Is this happening?

The last few weeks have been a frantic whirlwind of goodbye lunches and coffees and dinners, trying to see everybody. But its all so surreal! I try to say all the right things, but can't really believe that this is happening, that I won't be seeing all these lovely people next week.
Most of my pupils want to try and keep having lessons via skype, though I'm not sure how this will work, without being able to manhandle them. But at least it has meant that we don't have to say proper goodbyes.
Last day with my cousin yesterday and her husband and three kidlets. They have been a big part of our lives for most of the time we have been here and we were thrilled when they eventually decided to come and live in Brisbane four years ago. And now we're off. How did that happen?
Had my last gig last night - string trio - possibly last gig ever, as I have no idea how to set about finding work in England. As far as last gigs go, it was pretty good though.We could hear ourselves for a change and I discovered depths to Eine Kleine that I'd never discovered before, in spite of the fact that there was no viola part (possibly because there was no viola part....?).  We had people dancing, enthusing (words like "divine" being bandied about), but, best of all, we were fed superb curry afterwards, along with watermelon martinis  - and if you have never had a watermelon martini, then you NEED to. 
Off for breakfast today with one of our oldest friends in Brisbane, (good thing she doesn't read this, as I'm sure she would take exception to being described thus), then there's packing and cleaning and more packing to go before tomorrow.
Tomorrow we have to be out of the rental by 10am, though we will not be leaving for airport till 9pm. The kids all have fond ideas of disappearing with their friends all day, "Oh we'll be back an hour before we have to leave," "No, you will be back THREE hours before we leave."
If I have fingernails by the time I board that plane, it will be a miracle.

An Ode to Queenslander houses

One of the things I love about Brisbane is the contradictions of it all.

For the last fifteen years we have lived out of town in semi-rural-reclaimed-from-pineapple-farms-countryside. There is a plentitude of space and QUIET and animals and birds out there and I have loved it. However, we have now moved into town – just five minutes or so from the city centre, where we are entertained by sirens throughout the night, the impatient honking of horns, YOUNG PEOPLE having a GOOD TIME in the pub down the road - and yet in some ways it feels more countrified than our Pullenvale idyll.

We are in Toowong, possibly one of the older parts of Brisbane (?), in a Queenslander jungle. For those of you who don't know what a Queenslander is – it's traditionally a wooden house, generally built on stilts. These days a lot of Queenslanders are built in situ, but you can still buy them from um, Queenslander shops? Queenlander dealers? Queenslanders warehouses? Not sure what you call them, but there is a plot of land next to the Bruce Highway (the big freeway which runs betwixt Sunshine Coast and Brisbane, is called the Bruce Highway going North and the Sheila Highway travelling South) where you can go pick your own. Sometimes, if you are out very late at night, you might meet an oversize truck, trundling along with a Queenslander on its back, on the way to meet its owner.

Queenslanders have pitched, corrugated iron roofs, high ceilings, hard wood floors, verandahs which sometimes wrap round the entire house. They are often beautifully decorated with plaster rococo ceilings and iron gingerbread around the eaves and verandahs and are cool and spacious – even the small ones. The one we are staying in at the moment is quite typical, in that it has a partly built in underneath, where you can hang washing and go and be cool in the hot weather. There is a Poinciana tree, Another Tree of Indeterminate Sort and a mango tree.

Yesterday, the girls and I walked to the local park, in the cool of the afternoon. The sky overhead was black, lightening flashing across the sky and the grass was glowing thick emerald. All around the park the trees were dripping with hundreds and hundreds of bats, which gibbered and knickered at each other, stretching their wings and yawning, as the trees stirred in the wind. After the kids had determined that yes, I am still too much of a wuss to be flung from a swing at 30 feet, they got bored and so we walked home, the long way, thus getting lost, but it was a walk of real discovery.

