Grounding, noticing
A Heathlands walk
Dear Creative Soul,
Regular readers will know of my love for walking with wildflowers this time of year. I wonder sometimes if perhaps I could have been a botanist or a botanical artist in a different time, a different life. I have promised myself that one day I will learn how to paint wildflowers in watercolour, but while my painting journey is in its infancy I content myself with taking photos.
Lately we have been talking of walking further afield - a hike at Paruna Sanctuary to the north, perhaps, or somewhere in a National Park down south. But something always comes up: spring weeds, a family gathering, doors that need repainting after a carpenter adjusted them. We need to go on strike, we tell each other. The work will wait, but the wildflowers will not. And so, we ignore the shoulds, pack some snacks and drive 70km south to Yalgorup National Park, talking of a house we saw for sale in the country town we hope to move to one day. The view, we say, of the Blackwood River. Imagine looking at that every day. It is a conversation we will return to while walking along the beautiful Heathland Walk Trail.
The 5km loop trail climbs and winds through changing vegetation - tuart woodland to heathlands, with two unusual mallees (Eucalyptus pretensis and E foecunda) found on limestone outcrops and masses of heavily flowering acacias. Fun fact: a photo of a wattle flower I took along this trail around 2016 inspired my novel Wildflower - the wattle flower (acacia) is a recurring motif of resilience in the story, as well as the inspiration for one of my favourite characters - Acacia.
The pink fairy orchids are out, but the other orchids remain elusive - we are, perhaps, a couple of weeks early. Either that, or they are flowering late, which we have come to suspect even before reading this article about starving bees in the southwest. We come across one orchid about to open and make a guess that it’s a spider orchid. But it doesn’t matter that the orchids are late, for this country is rich with vibrant colour and glorious design.
We climb upwards towards the lookout, where there are panoramic views of the Yalgorup lakes, all part of the internationally recognised RAMSAR wetland system. Beyond the lakes, the Indian Ocean stretches to the horizon. We stop here for a while, closing our eyes, listening to the whispering, wailing wind, and the calls of the migratory waterbirds. We repeat this several times on the walk - stop, breathe, listen - and for those moments, when our hearts thump and our mind stills, nature sings to our soul. We are one.
I have been reading Grounded by
. Her prose is powerful and assured; it invites connection with country, with self, and that is what we yearn for as we pause. Not just to visit or even live “in the country”, but to feel ourselves part of it. To feel grounded, despite our often busy work days. As she writes: “By connecting with nature, we become more connected to ourselves.” Of course, as she later clarifies, you don’t have to be outside to ground yourself - but today, the being outside and the being inside of nature is exactly what we both need.We make our way down the short, steep section, watching the ground carefully for it is rocky and rough, and rejoin the trail. A few moments later, passing gnarly paperbarks on a sandy base, we reach the shoreline, where the wind whips the water’s edges into foam. It looks like snow, when you get down low. But it never snows here, not even in the depths of winter.
I first walked here in 2014. That time, I brought with me a copy of The Lake’s Apprentice by Annamaria Weldon; the book, which I reviewed here after visiting the area, is both a landscape memoir and poet’s journal of poems, nature notes, awardwinning essays and photos.
Reading The Lake’s Apprentice was pure pleasure, both for the love of words that shone into my soul and for the journey they took me on … literally.
The Lake’s Apprentice … explores Weldon’s deep connection with Yalgorup National Park and Lake Clifton, south of Mandurah, arguably best known for its thrombolites (“living rocks”).
That time, I read passages of Weldon’s poetry to A in the car and down by the water’s edge, and I think of this memory now as I stare towards eternity, as I soak up details and commit them to new memories. And then, we return to the trail, which winds down into cool peppermints, past more flowers, fungi and other curiosities.
A butterfly is on the ground. A thinks it is dying, and perhaps it is, but it climbs onto my hand; I talk to it and thank it for its fluttering beauty, then let it rest on a shrub before moving on. And then we are back at the car. It is a short drive to Preston Beach, a gusty spot with only a few diehard fishers to our right. The sand is littered with blue bottles and, barefoot now, we walk carefully to a spot beneath the dunes, pulling our windcheaters close. It is here that we close our eyes once more and do a grounding exercise - feeling the shifting sands beneath us, hearing the waves crash and the wind whistle, tasting salt on our lips. We take this time to connect. And then we drive home.
In the moment
Back at home, we potter for the rest of the weekend. I make limoncello and ricotta. I bake a lemon and ricotta cake. We weed the front and back garden; A digs compost into my veggie bed and I order seeds from a seed saving site. It doesn’t feel like work now - we want to be outside, in the sun and fresh spring air. The sky is blue and the air is warm, slightly humid. Later, I find myself sewing a skirt from a dress I had planned to donate to a charity shop. The writing I thought I’d do doesn’t seem important now. Better to stay where I am - in the moment. The writing will wait, the moment will pass.
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Such beautiful photos of the nature you have seen! 😊♡
Monique, I really enjoy these posts where you share your walking experiences. I have never been down under but would love to visit some day. Thanks for the reflective words sharing your thoughts.