quebrada where I could watch the world-famous cliff divers in amazement.  A grand old hotel which had seen better days, I loved its views and the the ocean breezes which swept into my room which look towards the ocean and opened out onto beautiful arched arcade balconies.  Time was spent sitting looking out towards the ocean from the balcony of my room, walking along the beaches, enjoying the relaxed lifestyle, enjoying mariachi music when I could find it, and at times listening supportively over dinner to another rather handsome man who had been recently widowed.  I don’t remember details.   I think I just relaxed and continued to let the stress of the past year leave my body and soul before returning to Melbourne for another busy year. 

My final week was spent at your beautiful beach at Ixtapa, north of Acapulco, a restful way of completing my year away in preparation for another busy school year.   I remember many hours spent walking along the beach, interrupted by a leisurely siesta after lunch, a swim, then an early evening stroll along the beach before dining at a beachside restaurant.  I felt so relaxed, indeed quite restored, when I eventually boarded the plane for San Francisco en route to Australia. 

Mission accomplished!

Gracias por todo, México.

Con mucho cariño,

​
 
Beverley Lee
Febrero 25, 2021

"The sun was kissing the terracotta rooftops, bidding farewell to another day and casting long shadows on the cobbled street. Slowly people were gathering, as though they had been waiting for this precise moment in time to emerge from their hiding places. Music could be heard faintly wafting into the Plaza and mingling there with the sounds of people greeting friends. The smell of food beckoned me.  I realised that my stomach was protesting that it had been too long since my last meal.

Absolutely nothing around me was familiar as I wondered how it could be that just days ago I was standing in my kitchen moving through the drudgery of preparing the evening meal for my family. The daily grind, nothing alarming, but seriously boring, was now consigned to another place and time. For now, my feet seemed to move more easily than usual and I wondered at the freedom that travel to this place had brought to me.

At the doorway Cara, my daughter, hesitates, not sure if the eatery would suit me.  Any place where I don’t have to cook and clean up qualifies as perfect!  Kevin, now keenly embracing this new experience, pushes past Cara to the interior of the cafe and proceeds to strike up a conversation with the bewildered Spanish barman. Looking up, he greets us with a smile and welcome “Hola”, before slipping easily into English, at once making us feel at ease.

We sit near the window, Cara and I, sipping our sangrias while waiting for my husband James to emerge from the Church that sits inside this magical Plaza.  Kevin continues to chatter to the barman, making himself at home on the barstool. He’s discovering that conversation comes easily in this exotic place.

The minutes turn into hours and the Sangria flows freely.  Every now and then I wonder how it is that I’m here, living in this moment and drinking Sangria as if it were water. Where is the responsible middle-aged woman I am, where did she go?  James has joined us, food has been ordered and consumed and dusk has given way to the night.  Around us, the bars and cafes have filled with noisy groups enjoying life. I get the idea that this is not a unique experience for these Catalans.  I envy them this place, this way of life.

I’m aware that the hour has turned very late, and that I have not stayed out as late since I was a woman without responsibilities - that time BC (before children). We wander now through the maze of cobbled streets, vaguely aiming for Las Ramblas and our temporary accommodation.  

Music wafts out from late-night bars and since my inhibitions are already dulled by the many Sangria we have enjoyed, I declare we should investigate each and every source of music. The journey to our lodgings becomes very slow as we variously find ourselves in small bars tucked down unassuming laneways. I’m tipsy and giggling and laughing like a young girl.  James too is in high spirits and we find everything funny.   A window display of toilet paper takes on an energy of its own. Official looking guards monitoring the comings and goings of a function that looks like something serious could be happening attract our mirth.  Our hearts are light as we wander about this fabulous place.

Ah, Barcelona.  

