Crisp autumn breeze, trees ablaze in colours of red, crimson, russet, burgundy and yellow; bristling leaves floating delicately in the wind, crunching of leaves as we walk through them – what is there in autumn that is not to love!
“Does Australia even have autumn?” is the most common of all questions I face, living in the southern hemisphere. Interestingly, most of the key-words associated with autumn does not relate to Australia either – like pumpkins, Halloween, Indian Summer (period of warm, dry weather that occurs in autumn in the Northern Hemisphere) and so forth. Moreover, Sydney may not be your typical autumn city, because many other cities of Australia does autumn much beautifully than Sydney. But little pockets in and around Sydney do not disappoint, such as Mt Wilson and Blackheath in the Blue Mountains.
We decided late on a Saturday morning that it’s about time in autumn (this year’s autumn has been nice and comfortably warm, and hence the autumn colours came late) that we set out to see some colours. Mountains were quite a drive, hence we looked for somewhere closer to home. A spot that guaranteed the same was the little village in the banks of Hawkesbury river – Wiseman’s Ferry; named after the convict Solomon Wiseman who ferried passengers across the river (back in 1800s), making it the oldest continuously operating ferry service in Australia.
Nearly an hour’s drive from the CBD as well as Western Sydney, and nestled amongst an array of hairpin bends, the suburb is everything picturesque and more!
Here’s how Wiseman Ferry offers autumn for you in all its glory; where every leaf is a flower!
Surrounded by such gorgeousness, yet remnants of everything that is yesterday; there was not a better way to depict it than what Khaleel Gibran wrote in his poem –
“Said a Blade of Grass”
Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”
Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.”
Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again—and she was a blade of grass.
And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such noise! They scatter all my winter dreams.”