Every house we passed seemed to be an old Queenslander, each one a different size, some standing high on stilts, some low to the ground, some on a plot which was flush with the road, some seated atop its own private hillock, some white, some a pale green, or pale blue or pink. Whereas, out in Pullenvale, the gardens are all manicured to within an inch of their lives, (except ours, of course) every bush or tree planted for effect, oceans of mulch spread everywhere, these gardens, so close to the city, were all overgrown, full of crumbing statues, huge old poinciana and jacaranda trees, bougainvillea bushes in pink and white and yellow and orange, frangipani trees starred all over with flowers rich in perfume, mango trees, aloes and masses of fat bromeliads tumbling over rock walls and down stone steps. For many of the houses, the paths to the front door were hidden beneath the grass, or low, overhanging passion fruit vines, making us wonder whether anyone actually lived there, and whether, if so, they ever ventured out. We passed one huge old poinciana tree in which a sulphur crested cockatoo, a magpie, two butcher birds, several rainbow lorikeets and some miner birds were deep in screeching debate, like an illustration from some sort of Children's Guide to Birds.

I would advise anyone coming to this city, to maybe skip the extortionate fees charged to be hoisted a couple of metres in the air by our version of the Millennium wheel and take a few hours to wander the back streets of the city instead. I am sure you will get a better view of Brisbane this way.

Don't Forget the Satsumas

One of the reasons that I decided to start writing this blog again, was because, when we had the moving quotes done, each company told us that there are scores of people returning to England at the moment – much more so than usual. (I'm sure Tony Abbott has nothing to do with it.)

So I thought it might be interesting for people who are considering the move to see how another family are finding it.

Thus far, I can give this advice.

1. Do not harangue your children for putting the wrong things on the container which will be ocean bound for another few months (i.e. school books which are due back at Australian schools this week) when you yourself have packed your winter coat and shoes on said container and are due to arrive in England, in December, in thin cotton jumper and flip flops.
2. Do not make an effort to visit all the places you have grown to love the best. Spending time walking the beaches of Stradbroke Island, watching the gallivanting of dolphins, sting rays and turtles in an azure ocean, is not the best way of convincing oneself that one is making the right decision to leave.
3. Do not give up your last two weeks to spending time with the friends you have made. Coffee, cake, wine, LOTS of laughs and reminiscing and EVEN MORE tears are not the best way of convincing oneself that one is making the right decision to leave.
4. Do not leave at a time when the rains have turned dry brown grass to an emerald green; when the poinciana trees are in full, glowing-orange bloom; when the mango trees are dripping with mangoes which will ripen after you have left; when the air is full of the smell of paw paws and jasmine and Christmas.
5. Make sure you spend the last few weeks in a house whose windows you cannot open, with two incontinent cats and only one toilet, whose door doesn't close.
6. Try and spend as much time as you can, watching Aussie television – especially the news and adverts.
7. Chain your 15 year old to his mobile phone....
8. Invest in a LOT of tissues.
9. Do not spend time trawling the RSPCA adoption websites in your soon-to-be-local-area, if you want your marriage to remain harmonious. (or make an effort not to tell children about it, at any rate.)
10. Try not to think about the fact that, after all the farewell dinners and lunches and coffees, you will arrive in England as circular as when you left it, several months pregnant.
11. Whilst saying goodbye, try to think ahead - to very much loved family and friends and cosy thatched houses (where the heating, of course, works...) and pubs and satsumas. And breathe.