A song comes on the stereo and my memories return …  

And you and I we're flying on an aeroplane tonight
We're going somewhere where the sun is shining bright
Just close your eyes
And let's pretend we're dancing in the street
In Barcelona
Barcelona
Barcelona
Barcelona

(Ed Sheehan)"


Michelle Aitken,
February 2021

​In 1993, I spent three weeks in Siberia with a small group of International ornithologists. We were invited to enter Russia on scientific permits.
​
"The midnight sun cast a deep golden glow across the Arctic tundra. It's 1.25 a.m. and the Earth is hushed as I walk alone across its soft green carpet. This is a vast remote area with shades of green and brown treeless tundra as far as the eye can see. The deep golden light of the low angle of the sun spreads gently across this wonderful landscape.

The predominant feature here is a deep silence. Every brief sound seems subdued at this magical time. The silence is broken briefly by the cry of a distant loon, or the unexpected  splash of a paddle being dipped into the water as two youths clad in reindeer skin clothes row silently across the lake to the conical reindeer skin tents of the Chukchi reindeer herder’s camp.  A faint peel of spontaneous laughter comes from happy children who are still out playing. We have been told that the Chukchi are night people and sleep very little in the summer.

​Heading off into the distant landscape I am often wading through ankle deep water. Wild geese are calling in the distance. On a dry patch of land small mouse like creatures scurry down into holes in the ground. I have disturbed a colony of lemmings!

The sun sinks lower and the chill is setting in as the light fades to yet another subdued shade of its golden hue. Wild geese, sounding like lost souls, are again calling to each other in the distance.  Reluctantly, I turn back towards the shore of the lake and my small green tent where Janet will already be asleep.

We flew here yesterday afternoon in an ancient Russian helicopter that had a dirty oil exhaust stripe across its orange paint work.

These helicopters usually have a crew of four. It’s Sunday so we only have a pilot who is not in uniform, with his bottle of vodka  under the seat. Hessian bags of supplies for the reindeer herders are piled in the centre between our seats. Lying on top of the bags is a very inebriated local who is cadging a lift to somewhere further out! 

After half an hour’s flying the cloud thickens. The pilot asks if anyone has a map. He is lost. No one has a map! It’s a case of just flying around to find where the herd is grazing.

We land beside some tumble down ancient huts, the home of a ranger who looks as if he has been here for years. We are in luck; by chance there are three families of reindeer herders camped on the other side of the lake.

​We visit the herders and are welcomed into a large reindeer skin tent. There is a fire in the middle of the tent and a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. One side of the tent is pegged up for ventilation. They are an extended family from grandfather down to a baby clad in a reindeer hide suit suitably padded with moss for a napkin. We sit on reindeer hides on the floor and drink mugs of tea. Our expedition leader is our interpreter.

​The herders are nomadic.  All their tents and possessions are moved on sledges pulled by reindeer.

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union the Chukchi now own some reindeer. Previously they were all owned by the state.

The next morning we notice a strange brown cloud moving on the horizon. It’s the herd! They are bringing them in, slowly grazing them in our direction; thousands of reindeer with the herders walking quietly amongst them.

It’s a treasured memory on a hot summer’s night. Now it’s only in spirit that I traverse the marshy tundra on top of the world, beneath the golden light of the midnight sun."


Bev Morton
February 2021

​"Dear Scotland,

After many years, I have fallen in love with you.

Our first visit was nothing spectacular.  We went to some of the traditional tourist spots, staying in a different place many nights.  We visited Edinburgh for a couple of nights and we visited Inverness.  We had a couple of days on Skye.  After leaving Skye, we headed south, visiting Hadrian’s Wall.  I cannot remember much of that visit.  After leaving you, we visited Ireland, where we were stuck for a few days as a result of the Icelandic volcano stopping all air traffic.  This is what I possibly remember most of that holiday touring Italy, the UK and Ireland.

It was our 2018 visit that focussed on Scotland before heading to Nova Scotia (New Scotland) in Canada.  That is when I fell in love with you.  We stayed for 3-7 days in most places.  We saw and learnt so much, I cannot identify a single highlight.

Our first stop was Perth.  Although we needed to fight jetlag a little, we managed to see quite a lot of great places around the region.  After the first night’s sleep we visited Scone Palace, The Black Watch Museum and Castle, and then Perth itself.  We did get lost but we eventually found our way back to the car.  An interesting visit was to Innerpeffray Library established in the 17th century.  This was a great collection, and we were even allowed to touch most of the books.

