Dear readers,
The grannies are going into hibernation for the winter – plenty of pumpkin soup, fireside chats and yoga, but no public appearances until the launch of Adelaide Days – collected and illustrated by the wonderful Chia Moan – to be unleashed on the world in November.
Stay tuned and I’ll let you know about that.
All the best and keep warm

51. Strange Beds in Very Small Spaces
(happy birthday Dinah, Monica, Maureen and all sixty-year-olds!)

The intrepid grannies set off on their holiday, waving goodbye to home, family, friends, the dry autumn garden, the comfortable sofa, the familiar bed.
The holiday involves a sixtieth birthday in Sydney, as well as Tasmania, and is a complicated affair of trains and ferries, which cost much more than flying. The grannies are proud of this overland and oversea travelling, until a friend suggests that the fuel efficiency of an overnight train or ferry is not great. Hurried last minute research reveals that trains (never mind ferries) do not compare all that well with buses. But the thrill of a little cabin with two bunks! They sleep in a cabin on the train and a cabin on the ferry. And anyway, a bus can’t cross Bass Strait.
On the west coast of Tasmania they sleep in a tent on the edge of the lush green Pieman River. The river is still, a pellucid mirror for the rainforest. The trees are reflected with extraordinary clarity, the detail in the water brighter than the original. Anne takes fifty-seven photos several times over.
Often it rains, so that sky and river and forest are all one. Everything is wet. Wetness is all. That, the grannies tell each other, is the price of beauty, only achieved by more than two metres of rain a year. The sort of rain that Adelaide only dreams of.
They sleep. They sit and stare at the river. They kayak and walk and voyage downstream in the Arcadia, a beautiful old huon pine steamer. Gradually their parched South Australian cells are rehydrated.
After four days they move on, but something seems to have happened to their sense of time and distance. It takes them two days to reach Strahan a distance of less than 200km. They mean to set out early, but it always seems to be 11am by the time the car is packed. And then there are stops for morning tea and lunch, and then it seems to have been a long enough day, so they make camp.
On the third day Julia protests.
‘But it will be dark soon,’ Anne says. ‘We don’t want to be putting the tent up in the middle of the night. Benighted in the wilderness.’
‘It’s only three o’clock. Do you know how far we’ve come?’
‘Far enough.’
‘Fifty kilometres. I thought you wanted to drive round Australia? It’d take us ten years at this rate.’
‘Calm down. We’re not going round Australia yet. All we have to do is get to Cradle Mountain tomorrow.’
They are meeting a group of women, friends and friends-of-friends from five different states. Julia and Anne don’t know them all.
‘Will we recognise them?’
‘Of course. They’re cousins.’
‘Whose cousins? What do you mean?’
‘It was an idea of Ro’s. Ages ago. Kinship maps or something. Lesbians who live in another state are cousins.’
‘Oh Ro. She’d have a cousin in every port.’
‘No no. Not that sort of relationship. That’s more than a cousin.’

As it turns out, the cousins come in the usual shapes and sizes, clad in well-worn boots and rain gear, with accessories ranging from a perky green umbrella to a fluffy baby-blue dressing gown for early morning wombat viewing. More importantly, they have brought the usual array of food. Extra, in fact, to counter the effects of a cold wet Easter. They start eating straight away, pausing only to sing happy birthday to two sixty-year-olds.
Some of the hardier souls venture out for a night walk, but by midnight they are all tucked up warmly in wooden bunks. Julia has her own small square window. She rubs away the condensation and a magic world is revealed, mist and dripping leaves and moonlight.
For the next three days the women clamber among high rocky verticals and wet horizontals. The peak never emerges from its shroud, so they decide against the Summit Track.
‘Let’s try the Face Track,’ one of the sixty-year-olds suggests. ‘It’s not hard.’
Hours later, muscles quivering, they have been up and down and up and are on their way down, though still only halfway home. They slide gingerly down a rock face, clinging hand-over-hand to the freezing guide chain.
‘How long since you did this track,’ they think to ask, belatedly.
‘Oh about thirty years.’
‘Thirty years! I thought you meant recently!’
‘No wonder you thought it wasn’t hard. Your joints were only thirty. You probably had knees with bend and spring in them.’
But their guide just laughs. ‘The view’s good, you must admit.’
There is only one way to go, other than up again. They pick their way laboriously down to Dove Lake and the home stretch.
Their reward is hot drinks and hot food and repeat renditions of happy birthday. And the deep sleep of the just and the fully exercised.
By the time they part, their muscles are stretched, their cheeks are glowing and they are not just cousins, but sisters.

