Remembering The Log Cabin

A section of the Log Cabin Motel

Bricks and mortar are the stuff that buildings are made out of. Throw in a few sticks of wood, some glass for the windows and there you have it; a shelter of sorts. Everyone know that’s what a building is, right?

I believe the above description is missing something, and that is the soul of the building.

To me, all buildings have a soul, which is developed over time and becomes a part of the building through the love and memories shared within the walls. Perhaps that is the reason why I have been drawn to old buildings for as long as I can remember. The older the building, the longer the memories have had the opportunity to embed themselves within every pore of the bricks and mortar with which the buildings have been erected, thus creating the soul of the building.

A touch of the personality of each individual who spends regular time within a building radiates through the walls, creating a melting-pot of humanity, enriching the structure with a character all of its own.

Back in the days of my childhood, growing up in the beautiful Blue Mountains of New South Wales, our closest large town was Penrith. In those days, with only one main road existing by which to enter or leave the mountains, we travelled to, and through, Penrith regularly.

My favourite part of the trip, every time we travelled that road, was crossing over the river. I would peer out of the old station-wagon window as we drove across Victoria Bridge, crossing the Nepean River, enjoying the glistening sun shining across the water and looking down at the wonderful old building just beyond the bridge, sitting beside the banks of the river.

Victoria Bridge, Penrith.

As a child, I had no idea what the building was, just that the building looked old and inviting and that’s all I cared about. The name of the building appealed to me as well ~ “The Log Cabin”.

When I was twelve years of age, my cousin was married at an old church in Emu Plains (the first town in the Blue Mountains) at an old stone church which was built by convicts, (another building of character). Her wedding reception would be held at The Log Cabin.

To this day I can still remember clearly the details of the day of my cousins wedding; the brand new “grown up” outfit Mum had bought for me to wear, the pea and ham soup we ate for lunch and how my hair (as usual) had a mind of its own, with my unruly curls flying hither and yon, when all I wanted them to do was to sit flat!

Mum complained of a bad headache at the church and decided against going to the reception at The Log Cabin.

Poor Mum. At the reception I thanked the God of all Almost Teenagers for giving her the headache that day, as ultimately it allowed me to enjoy my first “teenager’s night out” with my thirteen year old cousin!

Early on in the night Dad became happily ensconced in enjoying a pint or two and catching up with old friends and family.

With a hefty supply of twenty-cent coins in our hands, gratefully donated by my darling Dad and uncle (as it kept me and my cousin out of their hair for a few hours!) and music blaring in the background, we headed off to play on the row of pin-ball machines, lined up in the far corner, against the wall.

Whatever would Mum think???

Here I was, twelve years of age, with money, playing pin-ball machines, unsupervised ~ and loving every minute of it! Mum would have been horrified!

I always knew there was a reason why I liked the Log Cabin!

Although many moons passed and there were plenty more opportunities along the way for independence, the Log Cabin has always held treasured memories of my first taste of freedom.

Looking up towards the back of the Log Cabin from the river walk.

In April last year, when I returned to Penrith for the first time in around fifteen years, I spent a night at the Log Cabin Motel, giving me the opportunity to see the building of my childhood memories through the eyes of an adult.

Late in the afternoon I took a walk along the pathway beside the river. Rather than the bridge taking me across the river, for the first time in my life I walked under Victoria Bridge, alongside the Nepean River.

The pounding and roar of traffic travelling across the bridge, as I stood directly beneath the roadway, looking up at the underside of the bridge, could have been unsettling.

It wasn’t.

Standing below, with the roaring thunder of traffic overhead, I felt protected and cocooned by the spirits of my father and uncle, and all of the other family members with whom I had shared that night with, so long ago, who are no longer with us.

Directly under the bridge. Road to the left; railway line to the right.

Post Script ~ Last weekend, much to the dismay of me and hundreds of Penrith locals, a fire destroyed much of the beautiful Log Cabin buildings. Originally built in 1837, over the years the Log Cabin has undergone many extensions and name changes. Starting its life as an inn, the Log Cabin progressed in 1939, after further extensions, to becoming the Log Cabin Hotel, when a licence to sell alcohol was first issued.

I look forward to the day when The Log Cabin begins its next entity, when the restoration of the remaining buildings are completed, or when the Log Cabin II is built.

Surrounded by the love of my family. I'm the one with the unruly hair...but where's my camera-shy cousin?