Our next stop was Inverness.  We had been there eight years earlier, but only had an overnight stop.  This time we were able to explore a little more of the region.  One stop when in Inverness is of course Culloden.  This time we were able to explore the field (it had been wet and miserable the previous visit).  I even found the marker for the Stewart clan, my forebears.  A standout find in Inverness itself was a bookshop – new and old books and ranging over several levels.  We could have spent days wandering and browsing.

It was as we left Inverness and headed further into the highlands that I really started to fall in love with you.  I can still picture driving up the west and north coast.  We did stay in a couple of places for only one night each, but this was part of the plan for seeing the west and north coasts on our way to catch the ferry to Orkney.

We spent five days exploring Orkney Islands.  Our base was in Kirkwall on the east of the main island.  Here we explored ruins, cathedrals and even managed a craft drive over the few days we stayed.  Our location was perfect, right on the edge of the town.  The unit we rented was a little inconvenient as it was upstairs, with the bedroom up a further flight of stairs.  Still, with such a perfect location we did not complain too much.  We even found a pub where there was a music session every night for Tim to participate in.

From Orkney Islands, we caught another ferry.  This time we headed to the Shetland Islands.  More ruins, cathedrals and craft to explore.  Our unit on the main island of Shetland was not located as close to the main town of Lerwick but was more comfortable.  One exploration was to the island of Unst, the most northerly permanently occupied island and found the most northerly home.  And we found our way south as well.  Some of the smaller islands got missed due to timing.  Highlights for me included the Shetland Textile museum and Jamiesons Wool Shop.

We finally left Shetland for a couple of days in Glasgow before leaving you for Canada.

You are my overseas love and I look forward to seeing you again at some stage in the future."


Joy Shirley
February 2021

'Annamult, in County Kilkenny, Ireland, is a rural area of rich farmland and villages.  Annamult, which means the ford of the wethers, has been recorded since earliest times, with Christian sites, Norman castles and monastic  activity all leaving their mark. '
 
Dear Annamult,
 
I first laid eyes on you in February 1971 when I arrived in Ireland accompanied by my husband Brian and one year old daughter. We had travelled from Melbourne to catch up with my parents and some of my brothers whilst Brian was employed as a teacher in a nearby county.
 
My parents had bought a rundown classical Georgian house at Annamult i n  1964/5.  The house, originally built in the 1700s and updated in 1825, was situated at the junction of your two rivers, the Nore and the King. Surrounded by 26 acres, it was an ideal family house for six of my brothers.
 
Upriver from our house on the King river were the remains of your once famous Merino Mills. Set up in the eighteenth century, they fell into disuse in the 1940s. These ruins could be accessed via a woodland path, although the location of the mill was just outside the boundary of the house grounds.
 
We were lucky enough to spend all of 1971 and half of 1972 at  Annamult, so it was more a case of a developing love affair than "love at first sight".  Living in Annamult and getting to know the locals was a voyage of discovery. Whilst my husband worked, I learned the secrets to baking Irish soda bread listening to a neighbour with a beautiful Irish accent who took us under her wing.  We collected our milk from another neighbour, whilst our eggs were collected from a neighbour known as 'Mrs. Egg McGrath' to distinguish her from other members of her family.
 
In February 1972, our second daughter was born in the nearby city of Kilkenny,  thus strengthening our bond with you.
 
I have made several trips back to Ireland in the intervening years, sometimes alone, sometimes with Brian and once with our four children. I always spent the greater portion of my time in the area.  Regardless of the changes to the Irish economy due to entry into the European Economic Community,  you have managed to retain the peace and serenity I always associate with you.
 
In July 2004, my father passed away and I returned to spend time with my mother.  This was to be my last stay as the house was sold shortly after. I have made a few trips ·since then, always managing to find my way back to see you, even if for only a fleeting visit.
 
The house was destroyed by fire in 2009.  The new owners were required to rebuild it, so the house I knew and loved is no longer there. However, I still visit and admire its location.
 
