ONCE UPON MT WILSON

ONCE UPON MT WILSON                                                            Virginia Gow 29/05/12

Sunlight splits the dew from yellow leaves and draws forth a brilliant day out of folds of fog. Silver suburban train whistles a Sunday holy hello as it rumbles over the railway crossing at Blackheath. It’s on its way to Sydney town filled with happy holidaymakers. Bellbirds chime in the morning as Ginny and The Visitors climb into a large, black four-wheeler and head off to explore Mt Wilson. It is a fine day for an autumn picnic.

The Visitors are intrepid travellers and have explored the heritage garden village before. ‘Autumn is the vey best time to visit Mt Wilson’, they say. ‘There is no town water supply. People are requested to bring their own drinking water. The residents gather their household needs from water tanks.  Gardens are fed from dams and streams.’  They know to bring their own food, water and wine because there are no shops in Mt Wilson’s village.

Fresh buns from the Blackheath Bakery still carry their early morning ‘hot out of the oven ‘ smell. Sliced ham ‘off the bone’ from the butcher’s, smoked salmon from the fishmonger’s lie between slivers of white paper. Fresh iceberg lettuce and roma tomatoes have just been gathered from the greengrocer’s. Homemade chutney, stuffed olives, soft Brie and tasty hard cheddar from the deli now nestle down in the picnic basket on the back seat. A thermos of hot water for tea or coffee holds its own basket, with mugs, on the floor. Ginny brings a bottle of local Mudgee wine, along with water and milk, in a cooling bag as her contribution.

Up the airy mountain they ride with gaiety and song. As the basalt-capped peaks on the northern edge of the Blue Mountains come into view, the road is a carpet of orange, yellow, red and brown leaves. Autumn tresses of the weeping cherry and liquid ambers are magnificent in their hues having fed off the rich volcanic soil of this cool temperate rainforest. These deciduous trees delight in shedding their treasures, warning of winter’s chill.

The land is sprinkled with world famous gardens. Charles Moore, a Director of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney, created one garden in 1877. This colonial garden, set on 20 acres, surrounds a classic old colonial sandstone homestead. Bronzed ‘ bird of paradise’ fountain leads to a leafy avenue. Purple Sycamore weeps in splendor. There is an ‘old man’ cork tree peeping out at the waterlillies. Imagine standing in a grove created by the one giant redwood and feeling the hush of a sacred space. This giant Sequoia is over a hundred years old and in its branches a boy’s midnight dreamings are protected. Walk down to a sculpture garden where bronze nymphs hide in a waterfall glen. Shift along a high stonewall to discover an elaborate 15^th Century Spanish doorway leading to a secret garden. ‘Peek through the ancient Spanish iron barred window at a walled world of verdant green grass, a wisteria arbour, a thriving herbaceous border’, says the mistress of the house. ‘Catch a sunbeam dancing on the handsome ornamental pond’. The owner of this splendid heritage garden attends life-drawing classes with Ginny. This elegant lady escorts them around her beloved garden then invites them for tea. Thus an extra layer is added to the enjoyment of Mt Wilson as The Visitors sip warm sweet tea inside the solid sandstone walls, warmed by the kitchen hearth.

Mt Wilson is where, as a boy, Patrick White kicks a stone along the road. Hands in pockets, he is already storytelling. Follies sit in splendor, a wedding couple gambols over lawn, and a photographer arranges his child model on an old wooden fence.  Film stars shoot the latest Gatsby movie in a summerhouse. It is all about the dapple of the leaves.

At a fork in the road a wooden picnic table stands with its attendant benches ready to receive a cloth, picnic baskets, cooling bag, The Visitors and Ginny. A gentle wind plays a melody with the fallen leaves. They dine in a manner rather refined, and bask in the rays of the noonday sun. Laughter and chatter mingle with bird song. Time allows the shadows to lengthen and friendship deepens with them.

The journey over, Ginny waves farewell to The Visitors. She settles down in the cosy cottage at Blackheath and plays a video of Mt Wilson inside her mind. She fiddles in the melody of leaves with wind over the layers of graceful images and reminds herself to press the save button.