Farewell to Weldborough.

The weather has been kind with cloudless blue skies but the air has been bitterly cold. Last night the pines, or maybe it was the redwoods, played their games making blustery winds sound like rain. Yesterday lunchtime, the little black Honda had a final run up through the pass, down into the valley and back. Even though the bike ran well, its rider, now more experienced, found little enjoyment in the trip. Memories were sparked by places all along the road; exploring the mossy green myrtle forest, phoning home from the scenic lookout, climbing to the former campsite high above the plains, chasing the rumbling red monster down the highway, stopping for fuel at the roadhouse, dining at the dairy cafe.

The cottage has been cleaned and furniture rearranged. The car, converted to "cargo mode", is crammed with possessions. With a little help from a friend, the bikes have been loaded onto the trailer and safely tied down. Trailer wheels are firmly attached and will be re-checked en route to Devonport. A few items have been left in storage in case we decide to fly-drive one day: a large tent, camp stove and all the fossicking gear. Other items have been given away, including food which some of the locals were grateful to accept.

It's cold in the cottage. The fire was never lit during our stay, the electric heater, used sparingly, is off and several layers of unfashionable clothing keep the wearer reasonably warm; except for the fingertips because it's impossible to type while wearing gloves. Cold fresh air was one of the original goals of the trip but ideals have rapidly shifted recently and I'm stuck in the past again; picking up the pieces and struggling to understand what's happened.

Through the window, across the cemetery road and a now-vacant cow paddock, beyond a row of pines and myrtles, the white walls of the hotel shine in sunlight. The orange-capped phone box, a reassuring distant glow at night, stands empty. With nearly everything packed, there's not alot to do: no dog to be walked, no one to hunt gems with and even the hotel is closed on Mondays during winter.

Evening descends at 5pm, it's perfectly still outside with crystal clear skies and the prospect of a decent morning frost. Due to poorly-timed generosity, the larder is empty and tonight's dinner is a toast medley: toast and peanut butter for entree followed by toast and vegemite for a tasty main course followed by toast and blackberry jam for sweets. All washed down with a steaming mug of Earl Grey to cure hiccups from eating too much toast.