I look out from my apartment balcony on a ghost town. The rail platforms are deserted, the local shopping centre and hotel closed. Just a couple of locals out walking, face masked, for exercise.
The sense of isolation is complete. For three days we must stay inside our homes, allowed out only for essential needs. Alone, thinking about this dreadul pandemic.
This makes one realise just how much we are meant to be social beings. Empty streets and shopping malls are un-natural! We share life as much as we share our city and workplaces and parks.
It is in times like this that one can realise how easily we take each other for granted. We pass each other without a greeting, fail to make contact with friends and neighbours, avoid taking time for a chat...
The sight of my ghost town urges me to appreciate more how much I need the streets to be bustling and the pub open and the shops doing business. But I have to do my bit, make my contribution to the social interaction that stops life being solitary confinement.
Does art imitate life, or life imitate art? This question has been the subject of centuries of debate, and is nowhere near resolved. Probably, in the long run, it is a "both..and" issue.
Today's comics in the Courier Mail got me thinking about this. Nothing like a daily dose of the comics to stir the brain cells one way or another.
Oh how I can relate to Fred Basset. Many a mid-morning I would give anything to hit the couch for an hour. It takes real will power to hold off until after lunch for the daily nap. Just one example of art reflecting the real-life experience of getting older.
Hagar the Horrible is not a character one would expect to look to as mirroring one's own situation. But in today's panel he humorously exposes the all too frequent desperation one can experience when an ageing bladder threatens to give out.
I'm not much of a Garfield fan, but today's simple clip expresses beautifully the warmth of friendship that becomes so much more important as age robs us of so many old colleagues and friends. Attendance at funerals becomes almost one's central social life! How welcome time spent over a beer or cuppa with friends.
Calvin has such a rich imaginative life that gets him into all sorts of strife. Today he's driven to desperation when Hobbes won't stay on focus and help him solve the mess he's got himself into with his transmogrifier! Certainly I too could do with a lot more help in thinking these days. I get frequent "asides" of thought I mean to follow up: a question to ask, a piece of news to share, a reference to google... But sadly they disappear into the ether long before the present focus of attention ends. And I end up as frustrated as Calvin appears here.
Now, why did I start this post? I am certain I had some deep insight in mind to share -- but sadly it is gone. Maybe it will come back to me as I lie awake some morning at 2.30 am deciding if I really must stagger out to the toilet.
I have been enjoying wading through the four very successful seasons of the ABC crime drama RAKE on Netflix.
It centres on the deeply flawed character of a brilliant Sydney barrister, Cleaver Greene, an alcoholic, sexaholic, drug addicted womaniser and compulsive gambler. His marriage has ended, though he finds it hard to admit it. He tries desperately to be a good father to his teenage son whom he genuinely loves -- but just doesn't have the ability to do so.
What is clear in episode after episode is just what a mix of the good and bad can coexist in a person. Cleaver is passionately committed to the law, to the pursuit of justice particularly for those who are being given the rough end of the stick by the system. He'll go to any ends, however dodgy, to achieve that. And all the while his personal life staggers from one crisis to another. He knows how to give, but not how to accept the help he needs from those who love him.
Cleaver is both a blessing and a curse to those around him.
RAKE is a parable. It is told in bold strokes, its characters painted bigger than life to make a point. Just as the Lord's parables of the Prodigal Son, the Lost Sheep and the Unfaithful Servant were similarly exaggerated lest we miss the point.
We should never write anyone off. However much of the bad we see, it may well be hiding from us the redeeming grace of the good struggling to be set free. Who knows but what a helping hand rather than a condemning word might achieve? RAKE reminds me powerfully that God never gives up on any one of us, however flawed!
SWEET COUNTRY is a disturbing movie. Filmed and directed by indigenous director Warwick Thornton, it is a moving collaboration between some of Australia's finest actors and unknown local aboriginal newcomers. It provides a snapshot of the tough conditions that faced returned WWI diggers as they struggled to open up central Australia to cattle raising.
