Watching the sun set in Oz, in Chile and in Strandhill
I WAS telling my children the other day about a 72-hour bus journey I once undertook. I spent a year in Australia in the late 1990s and at one stage a gang of us had two or three weeks off work. We were young, and so we thought it might be a good idea to take the Greyhound Bus and see a bit of the country. Start in Sydney, head to Canberra, through rural New South Wales, Adelaide, then up the red centre through Alice Springs, to Katherine and end up in Darwin. Climb Ayers Rock, visit the Kakadu National Park, and see a few kangaroos and hopefully crocodiles along the way.
We took our time getting to Darwin, but when it came to make our way back, all of a sudden it was Thursday and we had to be in Sydney for work on Monday morning. We couldn’t afford a flight, so back on the bus we hopped, and eventually made it back 72 hours later on Sunday evening.
This journey made a similar 50-hour journey through South America a few years later seem short by contrast, but it is far more important to today’s column. Because while I saw some incredible sunsets on those long bus journeys through Australia, none of them were by the sea, which might seem insignificant unless you are lucky enough to live on the west coast. As I’m guessing most of you reading this column do.
Because while watching a sunset will always involve seeing the sun disappear over the horizon, only on the west coast to you get to see it slip into the sea. And so when you see it do just this into a different sea somewhere else in the world, you will no doubt be reminded of home, as I was on those magical evenings travelling up the length of Chile. It was a great time to think. The slowly changing colours and patterns inspired me. I didn’t know it at the time, but some of the thoughts I had on that bus had a real impact. Thoughts of home, and of music. My discman and my CD collection were my best friends at the time, and I remember listening to songs like Nina Simone’s My Baby Just Cares For Me, or I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You by Tom Waits, and imagining how amazing it would be to one day (a) be able to play piano like that and (b) perform them in front of an audience. So when I get the chance these days I take the somewhat shorter trip down to Strandhill to watch the sun settle down into its familiar spot in the Atlantic.
I’m reminded of those epic journeys, and of how important it is to take some time out for yourself.