Sometimes you will never know the value of something,until it becomes a memory.
—Dr. Seuss

We are heading north. I am sitting in the passenger seat making small black spiders of writing in my journal. White lines in the road rush at me and recede. Some time back we crossed the 25^th parallel and shed layers of clothing like snake skins. Now our shy white legs poke awkwardly out of shorts.

It is cyclone season in the north west of Australia. The clouds are like Whitely brushstrokes, long and sensual.  The harsh Australian landscape has been softened with rain. Green shoots and red puddles line the highway, cheering us on.

Yesterday we stopped to picnic at a salt lake outside of Kalbarri. The water was impossibly pink and the sky thick with the promise of rain. I ate my salad, sipped my tea and thought to myself, I am making a happy memory. Something I can dip into when the light is less natural and the sky less blue.  I thought of my Mother, she has a strong romantic streak. As kids she would bundle us to the beach and tell us we were off to make memories. She was usually right; those long uncomplicated summers are stored away in the happy section of my recollections.

We share the road with travelers, all of us seeking something. I love to watch people emerge from their vehicles at petrol stations and parks. The young and beautiful backpackers saunter out of cheap colourful vans. They slouch casually into their own Beauty, wearing low slung pants and lazy content grins. Their lives are rich beyond money. They are making memories they will unpack forever.

They are making memories at a time when their peers are living on old ones.

In stark contrast the grey nomads in expensive motor homes seem nervous and displeased. I take a moment to look beyond this initial judgment. Grey nomads get harshly judged in this country. They hog the roads and set up in caravan parks with enormous satellite dishes to watch television. We seem to judge them for wanting comfort and security but we should never forget how extraordinary it is to take to the road at a time in life when adventure does not come as easily. Many of these nomads have sold their homes to fund these adventures, chipped in all future security for sunsets and chardonnay in plastic stems. I love and cherish our grey nomads. They represent the very best of us. Never too old or afraid to get behind the wheel and re think the possibility of our lives. They are making memories at a time when their peers are living on old ones.
We journey on and I sit here “watching the wheels go round and round – I really love to watch them roll” .

I leave you with a recipe from the road. This is a real travelers bowl. I am usually a big fan of roasting and grinding spices but this particular recipe is more casual. Designed for nomads to casually lob aromatics into the pot. I have chosen red lentils as there is no need to soak them.

Lentil and pumpkin bowl

=R1=

Serve hot with bowls of spinach, sprouts and yoghurt. The leftovers are wonderful spooned into halved capsicums and roasted.

Enjoy x