Hanging Rock

To see glimpses through the trees of the rocks marching up the mountain was in itself mystical. Even without the mystery of the Hanging Rock myth, first made famous by Joan Lindsay then made even more famous by Peter Weir, the Rock had an aura.

Those rocks, looming through the trees, they were compelling, magestic, enchanting.

Its gargantuan presence, its deep, seemingly bottomless crevices. No words could truly capture the atmosphere of this monolith.

I climbed and clambered about all morning, feeling in equal parts like Miranda and Edith. That shriek "Miranda! Miranda, come back! Miranda!" echoed through my head. There is no doubt, for me, that book and this place are the same.

Then, for no particular reason, I decided to begin my descent. And equally without reason, I found a place to stop. I had paused to look at a rock wedged between two larger columns; in comparison with its harnessing companions a pebble caught in a crack.

As I took this breather, the stilness of my surroundings finally caught up with me and infiltrated my entire body, starting with my legs.

I sat down on a log next to the path that had been purposely put their by we. In the shade of a spreading gumtree, I gazed at the vista. My attention was arrested by the perpendicular relationship bewteen the clouds (an accidental grey-white streak from a painters brush that cut across the otherwise relentlessly blue and cloudless sky), a member of the Rock's collection on the left of my view, and my shading eucalypt to the right.

I mused for a short while, then I felt an overwhelming urge to write, to capture this serene moment that left the soapy-soft warm feeling of silk on my skin.

I stopped writing to breathe in the summery, bush-scented air. As I looked up to my right, I saw them. The Watchers, a parade of ancient spirits, standing in their granatine, ageless solidity, nodding sagely at me as I recognised their presence.

Rather than frightening me, as they might have done if I were under the spell of the Rock's myth, they made me feel protected.

I felt the sun and dreamed on. Dreamed of a time when this peace that was all around me would enter my soul. Dreamed of home, of being home and loved, the same almost overwhelming love that I felt for this place.

I dreamed of The Outdoors, the open spaces, of being free. Sometimes, when I let it happen, these places truly made me feel free. But then, my mind would return to the reality of sensible and responsible life. The suffocating and poisonous Rat Race. My life.

I stared at that long, open road and felt it call to me. I heard its song, felt it pull, and longed, as always, to be free.