‘The First Week’ is shortlisted for the new writing category of the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards.

For audio files and list of players:  ADELAIDE DAYS

50. Mountaineering
March rolls onwards, a month of festival and frolic, from celebrations of women and world music to celebrations of fast petrol guzzling cars. From a protest against Tony Abbott to a state election.
Julia and Anne are impervious to all this frivolity. They have only one goal in view, an April holiday in Tasmania. They are in training for Cradle Mountain, as much walking as they can fit in, preferably uphill.
Today they decide to get the train to Lynton and walk in Sleep’s Hill Reserve.
Mitcham Council has provided a beautiful map and information board offering various trails. The grannies choose the Seaview Track. It is listed as a walking trail only, so they hope to avoid the mad mountain-bike riders who hurtle down precipices on the hills face.
The first section of track does not inspire confidence. It is not so much a track as a kangaroo pad, and has been used by various people as a rubbish dump. But, ever-hopeful, the grannies press on.
The next section is even less inspiring. Feral olives press in closely, and the creek is choked with weeds.
The grannies climb onwards past an empty dam, ignoring hub caps and plastic. At any moment, they are sure, they will reach the real Adelaide Hills, grey box and casuarina, birdsong and koalas.
Through the olives above them they glimpse a curving concrete wall. Another dam? As they get closer the noise of cars becomes louder. Not a dam, but the retaining wall of Belair Road near the Windy Point switchback. The presence of the hubcaps is explained.
The track, now barely a scratch, follows the curve of the wall. It is hard not to duck as each car thunders past. Anne picks her way gloomily, wondering about the odds of a car careering over the wall and landing on their heads. She is greatly relieved when the path veers away from the wall and seems to be heading downhill again.
‘Well here we are,’ calls Julia, twenty metres ahead.
Anne scrambles to reach her.
‘Shame about the track though,’ Julia adds.
One metre in from of her the path disappears altogether into midair. They are standing on the lip of an old quarry, a drop of thirty metres at their feet.
‘I can see the sea,’ Julia says. ‘So they aren’t lying about that.’
‘We could go back the way we came.’
‘No. I hate retracing.’
So the intrepid grannies turn away from the quarry and set off downhill. After five minutes and half a dozen false starts they have to concede that there is no more track. They are reduced to sliding under olive thickets on their bums, trying in vain to avoid the prickles of another invader.
It is a great relief when they reach the Council depot at the bottom of the hill. They cross an open gravel space, negotiate a bulldozed pile of earth, climb a fence and end up on a sealed bike track not far from the station.
‘Do they have olives at Cradle Mountain?’ Anne asks.
‘Shouldn’t think so. Too cold.’
‘Bloody hell. I hope not.’
‘Easy then. We’ll piss it in. There isn’t a muscle in my body that I haven’t exercised today.’
They subside triumphant on a train seat, and hobble home for a bath.

For audio files and list of players:  ADELAIDE DAYS

49.  Nationalism at Home and Abroad

 (for Branny, Holly, Alison and Sal)

Julia and Anne have had the atlas* out to find Kiev and the Crimea and contemplate the long Ukraine/Russian border.

‘What is it about Russia?’ asks Anne. ‘It feels so much worse when Russia’s involved. Some sort of ancestral Anglo fear of the Russkies?’

