Blue Mountains

Like most childhood memories, my first ones of the Blue Mountains are magical.

Drawing my dad with a black marker on firewood in front of a fireplace. (Stick-figure Dad always had a top-hat.)

My brother and I throwing pink flower-petals into a blow-up pool at a pub. (The effect was so pretty. The owner was upset.)

A mossy rock on a bushwalk. Maybe I hadn’t seen so much moss before.

On my only visit since, I realised you don’t have to be four years old to experience Blue Mountains magic. Just don’t go near the highway.


Yes, it is marketed: loud brochure typeface, tourist buses, and free cake with a coffee if you’re travelling on the Explorer Bus. Beyond that is something special.

Walking the trails, cockatoos call between cliffs and valley speaks centuries, and agelessness, all in a moment.

Every turn shows a delightful angle; a new vision; surprises I’d have thought belonged in fairy tales. I was delighted by the natural conditions of the moment. It was the joy of seeing life in ways I never expected. Little white flowers making plants look like they’ve been snowed on. Shade shifting on moss. Racehorse-grey gum trees against post-noon sky.

Behind those branches, the moon, light, told me of her magic. “Yes, here I am,” she smiles (or do I?) “You forgot about me in the city. Here are your fairy-tales, your day-dreams.”

Every angle is of interest, beauty.

Others have been enchanted with nature here, with the different qualities of light. I love these rock poems at Echo Point!

Next time will be a different experience, with new surprises. I wonder what other people found in the Blue Mountains today?


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