This is the only photo I can find of the two of us, taken when I was three. Yes, I'm the one with the crazy hair!

Read Full Post »

Chocolate Biscuits At The Mulberry Tree

Whilst walking through the aisles of my local supermarket two weeks ago, I spotted the familiar packaging of a particular brand of biscuits. The memory of these biscuits had been pushed way back into the dark recesses of my mind, many years ago. On impulse, I grabbed a packet off the shelf and made my way to the checkout.

The biscuits were placed onto my pantry shelf when I arrived home, again forgotten, until just last night when I opened the packet to share with my seventeen year old daughter.

The texture and fragrance of the biscuits, along with the thin layer of chocolate on the top, invoked memories of a time long gone…

When my Mum and Dad first arrived in Australia they had become friends with a lovely couple, who had also recently arrived in the country. They were from London, and as it turned out, they had all travelled to Australia on the same ship, without meeting.

A friendship, which lasted for the rest of their lives, had begun.

To me, this wonderful couple were my “auntie” and “uncle”. My uncle enjoyed photography; in fact, the first colour photo ever taken of me was one that he had taken.

When I was only four years of age my auntie taught me how to knit. This was my first memory of her, and every time we went to her home to visit, she would ask did I have my knitting with me, for further lessons.

Oh, how I enjoyed visits to their home! They had a very large property by today’s standards, in the suburbs of Sydney. I would sit with their old dog, Patch, to keep him company, (he was too old to play), and I remember only too well the hollow feeling I had inside when, on one of our visits, I found that Patch’s kennel was empty….

My auntie and uncle had a formal lounge room at the front of their house, but the room we would visit with them in was at the back of the house and it adjoined the kitchen. What a wonderful room it was! There were huge comfy chairs; their fabric hidden by hand knitted rugs and pillows. Books were piled on top of small coffee tables next to the chairs along with magazines, invariably opened to the pages of half finished crossword puzzles. This room was so happily “lived-in”. If the walls could talk, many a wonderful story could they tell.

The round wooden table in the far corner of the room, where we shared many of auntie’s home-cooked meals, also doubled as a card table after dinner. Not that I knew how to play cards in the beginning, but I was the one who usually won the game, thanks to all of the help my auntie and uncle gave me! We played for money, so I would often go home carrying a huge number of coins, maybe up to a whole thirty cents!

Auntie never bothered to clean up the dishes after we had eaten. She was far more interested in spending time with her friends. She must have been at least ten years older than my parents were, but she was so full of fun and life! Her eyes permanently sparkled, especially when telling a story and what a wonderful story-teller she was! Auntie had a knack of turning the most mundane story into the most thrilling adventure!

After auntie had made cups of tea and coffee, it was my job to offer around the large, metal biscuit tin, which auntie kept on a shelf in the kitchen. In this tin, she kept the boring, plain, grown-ups biscuits…my biscuits were hidden away by auntie, so while I wasn’t looking, out would come the chocolate wheaten biscuits, with the layer of chocolate on top! And, she usually let me have two! (if it wasn’t too close to dinner time, that is). What a treat those biscuits were…

I always liked to take my biscuits outside to eat, so as not to drop crumbs in the house, I said. Or, perhaps it was my opportunity to visit the mulberry tree.

Right up at the back of the garden was a self-contained flat and next to the flat grew a massively huge mulberry tree. The branches of the tree positively dripped with berries when they were in season and whenever I had pet silk-worms, I always knew where to find fresh mulberry leaves for them to munch on!

I would have been about twelve years old when Mum and Dad decided we would move out of the area. My auntie and uncle came to visit us and my auntie had a gift for me, saying that I was now old enough to look after it.

When I opened the tiny, flat box she had handed me, inside I found a beautiful gold antique flower necklace, with tiny green and black beads. When my auntie had started her first job after leaving school, she had saved her money each week for the first few weeks, just to buy the necklace. On the lid of the box, she had written “Don’t Forget Me”.

I have treasured my necklace, along with my memories of my amazing, sparkling, kind, gentle, fun, outgoing, generous “auntie” and “uncle”.

We may not have seen them as often after we moved, but we did see them quite regularly. Both of them lived to an old age and my sister still keeps in touch with their son.

And, as I turn the pages of my parents photo albums, they are there. They shared with us the weddings and birthdays, all of our special occasions throughout the years….they were like family.

Such wonderful memories….

Read Full Post »