Fremantle yesterday (Friday 6th Feb) was lovely… I went with the main aim of having a nice little mooch around and going to the market.
Once there, I find that I remember being here with my dad a few years ago and many of the stalls are the same as they were before. There is the henna tattoo stall, various crafts, some local painters, artist and photographers, the Onya bag stall (where my dad bought an Onya back bag and I’ve been kicking myself for missing out on one ever since). It is staffed by a lovely Mediterranean lady who chats amiably for a good twenty minutes about all sorts of things, including how I must be careful of mosquitoes and the sun (and she’s quite right!). I meander around aimlessly and happily in the cool of the market for a while longer, acquiring a gorgeous lemon, cinnamon and sugar crêpe to eat whilst I wander admiring wares. I chat to another lady who does Aussie bush craft jewellery and suchlike, sweet little seed pod creatures with big eyes, and flowers set into resin and made into necklaces. She has a waterfall of glorious russet hair all the way down her back and it is clearly naturally so. She and her sales companion give me directions and advice on what else to see and she very kindly fetches me a map to show me where I am. We also discuss jewellery and she admires the necklace I am wearing, which fortunately was one of the pendants I made myself. Fremantle Market is extremely like Oxford Covered Market, little permanent shops with cards outside, a jumbled welter of colours, tastes and smells, all for sale. There is something almost primal about being somewhere where so many people are selling the fruits of their labours, rather than being behind the till in a chain of shops. It is refreshing and there is a colourful energy here, not just because it is in the sun, but because the people here are here because they want to be.
Once there, I find that I remember being here with my dad a few years ago and many of the stalls are the same as they were before. There is the henna tattoo stall, various crafts, some local painters, artist and photographers, the Onya bag stall (where my dad bought an Onya back bag and I’ve been kicking myself for missing out on one ever since). It is staffed by a lovely Mediterranean lady who chats amiably for a good twenty minutes about all sorts of things, including how I must be careful of mosquitoes and the sun (and she’s quite right!). I meander around aimlessly and happily in the cool of the market for a while longer, acquiring a gorgeous lemon, cinnamon and sugar crêpe to eat whilst I wander admiring wares. I chat to another lady who does Aussie bush craft jewellery and suchlike, sweet little seed pod creatures with big eyes, and flowers set into resin and made into necklaces. She has a waterfall of glorious russet hair all the way down her back and it is clearly naturally so. She and her sales companion give me directions and advice on what else to see and she very kindly fetches me a map to show me where I am. We also discuss jewellery and she admires the necklace I am wearing, which fortunately was one of the pendants I made myself. Fremantle Market is extremely like Oxford Covered Market, little permanent shops with cards outside, a jumbled welter of colours, tastes and smells, all for sale. There is something almost primal about being somewhere where so many people are selling the fruits of their labours, rather than being behind the till in a chain of shops. It is refreshing and there is a colourful energy here, not just because it is in the sun, but because the people here are here because they want to be.
It is so windy outside – the sun scorches your skin in a prickly kind of way, (though it leaves no mark through my factor 50!) and the wind blows you away and flaps your clothing as if trying to steal it for itself.
I decide, despite the wind, to investigate the memorial hill on the high point suggested by the russet lady. It is quite a long way on the map (I get sucked into a bead shop on the way past too… J), so I decide to walk to the bus station and get the Orange CAT around the city to the top. I find the CAT stop (it’s a free local bus service) and wait for a bus. It takes me some of the way up to the top, past the Fremantle Museum (a lovely old building which used to be a Lunatic Asylum) and the Prison (less lovely, but good and solid, and in use until about 60 years ago!). I walk the wrong way (come on, everyone knows I’m directionally-challenged when it comes to finding streets, sometimes towns!) and find myself, hot and weary, down near a bowling club and heading downhill again. There are some nice old Victorian houses to look at, but I am sure this is not the right way. I do an about turn and trudge back up the hill, finding a small tiger beetle on the way. The Memorial Hill is memorial to soldiers and sailors who have died in battle. It is an extraordinarily peaceful place, verdant and bright, clean and simple. A few families have brought children to play and picnic here, and there is an atmosphere of calm, despite the wind. I fight the stiff breezes and look at the monument at the top. It is simple and poignant and I can see all the way to Perth’s glistening towers, hazy and blue in the distance, about 15 km away.
I decide to do another loop on the CAT bus, to see what I’ve missed, and find myself thinking how fantastic this service is. It’s guaranteed every ten minutes between 9am and 9pm and is clean enough, reliable, and free. How London could benefit from something like this – one clear, free route around the centre of the city!
I see that a lot of Western Australia has an out of town feel to it, large places selling tyres and furniture, and in Fremantle, yachts and their parts too. They are closer to houses and civilisation than their equivalents in the UK seem to be.
Idly staring out of the window, I see a monk dressed in a cloudy grey robe with a rope belt, sporting a long wispy beard. He is incongruous against the backdrop of grubby concrete and skateboarding kids calling and laughing at each other as he watches them go by.
‘And then I went home for tea.’
Well, we went out and got a Chinese actually, but it was VERY nice all the same… And I managed to make some rather good crumbly fudge after that, which seems to have gone down well… I think I’ll be making whisky fudge to leave behind!
;)
I decide, despite the wind, to investigate the memorial hill on the high point suggested by the russet lady. It is quite a long way on the map (I get sucked into a bead shop on the way past too… J), so I decide to walk to the bus station and get the Orange CAT around the city to the top. I find the CAT stop (it’s a free local bus service) and wait for a bus. It takes me some of the way up to the top, past the Fremantle Museum (a lovely old building which used to be a Lunatic Asylum) and the Prison (less lovely, but good and solid, and in use until about 60 years ago!). I walk the wrong way (come on, everyone knows I’m directionally-challenged when it comes to finding streets, sometimes towns!) and find myself, hot and weary, down near a bowling club and heading downhill again. There are some nice old Victorian houses to look at, but I am sure this is not the right way. I do an about turn and trudge back up the hill, finding a small tiger beetle on the way. The Memorial Hill is memorial to soldiers and sailors who have died in battle. It is an extraordinarily peaceful place, verdant and bright, clean and simple. A few families have brought children to play and picnic here, and there is an atmosphere of calm, despite the wind. I fight the stiff breezes and look at the monument at the top. It is simple and poignant and I can see all the way to Perth’s glistening towers, hazy and blue in the distance, about 15 km away.
I decide to do another loop on the CAT bus, to see what I’ve missed, and find myself thinking how fantastic this service is. It’s guaranteed every ten minutes between 9am and 9pm and is clean enough, reliable, and free. How London could benefit from something like this – one clear, free route around the centre of the city!
I see that a lot of Western Australia has an out of town feel to it, large places selling tyres and furniture, and in Fremantle, yachts and their parts too. They are closer to houses and civilisation than their equivalents in the UK seem to be.
Idly staring out of the window, I see a monk dressed in a cloudy grey robe with a rope belt, sporting a long wispy beard. He is incongruous against the backdrop of grubby concrete and skateboarding kids calling and laughing at each other as he watches them go by.
‘And then I went home for tea.’
Well, we went out and got a Chinese actually, but it was VERY nice all the same… And I managed to make some rather good crumbly fudge after that, which seems to have gone down well… I think I’ll be making whisky fudge to leave behind!
;)
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