Like most childhood memories, my first ones of the Blue Mountains are magical.
Drawing my dad with a black marker on firewood in front of a fireplace. (Stick-figure Dad always had a top-hat.)
My brother and I throwing pink flower-petals into a blow-up pool at a pub. (The effect was so pretty. The owner was upset.)
A mossy rock on a bushwalk. Maybe I hadn’t seen so much moss before.
On my only visit since, I realised you don’t have to be four years old to experience Blue Mountains magic. Just don’t go near the highway.
Yes, it is marketed: loud brochure typeface, tourist buses, and free cake with a coffee if you’re travelling on the Explorer Bus. Beyond that is something special.
Walking the trails, cockatoos call between cliffs and valley speaks centuries, and agelessness, all in a moment.
Every turn shows a delightful angle; a new vision; surprises I’d have thought belonged in fairy tales. I was delighted by the natural conditions of the moment. It was the joy of seeing life in ways I never expected. Little white flowers making plants look like they’ve been snowed on. Shade shifting on moss. Racehorse-grey gum trees against post-noon sky.
Behind those branches, the moon, light, told me of her magic. “Yes, here I am,” she smiles (or do I?) “You forgot about me in the city. Here are your fairy-tales, your day-dreams.”
Others have been enchanted with nature here, with the different qualities of light. I love these rock poems at Echo Point!
Next time will be a different experience, with new surprises. I wonder what other people found in the Blue Mountains today?