My one criteria in booking places for our holidays is that they must exude 'character'. I can put up with a lot in terms of lack of convenience if the abode possesses this mysterious quality. Sometimes this factor becomes our downfall, and other times it pays off in spades. This time... I'm not so sure.

By the time we were half an hour out from our destination, it was getting pretty grim. Two out of three were cracking it and we were nearing the witching hour where all would need food before they settled down again. "Just call and order pizza in Bemboka", Dave helpfully suggested. Google produced no leads, however, and we soon discovered why- even the town (and I use this term loosely) General Store was 'closed until further notice'. Oh dear. We pressed on, no dinner supplies, and the minutes striding by. 

Giba Gunyah Country Cottages finally loomed into view and we cautiously stepped into our little cottage. Hexagonally designed, it was quaint and rustic, and it did have that elusive quality I specified. Still, spending two nights in a tiny two bedroom shack with paper thin walls in the company of a snorer and three restless children made me feel a little apprehensive. 

On the way I had remarked to Dave how inspired I was by the concept that Dan Barber had alluded to in the recent episode of Chef's Table when he suggested all great cuisines were borne out of scarcity and hardship, forcing creativity from limited ingredients. Well, I got my chance to practice my newfound vision that evening. Though, I should mention, we were saved considerably by the provision of fresh breakfast supplies in the cottage. Pantry items: fresh bread, eggs, carrots, butter, marmalade and baby spinach. Half an hour later we tucked into sunny side up eggs on crusty bread, with a side of marmalade sauted carrots and fresh greens. Eli exclaimed, "this is my favorite meal!"

The setting of the cottage was pure magic. Nestled into a valley, with rolling hills to either side, calves grazing by our back fence and creeping blossoms spilling over the verandah. Eli and Hudson basked in the sun, squirting each other with their water toys and practicing cricket skills into the twilight. Misty, the family dog, came to join in the fun and relished playing catch, though was somewhat perplexed by the concept of returning the ball. 

We took a jaunt into Bega and enjoyed our new staple picnic of fresh bread and salami, stopping off at a local playground and, of course, an op shop, thanks to which I am now the proud owner of two right footed slippers. Whoops. 

Dave and I spent our nights by the roaring fire, sampling Pinot Noir and challenging each other to read chapters of random books adorning the shelves. We managed to get through the nights, strategizing with various adult/child configurations so we could avoid repeating the first night mishap of Eli flooding the living room (where Ivy was sound asleep) with light because he had a bad dream and couldn't figure out which room we were in.

I'm so chuffed that the boys got to experience a rural getaway, it brought back so many memories of my own childhood jaunts to my grandparents' farm and walks through the paddocks to their billabong. Plucking wild blackberries and picking up bleached cattle bones as we walked. Stepping cautiously (petrified!) around sleeping snakes on the dusty path. The muffled creak of tired floorboards as we tiptoed up the hallway to snuggle under frilly floral bedspreads. The sound of trilling birds welcoming us to the morning and the carefully labeled homemade jam, ginger beer, relish and fruit leather collections. I remember serenading the family with the assistance of the electric organ and opening matching Christmas presents with lollipops taped to the festive paper. It is such a privilege to be able to share some of this with the boys and see their faces light up as they make their own treasured memories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love road trips. At least in theory. Always moving forward, places for everyone, new sights and towns, memories to be made and fun to be had. 

Most of the time, this buoyancy pans out and we actually do have an amazing time, though there are always those moments when everyone is overtired and screaming and the petrol gauge is hovering just above Empty and there is no version of civilization anywhere remotely in sight. 

We decided to play it safe for our first leg, making our first stop at Lakes Entrance. We made our way into the charmingly retro Bellbird Gully and settled in. The boys exclaimed with delight upon discovering the bunk beds and Dave and I were excited when we realised we had the whole top floor and balcony to ourselves. The grounds surrounding the property were perfectly manicured and evocative of a Mediterranean country garden. I remarked to Dave how satisfying it was to perform the same routine with the family against a completely new backdrop and how this seemed to inject life into all of us.

One of the things I love about getting away, and particularly selecting accommodation with character, is that the walls are teeming with stories and inspiration that lures you out of your default mindsets, igniting your imagination and passion once again. I explored a vintage African cookery book, learning how to make Cow's Blood with Sour Milk (in case that gem ever comes in handy) and poured through a vividly photographed Italian cooking book whilst watching the documentary episode of Chef's Table on Massimo Bottura. Dave and I were both moved by his dedication to his craft, and passion that continued despite significant early setbacks in his hometown of Modena.

