St Edmonds, off Greville Street in Prahran, Melbourne. In a cafe converted from an old garage, the stylish folk at St Edmonds serve the kind of coffee that gives you a reason to get up in the morning.
seven
Snow falling on the Ginkakuji and Kinkaku temples in Kyoto, Japan. A rare chance to capture the beginnings of a snow storm on film.
six
I’m afraid I took the coffee out of this one as its presence in the video just didn’t seem to do justice to the grace and beauty of the Nozawa snow monkeys.
But I assure you there was a coffee, one of those vending machine numbers you find throughout Japan. Not at all memorable, but great for warming the hands after being out in the cold.
Really there are few words needed to describe this incredible experience. So I’ll let you watch instead.
five
Given the current volume and frequency of American cultural exports to Australia, it often seems that there are few aspects of American daily life that I’m not already familiar with. In fact, travelling to America has always felt to me to be a surreal prospect, almost as if it might be possible to doubt the existence of an entire country due to its frequent portrayal in visual fiction.
I’m pleased to report that the land of opportunity does in fact exist. And whilst I found some aspects of American culture instantly familiar, the experience of being in America is radically different to watching it on screen.
Unfortunately, locally roasted and brewed coffee seems a low priority here, making room instead for a preoccupation with more popular breakfast staples: omlettes, incinerated bacon, breakfast potatoes and flapjacks.
Americans seems eager to prove ownership of what they consume by creating strange and often conflicting names to their national dishes: buffalo chicken, mac n cheese, taco salad, cheery fries, chuckwagon, and the mouthwatering promise of ‘slaw’.
This generosity extends to preparation too. In a sushi restaurant I watch the skillfull preparation of a sushi roll. Just when I think the job is done, the roll disappears into the kitchen. Minutes later it reappears, now cocooned in batter, deep fried.
four
Three days into my first snowboarding trip we ride the gondola up to the top of Iwatake, one of the largest mountains in the Hakuba region. At the peak, snow is still falling and visibility is reduced to just a few metres.
We take the run, almost blind, with the help of a few more experienced friends. Three quarters of the way down I dig in a heel edge and fall backwards so hard that the camera detaches from my helmet mount. An electric pain explodes in the base of my spine and mushroom clouds up through the remainder of my body.
For about five seconds I am paralysed, sure that I have mashed my spinal column beyond repair. Falling snow expires on my face. I lift a gloved hand and see that it’s covered in a thousand mathematically perfect snowflakes.
Soon the cold in my feet returns to my legs, which returns to my arms, my hands, my chest and continues up through my face where I can feel icicles hanging in my beard like christmas decorations. I pick myself up and the board finds it’s feet well before I do, taking me gently to the end of the run.
Not since I was a child have I knowingly caused myself so much pain. And yet, the recklessness that snowboarding offers is infectious. There are few more exhilarating feelings than the moment when the heel and toe movements of snowboarding finally take hold. The board, once a thing to be feared, becomes a natural extension of your legs. The snow sighs as you pass over it.
We expend such energy to reduce and dilute opportunities for risk in our lives, and here is a sport that reminds us that risking pain still has its rewards.
three
A timeless experience, just an hour and a half out of Melbourne.
The White House is a boutique bed and breakfast in the heart of Daylesford, a short drive from Melbourne.
From the downy garden light that falls gently through each window to the generous give in every cushion, the White House is a place designed to make you feel at home (or at least, a better version than your own home). Each couch is softly worn on the arms, creating an expectation that here is where one arm should rest while the other is for your book.
Entering the house you get the sense that it was almost waiting for you to arrive. A welcoming loaf of bread waits to be cut, fresh eggs are laid out on the bench, new picked oranges, a creamy bottle of milk in the fridge.
And the objects, carefully chosen and intimately displayed, each have their own story to tell. Turning every corner, opening ever door and drawer, reveals a new twist. The short trip, just 3 days, renewed a year’s worth of creative energy, and we hardly left Melbourne.
two
The dingy, beautiful back alleys of Melbourne are one of my favourite finds since coming to town.
The smell of freshly ground coffee draws you off the street and into these evolving art galleries; each wall layered with different artists, some experienced, others just looking for a moments recognition.
Every time you look you see something different. In fact, it is difficult to see it all by standing still. It feels instead that you should walk through it. That you should live around it. It should be like the pavement under your feet; the moment you begin to recognise it, the view changes, and now you find yourself somewhere entirely different.
Enjoy.
(try to spot the coffee)
one
Untold numbers of manuscripts are started, finished, and abandoned at the antique desks of Varuna House. As the morning frost gathers at the windows, each writer spoons themself from their warm bed, the daffodils stand to attention, and a cup of coffee is soon on the boil. There’s always a well stocked jar of chocolate biscuits, food in the fridge, and enough creative space to stretch your authorly ego.
When it is quiet, and it is often this way, you can hear the scratching of pens and light fingerfalls on keys. Each writer finds their own pace as the day thins out, time slipping by like an unwinding spool of cotton.
The sun drops and the chill blue mountain air seals around the house, a fire is lit, the table is set and the night’s menu is explained. The writer’s gather to lick their wounds and toast the day’s triumph (‘I made it!’). The food is hot and plentiful and tastes of home, the wine softens the heat from the fire.
And waiting in each room is the desk, the unfinished manuscript, the poem. A blank notebook full of expectation. And Eleanor Dark walks the halls, checking in on us all.
Thanks to the teams at Text Publishing and Griffith Review for providing me the chance to stay at Varuna. And thanks also to the Varuna Team for making my stay so comfortable. Hope to be back soon for another round.
