Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the smallest thing can give us breath.

A couple of things made life heavy this week, so I did what is best when this happens and turned to what brings me joy and peace, and to a friend who has a good ear.

What brought you joy this week?

1. A card from a friend

   

2. Welcoming writers to my retreat

   

3. Fog rolling in

   

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

4. Socks off the needles

   

5. Sunset

   

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the smallest thing can give us breath.

1. Existentialist embroidery

   I love traditional embroidery and this post https://www.themarginalian.org/2026/05/27/existentialist-embroidery/ on The Marginal spoke to me

2. Chore hack

   I don’t love chores but I do love Simone Giertz’s ingenuity. She’s just made a cool gadget that helps her decide which chore to do next.

3. Escher’s philosophy

   I loved reading this week’s post of The Marginalian about MC Escher (M.C. Escher on Loneliness, Creativity, and How Rachel Carson Inspired His Art, with a Side of Bach). I grew up with his prints on the wall, always fascinated by his work. His philosophy was about

   pleasure and spaciousness: the compositional joy of arranging forms on a plane and giving meaning to each part of it

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

4. Crochet is maths

   I love the intersection of art and science and especially when art influences maths!

5. Autumn (winter) leaves

   It’s been nice to come home to kick through these on my walk.

   

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• On the podcast: interview with Melissa Sharman

• Free online event to reflect on your year and realign your focus Sunday 21 June at 10 am

• Imposter Syndrome Masterclass online on Monday at 12.30 pm

Hello my friends

All good things must come to an end, is the saying, but what if the good stays with you and builds on top of the good that is already there? It is my last moments in Europe. We are catching a plane this afternoon that will take us home via Bangkok. I barely slept last night, like my body clock is resetting itself. Now, before we head to Frankfurt airport, I write to you.

I have so many feelings, as to be expected, after nearly eight weeks away. It’s gone in a flash and been a lifetime all at once. Last night over our last dinner in Germany, M and I talked about our time here. The highs, the lows, the things we loved. We both agreed that it was the people we met while travelling who made our trip so wonderful. Isn’t this always the case?

This last week has been a a whirl with four countries traversed, four different and remarkable terrains and more than four wonderful people met.

Starigrad Paklenica, Croatia

On our last day in Starigrad, we lazed about with dips in the ocean floating on the crystal clear water, marvelling at how delicious it all was. In between swims, we hand washed our clothes and hung them over the balcony rail letting the wind and sun do their work. For a moment, I could imagine never leaving, living this quiet and peaceful life by the sea, waiting for the bura winds to come to see how ferocious they were, watching the seasons change and for snow to fall on the mountain tops. Our last meal there was more grilled fish with a local dry white wine, a meal I will always remember as Croatian. We returned to the Dalmajica restaurant where the waiter waves and chats to everyone passing. On leaving, he and his sister wished us a safe trip and said they looked forward to seeing us again next year. As if that is something that we now do.

We packed the car before heading to our coffee shop for our double espresso macchiato, noting that once again, it was made differently. Each of the coffees we bought there over our four days were different despite the same order. The coffee shop doesn’t sell food (‘You can buy next door and bring it here,’ we were told on our first day) so we ate our pastries from the bakery and took one last walk along the water before farewelling Bibe and his mother and heading out to drive up the mountain range.

We had a long day of driving ahead. Even though it was only 283 km, the roads are slower and it took us four and a half hours. The road climbed up into these tall craggy grey mountains and through tunnels with warnings of bears and wolves like I had somehow stepped into a fairytale. We stopped a roadhouse where you could over fresh vegetable soup and bread, and a big group of German bikies rolled up. As I climbed back in the car, a young rider was eating a melting Twix. I asked him where they were headed. ‘Back home over a week.’ I couldn’t help myself as a mother of a motorcycle rider to remind him to take care, that there’d been a number of deaths on the weekend. He laughed at words I’m sure he’s heard many times.

The mountains were lush and covered in fir and beech trees, as opposed to the coastal ranges, and the valleys were full of crops and some cows. Before we knew it, we were in Slovenia, winding our way through villages and past pilgrim chapels. I was reminded of a memoir I had edited a number of years ago about the author’s experience in World War II as part of the partisan effort. Also, I thought of a friend’s book of his father’s experience leading prisoners of war from a camp in Maribor to freedom.

