Mount Warning was one of our two main goals today. A three kilometre walk to the top of this mountain had a sense of a volcano about it. A little research shows it was once part of the Tweed volcano, and is supposed to be stunning. Sadly it was closed. At least we were able to drive for some way along the beautiful rain forest valley, across its darkened river. We drove a couple of kilometres down from the ‘$3300 penalty No Entrance Gate’ then walked up and back to that same gate. I think a potential rock fall was the main culprit for keeping us out. A beautiful drive was had all the same.
Back to Murwillumbah to aim for our second goal and we were told the gallery was closed, but just for a half hour lunch. So we achieved a third unspoken goal – lunch on a balcony overlooking Mt Warning, so we could at least pretend we were there. There were also a range of artists showing their wares, eg. some unusual bird and plant paintings. But the main artist was the person the gallery was named after, Margaret Olley – an artist we knew little about until a good friend gave us one of her prints.
It was not just her busy colourful oils that enchanted us, but also a short video of her with brush in hand painting in her home in Sydney, and the fabulous re-creation of many of her rooms, in this gallery – very moving. Her house was a studio, with all the usual purposes of rooms in a house playing second fiddle to her great passion – art.
We travelled more back roads through towns such as Uki and the rainbow town of Nimbin and finally Lismore. As we were driving and looking at the rolling hills of the wider Murwillumbah region, and walking in yet another rain forest, I started to think of a poem for today; one soon came to mind.
Looking at some beautiful photos of her paintings, I read an accompanying piece. Margaret had asked a friend to pick up one of her final works, I think, to be photographed. Alas, the next morning Margaret died. I had a school friend who was living in France, and after reconnecting with him around 50 years later I visited him and his wife. We spent this special day together with his beloved dog, ate a superb dinner at a French restaurant in a quaint French village with the promise of spending time with each other and looking through his special art – French prose. The next morning his wife called to say her husband and my friend had died.

One April day the fields in France we walked
With bounding dog unleashed a joyous sight,
The poppies seemed to whisper as we talked
Of doubts, regrets, of hopes – a load not light.
The ball retrieved was now lain at our feet
Tige’s only thought to see it flying high,
Our thoughts returned to this – our final meet
I did not know that in the end, I’d cry.
Claudette was there to greet us at the door
We sat awhile amongst his books and shared
Those things that meaning covets so much more
For all of us our souls and hearts were bared.
That night we ate and drank and laughed ’til late
And in the early morn, Ben died – my mate.