An old town dreaming

Tarnagulla last Sunday.

A quintessential goldfields town made of bricks and local, golden stone

Low wood and iron verandahs across the whole width of the street

Houses with weathered corrugated iron roofs and wire fences engulfed in roses. 

Grey worn wood, rusted iron back fences.

Looks like my mum's old copper ended up here.

Looking across the road.

Then we drove off to Dunolly.

Country outside Tarnagulla

Beautiful and dry, even in spring, the silvery-grey countryside north-east of Ballarat.

Escape from Ballarat

Today I took a break from work and study and took off in a mini van with fellow members of the Sebastopol Historical Society. I'm going to make several posts of this trip, but tonight I'm posting a pub in Dunolly which I fell in love with and would like to live in.

I want to live on this top floor and have beers on this balcony and go to sleep with the wind in these palm trees late at night.

Isn't it a beauty?

You'll need to click on the pictures to see them properly. 

Reflections

This morning the car mirror framed a landscape I didn't recognise at first. I love the way mirrors show you the strangeness of familiar places. Usually as photographer I have too much control to achieve the random magic of a mirror.

Then walking the dog a little later I found a reedy place of fishermen and islands far away from the city.

Bunjil returns to the lake

Warm evenings, spring blossom

 

I  walked out barefoot yesterday evening among clouds of blossom.

Wintry day in August

Winter is the season when I can be quiet, think about things, calm down.

This morning was chilly,  thick with fog and drizzle.  The dog and I rugged up and walked around the lake.

Only a determined fisherman and a mad kayaker were out and about. Flashes of orange in the grey morning.

There was no sign of the town surrounding the lake.

Even the ducks were invisible. But we heard them quacking madly in the dense reeds and brush of the islands.