Up front it focuses on the racial tensions between the settlers and the aborigines they dispossessed whilst making them work in slave labour conditions on the properties. But there are other demons at work too. Alcohol becomes the solace for the ex-soldiers battling the heat and loneliness and harsh realities of the desert country. This fuels tensions. Sam Kelly kills one such settler in self-defence of himself and his wife. He is hunted and brought to trial, but exonerated. Not acceptable to the locals: he is shot dead as he leaves town.
Interestingly the story-line is based on fact. Google "Wilaberta Jack" and on the Trove website you'll find a report of a trial in Darwin in the 2 August 1929 edition of the Northern Standard of one Wilaberta Jack accused of murdering Harry Henty. It makes fascinating reading as it recounts word for word the testimony of witnesses. The jury returns a verdict of justifiable homicide.
In many ways it is a depressing story. It reminds us vividly of the injustices visited upon the first peoples of this land. It also points to the disadvantages and lack of support suffered by those living in remote areas, even as they struggle to make a living for themselves and to contribute to our national economy. For today it also highlights the lack of care for returned servicemen who suffer as a result of their time in war zones - then and now! And it challenges us to pay greater attention to the scourge of alcohol and drug addiction in our communities.
On the face of it, Sweet Country portrays the unjust situations the faced aboriginal people. They were trapped in a hopeless circumstance with little protection or prospect. Despised as savages, exploited as slave labour, their women used as sex relief, they inhabit a sad chapter in our national story. But the other players - the settlers, the townsfolk, the mounted police - are all equally trapped in the harsh reality of frontier life. One wonders how they could have been other than they were.
For some reason in recent months a couple of local magpies have taken to visiting my balcony. They sit perched on the railing, surveying the surrounding territory before taking off to do whatever magpies do. Both seem friendly and inquisitive, eyeing me up and down as I sit reading in the shade. Eventually one got cheeky enough to come close and try to steal some of my biscuit as I enjoyed a cuppa.
Foolishly (?) I started to leave a piece of biscuit or bread on the rail, gratefully gobbled up by my winged visitors. Wikipedia informed me that as carnivores such birds should only be fed unprocessed foods: puppy kibble suggested. So I bought a packet and started leaving a small dish together with a bowl of water in my plant-less planter. Throughout the day I enjoy watching the occasional visitors: a couple of baby magpies, a currawong, butcher birds as well as the original magpies as they nibble the kibble and dip into the water bowl.
But all is not idyllic. The noisy caw caw of a local crow perched on the foxtel cable opposite warns of the approach of the avian bully. With a swoosh of black the crow lands on the balcony rail, frightening the incumbent feeder away. It then hops down and cleans out the feeding dish greedily, usually tips over the water bowl and heads off leaving nothing for lesser locals.
Needless to say, if I become aware of the crow's presence I quickly chase the invader away with stern warnings that it is not welcome and that the food is definitely not for it. But it is a sneaky animal, and a completely empty dish is a sure sign it has managed to raid the pantry yet again.
In a quiet moment I got to thinking: why this discrimination against the crow? Why such dislike for this emblematic Aussie bird? Is it that its jet black plumage and beady eye are so universally associated with death? Is it the Cain and Abel thing, the crow bearing the mark of the murderer Cain upon it? Is it some sort of repulsion drawn from so often seeing crows feeding on rotting road kill as one drives country roads? Is it the annoying persistence of its loud cry? Is it the surfacing of an inherent racism within myself drawn out by its blackness?
Yes! is the crow any less a creature of God adding variety and colour to our landscape? Is it any less deserving of affection and feeding than its more variegated cousins? I suspect the crow and the magpie may be Jungian indicators of human interactions that need deeper awareness and consideration.