Radovljica, Slovenia

We arrived at our beautiful Airbnb in Radovljica (a medieval town not far from Bled) just after 4pm and our host Nataša opened the door with a mop in hand. She apologised for still being in the apartment. She excitedly showed us all the maps of the area and asked what walks we would do. We explained as we were only there for one full day, we would see what we could and that we planned to go to Lake Bled. ‘You must go now! Now is a beautiful time for the light. I love Bled, I grew up in a small town near it. Also, if you can, go to Bohinj.’ She pointed out the walks around these two places, noting that it was worth climbing one hill for the view, but not two.

We connected over her garden of roses and fruit trees. Her cherry tree was dripping with ripe cherries. ‘Pick them and eat them, please, before the birds get them.’ She asked if there was anything else that we were interested in and I asked her about Slovenian yarn. She was delighted that I knitted and said she would get back to me. j

Her advice to see Bled in the early evening was good. The lake was a clear milky blue and fish followed the people who drew close to the edges. There were signs instructing no swimming, fishing, motorised boats, lying on the grass. Eep! This felt a world away from the relaxed world of Starigrad. Lovers took photos behind a huge heart with the lake behind them. We walked around the lake with the wind whipping the water into choppy waves and stopped opposite the menacing looking Bled Castle that appears to be plonked on a huge rock tower. ‘Time for a drink?’ Ah, the joy of holidays! We were in front of the Grand Hotel Toplice which had an inviting balcony.

When our waiter arrived with our Slovenian Brut and cheese and meat platter (that was very generous in quality and quantity), he explained that he’d only just begun working at the place. He expressed interest in travelling to Australia without the usual worry that Europeans have of all the things that might kill them. Behind us, a polished American elderly couple arrived followed closely by their daughter. ‘Where are the children?’ she demanded. Not there, it seemed. She stormed off to the private baths where the natural springs provide water at a constant 22 degrees. Her parents murmured quietly before ordering two gin and tonics. She returned shortly after with a tall late teenage son dressed in a white robe and slippers. It seemed (yes I was eavesdropping, but it was hard not to) that he and his siblings (who we never saw), were in the spa for a treatment. What followed was a tense loud whispered argument with the mother interjecting ‘Shh. Hush. Keep it quiet. Be respectful.’ Whatever the problem was, it was resolved by a ‘Let’s hire a boat. They close at 6.’ (It was now 6.30). And off they (sans mum) went, managing to hire a boat even though it was closed.

Soon, we struck up a conversation with a couple in front of us. ‘Where are you from?’ We told them. ‘Thank goodness you’re not American. They’re awful.’ I winced, wondering if the mother who was still sipping her spritz had heard. They were from the Netherlands, not far from Mönchengladbach where we’d been working for a month. We reminisced together about the beautiful area along the Meuse River. They were probably a little older than us and told us that they’d met because she was a patent lawyer and he’d approached her about something. He used to write company history books but now renovated houses in their village. The good life.

The wind stilled and we drove up the steep hill to the castle that we had speculated was probably occupied by the Nazis during the war. Yes, they had. It feels impossible to not see Europe through the lens of the war. I expressed my concern to M that I didn’t want to keep seeing this and he gently said that maybe that was okay so that we never forget how this can happen. I discovered in my research that there was a concentration camp not too far from where we were staying and decided I needed to go there to pay my respects to those lives lost.

The castle was closed. We’d missed the opening hours by minutes, but did see how it towers over the lands ensuring no one can approach unseen.

Back in Radovljica, we walked into the old town that sits on the top of a hill overlooking the valley. The town has buildings from the 13th Century and is so well kept with its cobblestones, intricate painted buildings and statues. We found the restaurant Gostilna Avguštin recommended by our host for its traditional food and sat at the edge of the terrace at the edge of the hill. Below, horses nudged noses, a cargo train whizzed by, a tractor pulled a trailer of hay home. On the opposing hills covered in fir trees, a house lay on a bare patch of grass, ruins of a building mostly likely hundreds of years old stood tall.

As we walked through the old town, we marvelled at its beauty, at its age. The tavern from the 15th century with a short door. The minister’s home from the 13th century. All of it still feels surreal, like we are walking through movie set after movie set. For such a stunning old town, I was surprised to find it so empty of tourists. I imagine that most go to Bled or Bohinj, but Radovljica is my kind of place.

