Tree frog green: that was the colour of cycads in January. Unfurling like prehistoric fountains from crumbed-rust dirt, they stayed fresh under the blazing sun. At night, wobbly ceiling fans would half-heartedly whip syrupy air into nearly cool breezes while geckos cack-cackled in corners, and the Bush Stone Curlew wailed… Raised on an imaginative diet of four-seasoned woods, solid-walled houses and cloaked, clear-speaking heroes, I’d managed to overlay such scenes onto our old home of Melbourne… but they made no sense here.

Read More