Meanwhile my prejudice continues unabated! The crow is just not welcome on my balcony .. yet. Now I need to find suitable names for my magpie chicks đ
Cardinal Cupich of Chicago has been reminding us that Pope Francis gave us a powerful image for Church when he likened it to a field hospital.
Got me thinking about the TV series MASH 4077 and its zany crew. And I couldn't help but realise just what a wonderful image it is.
No neat Emergency Room crew here, running a slick corporate medical clinic. Rather an unlikely bunch of the good, the bad and the ugly.
Yes, there's the kindly Father Mulcahy whose seminary training would have done little to prepare him for the dramas of the Korean conflict. His "parish" was far removed from the routines decreed by diocesan guidelines and episcopal pronouncements. For him, the gospel was the only handbook he could rely on. He had to learn the hard way to accept people as they are and to journey with them where he found them.
Margaret and Frank displayed the weakness of human nature in their marital infidelity and clandestine lust. Ambition too, and forever seeking to take advantage of others to further their own ends. But for all that, they were part of the team and when it counted could be healers and life-givers.
Radar O'Reilly reminds me of the indispensable "little people" in the church. In his own quiet way, he is the one who gets things done and who really keeps the unit humming along. He doesn't get much credit for it; is pushed and pulled and used; has no authority yet knows how to achieve what needs to be done. Without Radar I doubt that MASH 4077 would have survived.
What can we say about Klinger? Let's just be reminded that the misfits of the world should find a home in the church as much as the rest of us. And not just to be cared for. They have their own contribution to make if only we accept them and give them scope. How often Klinger rescued situations in the MASH stories!
Cupich and Francis both draw attention to another aspect of the image of Church as field hospital.
It's not just about having a well equipped centre with all the latest equipment and bundles of bandages waiting for patients to come in for treatment. In fact our near-empty churches remind us that "patients" don't often turn up for our scheduled services. No. The field hospital has another function -- one that wasn't highlighted so often in the TV series.
As important as the doctors and nurses and field hospital staff are the paramedics who are sent out by helicopter to rescue the wounded in the field. They treat them on the battlefront, stabilise them for transport back to the field-hospital. But often their patients don't come back with them. Patched up, they choose to remain out there in their messy world. The paramedics equip them to get on with life whilst always knowing that the field hospital is there as a resource if ever they decide they need it. Yes, the church has to see to it that it is "missionary", going out and ministering to people in their daily lives; not just sitting at home and waiting for them never to come looking.
I guess the trick question in all of this is: who from MASH 4077 am I ????
Hugh Jackman is the unlikely star of a new musical movie The Greatest Showman. It is a bio of Phineas Taylor Barnum, founder of the famous circus that travelled the USA from 1841 until it closed in May 2017.
From the beginning Barnum's troupe was criticised as a "freak show", featuring an assortment of unusual folk such as General Tom Thumb. Justifying his actions, Barnum responded to criticism: "Everyone is special, and nobody is like anyone else. Thatâs the point of my show." on another occasion he offered this gem: "No one ever made a difference by being like everyone else." Maybe these were somewhat glib self-justifications, but when one stops to reflect they are profound truths. The limitless creativity of our God is reflected in the fact that every single person of the many billions who have lived is unique. Even identical twins have their distinguishing characteristics. So much so that for even one of us not to have lived would diminish the richness of humanity. Not so easy to grasp as we see almost faceless thousands fleeing their homes and facing starvation and oppression! I suspect most of us would like to feel that in some way we could make a difference to the current state of our world. But the the overwhelming enormity of the problems we encounter can easily trap us into being "like everyone else" -- powerless, helpless, uninvolved. To make a difference we have to dare to be different, even if only in the smallest way. A challenge that PT Barnum clearly saw!
Harry Dean Stanton featured in over 200 films and TV movies, but only had the lead role in two. "Lucky" is his final contribution, released just weeks after his death at 91. Famous for his hangdog looks, Stanton was an avowed atheist, and Lucky is unashamedly autobiographical.
