Almanac Life: Time on a Myponga Hill

 

 

Claire and I stand side by side on the ochre path, a splash of red and a patch of navy against the panoramic landscape. Her coat flares like a small flag of likable boldness, while beside her I carry — optimistically — the casualness of weekend ease.

 

The land unfurls in layers: first the pale grass sprinkled with dew, then a row of shrubs in muted gold, and behind that the uncompromising wall of dark pines, straight as sentinels. Beyond, the green hills roll upward, their ridgelines softened by distance and a sky pressed with a haze of placid, reassuring cloud.

 

The coloured cones at our feet — blue, yellow, scattered like afterthoughts — are relics of the parkrun, yet in this setting they appear ornamental, like petals casually dropped along the path.

 

Together, we seem anchored but at peace with the vast quiet extending out all around, an image of warmth set against nature’s wide canvas.

 

It’s a moment on our annual Carrickalinga escape with dear old friends during which certain traditions have taken happy hold. Pizza Friday night, Saturday morning market, evening cocktails. As with most traditions, the joy comes largely from shared anticipation although the rituals remain delightful in their luxury.

 

That the photo was taken by Trish is special. She has known us both so long and so well and caught this moment as a gesture of kindness, an unspoken but mutually understood gift. The picture isn’t of us alone; it carries Trish’s affectionate eye.

 

Photos make permanent the ephemeral, and cryogenically freeze us all, sometimes against our will. Are these images dishonest in their fleetingness or quiet protests against life’s cruel acceleration? We look eternal but already the past has fled, with tempo like a chariot.

 

After, we ambled back down the hill in our chatty knot and past the retreating parkrun crowd of huffing participants and hovering volunteers.

 

Saturdays, at their best, spread out from dawn with kaleidoscopic possibility, hours to be coloured, festive windows through which to view self and others.

 

We go from forest and reservoir to coffee and toast. Like time, we are never still — least of all when we believe we are — and I consider that boundless, comic truth. I feel this thought prickle, until for a breath, I outpace it.

 

 

More from Mickey Randall can be read HERE

 

 

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