April 2019

I’m late with the Diary this month, but have a good excuse, as I arrived from Melbourne only last Wednesday, having coughed and sneezed my way throughout the 24-hour trip. By the time I got to youngest son Alexander’s place in Athens, I could barely croak. When in the Big Smoke I usually like to dash hither and yon, but not this time: I sat, not-very-demanding book in lap, and tried to gather my strength. Not to mention my voice. Middle son Niko arrived on Saturday and bore me off to Megara, where he and his family live, and yesterday I arrived back in Kalamata. It was good (of course) to see all four grandchildren, who seem to have grown and developed enormously in the time I’ve been away.

Today I’m feeling much more human: lovely spring weather is helping, and so are the carpets of wild flowers. I’ve done the washing and some shopping and have been through the mail (ugh, bills!) and am generally getting on top of things. And I suppose I have to admit that this zipping between countries has got easier over the many years I’ve been doing it. Easier, I said, not easy.It will come as no surprise to learn that I have written about the latest instance of transition: see www.eurekastreet.com.aufor the piece entitled Coming and Going in Greece and Australia.

I’ve always felt the pressure of time, and it becomes particularly acute when I’m in Melbourne: so many things to do, so many people to see. I notched up two trips to Geelong, one to Bendigo, and one to Ballarat. I’m very fond of Victoria’s provincial cities: the wide streets, the buildings that date from boom periods, the slower pace of life, and they all have beautiful municipal gardens. As has Melbourne, of course. There the Fitzroy Gardens were the ones I favoured this time, and I also criss-crossed Royal Park as a regular thing. The first walk I took there, however, stunned me: it was heart-breaking to see how parched and dry the area was. And the story was the same over much of Victoria.

I was lucky enough to be able to visit ancestral haunts near the Murray River. (So I did go interstate, after all, as we crossed the Murray several times on our way to a very pleasant farmhouse near Corowa, where we stayed en famille.) We checked the cemeteries in Chiltern and found the grave of our great-great-grandfather, he who boosted the local population with his 14 children: 8 sons and 6 daughters. We also found the mansion owned by two of these sons; it doesn’t do to sigh over what might have been, but I did: well, just a few sighs, little ones. I thought it ironic that the place has always been called Olive Hills:perhaps my life among the olive groves was decided long ago?

Back in Melbourne, I did something towards rectifying a grave omission, in that I read three of the novels of the late Peter Temple, a greatly gifted writer who won awards in the area of crime fiction, but also had such general appeal that he won the Miles Franklin Prize in 2010. His hero/antihero is one Jack Irish, and a TV series was made about him and his adventures some time ago. There is something very gratifying about knowing the setting of a novel, and Temple made Melbourne his setting: he is on record as saying Melbourne is the most interesting part of Australia, so eat your heart out, Sydney! There are also trips into country Victoria, Jack Irish being a racing man, and also a footy man with a special fondness for the Fitzroy Football Club. Temple, despite spending his early life in South Africa, gets the Australian argot just right, although I have to admit that the constant profanity sets my teeth on edge somewhat. But I’m always cheered by the dry sense of humour, which he was able to capture very accurately. It is a great pity Temple couldn’t have had another ten years, as I’m sure there were lots of books still in him. And a lot of life, for that matter.

Further to the business of balancing my two worlds, I went for a walk along the waterfront last night. The sea is nearly always a beautiful and soothing sight, and last night was no exception. But it was the wattles I wanted to see. At some stage, somebody planted a long row of them on either side of the road, and they never fail to cheer me, one of the heralds of spring. And there they were blooming in mad profusion, Australia’s floral symbol spread along a little part of the Gulf of Messinia, reminding me of both my homes.