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Before you can assess the length of that proverbial piece of string, it is necessary to find a beginning, and once found, an ending. My piece of string is a narrative - a story arc. Something that I scrabbled around in the dregs of this keyboard for all last week.
The fog may have risen, but that did not necessarily mean that I could see clearly now. I was still blinkered by a hankering after colonial-Sydney. Poor, silly me.
So I scheduled in some meanders around my new digs, sticking to streets, and paved paths so as not to cause my daughter unnecessary angst. I take my mobile with me, and give a return time. If I deplore being molly-coddled, then I have to think ahead. Not easy for the obstinant, and pig-headed, I do admit.
The arc of this small suburban settlement is determined by its physical attributes. Castlecrag sits upon a knobbly finger of peninsula that juts into Middle Harbour, barely 7kms north of the Sydney CBD. To understand the genesis, and growth of this glade, one must start from the natural world. Not a bad place to start.
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