There's always ointment and saltwater...

I hope everyone has had a gentle week filled with ‘a pocketful of happiness’ (Richard E Grant) - it’s always a good feeling if it happens; it buffs the edges and polishes the dullness away.

We’ve watched the Tour de France almost every night since it began 3 weeks ago to its conclusion through the streets of Paris. Truth though, the mountain days before Paris are always my favourites: up and down the Alpes Huez this year – such mighty endurance and power! I’m not really a sports fan of any sort, but I do enjoy the Giro D’Italia and the Tour de France. I know the competitors’ names now and I’m very slowly learning the techniques involved. And as for Tadej Pogačar! He is breathlessly amazing!

Why on earth do I enjoy cycling? Gosh, apart from the scenery, I’ve no idea. Who knows, maybe it’s genetic.

My grandfather was a bike rider, a champion in his day, although I was barely a sparkle in my mum’s eye when he rode. They had wooden bikes back then and in fact his championship bike is in the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, although the bike above looks as if its made of metal.

I have a memory of him by a crackling fire at the old family cottage on the coast. He was in his late 60’s and had his feet in a bowl of warm water and Epsom Salts, his grey flannel trousers rolled up as he rubbed some nice-smelling liniment (see below) into his white calves. He had pronounced calves – so did my grandmother. Something that flowed through to my late cousin, myself and my son.

Pa had a Gladstone bag filled with the most fragrant unguents, some no longer made, but I swear they were magical! Once, when I was perhaps nine or ten, I walked past him dressed in a pair of shorts and he called me back and ran his hand over my lower calf. ‘Does that hurt?’ ‘No,’ I replied. He moved his fingers down to my heel. ‘That?’ ‘Ouch!’

He sat me down and investigated my heel which was inflamed. Leading from the heel was a very distinct red line working its way up the lower calf. He said it was an infection and that I probably had some shell grit embedded in the heel and so out came the bag, a small slit was made in my heel, a poke around (one had to be stoic with Pa), a dressing with an ointment (either Zam-buk, Cuticura or Empire Ointment, all smelled divine!) and then each day, he would take the dressing off, send me to the saltwater to walk and then re-dress the wound. Slowly the red line receded and eventually he pronounced me mended.

I asked Dr. Google and I think I may have had this:

… a red line can travel up the leg from a foot wound. This condition is called lymphangitis, and it means bacteria from a skin infection are moving through your lymphatic channels toward the lymph nodes in your groin… and these days would have been treated with copious antibiotics as a serious emergency. But Pa was phlegmatic, made no mention of doctors, and his medicaments worked a treat. That and saltwater. These days, no doctor will let one go near saltwater with an open wound – I presume the world’s waters have become a tad polluted in the intervening 60+ years.

One can still buy Zam-Buk and Cuticura and when I lifted the lid on a tin of Cuticura before writing this, the room was filled with eucalpyptus, camphor, thyme and sassafras amongst other things. I was transported straight back to my childhood where all our bike grazes were treated with the wonder ointments. We had many grazes, riding over dirt roads in shorts and thongs (flip-flops for the non-Australians), feet often sliding off the pedals and causing great crashes. None of us ever cried though, I remember that well. All grazes were badges of courage and the best holidays, and besides there was always ointment and saltwater…

Now the Tour is done, we’ll revert to our evening silence in the cottage. He will read on his computer, I’ll embroider this and that and we’ll both listen to the waves on the beach if there’s a swell, or perhaps note the wind blowing the willow fronds against the tin roof. Or perhaps, I’ll write.

After checking all the files for the remaining fantasy series paperbacks, I’ve barely written any of Phoebe’s Prime. Hopefully that will change. Phoebe is a part of my life here – every walk I take on the beach, every time I go to the shop or drive to the city, I see it through Phoebe’s eyes because she is a newcomer after all.

They chatted about the detail of the renovation over tea and orange cake. ‘Finally signing on the bottom line made me feel that at last I can truly begin to reinvent myself,’ Phoebe admitted.

Annie placed her mug on the tray, taking up her cake plate as she scrutinised Phoebe. ‘Do you need to reinvent yourself?’

Phoebe fiddled with her cake fork. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I rather think I do.’ But she offered no more. She could hardly regale Annie with her life story. She barely knew the woman.

Annie gave a whisper of a snort. ‘Goodness, Phoebe. What an enigma you are and how delighted I am to have met you. You know I’m a writer? I have to tell you that hidden depths are like a drug to we writers. We live for such stuff.’

Phoebe smiled. ‘No one has called me an enigma before, so thank you. I’m also keen to find out about Annie Tremayne writer.’

‘Ah,’ Annie brushed dismissively at crumbs on her sweater. ‘Google me. It’s easier.’

‘Then tell me about your garden because that’s another dream. To create my own garden, to build rooms for my dreams.’

‘To build rooms for my dreams…’, goodness, where did that line come from? I do hope there’s more stored away because it’s always a wonder when they slip out…

Other things:

My tulips are lifting above the soil, the grandiflora is flowering and dropping petals everywhere and I’ve picked my first bunch of white daphne. Spring is on its way!

The end to the school holidays rolled in on Monday and we had a perfect day with our grandson. We rode bikes together, he and I, and I have to say that at almost 75 and keeping up with an almost 8 year old who mountain-bikes and has done the Meehan Range with his dad and has the Maydena and Derby tracks in his sights so he tells me, I had to retire with a heatpack and anti-inflammatories in the small of the back after he’d returned to the farm.

(Image from a year ago. Just look at my bike! It’s almost 70 years old! No gears, only a back-pedal brake. I LOVE it!)

It was fun with grandson – hopefully as he grows older, he’ll remember dear old Nanny who rode bikes with him. And clambered with he and Pa down the cliff to our favourite Pirate Beach (where Jack Sparrow used to leave maps to find gold coins which were chocolate coins covered in gold foil).

Pa, Nanny, the Womble and Grandson all meandered, played with a Monster Truck from Auntie Clare, got a little damp, climbed and pottered and then scaled back up the rough, steep cliff and pronounced it perfect.

Grandson’s dad had been in hospital for 48 hours after spiking his wrist with an 18 gauge needle when he and my husband were giving pre-lambing shots to the flock. Son required urgent surgery to empty the resulting wound of pus followed by copious intravenous antibiotics. Farming can be dangerous, I tell you. We’ve clocked up an almost fatal ATV crash with my husband (inspiration for ‘Passage’), a crush injury from an ATV for my son (hmm – inspiration for another novel? No, son would be furious!), needlestick injuries, heavily bruised feet, hands and legs from stock-work and fencing, and so it goes. No place for those who don’t pull on their big boys’/girls’ pants… and tuck some Cuticura or Zam-Buk in the back pocket.

My stitches are out. Good. now have 4 glaring white steri-strips in place and they stick out like a sore thumb. Not good. The cancer was squamous but I suspected it was. Life is … different being an embroidery project for a doctor.

To ballet to top up my pocketful of happiness - one group class and then a private class. What I did notice was that in the centre, I wasn’t reaching for the barre quite as often as I was using my core more, tightening buttocks and legs and reaching higher with my arms. That said, as I began to flag with tiredness, so my balance went off-piste as well. From little things big things grow…

It’s been a week of clouded skies on the coast, with the moon and stars valiantly trying to pierce the wafting veils in the night sky. Perhaps this little video is very apt:

Now I can look up and imagine the young boy, his father and grandfather doing what they do. Maybe even pretending it’s my husband, son and grandson. Lovely…