The green landscape of my childhood is in contrast to the generally drought stricken parts of Australia that I’ve lived in – until it floods in Oz, we don’t do weather in half measures here.
I used to visit my grandmother’s two sisters, my great-aunts, where I learned about the benefits of having aunties. The two of them lived in a cottage near the water for most of their lives, until they entered a retirement village and then a nursing home.
Their hamlet was connected to our village by a footpath that wound its way through paddocks and across a number a narrow bridges. Accessible on foot or by bicycle, the journey seemed like a long distance when I was a child, but it was actually less than a kilometre away.
And bridge is a big word for the narrow plank and single white railing that crossed various ditches. Here’s a modern example (at 58 seconds).
Falling into a ditch
I once missed the approach to one of those crossings on my bicycle and ended up waist deep in water and mud, unable to retrieve my bike. Despite my embarrassment about being covered in sludge and scared to death of two curious horses in the paddock, I ran home to get help.
Along the way I was cleaned up by another aunt, my mum’s sister, who lived at the village end of the path. Falling in a ditch was a big deal in my family, because my oldest brother had drowned in one when he was nearly three.
I can’t remember my parents’ reaction when they saw the cleaned up version of me. I just remember feeling that this was a place where people watched out for each other. As well as having four aunts, two uncles and numerous cousins in our village, everyone had known each other for generations.
The past is a foreign country
When I go back to visit family and my brother’s grave, it feels strange that I know more people in the cemetery than in the village nowadays.
Nothing stays the same of course, the ‘new bridge’ that replaced the swing bridge (draai brug), two doors up from my aunts’ cottage, is having anniversaries of its own. As school children we planted poplars along the ‘new road’ on an April national tree planting day, but many of these have been removed to provide more light in the village.
The aunts’ place is still there, but there’s a road that runs outside the front door. Right through their cottage garden. We used to help them water the vegies that were planted in neat rows among the flowers on the far side of the bicycle path. I remember the musky scent of marigolds and the wet soil of their garden.
The house is renovated and has been on the market for a while. My sister and I discuss the possibility of owning a piece of family history, watching the price drop as time passes. The small rooms, the feather beds and my aunties are long gone. And owning and maintaining a house on the other side of the world is hardly practical, but still?
The last time I lived there, as an adult, it rained from January to August. The persistent grey skies made me appreciate the crisp but sunny winters at home. And yet, there are those northern summers with their long balmy evenings. A summer house perhaps?
Connecting to the landscape
Do you have emotional connections to a place or a landscape? It’s difficult to describe this feeling without sounding homesick or longing for the past. It’s definitely not that for me. Rather it’s a connection that evokes familiarity and smells and a deep-rooted sense of place. My place in the world, even though I no longer live there.