In Kiama, about fifty miles south of Sydney
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Shoppers row
July 30th, 2011Around Kiama
July 30th, 2011
On the tiles
July 29th, 2011
At Nantien Buddist temple, Wollongong. South of Sydney.
The God question
July 29th, 2011It’s a question I’ve never really understood. Do I believe in God? For, just like the search for the meaning of life in Douglas Adam’s book "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy", if you don’t really know what you’re looking for, how will you recognise it when you find it? Sticking point for me is what exactly do you mean by the term God? Religious deity or some as yet unexplained force, the initiator of the Big Bang and the creation of the Universe? It’s a broad church.
I’d been joined at the breakfast table by Katalina. Originally from Poland, she’d spent quite a bit of time in Taiwan, eventually settling in Australia. Written a book on cultural differences, between who I wasn’t quite sure. Possibly Buddhism and Western philosophies. Didn’t seem to matter too much, conversation flowing along, content that I too was a pilgrim, albeit of a different type. On a journey rather more physical than others staying at the temple. And it was her who’d posed the God question. Think she found my answer just as perplexing.
At the temple
July 29th, 2011At the temple from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken spends the night in a Buddhist temple. On the outskirts of Wollongong, a little to the south of Sydney.
Bells before breakfast
July 29th, 2011Strong smell of incense. Flapping of lanyards on the poles outside the temple. Inside, I was the only one not clad in robes. Hoping, as I sought to mirror those around me, not to offend. Temple etiquette, beyond removing ones boots before entering, unfamiliar. And no cameras.
I’d decided to observe early morning prayers. Ceremony of Bells. Sheer curiosity. Been told visitors were welcome to attend, but mistakenly advised to be at the temple for six thirty rather than six sharp. Frustratingly unable to enter, all the doors being closed and secured from the inside. Fortunately my efforts to prise one open must have been heard, for a young shaven headed woman eventually let me in.
She’d led me to an empty row of cushions. Indicated I should kneel, joining the others in silent meditation. Nodding in appreciation I’d done this. Finding the experience as much invigorating as it was reflective. Ready to face the day ahead. After breakfast of course.
Smugglers woes
July 29th, 2011Desperate for sleep, I’d ended up in small Buddhist retreat on the coast south of Sydney. Small, simple room for the night. Ample for a very weary traveller. Besides which, I was just a bit curious. Who exactly were my fellow guests? Pilgrims perhaps? So I’d opted to join at least some of them for dinner in the communal hall. Shared tables and wooden stools. Strictly speaking, I’d no choice if I wanted to eat, for this was a vegetarian establishment, meat not permitted within the grounds. My tinned tuna struck me as a bit of a grey area, but I’d decided to enter into the spirit of things.
Dinner was a surprisingly tasty affair. Textured proteins that you’d easily mistake for meat. And rice I took great delight in eating with chop sticks, something I’d long since mastered back in China. If my fellow diners were impressed with that, less so my efforts at humour. Joking that I really didn’t mind vegetarian food at all. After all, had been good enough for our family rabbit. Before we’d eaten it. Nice with chips. Solemn looks. Glad I hadn’t mentioned the fishy contraband concealed in my room. Time for bed.
At the lookout
July 28th, 2011At the lookout from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
View from the Bulli Lookout. About fifty miles or so south of Sydney
Memories of Malta
July 28th, 2011I hoped Philip was impressed with my knowledge of Malta. How I’d been intrigued by how most things were written in English, signs and such like, yet what you mostly heard spoken was Maltese, a blend of mostly Arabic and Italian. He’d emigrated to Australia years earlier, but still kept his accent.
The day was a struggle. I’d barely managed fifteen miles before I needed to stop. Needing a strong coffee to stay suitably alert on the highway, to avoid the frequent coal trucks. A short tea stop along the way hadn’t made much difference. Eventually finding a small florist cum cafe in Appin. Run by Phillip and his wife.
Envying Pickles
July 27th, 2011I’d been gone a little over half and hour, supposedly heading back towards the coast. Suddenly realising the junction ahead seemed vaguely familiar. Last night’s turn off the highway. Somewhat bemused as to quite how I’d managed to end up heading back on myself, for I was sure I’d not taken a wrong turn.
In truth the navigational error didn’t really matter. For it was still early, and very early at that. Quite literally all day to reach the coast. In theory at least. For I was tired. Desperate to sleep. The previous evening staying with Debbie and Steve, sharing a meal with their friends, had been fantastic fun. But it had been gone midnight before I’d enquired as to when they’d be leaving for work and I’d need to set off. My fault entirely.
As I struggled to get going the next morning, I’d found myself becoming rather envious of Pickles the dog. A friendly chap, he seemed nothing would entice him to drag himself out of bed until a more sociable hour. Finally choosing to put in a brief appearance as I left.
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