A final flourish

This time next week I will be in France, sick to death of cheese but still eating it, back on terms with Europe and hopefully approaching something like the right time zone. On Friday I would’ve given my right arm to be whizzed there in un flash, such was the vile wind and icy rain plummeting down on Canberra and dumping snow on its hills.

But two days later, spent with sunshine and coffee and wattle and bacon, there’s a slight pang of sadness, brought about by what have become the final rituals of an Australian weekend. Sure there have been chores – washing and last minute shopping, sorting out the car so it can go on holiday, dusting and making lists of lists. And still there is travel planning and bookings to work on. But there have been real gems, like juicy gold nuggets in the dirt of the Nullarbor.

After a finale at work and boozy Indian dinner, a (only slightly) hung-over breakfast of eggs Benedict did the trick. And later, as the weather brightened, an amble through the Botanic Gardens, where the incredible nature was only too aware of the proximity of spring. The return of the wattle a time-honoured portent of a return to Europe.

That evening was spent doing something very Australian, though with inklings of northern hemisphere memories occasionally bursting their way into my head: wrapped up to the hilt watching a game of footy between a team in green and a team in white. If there were pasties here I could’ve pinched myself. Though perhaps the fact they were playing with an oval ball was a reminder of where we were.

And so came a beautiful Sunday that turned ideal for drying my washing and sending me off with the ever-constant mix of north and south. A good solid Aussie flat white avec un macaron and a fair dinkum, warm-hearted Australian. A famous final bush walk through the red dirt of Red Hill, its gums and wattles and rosellas on parade. And an amble back through suburbia with un-Australian blossoms and ginormous hedgerows. Spring and summer and autumn are coming. Winter is a thing of the past.