The Light Horse Hotel creaks underfoot. The carpet is profoundly lumpy. Sweet smoke wafts in to mingle with the varnished oak. To quote the man who sidled up to me at the urinal last night, it’s cold as a witch’s tit. From the balcony you can see the painted silos, a few shuttered shopfronts. On top of the usual empty plots of land, Harden/Murrumburrah is home to more abandoned houses and businesses than anywhere else I’ve been. Albury Street slices the whole place lengthwise. This gives you the sense that the only thing to do is to keep driving by. The only other folks in the ‘Barnes Store Cafe’ are also tourists, who load back into their van while I wait for breakfast. The proprietor advises me that the man who will cook the food is out getting milk, so I’ll have to wait a minute. I tell her I have nothing but time. The coffee is delivered by a roughly thirteen year old girl, who shyly places it across from me. The food is brought by the proprietor, who proudly produces smoked olive oil, smoked chilli salt, and in-house relish to go with the meal. On the way out I buy a couple of fridge magnets with pictures of local Valais Blacknose sheep on them.
Staring down Albury Street feels like your vision is performing a Hitchcock Pull. Endless, endless, endless. The 2001 federation star hangs lonely at the top of its steel pole, surrounded by two of the three (could be more, I only saw the ones adorning Albury Street) Light Horse memorials. A few passers through mill about, looking askance at my obnoxious suitcase. I drag the thing two kilometres back to Harden station. Frankly, I must have been talking out my ass last night, because the entire walk back is somehow also uphill. I really mean it this time. Things get somehow quieter the closer to the station I get. Some bizarre details throw themselves at me before I leave. On a tin roof, a tradie slides haphazardly toward the gutter on his feet - initially I thought I was about to witness a serious workplace accident, but he actually meant to do this. A closed down pub with shattered windows stands on the corner opposite. Hanging behind broken glass in the front door is a curtain decorated with promotional material for the 1990 Steven Seagal movie Hard To Kill. I’m still reeling from this sight. While I wait at the station, swallows titter and circle my head. Clearly I did not get enough time with the nooks and crannies of Harden/Murrumburrah.
My stay is too short, my legs too tired, my brain too scattered with things important and not. I can’t get a good look at the place beyond light sketches. So few people are out, there isn’t anyone to strike up a conversation with. I’m not getting a close enough look. But could I ever? This feeling has been with me the whole trip. I couldn’t fool myself into thinking I could gain a deep understanding of the region in a week, but I desperately did not want to set a play in a place without getting some time out there. Each place generously provided me with compelling imagery and background information. People gave me their time, their stories. I have to be careful with how I deploy this in the work itself. I’ll follow up, at least. Read the books I’ve collected, get into contact with the historic societies I missed, and the ones I didn’t. Take care of what’s been given to me.
The Museum of the Riverina in Wagga Wagga is essentially the last place I’ll visit. I went this afternoon, and will go again tomorrow before heading back to Melbourne. It’s a fine way to round out the journey. A grand review of all things behind me now. Places and names I now recognise, maps I can trace my own footsteps on. Unfortunately I won’t have the time to really explore Wagga, but it’s already a bit too large for me to meaningfully try.
Back at Nic and Em’s place, we try to play the board game Wingspan while performing our hearts out to make the baby laugh. We laugh ourselves crying, constantly losing track of whose turn it is and how the game functions. The game now lies at a standstill on the table, for us to try and pick back up tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be on the train for five hours, reading through one of the history books I picked up. Tomorrow I’ll be back with Chelsea by nightfall. Tomorrow I’ll write a single sentence or a page or a dozen.