Overnight at Wellington

I could see at once the town was going to be full of good omens: in all my journeys out west, it has never let me down.

Driving in at sunset, I passed the old iron church with its white wooden cross; the church little bigger than a galvo dunny in the paddock.

I ate a mixed grill at The Central. Walking out into the street and the cold night air, I asked a woman to show me the way

to where the Town Band was rehearsing for Anzac Day. Finally I found their hall, also of galvanized iron, but painted white.

An audience of one, I sat up the back behind the brass: three young men, one with a broken arm, played the trumpet like golden angels of God.

A tiny lady tiptoed in and played the xylophone, exquisitely; the conductor was one of those women teachers at the heart of a country town.

Joyfully, discreetly, I sang with them, my voice drowned in sound: Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”, “Advance Australia Fair”, “Stray Cat Strut” …

Later, dazzled by music, I lost my way again: a man whose face was half hidden by a moon-white bandage came out of the darkness to help.

And then I remembered: years ago, in the Railway Hotel near the shunting yards, I discovered I’d forgotten to bring my suitcase.

This time, my room in the little motel was warm and clean with just one flaw: there was no bacon on the breakfast menu.

In the morning, from a footbridge over the Bell River, I watched a platypus gliding below the surface to soak up the sun shining on its back.

Wellington’s name is imposing but I like to think it was chosen to chime with this river flowing beside the park in the main street.

A special friend was born at Wellington. I’ve added it to the collection of old towns that I love out on the black soil plains.

Leaving, I was still happy because ahead, further west, was Gulargambone, place of many galahs, and more beautiful music.