I’d begun the voyage at three-thirty the prior night. After driving four hundred kilometres to Armidale, signing a lease, and picking up a moving van, I’d driven it back to Lismore. All before piling my worldly chattels into the back, coaxing my wife and Alice (the cat) into the cab, then hitting the road again.
Two billion seconds later, as we passed through South Grafton, I began losing touch with reality. We had travelled beyond history. Near the truck stop on the edge of town Jesus Christ was standing with his thumb out. He swore as we sailed past.
Mrs Google Maps cheerfully advised that I ‘stay on the Armidale Road for another ninety-four kilometres’. I nodded. It was sage advice. Some of the potholes I had been carefully avoiding could swallow a planet.
We were on our way. Every bridge we crossed burst into flame behind us.
The big bang, the rise and fall of Rome, every mighty clash of civilizations, had culminated right here, right now. At three-fifteen on this misty Tuesday morning the great epic journey of humankind had at last recommenced. Every action and reaction in all of creation, since the very beginning, was now reduced to thirty hairpin bends, ninety-four gruelling clicks, one Avis Van, a vast foggy wilderness, two humans, and a cat.
The long bridge across the Clarence marked the commencement of the nineteenth century. Flocks of imaginary sheep were slipping in and out of banks of mist. Bushrangers lurked. I lit another cigarette and blinked them all out of existence. The august pastoral history of our great country had to be left in our wake. Such is life.
The road wiggled up hills and fell into dark voids. The headlights provided an occasional glimpse of dark forests and frightening granite. We were being carried up and down on the crazy swell of the roadway. In the clear dark bejewelled sky above angels kept watch and wept softly for their loss; they would never know the sweet bliss of being fragile and mortal, in a van, with a cat, hurtling through history.
Then, suddenly, and inexplicably, we were in Coutts Crossing. My cigarette was out, whole revolutionary cultural epochs had passed, unseen? The scattered remains of a logging protest made it apparent we were nearing the late twentieth century. Fair enough. It was time to stop for a piss.
Climbing back into the vehicle another can of Red Bull leapt, unbidden, into my hand. As we swum our way up and over the ranges the soft buzz of the small diesel engine was soothing. By focusing on the road directly ahead I managed to avoid thinking about mortality, whale watching and politics. But the sheep were back, along with the fog.
It was a good thing I had the endless road to myself. Or almost to myself. Sharon and Alice Cooper Cat were still dozing fitfully beside me, both oblivious of the history of the universe. But then, perhaps Alice was just uninterested? You can never be sure with a cat.
Soon Sharon was talking with Winston. Again. But at least she was still asleep. Alice was staring straight through the mesh of the cat-carrier and directly into my soul. I know my wife loves me. You can never be sure with a cat.
The low plaintive bleating of a billion non-existent sheep hovered in the background all the way to Nimboida. Here the sea of fog parted and we were in New England. Every occasional driveway seemed to lead up and over a shimmering hill. When I at last turned on my blinker, I was once again in a small diesel moving-van, hurtling through a very modern timetable.
Mrs Google declared that ‘You have now arrived at your destination.’ We had conquered the Armidale Road. Just sixty-four kilometres of twenty-first century travel to go!
I pulled over and considered the turnoff. The Waterfall Way was made of beautiful clean tarmac. It was flat and smooth and so utterly inviting. Glancing into my side mirror I could see the glow of a pristine dawn. We had arrived. The great shifts and turmoil of history, existential angst, and the tragedy of being born mortal, were all behind us. On this very first Tuesday of our brand-new life, we were exactly where we were all meant to be.
Happy Easter, everyone
Dr JiMM 19/04/2025
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Welcome to New England Dr JiMM. You will find fewer sheep now compared to previously thanks to all the parasites in graziers wallets taking their percentage of the wool clip. The foreign spinning mills insure that graziers bear all the rising costs of production, so many have replaced sheep with cattle that have lower costs.
You appear to have missed the tourist features of the Ebor Falls, arguably the prettiest in New England if not Australia, and Wollomombi Falls, the deepest in the Southern Hemisphere and naturally the Blue Hole former hydro scheme on the side road. But no matter, now that you have arrived, get settled and enjoy the laid back 19th century approach to life.
Armidale has had a university since 1955, up-graded from a 1937 USyd College by the Menzies promise of government jobs for all working class kids. However, the number of academics surviving the COVID cuts and the earlier Howard 1996 cuts take little interest in local politics.
The preferred local political stance is “My grandparents voted for the Country Party and I do to” carelessly forgetting that their predecessors were voting 100 years ago when the New England New State Movement was popular policy against the Sydney government that failed to fund any public works north of the Hawkesbury River bridge. Nothing much has changed in the past century because the only economic and social development has occurred when the now NOtional$ have been voted out and replaced by ALP or INDEPENDENT candidates.
Indeed, you probably passed by the 1932 Grafton Bendy Bridge, overlooked in favour of the larger Sydney Harbour Bridge that opened with a political skirmish in the same year.
But I must protest your description of the Ebor to Grafton Road which is now sealed the full way thanks to Harry Woods (LABOR) MP for Grafton in response to my suggestion. It only cost about $6 MILLION to open up another route for new ideas to surreptitiously enter New England and infest the imaginations of the populace with dreams that they might, just might, live long enough to enjoy such a successful future.
Thanks NEC,
It’s a bit like coming home. There is a relative under every rock. (You might even be a relative.) Mum ran away (eloped) when she was seventeen and our twiggy branch of the family tree was then pretty much ignored for a few decades.
Even so, I did spend long summer holidays staying in a pub owned by an uncle here in town, while also visiting the dusty law rooms occupied by successful and boring rellies.
Kneipp’s and Moylan’s (and a host of lesser ancillary brands) are everywhere? Even the local member shares my name? It feels a bit too establishment for an eternal outsider like me.
Walking in town today it felt like the Irish Catholic Mafia were likely keeping watch. As if uncle George was somewhere up high, sitting on a cloud, chuckling at the sight of a prodigal son returning to the home patch.
Dr James (JiMM) Moylan
I loved this. What a fabulous read.