The rain began in the night, stopping any plans for a walk at Bohinj or Bled. Nataša messaged me to say she’d found a wool shop in a nearby town, Kranj. We set off for it and inside I met Blanca who seemed to know I was coming and showed me the Slovenian sock wool that is dyed with natural dyes. My wool stash grows with stories and memories. M found a cake shop and we had two cakes from the region: prekmurje layer cake and the Bled cream cake (Blejska kremšnita) while admiring the stunning interior. An elderly man sat reading the paper, looking up when people looked for the toilet and pointed them in the right direction. I caught his eye and his smile.

I directed us to the Ljubelj Concentration Camp through the windy hills, into the clouds. I pondered how distant this place was, how hard it would have been to be found. The remains of the camp are some foundations, steps and the dining hall where stones had been placed on the wall for all of the camps. This one was a subcamp of the Mauthausen camp and was a labour camp to build a tunnel through the hard rocky mountains to Austria. It was very cold on this summer day and I though about the poor buggers who worked all day, everyday, no matter the weather. In the exhibition, which was under the restaurant, the weight of grief hit me. How these people from all over Europe were sent to break rock all day, carry slabs of rock on their backs to build the road. They wore wooden slabs on their feet with straps and when it snowed, their clothes were stiff with ice. It is unfathomable that this was allowed to happen, and how easily the power took control for so many years. It felt fitting that the rain was there, that the clouds blew through. Those who survived here did mainly from the help of the Slovenian partisans who lived in the nearby village and a doctor who was also imprisoned. I had a moment at the crematorium down beside an idyllic creek, only a small ditch lined with rocks. The only sounds there now are the birdsong, the water pushing over rocks, the patter of rain.

Back at Radovljica, we returned into the old town, me thinking of the wars these cobblestones have seen.

I received a message again from Nataša waying she’d left a gift at the door of the house and that she hoped we’d had a good day. After we returned from our early dinner (both exhausted by the day), we found a bag with two Blejska kremšnita and a note saying she wished us both happy birthdays. From editing that manuscript all those years back, I had thought of Slovenians as kind and now it was being shown.

M woke me in the morning with a birthday breakfast of freshly picked cherries wrapped in berry teatowel he’d found in the Kranj op shop, coffee and Blejska kremšnita. We packed, again, and hit the road for Kitzbühel, Austria. Fir trees waved their arms like humans as we drove through the forest up to the border crossing. We parked outside a cute coffee house on the Austrian side of the border only to find it closed and walked back to the only thing open, which turned out to be more like a duty free shop where we were forced to walk through the clothes, perfumes and food before finding a push-button coffee machine. Outside, we enjoyed the sun with our coffee.

As we climbed back in the car, three cyclists arrived from the Austrian side looking rather pleased with themselves, then disappointed like we were when we found the coffee house closed. As we drove on, we saw the signs that we were to engage first gear for the 18 degree decline for the next few kilometres. Now, I understood why the cyclists were so pleased.

The road took us down to the lush valley and I directed us toward Hermagor as I had spotted (yet another) yarn store that promised hand dyed yarn. At the cafe (biding our time as shops here shut between 12 and 3pm), we enjoyed our panini, reminded of the wonderful German bread we’ve enjoyed and also aware our proximity to Italy. I asked our waiter if she spoke Slovenian, Italian and German and she said yes to Italian and German, no to Slovenian but Slovakian because she’s Slovak. What a world! I’m constantly reminded how few languages we as Australians speak.

The wool store was up a cobblestone street. Inside three women were at a beautiful wooden table knitting socks. The owner, a man, greeted me in German. I asked for handgerfärbten garn. ‘Ja!’ He pointed me to the stand and I asked if it was made locally. He looked confused and a woman came over and said these were her yarns! What a win to meet another yarn maker.

From there, we headed back into the mountains, noting the snow on top of some. I madly took photos while Matt drove, only to discover we would see quite a few of them. In fact, we were about to drive through, under and over them! What an absolute thrill. Only a few days ago, I had been floating on the Adriatic waters, now we were in freezing conditions. M was so glad to be driving through these conditions and through a newish tunnel the Felbertaurernstraße tunnel, a 5.3 km tunnel. One of the great things about this trip has been the access a car has provided. We drove through the mountains, into the valleys, past sweet alpine houses (which I realised was pretty much all of the houses in the area) and through tunnels in the rocks.

