Favourite singers: Linda Rondtadt

I have just watched the incredible documentary Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice, and it has left me loving her more than ever. First, that voice. What a voice! Such power, clarity and warmth, with the ability to move from the tenderest phrase to something that seems to fill your whole being. Her great gift was as an interpreter: she could take someone else’s song and make it utterly her own. When she sang, the emotion felt lived, as though she were finding the words for something she had felt herself.

Then there was her extraordinary musical courage. She could have stayed with the rock and country music that made her a star, but her curiosity kept taking her somewhere new. Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance on stage; the sumptuous standards she recorded with Nelson Riddle; the traditional Mexican songs of her family heritage. People in the industry warned her against some of these changes of direction, yet she trusted her love of the music, and audiences followed her. I find that deeply inspiring: the willingness to become a learner again, to risk failure, and to follow what moves you even when others cannot see the sense in it.

Knowing that she eventually lost her ability to sing makes watching her performances almost unbearably poignant. Her illness was initially diagnosed as Parkinson’s and later identified as progressive supranuclear palsy. To lose something so central to your life, and such a profound source of pleasure, is hard to imagine. What moves me in the documentary is the matter-of-fact courage with which she speaks about it, and the humour and intelligence that remain so unmistakably hers. I came away grateful for all the music she has given us, and full of admiration for the woman herself.

A gorgeous photo of Table Mountain

I love this photo of Table Mountain taken by Jo a few years ago. Table Mountain is so close to my heart and this captures it so beautifully.

Some lovely photos of Rosie I found

Stories about friends: Chasing Silver Cap

My friend Chris took up Masters swimming at North Sydney Olympic Pool, largely lured in by the romance of the setting—the grand granite pylons of the Harbour Bridge towering directly above lane one. The romance, however, wore off rather quickly once he realised he was definitively the slowest person in the slowest lane.

Chris had stamina to burn. He could churn out laps until the sun went down, but he lacked anything resembling speed. He didn’t harbour dreams of the Olympics, but pride demanded he not remain the permanent caboose of the squad. That was when he set his sights on Silver Cap.

She was a fellow regular who swam a steady, methodical breaststroke a couple of body lengths ahead of him, her metallic latex cap catching the early morning glare. To Chris, she became Everest. Session after session, he gauged the distance between them until, centimeter by painful centimeter, the gap began to close.

Then came the morning of the showdown.

They turned at the twenty-five-metre mark neck and neck. With barely ten metres left to the wall, Chris spotted his personal landmark on the pool floor: a faded, waterlogged Band-Aid stubbornly adhered to the blue tiles. Now or never. He put his head down, kicked into a thrashing sprint, and gave it every ounce of oxygen he had left.

He slammed his hand against the wall. By the grace of slightly longer fingernails, he had pipped her.

Exhilarated, Chris broke the surface, threw an almighty fist into the air, and let out a triumphant roar beneath the bridge.

He then turned to watch his vanquished rival reach the ladder, hoist herself frail-limbed out of the water, and shuffle unsteadily toward her waiting Zimmer frame.

To say the wind left his sails would be a vast understatement.

Still, Chris’s shame was short-lived. A fortnight later, the woman’s older sister joined the squad—and he gladly handed over the mantle of squad anchor.

Favourite songs: Wonderful Life (Katie Melua)

I love Katie Melua’s version of Wonderful Life. Knowing that she recorded it several years after a serious mental health crisis makes it especially poignant for me. There’s a tenderness and melancholy in her voice that gives the song’s hope such depth. I hear it as an affirmation of life that makes room for its pain—a quiet recognition that, even after great suffering, there is still beauty to discover and life to love.

Spit Bridge walk to Sandy Bay cafe to have lunch with Jane

A glorious day to be out and about. I love this part of the world. I met up with Jane to help her instagram her art and we spoke about my book. 

A beautiful poem from Gran and Gramps to Sam

 Found this today in a lost folder on my computer. How special.

Long Gully Bridge (Northbridge)

Long Gully Bridge has always been one of my favourite bridges in Sydney and it is quite close to where I live.

The bridge connects Northbridge with Cammeray, crossing the leafy gully above Flat Rock Creek and Tunks Park. Opened in January 1892, it was originally a steel suspension bridge, built by private developers to encourage residential development on the northern side. Its most distinctive features are the sandstone towers, with their castle-like turrets and battlements. The bridge also gave Northbridge its name, reflecting the suburb’s position to its north.

Although still commonly called the Suspension Bridge, it has not actually been a suspension bridge since 1939. The original supporting structure was replaced with a reinforced-concrete arch, while the sandstone towers were retained, preserving its familiar appearance. This combination of Victorian stonework and later engineering makes it an unusual Sydney bridge—and a particularly photogenic one, with the arch best appreciated from below and the towers standing prominently above the surrounding greenery.

The view of Tunks Park from the bridge

View from below

The views of the bridge from Tunks Park below are wonderful too

After photographing the bridge, I went on to explore Flat Rock Creek. Walking through the greenery, it was amazing to think that the upper reaches of this gully had once been a vast rubbish dump, with tipping continuing until 1985. Decades of restoration, planting and bush regeneration have helped transform the former tip into a place full of life again. It’s a powerful reminder of nature’s capacity to recover when we give it the space—and a helping hand—to do so.