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| James Vicars, Writing by the water, August 2021 |
Silence. A cool, easy silence overlaid by the rustle of the breeze through the trees, the occasional, shrill bird cry, and the always-present lapping of water… As much as anything, this was my experience at Gunyah for my two week residency, and it set the tone for what I did. It must be a very different place in warmer weather or school holidays – or almost anytime covid lockdowns don’t apply! There was hardly any road traffic, hardly any machine noise other than boats (no mowers and blowers) and only the odd person or two walking their dogs in the evening. It was perfect for my stay because it provided spaciousness for thought and inspiration.
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| James Vicars, Gunyah trees, August 2021 |
And that’s because I’ve been developing a project in fiction, a story about growing up and grappling with confusing times, and it needed a sustained period of work to launch it. I’m excited that it’s moved forward quite well, alongside the memoir about the 2019 fires in which we lost our own place in the bush. I’ve written a substantial journal as the basis for this, though it still needs shaping as a memoir. The Gunyah and its beautiful environment provided space for contemplation of this, and I offer my sincere thanks. However, it also prompted some powerful connections with the themes of this writing.
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| James Vicars, Gunyah deck railing, August 2021 |
The first evening I arrived I went down to the water and saw a tall sloop under sail moving gently up the cove, the westerly breeze on her quarter. She was making way slowly, perhaps because the tide was low. Though this channel looks safe enough, it’s a reminder that we mustn’t take the natural world for granted. These mariners took care; on the water your life can depend on it. On land you might forget, but the oyster shells on the water’s edge can still cut your feet, trees can drop branches and fire can roar through their canopies. Around Gunyah this is a risk at times, but in my writing about the fires of 2019-20 and what can be learned from them, it’s still plain that we need to work with trees: without them the land would be scorched, infertile and windblown. And so many animals have their homes in them – I love how the trees and native bush below the house hasn’t been turned into lawn! But the bigger picture shows that the truly dire risk is notto do everything we can to secure the strongest action on global warming. The science is absolutely clear, and the IPCC’s new report, released while I’ve been here, contains the starkest of warnings. So, I urge every one us to speak up to other people, companies and politicians in your own voices – we must use our courage and not hold back out of embarrassment or fear. That is what will best protect the Gunyah and its trees, animals, air and water, a world within the greater world, for our children and their children.
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| James Vicars, Gunyah lights, August 2021 |
My cereal bowl propped among rocks
and oysters, clear water shimmering;
a fish flickers and a wading heron
snaps up breakfast on the tide.
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| James Vicars, Gunyah jetty, August 2021 |
James Vicars, Gunyah residency report, August 2021