It was good to arrive in Kitzbühel after the weather on the road. I was thankful not to be driving but to be knitting…I do wonder if this second sock will be a little tighter!

Kitzbühel, Austria

Kitzbühel is a ski town known for its fastest ski run in the world. When I picked it on the map, I chose it for its proximity on our route to Frankfurt. All of the places I have booked have been based on things like old town (I love the European old towns), towns over cities (I don’t love cities even though I live in the middle of one) and the photos showing something beautiful about the place. Our host Oliver (who amazing had come from Mönchengladbach) met us and said, ‘Sorry, I have to tell you something…’ He proceeded to tell us that he had upgraded us to a bigger room! Delightful. Everything about these two nights was, even the 36 hours of persistent rain that Oliver apologised about.

When M mentioned that it was my birthday, Oliver ran off and came back with a bottle of sparkling wine. We wandered up into the old town to look for food and drink and found Hermes, Rolex, Montblanc… Then a little bar where everyone was dressed in their finest alpine wear. We celebrated my birthday with sparkling wine then a meal of slow cooked pork roast at the ‘pub’.

The next day rained non stop. It was beautiful. We had brekkie at the bakerei then ducked into the wool shop (oh, yeah, I’m hearing you! How long do I have to live to knit all these socks?). Christina showed me the Austrian yarn as we chatted in my broken German about her Italian holiday she was going on with her Swiss boyfriend. What a world! (again)

We had happened to be there for the 39th Kitzbühel alpine car rally, which meant loads of flash old cars. M was delighted, and I was too as it gave me a chance to catch up on some work while the rain continued. We had hoped to go on the 2.4 km cable car to the top of the mountain but it was closed due to the rain.

Next stop was Miltenberg and I began to feel the end keenly, that sweet spot between sadness at leaving and joy to go home. It’s been a long trip. In the morning before leaving Ktizbühel, we checked out the local market with sellers of handmade leather and wood products and alcohol. So many things I would have loved to take home, but alas…

Miltenberg, Germany

I chose Miltenberg as it’s a medieval town on the river Main and is only about an hour from Frankfurt Airport where we ar departing from. The drive was long, about five and a half hours and I was glad to arrive when we did. We arrived just before the hotel reception closed, thank goodness and Sandra gave us some suggestions (well, actually one) for dinner at the oldest restaurant in Germany, Gasthaus zum Riesen. It was packed when we got there, but they managed to find us a space at a shared table and we enjoyed our river perch and beers (well, M enjoyed the beer, but it seems I only like Trappist beers). The town reminded me of Joinville in France, but bigger and with more tourists. Our Mexican waiter said he loves living there, that it has enough life in it, but doesn’t have the big city vibes.

On our last full day in Europe, the wind came and rain threatened. We did a boat ride up the river Main that showed cliffs that reminded me of the Kimberley with its red sandstone blocks. Everything other than restaurants were shut as it was a Sunday, which was probably good for us to just wander around the old city, admire the medieval half-wooded houses and cobble-stoned streets before returning to our sweet old hotel, the Brauerei Keller, to pack our bags (and all that wool).

In the early evening, we strolled to the (closed) Faust brewery then to the waterside to enjoy the sunshine and spritzes. A couple joined us, Ralph and Marian. He spoke English very well and had travelled extensively. He was thrilled to meet Australians as he has plans to come there (here) one day. ‘Did you like Germany?’ he said. We told him that we had loved our time. ‘And the people?’ Of course, we answered. He then told us that some people didn’t like or want to come to Germany because of its history. ‘It’s from before my time, most of our time,’ he said. We reiterated that all our experiences had been wonderful: the people, the places, the food, wine and beer. We exchanged details in case he does make it to Australia to ride the Ghan and the Pacific Overlander, or (as he said) we come back and stay with him. ‘I have a room for you!’

As they strolled off to watch the World Cup game, this felt like a great note to leave Germany.

Now, as I write this, our plane is revving up and preparing to leave the gate bound for Bangkok. Before I know it, I will be home. The fire will be on and the last seven and a half weeks will feel like a dream, a fairytale.

