At Granny and Grandpop's the air is cooler. The autumn chill is in the air, and we throw on chunky knit cardigans, and beanies.
We take a walk down the hill to the empty creek, play tigers in the waist-high grass, and look at the fruit trees. The smalls help their Grandpop build a big cubby, and plant sunflower seeds all over the front yard, and collect eggs.
I stroll around, camera around my neck, finding the treasures, noting the changes. The place where the house will be built is pegged out, and I try to imagine the peaks of the roof, and the deck and verandah. For now, there's a small caravan, and annex, adorned with treasures and trinkets. Reclaimed, old, reused, handmade. So many of them reminders of my childhood, things my bowerbird parents collected long ago. Things with history, and a story to tell.
As the cold wind picks up, Grandpop lights the old stove, and we listen to it snap and crackle as it warms the tiny caravan annex.
Granny puts a lamb roast in the heavy cast iron pot, while this mama cosies up on the only bed in the caravan, drifting from here; this warm place and the chatter of three happy kidlets, to the haunting moorlands of Wuthering Heights.
We spent two nights here, two days that found an easy rhythm of drawing, and painting, gluing, finding and making. Away from television, and iPads, and routine.
And on the way home, a night to stay with this beauty, a best friend I couldn't live without. I've survived these months without her only a skip across my back lawn, and don't quite realise how much I miss her until I see her.
I barely saw our kids, they played as if they still share a back yard.
The perfect beginning to school holidays.
A little late link up with the weekly stills collection