The "Tweed".

Life on the Tweed River is fairly relaxed. Not much goes on even if you lose your tender and beach your house-boat. These are all common place things which occur and are of no fuss to anyone involved or otherwise inclined.

What a glorious 3 days/New Years.

The Shaky Isles...

Less than a quarter of the inhabitants of NZ live on the South Island, which is perfectly curious. Yes, the weather had blessed us with sunshine and mild temperatures, but surely there are few places as magnificent and diverse, as this pocket of our world. Take me back...

Getting Away With It.

East coast and northern New South Wales road trip, Autumn 2011.

 The Grand Hotel, Newcastle.

Grey Street, Glen Innes.

The Fittest.

It had been over 15 years since I last set foot in the National Park. Family holidays in the mountains used to be a semi-regular occurance and the abundance of fresh air, native flora and fauna did much to inspire, awe and entertain the mind of a youthful pre-teen and his siblings.

I can't say much has changed, both environmentally or emotionally.

Mid-Winter Warmer.

I notice the blue tinge on my fingers as I fumble for my car-keys...
This is going to be a great summer.

Ze Pool.

...Dip your toe in the aqua aqua. It's kept warm to spite the Autumn air and offers an embrace of solice...

The shoulder season meant the road-side motel was rather empty, leaving the amenities free to utilise without disruption. After an early start and a couple of hundred miles of driving, including an hour spent escaping the city's clutches, this suited us perfectly.

Where's a good light-house when you need one?

The Californian fog rolls in strong, shrouding the land, the trees, the buildings and the people. Distant figures are barely visible, and only offer enough evidence to hint at their true identity; it's an eerie disclosure.

Minus the light.

Thanks to the following for putting up with my behaviour that night. I was a little self-indulgent.

Light-show.

It's not the same as watching lightning crack over cane-fields, but it's always a sight to behold. Trying to get a half decent image of a strike can be tedious, and of the hundreds of photos you take, maybe only five or 10 will be something considered good. But who cares? The chance of getting a good photo provides the excitement and the pleasure of watching such power at work provides the inspiration. 

One.

The Spit, Gold Coast. Some time in December.

A little something something.

Typical, really.

A fuller type of circle.

My Dad bought himself a (new to him) car. It's a delightful 1960 MGA 1600 which, when being restored was fitted with an 1800 motor. From some of my youngest momories spent driving around with Terry (Dad), I can recall him telling stories of cars he'd owned through the years, and the pieces of crap he'd bought as a young man. The point of the majority of these stories was that cars are a money-pit and rather a poor investment. This is of course, true, but I always thought that the freedom and enjoyment of driving was worth the cost, and a big part of growing up and learning responsibility.

Seeing my Dad's face light up when explaining the lustre of the British Racing Green paint, the quality of the tan interior, the finish to the chromed luggage rack, and witnessing his enjoyment at blipping the accelerator while working down the gears into a corner tells me that He hasn't lost his youth; it just got buried by all that shit you have to do when you grow up. It also reminds me of the similarities in our personalities. So, if I grow up and become as He is, that'll suit me just fine.