Fading Memories

Sometimes a burst of nostalgia washes over one in the oddest of ways. We try to avoid comparisons as we travel, cringing as we overhear that the Dome in St Paul's is almost up there with Brisbane's fine city hall, or worse when some of our friends from across the Pacific mistake a stunning Chocalaterie for a mere candy store.

None the less we are just as guilty as they from time to time, drawing on our travels and other experiences to remark "Doesn't this remind you of. . . . . . ."

And so it was as we glided silently (apart from the dulcet trumpet of Mr Perkin's presence) past a cluster of barn buildings in what seemed like the pre-dawn mist, but was probably the afore mentioned Mr P's exhaust not quite warmed to operating temperature.

There was a distinct aroma pervading the early morning olfactories.

Something that reminded me of good times, yet common sense said it should not.

What was it?

Ahh yes, it came in a rush.

It was unmistakably the aroma of the cattle pavilion at that Ekka.

Good times!