Sitting through the 88 minutes of this fine movie is a bitter-sweet experience. Lucky quickly captures your sympathy and interest. A ninety-year-old heavy smoker, his world has been reduced to an unchanging daily routine: yoga, coffee and crossword at the diner, buying milk and cigarettes at the convenience store, TV shows back home, and tomato juice at the bar at night. The proximity and inevitability of his death press upon him, and there is no escaping the hopelessness of his atheism. It pains one to see such a lovable character surrendering to a view of life as meaningless and death as nothingness.
Stanton's first significant role was in Cool Hand Luke, Paul Newman's death and resurrection themed story set in the horrors of Alabama's prison system. Stanton's character sang the haunting gospel song "Just a Closer Walk With Thee" in a central scene of the movie. Its message of faith and hope stands in stark contrast to the gospel of nihilism that Harry preaches to all he meets: When my feeble life is o'er, Time for me will be no more, Guide me gently, safely o'er To Thy kingdom's shore, to Thy shore.
But maybe all is not lost for Lucky. In a touching scene as he shares a joint with a kindly social worker, he confesses "I am scared." Then in a bar argument with a friend whose tortoise has gone walkabout, he is pulled up short by his friend's passionate retort "There are some things in this life that are bigger than all of us, and a tortoise is one of them!" At the end, Lucky ponders a large old cactus, scarred by long life -- but surrounded by healthy young bushes springing up from the roots of the past. And the tortoise slowly creeps across the desert landscape as Lucky walks away into the future. Not sure what to make of all the symbolism there, but one can only hope that at the end for Lucky and others like him, hope and faith break through.
The latest action/comedy from Marvel Studios, THOR RAGNAROK, draws inspiration from Norse mythology. Thor, God of Thunder, is child of Odin - most powerful of the Norse gods. The movie centres around conflict with his siblings Loki and Angela. Strangely Odin is only a third-generation god, yet far more popular than Ymir, the first and creator god.
As with the Greek and Roman pantheons, the Norse gods have been fashioned in the image and likeness of humans. The mythology is full of stories of family strife, sibling rivalry, personal power struggles, incestuous marriages, jealousy, and wars, wars, wars... It is as though, by creating gods in our own likeness, we validate our human failings as much as our strengths and achievements. Quite different from the monotheism of our Judaeo-Christian-Islamic traditions.
Yet for all that, I cannot help but ponder that the temptation to turn our God into a superhuman version of ourselves is ever present. In so doing we seek to give divine approval to our failure to live in the image and likeness of our God. Rather we prefer to see God as in our image and likeness!
David Baldacci has written some 40 novels in the last twenty years, most of them best sellers. Crime thrillers are his speciality -- and I have particularly enjoyed the John Puller, Will Robie and Amos Decker series.
A native Virginian, one of his stand alone novels Wish You Well is a poignant tale of the tough life of mountain folk in the Appalachians. There is a touching episode in which a teenage lad is tragically killed. His twelve year old friend in her grief asks:
"Why do things like this happen, Cotton?"
He sighed deeply. " I suppose it may be God's way of telling us to love people while they're here, because tomorrow they may be gone. I guess that's a pretty sorry answer, but I'm afraid it's the only one I've got."
That gem of gospel wisdom alone made reading this novel worthwhile! Surely anything but a sorry answer. I never cease to be amazed at how we can uncover hidden truth so unexpectedly and in such unlikely places. The Word of the Lord can be heard as much in the words of crime writers as in the sacred writings of the evangelists.
It is a scene oft repeated in recent times ... masses of flowers, candles, photos and messages left at the site of some tragic event.
Most leaving their tribute never knew or were touched by the deceased during their lifetime. But somehow tragedy transcends the gulf and we all feel bound together intimately in the face of untimely or unwarranted death. We briefly realise that we are not alone.. we are not isolated islands in a sea of humanity.
