Boydtown Blues

 We are in a lovely place, Boydtown which could have been the capital of New South Wales if Ben Boyd, entrepreneur extraordinaire, had had his way.  He ran properties, an offshore whaling outfit and had shares in the Pig and Whistle shipping line.  (It was called the Pig and Whistle because when the whistle blew to announce departure all the pigs squealed)  The line ran from Sydney to Melbourne until 1952 when roads were better.  It must have been such fun to live here then with whales in the bay and ships going back and forth.  Ben Boyd though ran into debt and tried a bit of blackbirding to get cheap labour for his farms.  He was very properly stopped by humanitarians and disappeared in the Solomon Islands, assumed murdered by the local inhabitants.

This is the first campsite where I feel totally content.  There is hardly anyone here.  I gathered wood and lit a fire last night even though the wood was wet. It blazed cooperatively and the smoke went straight up.  I sat in a canvas chair and had a gin.  The stars came out.  Some kookaburras cackled their evening prayers.  Grant was sitting in the van with the lights on.  “Come out, I said “It’s so lovely”  But he wouldn’t.  “We are different people” he said.  I guess so.  We shared my wood fired potatoes and he began to get the tacos ready.