Wake on Saturday to find it not just cool, but cold. Layer up, breakfast quickly, then hop into the car. The sky is an unpromising grey as we head to the market, but it’s big and clean from all the recent rain, and I know the weather's going to improve. It must. We've a concrete slab to build.
Swerve slightly, missing a rabbit running across the wide downhill run toward the dam, my favourite part of the drive, its white tail diving into the blackberried edges of the road. Slow down, wind through the turns, see water (still!) flowing over the dam wall as we cross the bridge, then back up, a steep and narrow climb. Horses hanging out by the fence at the top on a cleared patch of farm land on the ridge. I’d like to stop, but remind myself that it's good to catch moments like this from the passenger window, and leave them simply as they are.
The market is already busy. A chat to the elderly men who man the raffle ticket desk, all of us wrapped up against the cold. I write our address, they tell me they know it well, that it’s a good place to be. Things to do, so we've got to be quick. Find the greens stall, pick out fresh - very - coriander, a couple of bunches of watercress, carrots and radishes, replete with snappy greens and, pleasingly, a bunch of amaranth leaves. Tomatoes of all shapes and sizes next door, sweet yellow peaches and new season apples, bagged up with a wonky-toothed grin.
There are caged birds here, too, sold from the tray of a ute. Hens and peacocks, but it is the ducks, huddling together, that draw me closer. I want to take their photo, but I realize there’s a panic among them. Too many ducks in too small a space. Suddenly uncomfortable, I put my camera away.
Home to tea, and the makings of our first concrete slab, the base for a brick oven. It was a good weekend. All of this is to say that I love our new life, feel the rhythm of things beginning to make sense. I feel quieter, stronger, and happier in those deep parts of myself that, for a time, felt lost.