Straddie

At the weekend we went to say goodbye to a place that has become very special to us - my favourite place in Australia - North Stradbroke Island. 
We have been there quite a few times and, barring the time, many years ago, when we had booked an expensive, but tiny apartment for three days and it rained and blew a gale so hard that we didn't dare set foot out of the front door with the children, lest one of them blew away - each visit has been idyllic. In general, we camp on Cylinder beach, but we didn't have time for that, so we got the foot ferry over and then caught a bus to Point Lookout.
From Point Lookout, you can take the North Gorge walk - a walkway built round the cliffs, where every step affords views so beautiful they hurt the eye. I try to keep as far away from the kids as I can, because, even now, I panic to see them anywhere near the edge. I am fine with heights myself, have no problem with standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down several hundred feet to the surf, exploding on knife edged rocks below etc etc, but I can't STAND seeing the kids anywhere near the edge. I walk round, gritting my teeth, clenching my fists, but at some point (or many points, possibly) I can't help it and start squawking at them to "Keep Away from the EDDDDDDGGGGGE!!!!!!!!!!!!" in the manner of a banshee - even if there are four yards between them and any drop. This time we were with Meg and her three kidlets - Holly, the youngest, being only four - but I managed to complete the walk without severing my vocal chords, so am quite proud of myself.
And apart from all that, it is a wonderful walk - we saw several pods of dolphins, a shoal of huge and unidentified fish, a group of three large manta rays, winging their way round the rocks, several turtles, a two metre shark - all these creatures in an azure blue-green, sapphire sea - I'm not going to even bother trying to describe it, but upload some pictures

instead. 
After the walk, we went and stuffed ourselves with fish 'n' chips, revelling in the fact that Straddie is one of the few places in Queensland where they haven't chosen to enhance the natural beauty of the place by adding in rows of squat, orange and yellow painted concrete blocks with big plastic signage in primary colours. 
Then down to the beach, where we were reminded just how deceptive the Pacific Ocean can be. "Oh, how lovely and calm it is," I thought. Hmmm. Am beginning to think that my thoughts are not, in general, to be trusted.
Yes, the sea rolled and hummed, the surf not too high, the waves shloosing on the beach with all the tenderness of a mother singing to her baby. And then we got into the water.
"Swim between the flags," is the Australian  safety device, but this meant, of course, a constant effort to stop yourself being dragged down shore. Having been caught in a rip in Vanuatu earlier this year (rather spectacularly - about eight of us had to be rescued by boat)  - I can safely say that this current was almost riptide strength, so of course there was more squawking from me. Didn't help that I couldn't wear my glasses and, with my fuzzy eye sight, I nearly found myself hauling a middle aged lady out of the water, thinking it was one of the children. (Dark hair, dark swimsuit.) Luckily I noticed just in time....Still, the water was beautiful, clean and green and cool and salty and I am going to miss this soooo much.
Then there were rock pools and jelly fish, a walk up a huge sand dune to take in the views and make us feel virtuous, paddling in the mini lagoon, where the delightful children took turns throwing cane toad spawn at each other. 
And then, back on the ferry again, rushing across the darkening water in the last glow of the sunset. Looking out over the sea (Yes, after 15 years in Oz I still think of it as "the Sea"!) at dusk always makes me ache inside, the vast loneliness of it all - and the words of the songs that we used to sing in another part of the world, another ocean, always come back to me, "Hil ya ho boys, let her go boys, bring her head round, now all together," and "Speed Bonny Boat, like a bird on the Wing", thus bringing images of Africa, Scotland and Australia together into one potent mix.

We will miss you Straddie.

