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The Jacaranda Trail
The Jacaranda Trail
The Jacaranda Trail
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The Jacaranda Trail

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THE JACARANDA TRAIL
A Journey of Discovery Down Under
Would you just sell everything, ditch your plans
And buy a ticket to the other side of the world?
In her twenties, the author did just that –
And got much more than she could ever have bargained for...

Raised in England of British-Australian parentage, the author sells her possessions and flies to her birthplace in Sydney with no solid plans or timetable in mind.

Discovering by chance that she has another sister, a whole new world opens up: from living on a camel farm and picnicking with kookaburras, to paddock baths, unconventional lifestyles, City Farming and much, much more...

But, before she returns to England, she has one last thing to do: to go in search of her grandmother – the woman who left her daughter to be brought up by cruel nuns in an orphanage...
"Not so much a how-to of family history research, as what can happen when the results are in."
This book is an easy read, never stops moving and will appeal to a wide range of readers, including lovers of travel writing, family history buffs and those interested in less conventional lifestyles.

Chapter titles include: Letting the Possum out of the Bag; Rainbow Pants Not Essential; Bald as a Blue-Tongued Lizard; and WWOOFing with Pigs.

FAUX REVIEWS by PSEUDO-CELEBRITIES

Here are just a few of the author's infamous 'faux reviews' of the spurious kind for The Jacaranda Trail...

Onya, Sheila! Couldna written it better meself... but that's probably 'cos I can't read ner write too well...
CROCODILE DUNDEE ('Mick' to his mates)

It's about time a few more women stood up & wrote books. Mind you, it's more comfortable if you sit down to do it.
GERMAINE JEER

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 2, 2011
ISBN9781466029972
The Jacaranda Trail
Author

Alannah Foley

Alannah Foley... aka The Pyjama WriterAuthor of mysteries, travel tales, fiction, and other maverick titles that won't fall in line...Raised in the UK, Alannah lived in her Aussie birthplace for five years in her twenties, where mozzies regularly used her for target practice. She managed to return to Old Blighty devoid of shark or snake bite, however, and currently lives in picturesque Cornwall with her cycling-obsessed partner.Alannah is a multi-genre author who has published mysteries & other works of fiction as well as travel tales about her capers in a campervan and adventures Down Under. She also enjoys writing humorous portraits of life (some still in the pot!).When she's not writing, Alannah likes to hit the trails on her bike, take walks in nature, and go kayaking – basically, anything that will get her butt out of the chair for a while that doesn't involve going to a sweaty old gym.Get the author's pester-free newsletter and be the first to hear about upcoming titles, early discounts on new releases, and a few other goodies exclusive to her VIP Readers Group. Simply visit bit.ly/PJW-Newsletter to sign up.To find out more about the author & her work, visit her website at www.thePyjamaWriter.com.

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    The Jacaranda Trail - Alannah Foley

    A Quick Note on Lingo

    This work is written in British English, so a few words might be different for American readers—eg mum = mom, colour = color, motorway = freeway/highway, toilet = bathroom, etc.

    INTRODUCTION

    Returning to my Australian birthplace in 1993 (when I was in my mid-twenties) is probably one of the best things I ever did. So many changes took place for me there, and so many things were resolved, that one could almost look upon it as a five-year therapy session.

    This story begins and ends with the trail of my mother's past. Uncovering a family secret opened the door to finding the lost pieces of my mother's life—and, in turn, my own. Sandwiched in the middle lies a 'journey of discovery' (as denoted by the book's subtitle), a somewhat meandering road travelled both on an inner and outer level. Along the way, I was able to sample many aspects of Australian life as well as alternative lifestyles and approaches to living, most of which would probably never have been possible had I remained in England.

    The area I mostly lived in while I was in Oz was culturally different in many ways from what I'd known before. The mindset in England is a lot more insular and, unless you've travelled at all (venturing off the beaten track laid down by package holidays), it's probably difficult to imagine such different lifestyles or ways of thinking. So, for the extremely conventional reader, buckle your seat-belt and just enjoy the ride.