Over dinner last night we talked about the top things from our time and they were (in no distinct order):

• the freedom to choose where we go and stop by hiring a car

• the people we’ve met and had conversations with

• the diverse landscapes

• driving on the autobahns and through the Felbertaurernstraße tunnel (M)

• visiting Ruinart and having that amazing champagne

• catching up with friends

• floating in the clear blue sea

• time away with our sons (how deeply precious that time is and how much more it becomes as they get older)

• visiting the tiny rural village in Belgium that some of my ancestors came from

• incredible accommodation (Reims was the exception)

• the weather in all its variations

• being invited to a family meal of fresh calamari

• eating freshly grilled fish on a small boat

• the stories everyone has told me.

Thank you so much for coming along for the ride of this amazing journey. I’m deeply thankful for your readership.

x M

Hello my friends

On my last night in Korčula, the sound of a group of singers wafted through the open windows. It sounded like folk songs, perfectly harmonic, as though they were singing us off, wishing us well. It seemed fitting for our last night. In the morning, I woke early wanting to see J, our middle son, before he caught the early ferry to ensure he caught his early flight from Split. Dawn crept over the harbour as i leant out the window. Below, I saw Nichola, the man who has taxied us around the place over the last few days. He was wearing a fresh pink linen shirt, his hair neatly combed, looking ready for his long day’s work.

This last week was mostly spent in Korčula and ended with M and I back on the main land in Starigrad Paklenica. I’m writing this with the windows open listening to the little boats rocking on the water, quiet chatter of people walking along the water’s edge back home. Our bellies are full from a homemade meal of slow cooked calamari and potato. It seems we have stumbled on some little paradise known to Croatians, and Europeans, but not to many Australians.

Korčula

Our days on the island passed slow and fast and were exactly what everyone needed. M had been working hard for five weeks in Germany with every weekend taken up with a side trip. Each of the boys were tired from work and uni and needed a good rest and our week on the island provided that.

Our first day of the week looked similar to our first days on the island with walks, swims in the clear blue-green water, late lunches, naps, more swims, watching the yachts come in disgorging passengers, refilling and leaving, spotting our host Jasna all over the place, walks through the fishboned streets of the old town for a drink at sunset followed by dinner in one of the Konobas. The old town is full of white clothes and coral jewellery shops, well-dressed retirees, families and groups of young adults. There have been moments that made me feel like I was in a White Lotus set.

We had met a young Serbian man who works as a waiter on our first day and he had given us a card of Nichola the taxi driver. ‘If you need a lift somewhere, ask him and tell him I sent you. He’s a good man.’ We called Nichola on Tuesday to get a lift to Tasovac a small family winery in a village not too far away. ‘No problem,’ he said. We asked him if it was a good place to go. ‘Yes. Of course.’

The wine tasting was not like we’d expected (large and overrun with tourists); instead, it was sitting in the family’s backyard with only a couple of other groups there. The island is known for two wines: Grk and Pošip (Grk is only available on the island). It was a great way to spend the afternoon. Another couple arrived — him with long grey hair tied in a loose bunch, her in white loose layers of clothes, long grey hair, loads of earrings — and we got chatting (unsurprisingly for me — my boys have been known to tell me to please not engage…as if!). They were from Cape Cod, one of those place names that are etched in the mind probably from movies etc. ‘We’re hippies, basically.’

Nichola, it turned out, lived in the house next to ours separated by one of the 14 staircases of the old city. He’s lived here all his life and knows the ins and outs of the place and our host Jasna. Korčula Old Town is a medieval walled city grooved with narrow streets branching off the spine of the main street like the fishbone. The fishbone shape was used to reduce the effects of wind and sun and provide citizens with sheltered and comfortable accommodation. On my last day, I walked up and down every one to see the hidden delights they held.

On Wednesday, we had booked a small boat trip to go swimming around some of the islands, but on Tuesday evening I received a message from Vlad saying that the weather forecast was not great and would be best if we changed the day. As we were leaving on Friday, we moved it to Thursday.

As he had mentioned, the weather was ferocious on Wednesday. M and took a walk in the morning. The skies were dark and the wind blew hard. We wandered west from the old town through streets that wound around the coves, seeing the houses below with pools and boats. Groups of cyclists zoomed past us. Later that day when the rain set in, we would think of them.

