Night Walk, Light and Imaginings.

This blog is about night time and the light that transforms commonalities. Night walks are a certain way of lifting spirits and being transported into a world of flickering beauty. Once again there are possibilities; dreams.

I started out from North Fremantle, my home suburb, as dusk descended. The sky was changing from a definite blue to pink and orange, altering harsh angles of industrial buildings and signs, blurring edges.

I walk past my favourite wine store with its fish mural and the crab above the door. On the other wall, next to Mojos music bar, is a larger wall painting of happy dogs on the beach. I can’t make out the bold swirled letters in the gap before the post office.

I cross over the intersection and pause on the corner to look back at the streetscape.

I have never noticed how the trees and the coloured sky frame the square red brick building alongside the post office. Probably I have not looked back this way before.

The signal station at the top of Cantonment Hill*
Sunset time , view from the crossing over Tydeman Rd.

Its getting dark now, so I hurry along past the Swan Hotel and over the bridge towards the city, eyes down, picking up speed as I go.

I turn around at the Moreton Bay fig tree, opposite Clancy’s Fish pub at the entry to Fremantle. No time to stop for a beer. The way back is unexpectedly bright as there is a full moon tonight:I move from Saint Patrick’s Basilica towards the old bridge. A glimpse of Cantonment Hill, a long look at the Navy Store with the octopus reaching its tentacles across the peeling paint. The backdrop of bright moon and swirling cloud creates a Tolkien -like space, mysterious and other worldly.

St Patrick’s Basilica ,home of Fremantle Catholic community since 1894 *
Even the scooter shop looks attractive in moonlight.
Navy Store with octopus

I reach the old traffic bridge and look over the rails into the water below. No one fishing tonight. Unusually, no cyclists or walkers either.

How many times have I walked over this bridge and gazed over the side .

Then it’s back the way I have come.Moonlight all the way. This time it’s as if I’m in a fairyland: plants twist up multicoloured brick work, steel ladders and windows seem to slant towards the light to form dancing shadows. The trees stand firm, only their lighter branches and leaves stirring in the night breeze.

This is a magic night
Cactus crawling up the old wall
North Fremantle Soldiers memorial ( 1923)
On the corner , the outside grassed area of Propeller Cafe is sparkling with lights and the moon

Finally I reach home. The fig tree against the wall is starting to throw out small shoots, maybe it thinks winter is over. Home to sleep, and dream.

Home

Ref ;To read about this Fremantle landmark go to http://fremantlestuff.info-cantonment

* The foundation stone for this Federation Gothic building was laid in 1898. It seems there have been a few changes to the original.

Our Fault Lies in Our Stars? Not in Ourselves? A Look at my Stars for the Week.

Aries (Mar 21- Apr 20)

I’m sitting with a wine at Varsity Freo , at 4.30 pm in the afternoon. Way before the time for drinking : 6pm or sunset whichever is first. At least that’s what I was brought up to believe by my parents, colonial time it’s called for those of us who were raised, well partly, in the far flung Colonies. We’re a diminishing group now of course; the sons and daughters of those bossy/caring/idealistic( whichever narrative you favour) mainly men, who left their established and, this is just an assumption, seemingly monotonous lives to seek adventure. But that’s another blog: my lovely dad and my mother adventuring from UK post W.W.2.with me and my little brother.

Here I am in a pub gradually filling up with couples and families, on a Friday late afternoon. I’m pondering my blogging, or lack of it. Since my return from Spain four weeks ago I have written exactly two blogs . Away I was writing every day. Here I feel I’m slowly being pulled into what I probably need to be pulled into, only not so deep.

I tossed an aside in my last blog about writers and saints being single or monastic. Well I don’t fit either category. I want to belong and I want to escape.I also need to write and writing is a solitary activity.(What a lot of me, me, me). So I go for a long walk, visit the library, go to the pub. This pub is just over the way from the library.

I read the Herald that is lying on a table outside. I can’t help myself. Then I look at my stars. I could help myself but won’t. I think “ that’s a good blog topic “

What colours do I need to show ? Stars say I have to factor in “ all that you could possibly associate with the symbol of Venus”

What do I associate with Venus? Beauty of course, enchantment, manipulation?, strong emotion , obsession?. I pause for reflection.

