Rode in to Barcaldine, a town with only a few square blocks and lonesome streets. A revered town tree had died a few years ago but was still boxed in a wooden protective enclosure, like a post-modern building growing on a tree trunk. A kid bounced a ball against a closed shop wall one street off the main.
I left Barcaldine at noon and the land was very flat. Sometimes the vast stretches of yellow grassy fields were dotted with dying trees. Other times a few more woods.
The landscape was turning into geometrical lines, with the white lines of the road, grey lanes, power lines, the table and shelter of a simple roadside rest area. I began to lose a grip and pulled into a caravan park at Ilfracombe.
No comments:
Post a Comment