We messaged Nichola to see if he could take us to another winery for the afternoon. ‘Which one?’ ‘You decide.’ He took us on a tour of the Lumbarda area, of the sandy beach (deserted with waves crashing — ‘Usually, this is very busy, but the weather is too bad’). The narrow road wound through small vineyards and fields of tomato, brassicas, herbs, and past small coves where little boats rocked on the waves, until we arrived at his friend’s winery Lovric. A young man greeted us and thanked Nichola for bringing us. ‘Ask him to call me when you are done,’ he said before driving off. We had a tour of the small wine production room before going upstairs to sit on their verandah for our tasting. Most of the wineries on the island are small family production and they don’t export. It made it feel even more special being able to hear about the wines and the history. Like Tasovac, Lovric has been in the family for a number of generations and they make Grk and Pošip wines. ‘The Grk grape is female and needs another one near it to pollenate, and they are very low yield, so it is done for the passion not production.’

The rain set in and the temperature dropped while the father talked to us about the 2400 year history of the island. By the time Nichola drove us back to the old town, the rain was sideways and the waves crashed onto the pavement. The yachts were lashed together at the dock. Inside our gorgeous apartment, the rain had come through the windows that were cracked open. We hunkered down and as fast as it had turned, the rain and wind stopped and the sun came out. We returned to Konoba Marco Polo where the waiter told us about how Australia had a famous person from the island: Ivan Milat!!

Our boat tour was late on Thursday afternoon, so M and I wandered the streets again and found Boya, a shop for crayons designed by a Croatian woman. They are so fun to play with that I had to buy some.

The boat trip was the cherry on top of our time at the island and a great way to finish our family holiday. It has been six years since our last holiday together as a family so this felt extra special as I don’t know when we’ll be able to wrangle them all having holidays at the same time. It had been a lot of work getting this to happen.

Nichola dropped us at Lumbarda where Vlad had told us to meet him. It was a small boat with a table. As we waited for Vlad, I wondered if I’d made a mistake booking this one. The boat wasn’t branded and there was nothing to suggest that this was a legitimate tourist boat tour. As I pondered this (tell me that I’m not the only second guessing bookings while travelling), a man wandered up with a heavy plastic swinging from his hand. ‘Meg?’ he said in a broad Australian accent. Turns out he was born in Sydney and his family moved back to the island when he was seven.

He joked around with the boys as we puttered out to the first cove. The water was still choppy from Wednesday’s storm (‘It stays like this for days,’ he said) but this cove was calm and we were the only ones there until another small boat with a husband, wife and dog arrived. He gave us all some homemade wine (‘It’s weak because we like day drinking’). Oh, how clear and gorgeous the water was. The next cove was near Stupe, a small island which has just one restaurant that the likes of Djokovic visit. In this cove, Vlad pulled out a charcoal grill and cooked up six sea bass, zucchini, capsicum and we dined on this and salad, anchovies and bread while admiring the sunset and surroundings. What a way to finish our time in this place.

Starigrad, Paklenica

After M and I farewelled our other two sons in Split on M’s birthday, we picked up our hire car and headed up into the mountain range on our way to Starigrad with Anna Funder’s Stasiland accompanying us. The seaside of the mountains is almost bare, looming, while on the other side are lush forests and fields dotted with small terracotta roofed villages. In the distance, an enormous mountain range appeared. Starigrad sits at the bottom of the Paklenica National Park, this huge mountain range that is a rockclimbing destination. Bibe met us and showed us his small apartment overlooking the inlet then we met the other people in the adjoining apartment, Josef and Sonia and their five-year-old twins, friends of Bibe’s from Zagreb.

Bibe’s grandparents (and ancestors) grew up in stone houses in the mountain range herding goats and sheep, living off the land. About 60 years ago, they came down from the mountains and built this house. All of the houses don’t have windows on the northern side as the ‘bura’ wind comes from the mountains and is like a hurricane. ‘You close all the shutters and still you hear the whistle. If you are in your boat and see it coming, you get back very quickly or you will not survive.’ Also, the temperature in summer sits around 35-40 degrees.

Below our apartment is a walkway along the waterside with small boats tied up, little pebbly beach coves and plenty of people enjoying the space. We had dinner at a small place by the water and enjoyed a fabulous sunset.

On our second day here, we drove to Zadar to check out the old city. I found a small haberdashery place that sold yarn and bought a ball of sock yarn for my ‘Croatia’ socks. Thankfully, I managed to squeeze some of balls of yarn into my sons’ bags so I have room for more! As one reader said in response to my last postcard, ‘get the yarn!’

We had a drink in a terribly old courtyard and met a group of four older ladies from Luxembourg on a girls’ trip. The waiter apologised to us that we couldn’t stay as they had a booking for 100 people from one of the cruise ships that sat at the dock, but he gave us a recommendation that turned out to be another delightful meal of fish.

