Back from Cottesloe...

After I finish my ice cream at Cottesloe Beach, I sit back and think (in my new tankini) that I understand now why people in the UK, who have never surfed, and probably never will, buy the surfie brands of clothing, like Billabong, Roxy, Quicksilver, etc. It’s because, by sporting these brands, they are buying into a little of the sunshine, a little freedom, a taste of the blue sky and glint of the waves, the movement of the sea and the honey-bronze attitude.
The sea glitters in twinkles beyond the cool trees in a half moon of spangles as I stare. A boat crosses the centre of this mass of tiny, drowning stars and I wonder how it is not burnt upon the water. Turquoise dips and undulates, paler or darker as depth dictates and people bob about in the sparkling shallows. If only I had a DSLR and a star filter, this subject would be perfect!
As I laze here under the trees, a small child goes past on what I think might be a snakeboard. Confidently he manoeuvres himself on his articulated, two-wheeled, skateboard and slithers his way along the pavement, slowly but surely, in small undulating sweeps. It looks hard!
Right, I must tear myself away… I think Cottesloe might be a nice place to live. I suppose some parts of Cornwall might be comparable, or the English Riviera maybe?
I couldn’t tear myself away from England completely; I’m too steeped in its roots, its history and customs, to be able to live happily far away from it. Reaching into Australia’s darkest roots, all you find is bushcraft, hard work, gold, dust, exotic paintings and the Dreaming, which is fascinating, but not mine. At home, reaching into England’s roots finds all sorts of things, Cornish pixies, tin mines, the Empire, witches, Robin Hood, bears, old recipes and the varied tradition and knowledge surrounding things like apples, or oak trees. Which may not necessarily sound that interesting, but are my roots, my heritage.
Right – station! It’s not too far and a nice chap gives me confirmation of the direction I was taking, which is nice. The two small children with him look at this pasty white person suspiciously before going back to their intent demolition of ice creams. The smallest one has green ice cream on the end of his nose. It tones nicely with his t-shirt…
On the way to the station I hear a kookaburra, laughing to itself somewhere down the railway line. The flies, delirious with the heat, bounce on and off your skin, rubbing their paws together in anticipation of whatever joy this big, pink, walking thing might bring. The birds are out in force today, I hear several of the birds that sound like children in pain, Wall-E, or a cat being sat on. I think they’re the local crows, there are a lot of squashed-cat birds about, and they flap lugubriously from tree to tree on occasion. To me, it looks as if all the corvids and some of the passerines got muddled up and rearranged by a small child. The crows are striped inexpertly with white and there are wagtails that look like magpies painted black but wag their tails the wrong way…
A teenager with sandy feet and green toenails passes me nonchalantly.
The station is hot, on the tarmac, but the Fremantle side (for which I am aiming) is blissfully shady. The station announcements are obscurely ‘helpful’, ‘the next train to Fremantle does not stop at this station’… So why mention it then; it seems to me rather like telling you that the East Coast Mainline is having trouble when you’re trying to get across London – no-one needs to know!

I get back to the bus station at Fremantle and sit waiting for the 160 back to Borragoon, which goes past Jim and Sonya’s house. I am covered in so much sunscreen I feel as if I have been basted – shower for me when I get back! I watch people go by. There don’t seem to be many black Africans or West Indians here, most of the darker people have either spent far too long in the sun or appear to be of aboriginal descent, with more button-y noses and wider faces.
I catch the bus, and sit in the blissful air conditioning happily. That means I have successfully retrieved myself from a day trip – hurrah! I watch, idly, out of the window, there are lots of Oriental food shops, an Oxfam, lots of IGA shops (like Costcutters),very few dogs and fewer cats, many people… Some people are bronzed or copper, others honey-gold but there are a few who are unhealthily tanned, whose bronze tan is overlaid by a sort of misty charcoal grey overtone suggestive of previous singing or incipient melanomae. The housing estates here are huge, it feels a little like a Perth dormitory town around Mt Pleasant. Fremantle merges into the City of Melville, closer to Jim and Sonya’s house. Sometimes there is a hint of a large body of water behind the houses, as the houses and trees stretch on, then abruptly seem to stop in the distance.
It occurs to me that nearly all the places I am visiting are colonial hybrids. Singapore still retains much of its Englishness, Australia was the convict island for a good many years, Tasmania, New Zealand, America… All were hijacked by white settlers, losing forever their previous identity to have it melded with that of Europe, specifically Britain. How on earth did the arrogant Empire grow so large??
The driver (I think he’s from Oop Narth in the UK) must be in the same daydream that I am having, because we approach a roundabout, and he must get a wink or nod from one of the more knowledgeable passengers because he says in a companionable tone of voice, ‘Oh, have I gone the wrong way?’ and does a U-y around a roundabout. He is much friendlier than London bus drivers… But that’s not too hard, and most of them do seem to be fairly chirpy!
Shortly, I am back home again; and leap into the bath to wash off the day’s grime, sunscreen, sand and general hotness… How is it possible get sand in your ears?!
Guess I’ll just have to keep experimenting to work it out…

;)