Wrong done to one is a wrong done to us all. And so we unite to express our solidarity, however little we honour it at other times.
Today I walked past a bench in Sherwood Road just outside the Village Shopping Centre.
Unoccupied. But as I passed I noticed a small arrangement of flowers sitting on the edge of the bench with a photo attached. It was a snap of Tom - a cheery overweight unknown who sat there each fortnight selling the BIG ISSUE. Most people just walked on past him paying no attention to his lively spiel. But to the occasional person who stopped to hand over their $7 (or mostly $10 "and keep the change Tom") he had a cheery greeting and loved nothing more than to engage in a minute or two of philosophising on the state of the world.
That lonely bunch of flowers on the empty seat spoke eloquently of the fact that Tom's life had touched someone else's, and that even the least of us are not an island after all. I went back into Coles and bought a bunch of flowers to keep that lonely tribute company -- and to be a floral prayer for one I too often passed by.
Driving home from Indooroopilly the other day I was confronted by a cyclist peddling vigorously towards me, head down as he tried to avoid an irate magpie dive-bombing him. It's that time of year, and when I am out walking I always have to keep an eye out for the swooping birds.
It got me thinking. One has to admire their natural instinct to protect their nests, eggs and chicks from potential harm. For them life is to be protected from its very beginning. The nest / home is precious. The new-laid eggs are the future. No postman on his shiny red motorcycle is exempt from their fierce protective instincts.
It seems that we humans could learn from our black and white avian friends. If only we would regard our home/ family as equally sacred, and protect life from its first beginnings. Then divorce, family violence and abortion would have no place.
Martin McGuiness, a controversial figure in Northern Ireland, has just died. A former IRA "terrorist" responsible for loyalist deaths during the troubles, he became the architect of the peace that now prevails. And an unlikely friend and colleague of Rev Ian Paisley!!
McGuiness death has drawn two opposed reactions.
Some, like Tony Blair and Teresa May, choose to remember the man of peace he became, and the leadership he has provided to troubled Northern Ireland. Others, the families of victims of the IRA, cannot forgive and see him only as a mass murderer to be reviled.
This dichotomy is played out time and again in daily life. There are many for whom there is no room for repentance and rehabilitation. Who the person is today is totally measured by the failures of the past. There is no recognition that a person can change, grow and put away earlier misdeeds. Which is why the USA practice of executing criminals 15 and more years after their trials is so immoral and obscene. They are executing a totally different person.
The media has much to answer for in this regard. The prominence they give to people who cannot put the past behind them gives legitimacy. The media relishes detailing the past sins of a person with little or no recognition of any change or good that may entitle the person to be seen in a better light.
I think the scriptural admonition could be paid much more attention: "Judge not, lest ye be judged yourself."
I can't count the number of times I have been approached in Post Office Lane, or at the entrances to Central Station by a street person with hand outstretched asking for money. Maybe the price of a hamburger, or towards a bed that night, or for a fare to a promised job. My inevitable thought has been that it is more likely for a drink or two. And invariably I shake my head and walk on.
Now Pope Francis confronts me head on. Giving something to someone in need "is always right," the pope said. "There are many excuses to justify why one does not lend a hand when asked by a person begging on the street", he said. "Some may think, 'I give money and he just spends it on a glass of wine!ââ Then in his typical down-to-earth style he joked that a glass of wine may be that person's only happiness that day!
He also suggested we consider the guilty pleasures we may be spending our money on rather than giving to the needy. A good Lenten reflection.
Years ago Archbishop Daniel Mannix was noted for walking daily in top hat and frock coat from his residence to St Patrick's cathedral in Melbourne. His pocket has loaded with shilling coins which he unquestioningly dispensed along the way to the needy who approached him ... Even on occasions cheeky school urchins who knew of his largess! Francis would approve.
Maybe I need to check that in future when I take the train into the city that I have a few 'gold' coins in my pocket so I will have no excuse for passing the street person by.
