There was something magical about the ropeway. A continuous stream of buckets gliding across the landscape, sliding against those imperial towers, over rugged hills, atop deep gullies, above sheep grazing in paddocks or a plough turning the soil.
Overwhelmingly I felt a sense of sadness for a once-thriving village.
The "Wishing Well" piques childhood enchantment but perhaps I was always too focused on the present or future to stroll down a leaf-littered path into the past.
It was a familiar scene: a rough dirt road, dry creek bed, scrubby bushland. I saw no evidence of cultivation or construction, just shadows, silence, rustlings. But overwhelmingly I felt a sense of connection. I belonged there. I had sprung from this spot.
This is the story of a gutsy, red-headed, seventeen-year-old, Sarah Bellamy
What could be more mood-altering than a dance hall that suggested a glittering French palace.