Mists

Mists are magnificent. They deserved to be reviewed like a nocturne or a fine red. This week we have had mists of an extraodinary calibre here on the mount. A fine summer mist is a blessing from the hills. In a week which sees our lowlands grilled with enervating blasts and vile days of sickly sweltering, the mists roll into the altitudes and provide eucalyptus scented respite and delight.

"It is just so lovely it makes you want to cry !"

Could be heard the exclamations of the itinerant acolyte. And so it was.

Pinks and Mist

The signature colour of Mount Victoria is pink. The place is magic because of it.

As a victorian spa town the pink buildings and fences relax the post-colonial soul as much as it might have delighted a pining colonial. A continuing history is kept in the hue of the place.

The place is more pink than the walls and details though. The earth is damask too. Walking through the bush each weekend I tred on slates and grains of stone all pinkish about the forrest floor.

The Australian grey-green bushland burns to blacks and amber bronzes after fire and the flowers sparkle white, yellow and telopian red. Beneath your feet though rising and cascading between the narabeen sandstone is pinkstone. Ochres that dustily crept from their dreaming into the fretwork of the settlement.

"The ground on which we stand and live from, is dark n' pink."

(excerpt from 'mad mic')