Recent experience has driven home just how important little things can be.
An infected finger at first glance is a rather small thing. But it is amazing how the pain associated with it can completely dominate one's entire life. Nothing can distract from the continuous pain that pulses in the digit -- and one's entire life focuses on dealing with the agony and incapacity that such a small appendage can induce.
Nor does such a small limb cure easily. After six weeks of antibiotic treatment, including a boring two weeks confined to a hospital room and two weeks of home nurse daily visits, healing is still incomplete.
This experience has made me think again about how important seemingly little things can be in a person's life, and how easily we can underestimate or even neglect the effect they can have -- for good or bad. A kind word can nourish self esteem and personal growth and achievement. A careless remark or failure to notice someone can contribute to untold self-harm.
Maybe we pay too much attention to the BIG things in life, and not enough to the seemingly insignificantlittle things.
Recently saw a fine movie - "The Fencer" - which left me feeling so angry. Why is there such bastardry in our world, seeking to undo the good people try to do?
The story (a true one) is about a young Estonian champion fencer (the sport, not post hole digging) who as a teen was drafted into the German military during the occupation. When liberated by Russia he became hunted, as the Stalinists regarded all who had served in the German forces as traitors destined for the Siberian gulags. He took refuge in Leningrad (safety in numbers) where his sporting prowess blossomed. But betrayed there, he fled to a small Estonian village where he became the local school's PE teacher. He began a fencing club (still in existence) to occupy the students at weekends. His success aroused jealousy in the school headmaster who searched for dirt on his staff member, uncovered his past, and betrayed him to the KGB.
As he is taken away to exile in Siberia, the headmaster attempts an apology: "I was just doing what I was required to do". How often that excuse has been used, and continues to be used, as an attempt to justify wrongful actions. A good man, doing good, is sold out to satisfy another's ambition.
I guess there is really no easy answer to this. Evil undoubtedly exists in out world -- and allows of no simple explanation or solution. It certainly points to our inability to overcome this pervasive force that blights humanity -- and our need ultimately for salvation. That is the message of hope that Christmas brings. But meantime the bastardry continues and good people still suffer! That is another mystery.
If only these shoes could talk! They were chosen for me by a podiatrist some years back as I was about to set out on tour that would involve much more walking than I was used to.
In that time these shoes have:
vstrolled around Gaudiâs famous Sagrada Familia
church in BARCELONA
vin VALENCIA, walked the City of Arts and
Sciences on the banks of the diverted Turia River which has now been converted
into parks and sports areas
vtrudged up the slopes of MONTSERRAT to visit the
shrine of the Black Madonna
vwandered through the alleys of the hilltop
fortress of CARCASONNE, home to the Cathar heretics ruthlessly murdered by
papal forces in the Albigensian Crusade of 1209
vvisited the HERMITAGE and nearby sites where St
Marcellin de Champagnat established the Marist Brothers
vstood within the Cathedral of St Mary Major in
MARSEILLE, started in 4th century and evolved into todayâs massive
edifice
vrested in a coffee shop on the Promenade des
Anglais in NICE, admiring the sparkling waters of the Bay of Angels
vclimbed the terraces of the Colosseum in ROME
and sat on the bare marble benches from where the mob watched the Games
vlegged it to the top of Montesanto via the
funicular for breathtaking views of the city and bay of NAPLES