Annamult, my last visit to see you was in 2018.  I had hoped to visit again in 2020, but COVID intervened. Who knows if I’ll return?  If I can’t, you will always  remain in my memory.
 
I do hope your people and the area are remaining safe,coping with lock-down and surviving the pandemic.
 
Best wishes,
 
 
Margaret McCrohan

​In May 1999 we visited our daughter in California. Helen had left Australia to work as an occupational therapist in the United States for one year, but had stayed five years.  We had just sold our farm and decided to take the opportunity to see what was so wonderful about the USA that had kept her there. We soon found out!

A highlight of our trip was a drive up the west coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco and on to Yosemite National Park. Helen decided to take time off and drive us. The west coast was beautiful, similar to our Great Ocean Road, and San Francisco was eye opening, especially the Golden Gate Bridge and nearby Muir Wood, but nothing prepared us for the beauty of Yosemite National Park.

Our first glimpse was of a waterfall in the distance, looking back through a steep valley in the mountains. Yosemite is part of the Sierra Nevada Range—varying from 2000ft to 13000 ft above sea level.  The park includes alpine wilderness, groves of giant sequoia (red woods), and a long valley caused by thousands of years of weathering and erosion due to glacial action. Rugged peaks and huge round granite domes were formed , and waterfalls and lakes, amid wide meadows and pine forests.

My dearest Trim,
​
You are never far from my thoughts. It is six years since I last visited you. I had planned to see you in 2020 but the nasty Covid-19 virus sweeping the world, prevented me from travelling. My fondest wish is see you one more time before I leave this earthly world.
 
My father’s family lived and worked within your ancient boundaries. He was born in your bosom and died there too. He always wanted to take his last breath in the place where he was born. He was granted that wish, which would have made him happy. Although born in Trim, he was wrenched from his home before he reached the tender age of five due to the death of his parents. It was another deadly virus that took his mother from him in 1918-the Spanish ‘flu’.
 
Despite growing into adulthood in a different locality, his heart was always with you. All through my childhood he took me to visit you several times each year. We would go to the ruins of your historic castle on the banks of the Boyne River. He would tell me some of its history, informing me it was the largest Norman castle in Ireland and was built in 1172. We would eat the lunch we had taken with us, within its thick stone walls, feeling as though we were dining at a banquet of the former owners, the de Lacy’s, de Geneville’s or the Mortimers.
 
Next we wandered round the Yellow Steeple that had been part of an Abbey founded in the sixth century. The steeple was a refuge for your people from the Vikings. Because the Boyne is navigable from the coast to Trim, it was easy for those invaders to arrive at your beautiful setting to loot and plunder.
 
Then my father would take me to the cemetery searching for his parent’s graves, lifting fallen headstones, trying to decipher the faded and eroded text. We never did find my grandparents final resting place during those forays.
 
Next we went to see the Duke of Wellington monument. My father’s family home and business was close by. The monument was part of his early childhood. Unfortunately the buildings that belonged to his parents have now been demolished to make way for a car park. That makes me sad.
 
Arthur Wellesley, whom the monument honours, is your most famous son. He was born in Dublin but his family lived in Dangan Castle, close to you and he was educated in one of your schools. He twice represented you, Trim, as a Member of Parliament in Westminster. Defeating Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo on Sunday, 18 June 1815, was his greatest achievement.
 
In 1699 Dean Jonathan Swift became vicar of Laracor on the outskirts of your township.  He lived in the Glebe house there. Years later, when he was living in London he longed for his garden at Laracor and ‘the beauties of the locality’. You have a way of holding on to the heartstrings of those who love you.
 
Our last destination for the day was the establishment that his parents had once owned--a Public House and grocery shop. I would sit in the ‘snug’ with a glass of orangeade while Dad would have a couple of pints at the bar and chat to some of the old-timers who may have known his parents. Afterwards we would get on our bicycles and begin the long journey home.
 
I too, was born in your hospital and baptized in St Patrick’s Church, but regretfully, I never lived in your historic town. I have always felt I belonged to you and I love to go to see you whenever I can.

​♥ Elizabeth Kearns.