Going out with a Bang

It seems that Brisbane is pulling out the stops for us!
Driving home from dropping Lydia at choir yesterday, I noticed the clouds building up. "Oh good, looks like we might be getting some rain," I thought.
Hmm. According to the weather bureau, it was the worst storm in a decade. According to people I know who have grown up in Brisbane, it was the worst storm they have ever seen. Juliette and I were at home so we couldn't see much - most of the windows have bobbly glass and there is an enormous poinciana tree outside the other windows which block the view to anywhere else. It wasn't till the hail started bouncing off the back deck that we realised that this was no ordinary storm and then I was thrown into a quandary: our car that we need to sell in the next few days was sitting out in it all, but I wasn't sure I was game to drive it to the local car park. 
Miraculously, the car came away unscathed, Rupert was home ten minutes afterwards and we were able to pick Lydia up from choir and drop me off for a rehearsal in the city...but once on the roads, we were able to appreciate the full extent of the damage. Throughout Toowong and Bardon, the roads were strewn with branches and trees, step ladders, a roof. Windows smashed, cars dented, no power, of course in these areas. Driving out towards the Western suburbs, it seems that the damage was not as bad, but then Rupert had to drop me with some friends to drive back into the city for a rehearsal - which was interesting to say the least.
First rehearsal with choir and soloists, last rehearsal before concert on Saturday at St John's Cathedral. Programme to include Beethoven Mass, Magic Flute overture, Something Beautiful but Heart Rending, by Brahms, Something a bit Weird but Possibly Beautiful by Berlioz. The leader of the orchestra, the great Chen, had not been able to get in, due to lack of trains, we were down three first violins, a viola, first trumpet, oboes, Bass soloist, several choir members. There was a leak in the roof at the back of Cathedral and water poured down all evening, the sound echoing and magnifying off the stone walls, whilst an alarm sounded in F flat, double sharp diminished minor all throughout. It was hot, humid, there was glass all over the toilet floors where the windows had been Hailed, I had to lead the orchestra and had left my shoulder rest at home, so was not playing my best. (that's my excuse anyway). I take my hat off to Kevin Power, the conductor, who, instead of screaming and throwing a fit, managed to remain calm, if sweaty and slightly manic, throughout. Can't wait till Saturday!
Got home to find that we still have no power, and of course, no candles or torches as all that sort of stuff is on the plane to England. What would we do without iPods, eh? Though of course, they are now all run out of batteries, and we can't recharge, so guess where I'm headed now? We only have electric cooking facilities in our rental, so no coffee....but, thank God, gas powered water heating!! Incredibly grateful that our windows remained intact, unlike very many of my friends, some of whom have had every window in their house broken. Just wishing I hadn't bought a whole lot of fridgeable groceries, yesterday morning...
Oh Brisbane, will miss you so much!

Koalas and Kangaroos

For some bizarre reason, I had been under the impression that once we moved out of our house, we would have far more time...yes, well....

This week has flown past, we are now in another apartment – a lovely old Queenslander in Toowong – and we have the two remaining cats with us, so we are a complete family again. Every morning I cry when I get up and there is no Guinny to walk, but we will not think about that. We can almost see Rupert's office from here, as it's a two minute walk – but luckily, considering it's not one of the most attractive buildings in Brisbane – it is hidden by a beautiful, spreading Poinciana tree in bloom. Poinciana's are my favourite tree – even when not blooming – and they are one of the things I will miss most, with their bright, oval green leaves and fiery blooms.

One just slightly weird thing about this house, is the fact that there is an engraving on the wall of Aylesbury Vale – the very area to which we are moving!

So, in the last couple of weeks, I have played my last concert as concertmaster of Brisbane City Pops Orchestra and was given a three year National Trust Membership and managed not to burst into tears on stage. I have had my last gig with Brisbane String Quartet, playing for the first time at Victoria Golf Complex, (which turned out to be a case of music, bow and stands V gale force winds) against a stunning backdrop of the city at twilight. And I didn't cry much.

Over the weekend we visited Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary for the last time. We first went to Lone Pine on our third day in Brisbane, with a one year old who threw a tantrum because I wouldn't let him eat the Kangaroo food or pooh. This time, the same child was more interested in discussing the pitfalls of communism, as we walked around the kangaroo enclosure in 35 degree heat, expecting intelligent discourse from me, when all I was really interested in was getting to the cold water.