‘Florence Nightingale.’

‘Oh of course. I’d forgotten. The Charge of the Light Brigade. Why on earth were the British involved in that anyway?’

‘Three guesses.’

‘Interfering? Making money? Generally being thoroughly good chaps?’

‘Inventing balaclavas.’

‘So the Russians were baddies. Then they got Communism and were even worse.’

‘At least no one can blame Communism this time.’

‘Probably will anyway. Once a Communist always a Communist.’

‘Communist in the general sense of baddy.’

‘Yes. Poor old Marx. Once a baddy always a baddy.’


But there is a more cheerful question to settle. A member of Anne’s book group has organised a day with a Writers’ Week star and her GF. What should they be shown of Adelaide? What can they be given, what is precious enough, to express intense appreciation and admiration?

These are OS visitors who have never been to Australia before. So how do you sum up Australia in a day? And how do you explain your loyalty to Adelaide, this small dry city on a narrow plain next to an unspectacular gulf?

‘The Barr Smith Library,’ says Ro, but this suggestion is greeted by groans.

‘Honestly Ro, a library’s a library’s a library. It should be something iconic.’

Ro is miffed. ‘The Market,’ she says. ‘Or Haigh’s, if that’s all you care about. They do tours.’

But it is generally agreed that though Haigh’s is important, even iconic, you can’t ask two international guests to spend all day in a chocolate factory. Or even a Market, however lovely.

‘Those women doing the chook thing in the Garden of Unearthly Delights. Fright or Flight.’

But that’s not till night time.

‘The Barossa. Or MacLaren Vale.’

‘But maybe they don’t drink?’

The suggestions get wilder.

‘The Flinders. The desert.’

‘You can’t go to the Flinders for a day. Let’s be realistic.’

They look at each other. ‘It will have to be Cleland.’

‘Good idea. Some koala hugging. Everyone loves a koala.’

‘As long as they don’t piss.’

‘And the kangaroos aren’t jerking off.’


‘Yes. I took my nephew once. They were all hanging round a female on heat, waving these sort of skinny tentacle penises …’

‘But isn’t it a cliché?’

‘What? Australia as a wanking kangaroo?’

‘No. I mean in general. Taking visitors to a wildlife reserve.’

‘Are we afraid of cliches?’

And so it comes about for the host and her two guests.

But the most important cultural exchange happens that night after a collective dinner. It is the demonstration of how to take a Tim Tam, carefully nibble off two diagonal corners, and then use the remainder as a drinking straw. The possibilities are obviously endless. You could suck up anything from milk to Drambuie. But being good down-to-earth dykes, our heroines use their Tim Tams to suck up herbal tea.


*Atlas: an archaic book used for locating places in the world. Does not induce the seasickness of Google Earth and is less bossy than a GPS.

For audio files and list of players:  ADELAIDE DAYS

48  Speed and the Human Body

By Saturday lunchtime James has already achieved the buzzing mind, the intoxication with words and ideas, that adult patrons of Writers’ Week will seek like addicts for the next six days.


A few days earlier James shared the Sochi Winter Olympics with the grannies.

‘You know how they slow it down,’ Julia says as they watch a cluster of skiers wheel down the slope in slow motion. ‘Well how do we know that they don’t speed it up as well.’

James is shocked by this cynicism. ‘They go really really fast,’ he says. ‘More than 100 ks an hour.’

‘But the cameras could still speed it up.’

‘No they couldn’t. It would be all blurry.’

‘It’s blurry anyway, the background.’

‘But it would be jerky.’

 They consider this. Neither is an expert on cinematography but neither is prepared to concede.

Anne intervenes. ‘I remember the first time I saw a home movie. I was your age James. I couldn’t believe it when they ran it in reverse and all the kids jumped backwards out of the pool.’

The skiers are replaced on the screen by ice hockey players. James and Julia cheer loudly but it’s too rough for Anne. She’s so worried about their ankles that she has to go and make hot drinks.

