Outside

Outside was where I wanted to be when I worked in an office. Even when working in bookshops, I couldn’t wait for my lunch break, to go sit in the park, eat and read, and hug trees. I brought leaves back to sticky tape to the wall by my workspace. Outside was freedom, was air, was possibility and adventure.

On weekends I caught the train from Sydney Central Station to the Blue Mountains, to bushwalk. I had the guidebook and snazzy daypack, purchased from an outdoor adventure shop in the city, and spent hours planning the next walks. None of my friends were into such things, so instead of giving up, I travelled alone. I’m proud of myself for this. I didn’t let anyone know exactly where I was headed though, which now horrifies me. I could have so easily been targeted by any number of predators, so consider myself lucky. But those long train rides and long walks, alone with the birds and wildflowers and crisp mountain air and waterfalls, they were perfect.

One weekend I travelled to a small Permaculture nursery in the foothills and returned home to my parents’ house with a wildly inappropriate selection, my enthusiasm and curiosity having obscured my judgement. My father, seeing how happy I was to explore this new hobby, kindly indulged me, and while I later travelled further afield he tactfully informed me of certain plants’ removal. The lab lab beans had taken over the suburban backyard and been ruthlessly dispatched. The carob tree had required ground-level pruning. The yellow-flowering bansksia rose, so vigorously Triffid-like that it had made a bid for world domination – it too was neutralised. What survived and were appreciated for many years were the native banksia tree and the blueberry ash. Slow-growing, ecologically suitable and attractive to both humans and wildlife, they were the better choices I’d made.

Don’t Fence Me In became my theme song and I started to resent the dictates of roads and footpaths. Naturally that led to musings on forging my own way in life and to that popular poem about the Road Less Travelled. So I headed out of town for increasingly longer periods.

Camping trips, whether at the beach or at Down to Earth festivals, were minimalist affairs. Kitchen sinks were later versions, with partners, but all I needed then was a tent, sleeping bag, change of clothes, drinking water, camping stove, cooking pot and bowl and cutlery, and dried food. I hitched rides, shared lifts with friends of friends or with the mail delivery truck, when public transport was unavailable. I just wanted out and away. I slept on couches and floors en route if necessary.

This astonishes me now, as a perpetually anxious older person. I don’t even really enjoy going inside others’ homes any more, let alone appreciate sleeping on their floors or riding with strangers to unknown locations. I’ve become a strange old goose. That’s why I love these memories and am thankful I travelled so much while I still could. So long ago, and so far, far away that it seems a dream.