vexplored the ruins of POMPEII and hiked to the
summit of the nearby Mount Vesuvius volcano
vplodded around the AMALFI COAST admiring the
homes of the rich and famous
vstrolled the 2km walls of DUBROVNIK giving a
great view of the ancient city within, and still showing signs of the shelling
endured during the siege by Yugoslav forces 1990 in the Croatian War of
Independence
vcrossed the intersection in SARAJEVO where the
Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated in 1914, triggering World War 1
vwere left at the door of the Blue Mosque and the
Hagia Sophia in ISTANBUL
vroamed the cemeteries of GALLIPOLI and visited
Anzac Cove
vscrambled though the ruins of ancient TROY
vpromenaded the banks of the Danube River and the
halls of the Buda Castle in BUDAPEST
vreverenced the aisles of St Vitus Cathedral and
stopped to pray at tomb of St Wenceslas in PRAGUE
vhopped aboard cruise liner Brilliance of the Seas in Amsterdam for a cruise of the NORWEGIAN
FJORDS
vvisited the central Police Station in OSLO after
my wallet was stolen at the Viking Museum
vtoddled past the Little Mermaid sitting on her
rock looking out to sea in search of her lover prince at COPENHAGEN
vhalted longingly in front of the chocolate shops
and lace boutiques in BRUGGE
vtrooped with tour group the battlefields of
YPRES and checked out the Menin Gate Memorial where over 6000 Aussies âmissing
in actionâ are listed
vclimbed on a table-top in LONDON to watch the
Queenâs barge sail down the Thames to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee
vrested in a pew in the cathedral at CANTERBURY
opposite Archbishop Rowan Williams during Evensong
vambled the streets of CAMBRIDGE taking in the
university and its famous Kings College Chapel
vexplored the circle of standing stones at
STONEHENGE that still have archaeologists uncertain of their origin and meaning
vstood in front of the memorial to Captain Arthur
Phillip of First Fleet fame in the cathedral at SALISBURY
vstrolled the lookouts along the GREAT OCEAN ROAD
to take in the remnants of the Twelve Apostles
vclimbed the rim of the Blue Lake in MOUNT
GAMBIER to marvel at its striking colour
vfollowed in the footsteps of St Mary Mackillop
in PENOLA and checked out the delightful Coonawarra wineries nearby
vdescended into the NARACOORTE caves to see their
limestone formations and prehistoric fossils
vwalked the streets of south-west Queensland
towns like DALBY, JANDOWAE, CHINCHILLA, MILES, ROMA, INJUNE, MITCHELL and
AUGATHELLA
vpaced the night-sky observatory at CHARLEVILLE
to get a telescopic view of the planets
vtrudged across BIRDSVILLE pursued by a million
flies to enjoy a pie at the famous bakery
vwandered the tourist sites in QUILPIE,
THARGOMINDAH, EULO, CUNNAMULLA, DIRRANBANDI, ST GEORGE, GOONDIWINDI, TEXAS,
INGLEWOOD, MILLMERAN and PITTSWORTH
vclambered over the ruins of the Angor Thom city
that have been reclaimed from the jungles of SIEM REAP in Cambodia
vvisited the Marist Brothers boarding school for
severely disabled children in PHNOM PENH vKnelt through the Easter Vigil at the Notre Dame
Cathedral in HO CHI MINH CITY
vplodded up into the Viet Cong cave at DA NANG
vpaddled around the mystic islands that dot HA
LONG BAY
vtip-toed through Uncle Hoâs residence in HANOI
vmeandered through the scrumptious Central
Markets in ADELAIDE
vexplored the wineries of the CLARE VALLEY and
BAROSSA VALLEY with a rest stop at the Jesuit Retreat Centre and Winery at
SEVEN HILL
vstamped in exasperation at the rail platform in
BROKEN HILL when late arrival deprived us of a city tour
vrested up in the sleeper of the Trans
Continental train as we crossed the NULLABOR PLAIN
vkept going as we were shown Hay Street in
KALGOORLIE, famous for its brothels
vmoseyed around BUNBURY on a quiet Sunday looking
for somewhere to eat
vtraipsed out along the BUSSELTON Jetty, the
longest wooden jetty in the world
vstayed steady on the accelerator as I admired
the wildflowers, caves, wineries and beaches of the MARGARET RIVER region