I read on to the warning “ the goddess of love is not going to be impressed if you don’t consider her fine sensibilities “

Then I laugh. At the warning and at the fine sensibilities. The gods and goddesses are deities reflecting our human frailties,our need to be loved and to belong.They also mirror our human desire for warm regard, and often for power in a number of different guises.The Roman goddess Venus embodies all the faces of love,but she was also heavily embroiled in feuds and wars. Unlike her softer Greek counterpart Aphrodite, Venus was a tough fighter with immense physical prowess.She was uniquely related to the ruling families of Rome. She may have had fine sensibilities but she was also intent on winning, and egotistical.

So to return to the beginning of this piece. Being loved and loving have a price. Life is about more than me. Maybe, just maybe, the juggling and pondering is part of the price. Ok , I’ve shown some of my true colours. Hi Venus , are you impressed ?

And the wine , blogging again , and Varsity Freo thanks .

Ref “ Our fault dear Brutus lies not in our stars /But in ourselves that we are underlings” Julius Caesar Act 1 sc 3

“ Turn-around Camino” Done and Dusted.

On the way home

So what next? My most recent Camino, walking in hot central Spain has ended. The five weeks and 400km of sometimes striding out joyfully, sometimes stumbling out half asleep in the dawn is transferring to photos and videos and the “ do you remember?” basket. As is the occasional shambling grumpily over harsh, flat and sparsely treed terrain, the blisters and sore hip. All these experiences have undergone a metamorphosis. The good and bad and the indifferent, the highs and lows and contradictions are enveloped in that one word response to enquiries: “ Great”.

I have written “ done and dusted”.

I wonder about the connotation with dust, there are many idioms to do with dust: shake the dust off one’s heels. Raise the dust. Bite the dust. Dust off. Make the dust fly. Throw the dust in one’s eyes. Dry as dust . Let the dust settle. Dust is always moving, usually extraneous or not pleasant, to be avoided, a delusion or a trouble.

Dust oneself off, and start again . I’m a bit dusty. Ha, that one rings true. A dusty brain after Covid.

But there’s also fairy dust of course. And dust particles in the air. There’s a special dust in Philip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials( 1995- 2000). The other side of waste and a dustiness that clouds one’s eyes or has to be brushed away are minuscule particles, scarcely seen by the naked eye, floating randomly in the atmosphere.

So the Camino has an ambiguous ending , at least for me. The Spanish walk is complete, yet it continues at home. Strangely the continuation is harder than that recent clear- cut walking every day in central Spain .

So much has been written about The Camino ( Frances) , caminos generally , and about” El Camino de la Vida”, the path of life. Some of this is , I think, just words , or like the dust thrown in eyes, deceptive . I hope I’m not adding more to a growing body of sentimentality. I’ve just remembered bull dust.An Australianism?

The turn -around -camino is a concept I came across when I reached the end of the Madrid Camino in Sahagun . The idea is to spend the time between the end and the return home contemplating and practicing the virtues or qualities / behaviours learned in the past weeks of walking day after day; contemplating the perennial questions of identity, becoming and change. The big one is how do I want to lead my life, or what there is left of it if you’re older. Each person will make their way home in their own way .

Now I’m home and finding it hard to adjust to my real life, in the place I have lived for the last forty years. I think this is a common claim by Camino people. For so long the main task each day is to get up and walk . There are no other people to worry about or to take care of, no food to prepare, no house to clean or dishes to wash. Not even clothes to select each morning, it’s whichever set of clothes that has been rinsed out in the sink the night before. Clean underwear and socks, of course (my mother taught me right, in case I was run over by a bus on the long cycle ride to school !). No makeup, just lots of sun cream and the good old standby moisturiser that doesn’t weigh much, Nivea!

Clothes hanging out to dry, overlooking Segovia roofs. My grey walking pants and Doug’s brown ones . Easy.

Now the jobs are lurking in each corner of this house: things to fix and buy and throw out . There are also bills to pay and work to be written . Food to buy and to be cooked.There are friends to contact and talk to.The cats await their biscuits each morning and the weeds loom green and long as it’s winter. Yes it’s winter and cold

What seemed clear cut in the turn-around is not as simple now. Cut out anxiety, be patient, don’t rush, keep your friends, be kind and loving . I reckon all those saints and writers advocating calm and acceptance of life’s happenings are single. They are single or living a monastic life.

“All shall be well and all shall be well . And all manner of thing shall be well “ wrote Julian of Norwich .

Does this help me now, back here in this life ? Those 15 Century words help a little,but the impact is lessening each day if I don’t hold onto them more tightly.So also is the memory of that striding out each day to the next place, the next discovery.A marvelling at the wonder of life.