James turns over the question of speed in bed that night. What if the skiers got faster and faster and faster, the mountain stretching endlessly below them, what if they reached the speed of light? What if they reached the edge of the world and took off into space?


Now, sitting beside Anne at Writers’ Week he is filled with multi-layered satisfaction.

Firstly, they have left Victoria with Miss Dinkles in the Kids’ Tent while he, James, is listening to one of the adult sessions.

Secondly, he has put the question of speed to Andy Griffiths, author of The Thirteen Storey Tree House, and Andy has agreed that you could probably start on a steep mountain and end up in space.

Thirdly, and most extraordinarily, the session James and Anne are listening to is about poo. David Waltner-Toews, who is a vet and a scientist, has already used at least ten words for poo, some of which are completely new to James. It is about tracking wild animals and treating sick turkeys in China and about people eating their own shit as medicine (eeeugh!!).

James is entranced. And the adults in the audience are listening with every sign of interest and a squirmy pleasure equal to his own. New vistas open up. He knows now what it is that he wants to be when he grows up, and there’s a word for it. Scatologist.


Anne, gardener, composter and environmentalist, has also glimpsed a bright future. Waltner-Toews is serious. The great public health solutions of the nineteenth century, deep sewerage and drainage, have created more problems than they solved. ‘War on disease’ is the wrong concept. If the West could reclaim its own shit, as it were, use it, understand it, stop trying to hide it, then it would shift our whole relationship with the natural world, put us back in our proper place. And that would change the course of global history.

For audio files and list of players:  ADELAIDE DAYS

47. Welcome to Australia

The night is cool, one of those late summer evenings when it is still a pleasure to be outside, but even more of a pleasure to be with others, making communal human warmth. In Light Square hundreds of people sit close together, shielding each other’s candles from the breeze. There is something ancient about this, Julia thinks, to be human, to sit on the ground, to hold a candle.

The crowd is here because of the violent death of Reza Berat, a refugee in detention on Manus Island. People have come here because they are ashamed and angry that such a thing could happen in Australia.

Brad Chilcott from Welcome to Australia is calm. He offers no polemic, just reassurance: ‘we are better than this’. Tara Fatehi tells the story of coming to Australia as a young Kurdish child. Compassion, she says over and over again. How much it meant to her family to be met with compassion, after all that they’d been through.

Anne sits wedged comfortably between Ro and Julia and thinks about her friends and how they got here, to this country. Some came as adventurous young adults. Many more are the children of Jewish refugees, Ten Pound Poms and Polish Irish Chinese Italian Indian Greek Chilean and every other sort of immigrant. Anne’s own family has been in Australia since the 1800s but she thinks, as she always does, of Katie. Katie’s family has been here for tens of thousands of years. Everyone non-Indigenous, by comparison, is a boat person.

Ro is thinking about leadership. She hears the words ‘we are better than this’ and considers the last twenty years of Australian government, the outright lies, the suppression of information, the blustering, the failure to deal generously with this question of refugees.

Once Ro would have had to rant about it, shout in the streets. Now she is thoughtful. We can organise something better than this, she thinks. A better system than the bitter old three party machine. And, even more radical thought, once we’ve got some real leadership in place then we can support those leaders. Not rant and insult, but support.

Oh dear, she thinks. Is the fire in my belly dying?

Julia is wondering about population and sustainability and some things we know about this country. That water and arable land are seriously scarce. That the existing population is already too much for our resources. So is she here on false pretences? Does she really support an open-door approach? And would Ro ever speak to her again if she voiced such a doubt?

She looks around the crowd. Maybe we’re all going down, she thinks. The whole human race. But at least let’s go down together.

People are leaving their candles on the edge of the pool, more and more candles so that the water itself glows golden. Nobody is hurrying to go home. They stand talking quietly and watching the reflections. More ancient magic: fire and water.

We can do better, they think. We can do better.


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