vtracked to the lighthouse at CAPE LEEUWIN to see
the meeting of the oceans
vhoofed it around PARABURDOO to take in the Rio
Tinto townâs great facilities for its mine workers
vrode the guided bus tour of the open cut mine
and railhead at TOM PRICE in the Pilbara
vdescended deep into the Dales Gorge in the
KARIJINI NATIONAL PARK after checking out the wonderful aboriginal museum in
the Visitors Centre there
vtramped the corridors and yards of the notorious
FREMANTLE Jail
vwandered through the Benedictine monastery and
township at NEW NORCIA, enjoying an organ recital in one of the college chapels
on the way
vchased the quokkas on ROTTNEST ISLAND as we
headed to Oliverâs Hill to see the huge gun emplacements there
vhiked the alps of the South Tyrol from BOLZANO
and walked the path of the Fathers of the Council of TRENT
vtraipsed around RAVENNA admiring the beautiful
mosaics that adorn its churches
vshuffled around the Scrovegni Chapel in PADOVA
to view the frescos painted by Giotto
vscampered around the old Roman Arena in VERONA
now used for opera and symphony concerts
vcriss-crossed LAKE COMO to take in the holiday
mansions of the rich and famous
vstood in awe before Leonardo da Vinciâs âLast
Supperâ on the end wall of the Dominican refectory in MILAN, as also in the
city square gazing at the architectural wonder of the Duomo
vplodded the colourful villages of the CINQUE
TERRE hugging the rugged coastline of the Italian Riviera
vcircled the Leaning Tower of PISA before taking
in the medieval township
vfooted it into St Peterâs Square in ROME to
attend Pope Francisâ weekly audience
vambled down to CIVITAVECCHIA to join the Azamara
Quest for the cruise In the Steps of St Paul
vroamed the ruins of the site of the original
Olympic Games at KATAKALON
vtraversed the ancient city of EPHESUS, visiting
the house of Mary and the arena where Paul preached
vsneaked into the cave on PATMOS where St John
dictated the Apocalypse (?)
vstumbled along the cobblestone streets of RHODES
with its relics of Crusader times
vclimbed Calvary inside the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre in JERUSALEM
vclambered down into the cave inside the Church
of the Nativity in BETHLEHEM
vstood on the shores of LAKE GALILEE whilst I
read the Beatitudes to the tour group where Jesus first uttered them (?)
vpaced PAPHOS in southern Cyprus where St Paul
encountered a well-know sorcerer
vhiked around SANTORINI enjoying its villages and
the view of its caldera, what is left of the volcano that wiped out the Minoan
civilization of Crete in 1600 BC
vstrolled the Areopagos and the Parthenon in
ATHENS, not to mention the Agora or old town square
vfollowed Paulâs footsteps into the square in
CORINTH where he was tried by the pro-consul of the day
vvisited one of the 900 ft high rock-top
monasteries in METEORA with its dazzling icons
vtoured the ancient Synagogue of BEREA and
overnighted in THESSALONIKI where Paul stayed briefly
vdiscovered the riverside spot where Paul
baptised Lydia outside the walls of PHILIPPI, and in the old town square stood
where Paul and Silas were flogged and jailed for disturbing the peace
vtramped the huge shopping malls in DUBAI that
even sport indoor ski slopes
vclimbed Castle Hill in TOWNSVILLE to take in
view of city and Magnetic Isalnd
vshuffled around the old Minerâs Cottage in
CHARTERS TOWERS remembering the gold rush days
vtracked carefully around Kronosaurus Corner in
RICHMOND to observe the vast array of dinosaur relics and history there
vrested by the campfire at the Bush Dinner in
local caravan park at JULIA CREEK
vgot left behind in favour of big gum boots for a
mine visit underground in MOUNT ISA
vtip-toed around the classroom at CLONCURRY
school of the air while students from far away checked in with their teacher
for lessons
vdawdled through the Lake Quarry Dinosaur
Stampede near WINTON viewing the hurried tracks left in the mud by small
dinosaurs fleeing a marauding monster
