He steers the motorbike off the long winding country-road and we come to rest on crunching gravel. The engine cuts off and we remove our helmets. Silence. The vast open countryside is so quiet it’s almost tangible, pushing in on us as it simultaneously draws us out so we become part of the open empty landscape. Intermittently, sounds from chirping crickets and bleating sheep scrape into the silence and set a slow syncopated rhythm for the evening, peaceful, sedating, dulling our thoughts, our worries, our plans … and leaving us to exist only in the present.
We stroll across the road towards a steep hill, which is now in silhouette against the blazing colours of a summer sunset: orange, pink, yellow. From behind us, from far out across the darkening paddocks - consumed in the lengthening black shadows and shrouded under a flowing charcoal-coloured tide of night-sky - a cool breeze sweeps in and over us. Refreshing. Soothing. It caresses our weary limbs like silk. It whispers secretively through the grass and rustles leaves on branches high in the trees. It drives out the stifling stagnant air of the hot January day, and carries with it the pungent aromas of earth, wheat, eucalypts, livestock.
Arriving at the wire fence, which encloses the paddocks at the foot of the hill, we climb through to begin our ascent. With picnic basket and rug under our arms, we traipse up the rutted dirt path toward the summit. The view on the way is breathtaking: behind us, a patchwork of dark sleeping paddocks under a sprinkling of stars; ahead, a retreating dusk sky awash with bright colour. We reach the top and catch our breath. A refreshing breeze greets us and we’re just in time to watch the last wedge of sun sink below the ocean out on the horizon.
We toss our blanket over the bristly grass and set out our picnic tea. We’ll stay here under the stars and the moon and the wide open sky discussing the universe and whatever we like until very late. We’re in no rush.
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