|red dirt and horses|
|First time I have worn jeans in two months!|
Normanton was a strange place. Its almost like I don't have words to describe it. A fellow blog writer had been there days before me and said it was the worst place so far they have been on their three month trip. I can understand her statement. I wouldn't say it was the worst place but it has a certain odd feeling. Of isolation, of a place that we as travellers can only look into from the outside. We could never be part of this place, never be comfortable here and it was a relief to leave it and its strangeness behind.
I wrote the following as a sample to show Matilda how to use adjectives in her writing.... since I never took any pics in this town I thought I would add my notes. It might explain some of the feelings the town gives.
A walk through Normanton
As the sun rose so too did my three little people. Yawning and stretching and chatting in the new morning light.
I lay in bed and thought about everywhere we had been, everywhere we will be going and where we were right now.
After breakfast I put on my shoes and headed out of the caravan park. I had planned a brisk walk, to wake myself up and to get moving for the day.
I found myself walking a few hundred metres then turning onto the main street of town. The main street was wide, with a medium strip in the middle that had a few small shrubs and toughs of grass. A pub stood tall on the corner, then a butcher shop, a bakery and a general store lined the rest of the main street. There was a lonely car parked at the front of the bakery and a few four wheel drives with men in cowboy hats drove past. Apart from that the street was quiet on this Saturday morning.
I slowed down my pace as I knew I was running out of road. It took me 6 minutes to walk from one end of town to the other. I decided since it looked like a town I would not get lost in I would turn down a side street to lengthen the distance of my walk.
The side street was just as quiet as the main. On my right was a house with perfectly green manicured gardens. It looked like an odd sight amongst the other brown patched yards.
Next door to the manicured house was a small dwelling with children’s play equipment in the front yard and a falcon with a blue tarp over its bonnet. The tarp flapped in the light breeze, the sound accompanied by a beer can rolling in bursts down the wide gutter. A young girl sat in the driveway, brushing a Barbie dolls hair. At her feet sat a scruffy little pup. I watched cautiously incase the dog decided to run towards me through the open gate, but soon saw it was restrained with a piece of braided rope as a lead on a star picket.
I heard the sound of a car coming towards me. Around the bend a commodore sedan full of people drove with speed. Unrestrained children hung from the windows and the adults up front tipped their hats and gave me a small wave as the callais rushed past me.
I walked on and turned the bend into another street. This one more rough looking than the previous. Small fibro houses sat on large blocks. Cars sat in their driveways, some with no wheels or windows. Parked in a manner to suggest they were abandon. One of the houses had occupants sitting on milk crates in the front yard. In a circle, drinking, smoking and eating packets of chips. Chatting to each other. They turned their heads towards me, then turned back to their conversation. Not bothered by my presence, an odd sight of a white woman with auburn hair walking down their street.
Three large brolga birds gracefully pecked at an empty pizza box in a vacant block next door. An eagle sat high above, watching the scene below: the birds, the people chatting and me as I fastened my walk to return to the caravan park.