Sweet Wayfaring

We are on our way home again but went on another trip soon after so I will begin the record of our next adventure tomorrow.

Millthorpe's population is around 700 people. The lady at the tea rooms said the town's wealth comes from people working in a nearby gold mine. Also, according to her, as the Blue Mountains have become more populated people seeking small town life are moving further west. I understand the appeal.

Millthorpe is an attractive town that clearly caters to city tastes with good eating, bed and breakfast accommodation and tourist gimmicks like coach rides. Nonetheless, there is enough of the authentic to give it real charm. Musing: Traditional nursery rhyme "Cobbler, cobbler, mend my shoe. Get it done by half past two. Half past two is much too late! Get it done by half past eight."

We are on our way to the last small town of this tour. Musing: From Miss Killmansegg and Her Precious Leg. A Legend by Thomas Hood. “Who hath not felt that breath in the air, A perfume and freshness strange and rare, A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere, When young hearts yearn together? All sweets below, and all sunny above, Oh! there's nothing in life like making love, Save making hay in fine weather!”

Musing: From Warning by Jenny Joseph "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit."

I can't help myself. I just love grass and it is never better than in summer time. I know you won't mind because some of you have told me you are rather keen on grass too. Musing: The Grass by Emily Dickinson "The grass so little has to do,--- A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything; And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,--- A duchess were too common For such a noticing. And even when it dies, to pass In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine. And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away,--- The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay!"

It's a long time since I posted a haystack. Haymaking is in full swing at this time of year. From this field you can also see the windfarm in the distance. Musing: From Haymaking by Thomas English "A wonderful thing is your mowing machine, That sweeps o'er the meadow in merciless way; But I sigh for the scythe, curved and tempered and keen, And the labor and joy of the earlier day; I sigh for the toil that was mingled with fun, The contentment we felt when the end had been won, And the sound, peaceful slumber when daylight was done."

Even though it has little merit photographically I just had to include this one. It takes me back to the gardens of my childhood. Musing: I Remember, I Remember by Thomas Hood "I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses red and white, The violets and the lily cups-- Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet! ... I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy."

Here's another one of the old shops in Mandurama. Like a lot of them, it has seen better times. Musing: Hard Times by Roger McGough "When we were up we were beaten When we were down we were kicked We used to be given meals-on-wheels Until the wheels got nicked."

The highway passes through Mandurama. I remember thinking the first time we hurtled through it -- this place is old and interesting, we must go back and explore it. So we did. Musing: Scintillate by Roger cGough "I have outlived my youthfulness So a quiet life for me. Where once I used to scintillate now I sin till ten past three."

And here is another old house, this time in the small town of Mandurama. I just love the character of these old homes. I'm glad to have found the time to include some poems again. It is such fun revisting the ones I enjoy and finding new ones to enhance my understanding of the world. Musing: Wisdom by Sara Teasdale "When I have ceased to break my wings Against the faultiness of things, And learned that compromises wait Behind each hardly opened gate, When I have looked Life in the eyes, Grown calm and very coldly wise, Life will have given me the Truth, And taken in exchange -- my youth."

Neville is one of the cluster of small towns around Blayney. In this part of the country quite a lot of the houses (not just sheds) are built with corrugated iron.

As I munched happily on carrot cake I watched the butterflies flit among the lavender. We'll move onto other small towns in the district tomorrow.

We ended our tour of Carcoar with coffee and cake in a lovely cottage garden. That is the railway station that you can see in the distance.

I loved this shed with its clump of red hot poker plants.

You don't have to be at the museum to spot old stuff at Carcoar.

I'm back at it, photographing farmyard junk. I like the slender lines of this one.

I love exploring all the bits and pieces in country museums, reminds me of my Dad's shed -- he was an engineer and a blacksmith. Musing: From The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man."

The whole town of Carcoar appears to be a museum. The town has been classified by the National Trust due to the number of intact 19th-century buildings. They also have a museum housed in an attractive stone building.

We drove on to the town of Carcoar, the third oldest settlement west of the Blue Mountains. You've gotta love a shopping centre with vines growing up the posts. Musing: From Country Towns by Kenneth Slessor "Verandas baked with musky sleep, Mulberry faces dozing deep, And dogs that lick the sunlight up Like paste of gold – or, roused in vain By far, mysterious buggy-wheels, Lower their ears, and drowse again…. Country towns with your schooner bees, And locusts burnt in the pepper-trees, Drown me with syrups, arch your boughs, Find me a bench, and let me snore, Till, charged with ale and unconcern, I'll think it's noon at half-past four!"