Perfect weekend
Sunday, June 26, 2011 at 04:13AM Okay, so here’s my idea of a perfect long weekend. Head off Thursday evening after work, with the dog and the laptop, a warm jumper, pyjamas and food for one. This means that although I fall into bed exhausted as soon as I arrive, I get to wake up to nothing but the sound of surf and bird song. Plus I get an extra night down there, and there’s nowhere on earth I sleep so well.
Anglesea. Where I’ve been going for breaks and holidays all my life, where my mum’s family have been going for over 100 years. To the weatherboard shack that my grandparents started building in 1917, that has had its most recent makeover in the last year, courtesy of my hard-working and project-loving other half.
It’s a great place to write. It’s a great place to do most things. It’s wonderful to come here with just my husband, or with the entire gang, or bits of it, or friends or cousins. This year though, with three-quarters of our kids having left home and said husband travelling half the year, it’s a place I come to mainly on my own.
My days adopt a certain routine, which consists of writing, walking, eating and a ridiculous amount of sleep. It seems as though I catch up on the missed sleep of months in Melbourne when I come down here.
I set the alarm for eight, feed the dog and make myself a cup of tea, which I take back to bed. I cradle the warm mug, gazing out the window at the twisted trees and bush on our big block. I start the day slowly: meditating, having breakfast, setting the fire for the evening, bringing a wheelbarrow load of wood up from the shed to replenish the supplies at the house.
A long walk is the first serious item of the day, with a trip to the corner store on the way back to pick up the paper. It’s at least half past ten by the time I settle down to write, which I do with another cup of tea. Two hours of solid work, then a break for lunch, then a nap. Two more hours of writing, another, shorter walk (did I mention that the dog loves this place?) and a bit more work before lighting the fire. A gin and tonic followed by dinner and then reading until I fall back into bed around ten.
There’s a lot of mucking about, but I find it hard to write for more than five or six hours a day. And a big part of coming here is to rest, to relax away from the constant, noisy traffic of our street and the chores that are always waiting to be done at home. Away from the phone, casual droppers in and, most conducive to creativity of all – away from the internet.
The hours spent walking the beach, sitting on the long verandah or staring into the open fire are, I’m convinced, as important to the creative process as is the actual tapping out of words on the keyboard.
I only eat at mealtimes, as there are no cupboards full of snacks, so everything tastes wonderful. Carrying the split logs up from the shed and scouring the block for kindling is deeply satisfying. Not speaking for nearly three days gives me a deep inner calm that lasts well into my week once I’m back in town, which is a life I also love, but which is utterly different.
It’s so basic. Other than having electric light and running hot water, it’s pretty much how my grandparents would have spent their visits here. Apart from buying the paper, I spend nothing.
It’s basic, and it’s an immense privilege – having not just one but two homes in a world where so many people have none. And it’s more than just a charming rustic shack. Six generations of my extended family have been coming down here. Our dogs are buried on this block. Several of my mum’s generation have their ashes scattered here and mum herself is buried close by. As I write, photos of my forbears look down at me. I am surrounded by friendly ghosts when I come here. I have the strongest sense of ancestors smiling as they recognise my features and the way I spend my quiet days.
Next time I come down will be with my husband (volcanic ash permitting) and it will be great. I miss his companionship, his energy, his sense of humour and his touch. But this time, all I need is my own company, the written word and the place that is more home to me than anywhere else.
Reader Comments (3)
So glad you have Angelsea. A precious time in a precious place. What could be better for the soul. Ricky
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