Lone Pine was our home from home for many years. For the first eight years we were in Brisbane, we had family membership and I took one of the children there twice a week, on average, as it is right next to the Brisbane Montessori School where they all started their primary years. We have many wonderful memories of farting koalas, thieving bush turkeys, being chased by emus, having my expensive sunglasses pecked to death by lorikeets, children getting worms from eating said kangaroo pooh. It is a wonderful place, with its fat, wriggling platypus, the raucous cockatoos, the dinosaurial Cassowary loping around his enclosure, the kangaroos (not that different to the kangaroos I saw on my daily walk at home, but more exciting in an enclosure, of course...?) the rat-like Tasmanian devils with their Beatrix Potteronian cute factor, the weird and wonderful and beautiful snakes, doubtless plotting evil in their painted cells, the sheep shearing show (yes, and witnessing an audience of one hundred people of every shade and ethnicity, hypnotised into complete silence by the sight of a man shaving a half asleep sheep, makes you realise quite how Tony Abbott managed to be elected Prime Minister (well, not really, but perhaps makes it a teeeeeeeny bit easier to have an inkling of understanding)) the Bird of Prey Show, (where the presenter ends every sentence with a question mark, so you're not sure whether you're actually being informed by an animal expert, or taking part in some sort of weird quiz game ( as in, “this is our beautiful Fish Eagle, Iluka?” “The Barn Owl's primary food is mouse?”) ) the beautiful shaded walks and cool, turtle filled pools, the whistling shrikes and laughing kookaburras. It is hard to believe we will probably never visit again. Maybe one of the girls will come back one day and work there, talking in questions?

Goodbye to the House!

So, the house that we built - at least, the house we paid someone else vast amount of money to build for us (he may even have been called Jack, I can't remember) which gave us a very small say in the design - is no longer ours. 
The house that hosted many parties - children's parties with puppet shows and games on the lawn, teenage parties with swimming and "movies", adult parties with music around the piano, is no longer ours. 
Someone else's plates and cutlery and cooking implements will now be gracing the kitchen cupboards, someone else's furniture will now be hiding the scratch marks on the floors. Their dog will be mooching around the garden, sniffing the grass, perhaps looking for that big black dog who owned the lawn for five years.
Will the new people fix the broken tiles outside or will they sincerely mean to, for the next ten years? Will they paint over the Moroccan tile stencils with which I adorned my pillars? Will they manage to get the fruit trees to fruit, will they enjoy our mango harvest?
The funny thing is, that it's the little things that get to me. When sweeping the cupboard under the stairs, for instance, I came across two broken Christmas tree ornaments and was flooded with nostalgia, for this really is the end of an era. We are saying good bye, not only to a house, but to a stage of life, when our children were sweet and full of joy and all ours. (And used to drive me nuts and kept me in a state of sleep deprived near hysteria all the time, yes, but we will gloss over that.) I choose to remember the times when they were big eyed with wonder at the sight of boiling black clouds streaming in from the mountains, the wind tearing at the trees as the storms arrived; or the times that they stood, holding their breath and watching the flock of deer in the garden, or the huge white cockatoos feeding at the bird table, the Rosellas chirruping in the grevillea; the times when they would spend hours digging in the mud, faces shining with concentration; the soccer matches with friends or Rupert or the boys next door, the badminton games when Guinny would try his best to join in, rendering further competition impossible; the Christmases when their faces would light up at the sight of the tree and their eyes would sparkle as they sat and listened to the pregnant air, boiling with the scent of jasmine and mangoes and pawpaws and magic.
We are on to new adventures now and life will be exciting in the new ways, but there are certain things that we will never replace. We will not have friends who have known them and cared about them, all their lives. Our family traditions - favourite restaurants, favourite camping spots, favourite parks, will all be changing.
By the time I had finished cleaning the house on Friday I couldn't have cared about any of those things, but I had to go back on Monday morning and made the mistake of wondering through the rooms one last time, going out into the animal-empty garden to admire, for the last time, the  hot pink flowers of the bougainvillea as it exploded into the air. And there was a deer, a spotted fawn, standing fifteen feet from me, staring.
So I said goodbye to it and left, drove to the estate agents and handed over the keys. Thanks for the memories - cue swooping strings and muted trumpets........