Aged paper ...

The paperbark tree. Glorious in life, glorious in death.

Jolly good company

Here we are again, happy as can be All good friends and jolly good company. Driving round the town, out upon a spree All good friends and jolly good company. Never mind the weather, never mind the rain Now we're all together, whoops she goes again. All good friends and jolly good company.

A reflection

When You Are Old When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face among a crowd of stars. William Butler Yeats

This is my contribution to the Weekend Reflections community.

Swing low, sweet chariot

This is a contribution to the Weekend in Black and White.

Cock Horse

Today reached 38C when the average for this time of year is about 24C. We sought refuge walking around the stables in Centennial Parklands, but continuing to swelter we quickly repaired to the nearby cafe for an ice-block.

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady upon a white horse; Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, And she shall have music wherever she goes.

Work it Baby!

There was no obvious coxswain for this group of young women working up a sweat in Centennial Park. The lone man within coo-ee was caring for the three children, who showed not a skerrick of interest in the endeavours of the women.

You go girls!!

Goosey goosey gander

Goosey goosey gander, Whither shall I wander? Upstairs and downstairs And in my lady's chamber. There I met an old man Who wouldn't say his prayers, So I took him by his left leg And threw him down the stairs.

Quite a large flock of geese 'lives' adjacent to Busby's Pond in Centennial Park. Although they have a scarey reputation, they are exciting to walk amongst because of their noise and their antics.

A tough terrain for cyclists

Being essentially hills and gullies, Sydney is a tough terrain for cyclists. The harbour is a drowned valley, and the cityscape covers promontories that run down like fingers to the water. So getting around on a bicycle is no easy going. And the roads are just a maze of goat-tracks, really - macadamised goat-tracks, but still goat-tracks. This young woman nipped across Moore Park Road just outside the Football Stadium which is next door to the Sydney Cricket Ground. As she pushed her way up to Oxford Street, I wondered how far she would get. At about the half-way point, she got off and pushed.

Location, location, location

So goes the exhortation from land sharks and speculators and estate agents! Look at the map. They are right, of course. Wedged in by greenery, this estate appealed to doctors, to lawyers, to statesmen (huh?), to mercantilists. This is where the landed gentry who ran merino studs outside Wagga Wagga housed their family (or mistresses).

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Can you see the green swathe through this area? Can you see the 100 acres that is bounded by Robertson, Cook, Lang and Martin? The exclusivity of the area was a magnet. Lang Road and Cook Road have been eroded by the impact of traffic from the old Showground, from the Sydney Cricket Ground, and now from Fox Studios. Some of these houses have been let go, like a mistress gone to seed.


Remember, we are talking here about the professional class, the landed gentry, and merchants. We are not talking imported aristocracy, we are not talking inherited wealth. For the most part, these investors were self-made men. Self-made, with pretensons, of course.

The responsibility of exclusivity

There are four main thoroughfares that comprise Centennial Park, the suburb. They are Lang Road, Martin Road, Robertson Road, and Cook Road. Of these Martin Road is the only one that has not segued into a major thoroughfare around the Sydney Cricket Ground and associated sporting facilities. Of course, this meant that it retained its 'exclusive' air.

Although the type of material used to construct the housing was mandated (to exclude the hoi-poloi) the style of building was not prescribed. Hence, along these four thoroughfares can be seen styles such as Federation, Arts & Crafts, Victorian, Old English, and Californian Bungalow. Being a member of the hoi-poloi, the thing that strikes me the most is the size of the blocks, the hedges to keep out prying eyes, and the landscaped gardens.

Having large houses of a specific style which are registered on the National Estate (its heirs and successors forever!), means a hefty annual bill for maintenance. Some of the houses are starting to look tawdry as a result.

Let me lead you up the garden path

Centennial Park was dedicated to the citizens of Sydney, and more broadly, the citizens of Australia in 1888, one hundred years after the first european settlement of the island continent.

Centennial Park, however, is also the name of a suburb; a very small, but ritzy suburb, which commenced in 1904 with the auction of about 100 acres of land. Building restrictions ensured quality: no wooden houses; no terraces; brick or stone only.

As this week progresses, let's have a sticky at some of them.

Childish play, perhaps

I watch them The children of this now generation; I watch them in their communal living room, With their prepackaged trikes Promoting consumer play; WIth their attention-deficit psychoses Pandering to their every whim

Not for them the billy cart Made from planks of rough-hewn pine And rescued pram wheels. Not for them the glued brown-paper kite with shards Of pleated cloth and biting sisal. I watch them with a fine melancoly.

Dreams of childhood

I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by t.s. Eliot

Sunday in the park

After a slightly crisp start, the day blossomed fine and warm with a light nor'easter rustling the trees. An autumn Sunday, but not just any old Sunday. This was Mothering Sunday - Mothers' Day. And this year, we had two mothers to be feted.

I was very impressed with the parks of Paris, but suspect the parks of Sydney are winning in their own way. This was taken in Centennial Park, beside the children's playground. More as the week progresses.

And thus begins a most surreal week. I compose this as I stand vigil for my father making his final journey, expected early Monday morning.

Busby's fringe

These sublime 'lashes' fringe one of the eleven ponds within Centennial Park.

Theme Day - My favourite part of town

Centennial Park is one of my favourite parts of Sydney - but I have many. It has wild sections, it has manicured areas, it has garden beds and lakes, children's playgrounds and equestrian fields. Truly Centennial Park is a place for 'everyman'.

Click here to view thumbnails for all participants

Head in the clouds

As I approached, a figure broke from in front the plinth and crunched up the pathway toward the thicket of pines on the ridge, leaving a whiff of ck-One on the breeze. Her (for that is what I surmised from the gait) vest flapped in the draught, and her shoulders weighed her down. A sense of muttering accompanied her.

It was morning; I was alone, save for the heat of the day making its presence felt early. I turned to survey the returned statue, a stranger in a foreign land. That was when I saw the offering, wilting, as flesh and blood is want to do in the presence of cold, hard marble.


Dickens never came to this county. His is not a style that resonates down here. The linked article tells the story of the statue.

The sweaty pack

Coming up to 8:30 on a Sunday morning in late summer, with the mercury already edging its way up to to the forecast 31C. The morning after a breathless, heavy night.

One pack rounds Busby's Lake, keeping beneath the shade cast by the she-oaks. The pounding of the other pack is felt as it breasts the rise up Snake Bank, lined with palms. Lean bodies trickle sweat.

I slink back into the shadow of the melaleuca, stretching my cotton top to cover flab, puffing from the sheer exertion of breathing, waiting for youth to pass.

Coming and going - self inflicted pressure

The thunder-storm was building up to the west of her, the temperature about 23C, and my guess is the air was moist and very heavy, maybe 90% humidity. It was early afternoon and Centennial Park was crowded with teenagers from nearby Sydney Girls' High who take cycling for sports afternoon.

There were no pelatons pelotons on Grand Drive at that time. I will have to go in the early morning.

Winter's afternoon in the park

As the shadows lengthened, a nip gathered in the air, and people gathered sweaters around them. Chatting people, walking people, sipping people, running people. People in pairs, people in families, people in teams.


All readying themselves for the homeward journey and the Sunday evening roast of lamb, with baked potatoes, baked pumpkin, steamed baby peas, and slivered carrot, with a gentle spray of mint picked fresh from the window-sill.