The next day was filled with exploring trips into the town, mini golf tournaments and lunch at the Funky Monkey Cafe. We managed to make it out of the latter intact, despite being 'that family' with the overtired, screaming preschoolers at various points throughout the meal. We are also now the proud owners of the board game, Trouble. 

Dave took the boys on beach and bike adventures and I introduced Eli to the art of op shopping! We lingered outside and played ball games in the dwindling sunlight. 

When it was time to head onwards, we did so with hearts full and a handful of happy memories... once we had packed and repacked the car, that is. Why is it that activity always seems to take longer than anticipated and spark heated disagreements? Next stop, Bemboka. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are times in life when it seems like an extra 'sense' has been switched on and you feel keenly in touch with the fabric of the world around you. When stories peek behind cultivated facades and make you weep, when a concept almost makes you cry out as it hits your heart with such resonance. When you feel as if something magical is leading your steps, connecting the dots and gradually unveiling a larger fragment of life's masterpiece. 

Stories are such a heart stirrer for me. Unlike my husband, Dave, my eyes glaze over as soon as the essay/sermon begins, but talk about your life and the events and reactions that make you who you are today, and I'm hooked. Stories get beyond the cognitive, practiced response that we present, and curl their way into our being, becoming eternally part of our outlook. 

Though there are some exceptions. Last week was the final night of the marriage course and Adi Marsh, Family Relationships Counsellor, came to bestow her hard-fought wisdom of how to fix your relationship before it is too late. She exploded my mind with her insistence that when we are in the midst of conflict -heart racing, fists clenched- the reaction that ensues is not, in fact, revealing the depraved true self that is finally clawing its way out. Actually, in this moment your brain has become the master over the usually rational mind, reverting to fight/fight/freeze survival tendencies that we would barely own in a more calm situation. I hadn't even realised that I subscribed to the former view until the concept struck me to the soul, and became my freedom. 

I've begun reading 'The Happiness Project' by Gretchen Rubin and already I have gleaned so many nuggets from surveying her experience. The gist of the story is that upon realising one day that she technically 'had it all' but wasn't proportionately ecstatic, she commenced a year long experiment to increase her levels of happiness and to figure out what elements of life were bringing her down. So far I've followed her example in decluttering 'noisy spaces' and have the best intentions of going to bed earlier, though that one might be more of a struggle as there is always far too many fun things to do once the kids go to bed! I've also tried her 'act like you have energy' trick and found it does, indeed, work. 

For the past few years I have been returning Rob Bell's coffee table book 'Drops Like Stars' to the cube shelf, after Hudson has decided to rearrange things, but I had never actually cracked it open. Until today. I went to return it again today, but stopped short, a recent recommendation from Dave echoing in my head, and flipped to the front page for the first time. It was a magical journey of story and poetry, insight and revelation, and it coincided happily with all three kids absorbed in their current activities. One of the lines that will never leave me came from Bell's therapist, when he started lamenting his mistakes, failures or screw ups, his therapist cut him short, opened his top drawer and pulled out a plaque inscribed 'The God Who Wastes Nothing'.

That line almost made me cry. What an incredible concept. That the mistakes, the failures, the blemishes aren't deviations from the 'perfect' path, but experiences that God uses deftly to weave beauty and redemption in our own lives and in those around us. If we let him, of course. We do have the choice to live shadowed in shame and bitterness.

Another haunting tale from Bell's book was that Native Americans, when weaving, have a tradition of leaving a blemish in the corner of the rug, because that is where they believe the spirits enter. The astounding beauty of that concept shattered me. I grew up reciting the scripture 'His strength is made perfect in our weakness' but it took a disfigured rug to drive home the hidden truth. The Spirit is hampered and obstructed when we insist on modelling the perfect weave, sitting firmly on the blemished corner. It isn't until we expose the loose ends to ourselves and those around us that we can truly realise the power of His help.

My battle with perfectionism is alive and well, but as I open myself up, reading with urgency and opening my eyes to the watershed moments of the everyday, that I notice the little victories adding up. And it is in these moments- not the fleeting thrill of op shop finds, nor the momentary buzz of a glass of Pinot Noir- that I feel the most alive.