Country Roads Take Me Home (because I might as well continue this John Denver theme)

I just don’t think I’m ready to go back to real life yet….okay?

Unsurprisingly, uni doesn’t share my view on this issue.   Instead, uni wakes me up by clashing saucepan lids together above my head and pulls the dooner off me; screaming at me that it’s time to get the hell up and go buy text books, and while I’m at it, why don’t I get a head start on all those readings that I will eventually cease to read after the initial fervour wears thin. Go away uni, I plead, I still have 3 cherished days before I’m meant to freak out about you yet.

I do know that this hesitancy to return to the real world is a direct response to the wonderful holiday I have just had. Instead of feeling fresh and ready to tackle life head on, it has left me with the distinct taste of nostalgia and the desire to nestle myself down into a comfy chair and think about the places I come from and the people I know.  I think perhaps that once you move away from your homeland (wherever, whoever or whatever that may be) it is possible to exist in a state of duality where you will always yearn for that comfort and simplicity but at the same time never really wish to go back to life as it was. Does anyone else experience this, or is it just my head taking me in two different directions, as usual?

My visit back to Tasmania found me spending time with the parents at home and at Cradle Mountain for one sparkling day.  At home I went for walks, cooked, knitted and relaxed in the way I only seem to when I’m back in my parents house,  while the day we took a mini road trip to Cradle Mountain found us ambling along three separate 30 minute board walks (we weren’t there for serious bushwalking at all) and having lunch in the blessedly warm tavern.  Cradle Mountain was very very cold that day (as expected) but there hadn’t been any snow yet.  Instead, little ice crystals covered the ground and the flora, while the ground actually steamed in the biting air. Here are some photos I took of these, as well as the base of an enormous ancient king billy pine tree.

The day after meandering about Cradle Mountain I hopped in the car and mentally prepared myself for the drive from Latrobe to Hobart, which I have driven countless times, but never from the outsider’s perspective. No matter which direction I was heading in, I have always been driving towards home.  However, this time my role of visitor disrupted the routine of the drive, causing me to contemplate on whether it would feel different when I got there or if the familiarity would engulf me. Once I arrived I realised that a) Hobart traffic is far scarier than Melbourne freeways despite there being markedly less traffic; b) Hobart is much quieter than I remember.  It was always the exciting big city of my childhood, but walking through this time astounded me with the silence of the place; and b) the people you love and leave will never change in your eyes and it is possible to immediately fall into the comfortable space which was so acutely mourned.

I did have a wonderful time over countless cups of tea, breakfasts, zumba and kitchen talks and was not able to take anywhere near as many photos as I had planned because I simply forgot in the moment.  In amongst all the catchups and long hugs I did spend a little bit of time on my own, becoming re-acquainted with the city. I did this by wandering around the docks I spent so much time at while I was at Art School,  and finally finding my way back to Salamanca.  Here are some of the conversations I had with the city during that hour on my own…

And here are some photos from conversations with the ladies I hold close.

and this is where I am going to leave it, because I am still struggling with actually being motivated enough to write a great deal , aswell as feeling that some things just can’t be expressed anyway.  And perhaps I don’t want them to be…