    This being my first book of any length, it has been interesting to challenge myself to pare away many details and events, as well as to make minor adjustments where necessary, in favour of keeping the flow going and hopefully distilling my experiences a lot more for the reader. Although I have attempted to keep details as accurate as possible, this story is obviously subjective and invariably memories are not infallible, and I apologise for any discrepancies there may be.

    It took me just over a year to write the first main draft on a part-time basis with a house move in between times, but I somehow managed to finish it around the tenth anniversary of my return to England. I'm surprised I've remembered so much, yet am acutely aware of just how much I've forgotten, especially as I've gone through so many more changes since then. Just how many of the native plants and trees would I be able to recognise and name if I went back again now?

    You will also notice that I seem to have inadvertently adopted several Aussie words during my travels which, despite the length of time I've been back in England, haven't quite disappeared from my vocabulary. It wasn't until my 'beta reader' (partner Steve) pointed these out to me that I realised that Brits might not understand the terminology. So, instead of removing the lingo completely, I've given a 'translation' in brackets, in order to keep the Aussie flavour intact. [Also note the familiar Oz and Aussie to denote Australia(n)]. In addition, I've changed just a few names of people I know, to ensure a degree of anonymity.

    It might also be helpful to clarify how I use the term 'the bush'. Although I'm guessing most Aussies would think of it as somewhere a bit more out in the wilds, I do, however, use the term to denote being out in the sticks of the countryside. For most Brits, I think anywhere that's not the city or suburb might loosely be considered remote enough to be described as such. (So, please—don't send in any complaint letters!)

    Oh, and jacarandas? For those of you who have never heard of them before, they are the native, 'lilac'-blossomed trees which line many Australian avenues, leaving a stunning carpet of colour when they shed their petals each year. They also happen to be my mother's favourite and, to me, represent her childhood and the wish to reconnect with her past.

    Alannah Foley

    Cornwall, England

    November 2011

    1.

    Burning Your Bridges

    Gloomy skies and torrential downpours had followed us all the way to the airport in London on that April morning of 1993. It was the kind of wet day that hides tears—which is particularly fortunate for fathers whose feelings don't want to be put on show. Did my dad wonder whether he'd ever see me and my sister again as he said goodbye to us that day? It wasn't a question that had an answer—I didn't even know myself. Yet it felt like a definite ending, even in this world of 24-hour flights. Australia seemed a world away.

    Ever since I was young, I had yearned to someday go to Australia. Not in the touristy sense of sun, sea and sand, but in the sense that maybe a part of me and my roots had been left behind when, at eighteen months of age, I left my birthplace in Sydney and mother's homeland of Australia to travel to my father's native England.

    It was a longing that I somehow knew would be fulfilled at some point—I just didn't know when. In the meantime, I had only snippets of stories and images painted verbally by my mother to rely on to gain any understanding of where the other half of me belonged. Perhaps questioning my mother about her life in Australia was an attempt to develop some emotional bond with her and this missing part of my life. In the end, though, it would only be when I actually travelled there myself that I would get any real answers, that the greatest gaps would be filled in.

    My habit in those days was to burn my bridges and move on. For the past few weeks, I had been avidly making plans to leave my home in England, had sold or given away everything I had of value, leaving me with only what I needed for the trip in my large backpack and smaller bag. At the time, I had no idea whether I would be going to Australia for a short stint, or whether it would be a lifetime affair.

    Friends were supportive of my decision, yet it surprised me that they thought I was brave to just pack up and go, take my chances like that. To me, no courage or effort was required. I knew it was what I had to do, so I just did it. But was I just being irresponsible, foolhardy?

    My mother and my sister Ruth, seven years my junior, had recently travelled for a short time to Australia. It had been the first time Mum had returned to her homeland since she left over twenty years previous, and Ruth's first visit. Their stories about their time in Oz, along with Ruth's nagging doubts about whether she should've stayed, were all that was needed to reignite the spark of desire I'd always harboured about going there. Except this time, I was going to do something about it. The time was right.

