All the Burning Bridges by Steve Bisley

Author:Steve Bisley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: memoir, Steve Bisley, Australia, Sydney, NIDA, Judy Davis, Mel Gibson, acting, doctor doctor, Mad Max, childhood, Water Rats, Police Rescue, Marriage, Children, depression
ISBN: 9781760400934
Publisher: Echo
Published: 2017-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

15

In the early nineties, I bought a 1930s wooden cottage in the Blue Mountains, in the quaint village of Leura, a hundred kilometres from Sydney and a thousand metres above the Sydney Basin, where the air is so clean you could drink it.

The house was set on an acre of lovely old rambling mountain garden. There was an established orchard with several varieties of apple, plum and pear, dozens of mature rhododendrons, and roses, some that behaved and some that climbed. One of the previous owners, a local police sergeant, had established a fernery where softer plants flourished undercover; which, when you think about it, only a policeman could do. And towering over and above everything rose the giants: Norfolk pines, oaks, willows, silver birches that shimmered like leafy stars, and a single gum tree representing the locals, all stood their ground. Some of the more mature trees were over sixty years old and had been planted when the house was built.

The house was closed in, and when I bought it, it was true to its period. It had small windows to keep the cold at bay, with winter temperatures dropping to single digits and the wind keening from the south. We would get light dustings of snow on rare days through most winters. The bedrooms were small and dark. The bathroom was a tribute to the sixties, with matching bath and basin, both in the most attractive purple imaginable. The original combustion stove was still in the kitchen, and we used it right through the colder months; its oven produced the best roast dinners I have ever eaten, anywhere.

I first saw the house when I was visiting friends who lived in Blackheath, one of the most western villages in the mountains. We had been to lunch on a Sunday in one of the local cafés, and I saw the house in the window of a real estate agency. It jumped out at me from the many photos and descriptions of local properties: ‘1930s cottage, set on an acre of old garden’.

I had always loved the mountains but never imagined for a moment that I would live there. I had separated from my partner and was living with a mate in Sydney, wondering what I would do with my life while trying to mend the fractures of a broken family and the relationships with my children now that I was an absent father. I needed a place for all of us. I needed a home. I spoke to the agent, and he arranged for me to view it on my way back to Sydney later that day.

Mrs Symes, the then owner, met me at the front door. It was late on that Sunday afternoon in autumn, with the light fading early and the air cool. We walked down the short hallway and into the kitchen, and while Mrs Symes made tea, on her invitation I went to discover the house. It was snug and comfortable and welcoming like all good houses are.

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