Swapping metropolis for the country life

ON Sundaynight I was parked on my lounge dreaming about a Whopper with cheese. It had been a full day at the Mangalo Mini Carnival and I was puffed. I didn’t want to cook (not that I ever really want to cook) but I needed something.
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For some idiotic reason I assumed for half a second I was still living in Adelaide and had a brief thought about going for a drive to get me some HJ’s. Idiot. It was almost 10pm and any other take away options were shut. Oh how I wept at the loss of that Whopper.

After a decade of being back in the bosom of the EP, you would assume I would recall where I was living and remember there are no 24 hour fast food joints within a 150km radius. But no. I blame the port from the carnival.

When I voiced to my friends in Adelaide that I was moving back to Cleve there werea few stunned pauses with one friend piping up and saying ‘but darling, why would you want to?’

Some could say she was the Margo to my Barbara (the main female characters in theGood Life, an awesome TV series, for those under 40) and was stunned at my desire to leave the metropolis and make a new life in the country.I will admit the first week was a challenge.

Being woken up by the CFS siren on a Sunday morning and believing we were under attack from the Germans wasn’t the best start to my first weekend.Or the impatience I felt when stuck behind a senior citizen driving down the street took a while to shake off.

Don’t get me started on the trauma of slow internet and phone issues, actually on reflection not much has changed in that respect.

However, I accepted these things and grew to love the safety of walking home a little worse for wear from the pub, not looking over my shoulder, or holding my keys in a stealth, jabbing grip, just in case someone tried to mug me. I love chatting to people and knowing who they are and where they come from, I love the smell of winter andI love living 20 minutes from a pristine beach.

I swapped late night jaunts to a fast food chain for a jaunty wave to a tractor driver down the main street, nights out at the theatre to nights at the Institute and the sounds of sirens for chit chat of the ladies as they do their morning walk past my window.

I may not have got my Whopper last weekend, but I have gained so much more.

Trudi Herde-Rodda, journalist

Eyre Peninsula Tribune journalist Trudi Herde-Rodda.

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