Drove 1.5 hours west to visit the Blue Mountains.
A storm front washed through last night and so we went up into the clouds. The road wound through dense puffs of cotton and visibility was poor. Scenic views became white imaginations.
It was unexpectedly cold up there (and me in cotton shirt, stupid shorts and all). It smelled of fresh eucalyptus wet winter, making it hard to remember only yesterday fleeing to a swimming pool to escape a 40 degree furnace.
Stepping out into the wild, my glasses became fogged cataracts, and the walking tracks promised little but sucking mud. So we bailed to plan B, revisiting a few old memories.
The Hydro Majestic.
Like lifting tracing paper away from an old Filofax card, some places had not changed. Or so it seemed. Other stops were as if new.
We browsed craft shops, and gift shops, and op shops, and book shops, and lamented the beige creep of franchise, and celebrated the pockets of quirky retail resistance, and washed it all through with a catharsis of organically grown, fair-trade, soul warming coffee.
Leura. Blue Mountains.
New South Wales.