    My British-born father had taken the trip by boat in the 1960s on the Assisted Passage of only £10, a scheme set up to encourage workers to go to the Promised Land Down Under. When he set off, I don't expect my dad could ever have imagined he'd meet my Aussie mum, have me and then return to England a married man, all within a few short years.

    Our tickets in hand, there was no turning back now. But then, I didn't want to anyway. I was heading toward a new adventure. I could never have guessed then, following in the footsteps of my father some three decades later, that I was embarking on a journey whereupon I, too, would get much more than I'd bargained for, much more than I could ever have imagined…

    2.

    Home is Where the Heat Is

    Excited to be in a new country, and the city of my birth at that, I couldn't help feeling like I was on holiday when we first stepped off the plane in Sydney.

    Roads were lined with sunaholic palm trees doing the hula-hula to the tune of a warm and gentle breeze, and shop fronts were painted in pastel shades of pink and blue. My eyes were wide, soaking in my new surroundings as we were driven from the airport by minibus, a free service laid on by many hostels to entice new arrivals to lodge with them. The hostel near Coogee beach would be our temporary base whilst we toured the town centre.

    The obvious starting point for any sight-seeing in Sydney is Circular Quay, with its neighbouring Opera House within a short walk and stunning view of the Harbour Bridge. I remember my mother once showing me a trinket decorated with a picture of Sydney Harbour Bridge. My imagination couldn't help but soar off to other-worldly possibilities. Yet to actually experience childhood dreams stepping into reality is another thing. How can you describe the emotions of seeing such a sight for the first time, when before it had only lived in a picture? Looking at one of Sydney's icons was a symbol for me, like reawakening all the stories of Australia I'd only ever heard about from my mother's lips.

    Situated right at the end of George Street—the main drag going through town—Circular Quay is also an opportune place to catch a train or ferry. Manly, the renowned coastal suburb on the north shores, can easily be reached by ferry or Jet Cat, the faster option. Or you can hop on a ferry over to Darling Harbour and do a bit of shopping whilst getting a closer view of the harbour bridge and dock areas.

    * * *

    Much as my first impressions of Australia delighted me, there were, however, myths to slay. For a start off, I was to learn that, contrary to the often-held 'Pommie' image of Oz as wilderness frilled with beach, just about every different type of landscape you can imagine can be found on the continent, and just about every kind of weather, from the chilly Snowy Mountains to the sweltering tropics of Darwin.

    Although we get the impression that everyone in Australia lives by a billabong on the edge of the desert, with kangaroos and koalas in their garden just waiting to be patted, I can testify that this is pretty much the exception than the rule!

    Most of the main cities such as Sydney are coastal, although Ayers Rock (known to the Aborigines as Uluru) is Australia's arid 'red centre'. I heard about an Aboriginal myth that there was once water, a great lake, at the centre of the continent way back before history was recorded, although I've never come across any scientific research or proof of it. There are many legends and myths handed down from generation to generation. But I was only later to discover that my romantic notions of Aboriginal life were not all they were cracked up to be when seen in the light of present-day reality.

    * * *

    Not long after our arrival in Australia, Ruth and I set about visiting family we'd never met, travelling north up to Queensland's capital of Brisbane on the mid-east coast by coach, with its numerous stops along the way to drop off and pick up passengers.

    We were lucky enough to arrive in Brisbane at the time when Mum's 'foster' brother Nev, and his wife Lyn, were about to make their way further north to Mackay to visit Nev's parents.

    Mum had always told me that she and her three older siblings were left in a convent orphanage from an early age. Just before she was eighteen, she left the orphanage and went to work as a housekeeper on a cattle station outside a place called Toowoomba, in Queensland. But soon after, she was taken in as a sort of unofficial foster kid by Nev's parents. Mum had never known her father, and the only time she saw her mother was

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