Free Range Chickster
LIFE LESSONS
And just like that, three months have passed and I find myself deposited back in my little house by the sea with a garden that seems hell bent on trying to imitate the Amazon Jungle.
It was a big call to move to Dunedin alone in the Winter with no familiar touchstones, the driving enough of a challenge, let alone the rest of it. I think I travelled about 3000 kms. But I was ably assisted in my adventures by my big new and sturdy car with GPS and room to fit camping gear, sleeping bags, winter woolies and a makeshift kitchen. I would have the occasional night time fear about what would happen if it got crashed or stolen- eek- but it never happened.
Dunedin turned out to be a joy- a real edgy city in miniature with history confronting you everywhere- the passion to pull down and put up again in large boxy structures seems to have largely passed Dunedin by- the fantastic old buildings still standing as they always have.
I was enraptured by the southern spring - blossoms and new growth so painfully beautiful. Wellington with its evergreen everything and wind decimating delicate blossoms with no mercy, seems harsh in comparison.
I moved on to stay at a new place every week so I got to experience lots of different locations around the city- the intense north-east valley and the wild St Clair beach with its crashing rollers nearly coming in my window. And the high hills of Roslyn where I worried about black ice and the inner city with action every night. Cold weather doesn’t stop those hip students from sitting at the outside tables and having a few beers.
I could rave on about Dunedin but I went lots of other places too - quirky Gore with its mad keen artists and the beautiful made over Cromwell and Clyde, expensive Gortex jackets and arty things getting shipped to Auckland from the numerous gift shops every day.
I drove a lot, drank a lot, ate a lot and wrote a lot. Living somewhere where you barely know anyone was sometimes a bit solitary but I have some very good old friends who keep a touchstone to me and my old life, and kept me feeling human and connected- not a random street person in fur -lined boots.
And as for Wanaka - well I’ve already raved about it all. It was Brian’s ambition to retire down there and I have been heard to say that the only good thing about his early death was that I wasn’t going to be dragged down there in my old age, freezing and getting chilblains. I take it all back- cold clear days beat the wind tunnel of Molesworth St in Winter (and spring and autumn and summer) after all.
So - what did I learn? It turns out our old mantra that girls can do anything has turned into old ladies can do anything. Adventures are not just for the young. And I can rely on myself (at last).
Small pleasures like getting that combination of words to fit together in your poem are like gold, aqua jogging is challenging, and a working body is beautiful thing, no matter how old it is.
And what did I buy? One pair of fur-lined boots, two pairs of track pants (fur lined!!), three big jerseys and a tea towel emblazoned with the Dunedin logo - oh and I nearly forgot a huge swathe of baby things for our new baby who will be coming in February. I am amazed to think I will be a grandparent. Mark and Laura are surprised and ecstatic.
And I’m also bringing back with me a half written book, a great swathe of poems and the five extra kgs you can add if you wear track pants the whole time, eat chips, and drink a half a bottle of wine every day.
And a new respect and love for the Deep South.
And for no reason except the hell of it - here’s my poem about Westport.
From the outside in
There was a death in Westport,
A few rainy days ago.
The locals are gathering.
In the quiet mid-morning
I walk in and out of
hushed conversations, sombre asides.
Weird things are happening here they say.
Like the earthquake last night.
It was at 2am.
I was fast asleep, said the lady in the book shop.
Not surprising, I thought!
In the cafe they have gathered
A mixed bag of grey beards and fur-lined boots
Weather-beaten faces, rollies in their top pockets.
Nicotine staining dark on their forefingers.
I am a stranger in town
I look different.
My clothes too bright, my hair too blonde.
Their eyes slide past me.
In each shop I encounter a conversation
About the funeral.
The local tom-toms moving ahead of me.
I speak to no one but I now know:
The funeral is this afternoon;
She died one week after diagnosis;
It was the cancer with the long name;
She was always so sunny and cheerful;
She made ornaments out of driftwood and Greenstone;
Her husband will never cope;
The rain will hold off for the funeral.
I am an outsider here,
but privy to insider information.
The ebb and flow of soothing platitudes
all so familiar to me.
Death is such a leveller.
PS The discerning will notice that the photo is in fact Foxton Beach as the cold snap flew in and over to somewhere else today.
