There's Snow

There is a common, popular misconception that Australia has only one weather pattern, and that is—hot. It's not true, of course. You don't get a land mass only slightly smaller than that of the USA without having variations in the weather. The northernmost tip of Australia is eleven degrees below the equator, while the southernmost tip is looking across the waves to Antarctica.

Snow has been known to fall in Australia.  There are even popular ski resorts in the Kosciusko Mountains, which are close to the New South Wales-Victoria border.  This is nowhere near Far North Queensland, or Papua New Guinea, which is where I grew up. So no, I never saw snow in Australia.

I'd heard about it, of course. All our Christmas Cards showed snowy scenes with holly berries and Santa's sleigh. Still do, as far as I can tell.

So my first experience of snow happened when I was en route from Australia to the UK in 1966, doing what was then a very Aussie thing to do called 'working my way' there.  Myself and my friend Kathy had travelled from Sydney to Piraeus in an ancient Greek passenger ship (you would never have called it a 'cruise' ship, believe me). After six weeks in Athens and Crete failing to find work, we hopped on a train to Vienna where we quickly found jobs as au pairs. Kathy's family had a lovely, huge, historic apartment in the city centre, mine was in a modern house in Sievering, a suburb on the outskirts which had been, until recently, a village surrounded by vineyards.

We arrived in mid-August, and it was a day in late November when winter arrived. Snow was forecast, so Kathy and I arranged to meet in town to greet it together. It was one of those shopping squares with a statue—I'm pretty sure it was Joseph Haydn—which we were strolling through when the first flakes began to float around us as if from nowhere.

If you grew up with snow, you probably have memories of dancing around and trying to catch the snowflakes. You probably remember the joy that seems to bubble up from your insides at the sheer amazement of how magical it appears to be. Well, I'm here to tell you, it has nothing to do with childhood.  We were both in our early twenties, and we danced, and we laughed, and we jumped up and down, and we tried and failed to create even one snowball, but who cared, we tried.

Sievering in the snow

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual in my tiny au pair bedroom in Sievering. There was that unearthly light that glowed beyond the blinds. There was that strange silence. I tipped the side of the blind away, and saw the deep, thick blanket of pure white snow that covered absolutely everything.  The house was completely quiet, so I dressed with as many layers as I could manage, crept down to the front door, slipped my feet into my boss’s winter boots and borrowed her coat and let myself out. Carefully I placed my feet, one after the other, into the shin deep snow, until I was out of the gate. Fabulous.  Then I had an idea. Carefully, I walked backwards into my own footprints, back to the front door.  I was back in my bedroom for about half an hour before the children woke up, so I helped them to dress and we trooped downstairs for breakfast. Then they realised there was snow, so they rushed to open the door—and stopped in their tracks.

Such a simple thing. But oh, I still enjoy the memory. Young master "I'm Four Years Old and I Know Everything", in a hushed voice, saying: "Someone went out.  And they never came back!"

There's Snow!
There's no accounting for it
There's no way to explain it
There's no point in denying it
There's no excuse for ignoring it

There's no reason to destroy it
There's no time to lose it
If you want to enjoy it— 

Get out there and use it!

Thanks for reading, Flloyd.

Read More

Tracks - We'd Better Make Tracks

It is the moment I dislike the most. Our peaceful time in Scotland, staying in the quiet of a hidden-away lodge has reached an end. The car is packed for home. The rooms of our accommodation  are clean and tidy, we’ve checked and double-checked for anything forgotten and one of us says, ‘We’d better make tracks’.

The fact that we’ll be returning soon is of no consolation when the sadness of leaving has already taken hold.

I’ve been trying to find out where the term ‘making tracks’ originated and it is so frustrating not to discover a definitive answer. All I have found is a reference to early 1800s slang for running away in a hurry and leaving footprints. 

Quote -  “This nineteenth century American colloquialism was recorded by Thomas Chandler Haliburton (1796-1865) in his ‘Sam Slick’ papers, which originally appeared in a Nova Scotia weekly in 1836, as well as several earlier journals…”

I wanted to know why the saying is ‘making tracks’ when ‘following tracks’ seems to make more sense. I hoped to learn something more and I haven’t, so if any reader knows, please share with me.

‘We’d better make tracks’ was my father’s way of bringing a summer picnic to an end on a Sunday tea-time. Pubs were closed between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days. My family would get together and drive in convoy to a suitable destination to spend the afternoon, everyone bringing food to share. We were all based in Lancaster and Morecambe for a while and our outings were Crook O’ Lune, Littledale, Glasson Dock, Heysham and Ingleton Falls. I was aged four or five, the only child and got made a fuss of. Everyone was relaxed, life was simpler, or that’s how it looked to me. No one rushed. There would be glancing at wrist-watches and mutterings about getting back for opening time as thermos flasks and rugs were put away into car boots in a leisurely fashion.

Our first pub was in Manchester, close to Piccadilly railway station. I was too young to remember much about it, but I knew it was the Star and Garter on Fairfield Street and my walk to nursery with my father took us under a railway bridge. On a recent day at Manchester Christmas Markets with my friend, I suggested that we look at the pub, from the outside. Our train was taking us to Piccadilly so we weren’t going out of our way. I’m easily lost in a city without a coastline to guide me, so it was no surprise to find us following Fairfield Street in the wrong direction. We hadn’t gone too far, luckily. We strolled back and eventually reached the pub, took a few photos then went shopping. Later, waiting on Platform 14 for the train home, I was absent-mindedly gazing around when I realised that right in front of me, across the lower level train tracks, stood the Star and Garter. My friend and I laughed. We’d walked for ages looking for that.

Before long, it will be time for rest and recuperation in Dumfries & Galloway. The car will be packed, the house in good hands and I’ll be happy to say, ‘We’d better make tracks.’

 

I found this poem,

 

Flowered Tracks

 

The breeziness of gentle winds, leafs rustle as trees sway
Sunlight rays a partial light, that shine across the bay
Summers warmth an evening sky, are setting on the day
Dusk approaches through the trees, as the daylight goes away

Flowered tracks along the gorge, a gentle mountain breeze
Dusty valleys lead the way, past the old oak trees
Down to flowing waterfalls, the beauty that one sees
Flowered tracks floating beside, are following with ease

Deep inside the canyon walls, the water hits the stream
Shimmers from the waters edge, upon a golden gleam
The beauty of a secret place, waters merged with a sun beam
Is this a true reality, or flowered tracks last dream

Between the hills on golden ponds, lies colours of tracks flowers
Where the rocky crescent forms, and where the sunlight cowers
Moon light shadows visible, only after sunlight hours
The beauty of a litten dusk, the light the moon devours

A wolf howls above the rocks, high upon the glade
One heart beat I can hear, I am feeling so afraid
Full moons light upon my soul, the wolfs cursed life is paid
Wolf's blood bite on flowered tracks, a glistened moonlight trade

Wolfs eyes glare standing alone, no hunters and no packs
Were wolfs fangs on shadows moon, blood seeping through the cracks
A man once stood is now transformed, his humanity life lacks
The werewolf curse is fulfilled, complete on flowered tracks

 

Written by Kirk, from Hello Poetry.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

Read More