I think it’s a matter of clutching at those metaphorical dust particles and watching them flicker and shine as they float around Its not all done and dusted yet, there are caminos to walk here. And there are other Spanish caminos too !

Caminos to walk at home
Clutch those particles, look before they disappear . Like this rainbow over Fremantle’s Leighton Beach this morning

Back Home ( and Posting regularly helps grow your audience, says WordPress) So :

This is Fremantle

On my third day back from Spain, waiting for my daughter and grandchildren in the newly named Walyalup Koort), heart of Fremantle), I saw Fremantle with new eyes. Not exactly the excited or critical eyes of a tourist or a traveller, but certainly with fresh eyes. Eyes still familiarising themselves with clean, organised spaces,well dressed people and fast cars which don’t slow for pedestrians, even those who are just crossing with their children to the holiday activities in the square. I hear English all around and muted, streamed background music. However, most pressingly,what are these people doing in the middle of the day ? It’s siesta time, isn’t it?

Back on my bike now, no more walking in Spain

I park my bike and probably for the first time, really look at the reinvented City Square. I read the plaques under the sculptures as I did in Spanish plazas. Why don’t I blog about my home town ?

First off is John Curtin . He looms over me as I turn away from my bike , shaking a rolled up paper.But he’s not angry. Maybe frustrated , disappointed. The plaque tells me he was a journalist in his early life, long before becoming Australian Prime Minister, and that he is the only West Australian PM to represent the WA electorate.

JC ( 1885 -1945) .Wartime PM who died in office just before the end of the war.

I see another photographer across from me and she’s pointing a proper camera at a beautiful girl dressed as a bride. I walk towards them and nosily enquire about weddings. The photographer explains that the girl is following an Asian custom of dressing up as a bride and having bridal photos taken for her friends . She is happy for me to take a photo for my blog . So here it is.

So beautiful in this late morning winter light

I walk across the Square past the face painting and the children rolling down the lawn and the Lego blocks half assembled .( Wheres the live music ? ) to the FOMO building and the sculpture of the 3 women, one of whom is holding a baby.

Baby in her arms

I realise that I don’t know enough of the history of this latest sculpture to write confidently, But I do know I like it. I also know that in a Square full of male heroes it is soothing and gratifying to see women and a child. I stand taking photos for a while, watching children line up to collect their Lego prizes, and lunch hour workers move down the corridor between the Varsity Bar open to the street and the new Civic Centre and Library. It’s a sunny winter day here in Freo and there’s some sitting around with lunches and cups of coffee .

On my other side is the new playground, next to the over 100 year old Moreton Bay Fig. I move around towards Hughie Edwards. His helmeted head is turned firmly upwards, towards the sky.

Air Commodore Sir Hughie Edwards,VC and many other bravery awards ( 1914 -1982). An Australian Hero.

Next is my favourite : A sculpture by Greg James to Pietro Giacomo, the Italian artist who worked in Fremantle.The sculpture was funded by his friends and the Italian community.The late afternoon sun is behind the Moreton Bay fig and the surface of the work is glinting. It seems as if magic is brewing ; as in fact it is, this creation is fluid, with clear curved lines and features,moving underneath its creator’s hands as he smiles.

To Pietro Giacomo Porcelli , Sculpturer( 1872 Italy-1943 Perth )

St John’s Church(1943), a glimpse of the Town Hall ( 1887) and the new Dept of Communities/ FOMO building( 2021/2022) combine to offer an interesting and colourful backdrop of the historical and the contemporary.The Fig tree grows solidly alongside.

I’m on my way back to my bike now, parked underneath JC and the refurbished Town Hall.The fountain to commemorate Tom Edwards, the Fremantle wharfie killed by a police baton in the 1919 strike, flows into the bird bath A reminder that Fremantle is still a Tom Edwards type of place.Modern has combined with the old to give Freo life,and it’s old heart is still beating .

“Comrade Tom Edwards . Working Class Martyr”

If I need more reminders, catch a glimpse of the drinkers around the table next to the church . They’re diminished in number, but still there, still drinking.

They wave cheerfully as I get on my bike and cycle home.

Moreton Bay Fig , firmly rooted

See https:/en.m.Wikipedia.org for a fuller account of the Wharfie Strike in 1919, and the bravery of Tom Edwards

FOMO : Fremantle On My Own ( for non fremantle-ites)