Firstly I must offer my condolences to my rugby following Australian readers; it was indeed very sad that the Wallabies were so soundly thrashed by the British Lions, by twenty five points: 16:41. However it was a very lively game, the players on both sides, enthusiastic and energetic, with few serious casualties. Needless to say we enjoyed the culmination of this particular test series.
After such excitement, I was unable to remain awake until the end of the first serious mountain stage of Le Tour up into the Pyrenees; I had to wait until this morning to learn the demise of some of these valiant, brave and crazy cyclists. And then it was only after I had faced the cold 2 degrees and turned the heater on that I was offered titbits of Tour news as my husband struggled out of his abbreviated slumber. As he frequently reminds me, it is hard to be an armchair sportsman.
After breakfast, we dug our big thick jackets from under the bed, shook the creases out and set off clad in hats, gloves and whatever we could squeeze into. The mist was heavy here in the valley, over the river and beyond. The fortnightly market was taking place just a couple of hundred metres downstream in the river park, busy with regulars greeting each other and visitors like us. There was the normal array of “junk”, jams, honey, hats, wooden trinkets and woven shawls, fresh fruit and vegetables and boxes of budgies. We left with an armful of DVDs, $2 each plus a bonus for every five; no doubt sourced from Asia and of dubious quality. We hope they will play at least once and well for us when we next have space in our busy evenings.
We spent the rest of the morning attending to tedious business matters, a little frustrated that our internet reception is not as good as we enjoyed in Margaret River, Bunbury and beyond. But after lunch, with the fog now all burned off and the winter sun shining brightly, we set off for a walk, supposedly a long roundabout route ending up in the town centre.
We crossed the Blackwood River on a footbridge directly below the camp, and set off on the Walk of the same name, a mud-map sketched on a small piece of card in hand, but soon were hopelessly lost. Perhaps “lost” is the wrong word because we knew where the river was and in what direction the town lay, but the route we should have taken not tying up at all with my cursory scratchings.
We retraced our steps and walked into town via the more direct route, taking note of the lovely wild flowers far too early for The Season, but delightful none the less. We saw the quaint cafes, pubs and tearooms open for the Sunday trade and the few odd shops open for the random passer-by. The three superettes were open, and we bought a loaf of bread in the IGA, a shop that seems to offer everything we might need in our limited repertoire.
We found the Information Centre closed today which was a little disappointing; I had been keen to visit the Brierly Jigsaw Gallery situated in the Centre which also houses a small heritage museum.
Jigsaws could easily fall into the same category as shell collections
and the like, however having never seen
a collection of jigsaws and providing the entry fee is small or less, why not?
We learned the genesis of this collection from the friendly woman in the Centre
yesterday; Mrs Brierly emigrated to Australia from Britain with her husband and
they settled here in Bridgetown, believing it to be just like home. Mr Brierly
either did not like it here or couldn’t get work, so he spent his weeks working
up in Perth. Mrs Brierly ran a boarding house, taking in workingmen, but soon
found them to be more problematic than profitable. They drank and gambled to
cope with their boredom when they were not working or sleeping, and she was at
her wits end to find a solution. She
settled on the humble jigsaw; challenging the men to complete these puzzles in
their otherwise idle hours, and soon they were hooked. Her main problem became
the sourcing of puzzles for them, and what to do with the completed work.
As with all collections, they eventually became a burden, and so she solved that problem in 1978 by gifting them to the community, and here they stay to entertain the tourist. I shall report at some point in the future whether the word “entertain” is correct. At the very least, this odd collection has given birth to two paragraphs.
From this same woman in the Information Centre, we learned that today was the day for the Bridge Banquet, part of the winter festival. The menu was pasted up on the Centre’s window and looked delicious, highly professional and disgustingly decadent, with no doubt a hefty price tag. It was all sold out, she told us, because we might have otherwise liked to join the banquet. However our problem is the whereabouts of the banquet location. The disused rail bridge over the river is unfenced and narrow and the road bridge is busy with traffic. Where was it held? This is a puzzle of our own we will have to solve.
I was more interested in the classical music concert being staged down in Manjimup, thirty three kilometres to the south, at 2.30 pm. Had we not needed to contact my parents this afternoon, before they went to bed New Zealand time, we probably would have made the most of this opportunity. It is a while since we have been treated to a concert, if one does not include the Police Pipe Band concert I happened upon in Perth.
Men’s Wimbledon finals tonight; better get dinner out of the way!
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