On our way back to Starigrad, we were turned around and had to find another way back. Later we found out that there had been two separate fatal motorcycle accidents on the bridge. Then on Sunday, there was a collision of two cars that killed the occupants. It’s a good reminder that these roads are not to be taken lightly.

Yesterday (Sunday), we packed ready for our next leg of our roadtrip. As we sat at the cafe, a message from Bibe arrived: My friends and I are having calamari for lunch and would like you to join us. M and I chatted through this. We had a four plus hour drive to Italy ahead. Could we cancel that part, stay longer and go straight to Slovenia? Should we? We both agreed that slower was good, and an invitation like this was a gem. Then Bibe and Josef arrived at the cafe and convinced us. Yes, we could stay here two more nights, no problem.

Lunch in their yard under the shade of a tree was a delight as we chatted with them all about life here, home, life through the war years (Bibe and Josef were ten when the war started). They’d slow cooked calamari with potato and Bibe’s mum (a professor of French and Russian) had made knedle (potato dumplings) for desert. We pulled out our bottle of Grk and it was a wonderful way to spend a lazy Sunday evening as the children ran in and out. Josef, who’d come from Bosnia, related a story about how he was playing football and his house was just over there (about 50 m away) and a helicopter and fighter pilot flew between them. A memory that will never leave him. They talked about the oppression they had all lived under for all the years from World War II until the end of the Balkan War. It is hard to imagine living through this.

Now, we have another lazy beach day day ahead before heading to Slovenia, Austria and Germany over this week (and I’ll celebrate my birthday too!). One more week and then I will be home, which seems so far away.

x M

Here’s my wrap of last month’s books read, and what’s on the bedside table in various states of being read. I read a lot less books in May. Only two! I do find that while I’m travelling, I read less as I’m ‘reading’ the places, people, culture. There’s so much to take in. Please let me what you’ve been reading or what your think of the books I’ve read.

Books

Books read

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

I am always cautious about reading a much-loved book that’s doing the rounds, but there is good reason for this one to be read and loved.

I adored Virginia Evans’ novel The Correspondent. When I first began reading it, I wondered how the story would unfold, what would the arc be in it, etc. when it is only told through letters and from one person’s point of view.

It is hard to not fall in love with Sybil Van Antwerp and her desire to hold onto letter writing. She’s a cranky woman and doesn’t hold back from telling people how and what they should do with their lives. Her stubbornness is at times frustrating to sit through and I wanted to tell her to stop, but that’s all part of it. Evans reveals Sybil slowly to us through the letters she writes and the responses she receives. It was such a delightful and life-affirming read that doesn’t lean into sentimentality.

My only quibble with it was that the first 10 pages of the book fell out at first opening. I carried them around with me unsure what I would do of them (what if I wanted to refer back to them as I read further into it?). In the end, after I had finished the book, I wrote to the publisher (as Sybil would have wished me to do) and tossed them and the book into the bin as there doesn’t seem to be any point carrying them around with me in my luggage. I considered using the pages to write letters to people (or to use them to write to the publisher) but they were too weighty for airmail and didn’t fit the envelope size.

I had bought a physical copy of this, but it has gone to the trash as eight pages fell out on first opening it. I have, of course, written to the publisher.

Monkey Grip by Helen Garner

M and I listened to the audiobook of Monkey Grip while we travel. I love that it’s read by Helen. It’s been great having an Australian accent, and Helen’s Australianisms and sharpness accompany us. I can’t believe it took me this long to read this classic Australian book by our literary queen. It’s interesting how this book created so much controversy when it came out with its frankness about sex and drugs. Now I wonder whether it would on those aspects.

Listening to it took me back to my younger years and how it annoyed me so much that I was trying to please a man rather than myself. All those awful moments arose in my mind. So many times I had wanted to shake myself and tell me to just stop it, to be happy without one. Instead, I married young, desperate to please that man, to help him, to fix him and his drug dependency. That, unsurprisingly, didn’t turn out well. So, reading this, I also wanted to shake Nora and to tell her to trust herself rather than always looking to others for this.

As I said, I’ve loved having Helen ‘accompany’ us on our trip and I’m so glad I have now read it.

I borrowed this through my library audiobook collection and have a physical copy at home.

Current reads

I don’t have as many on the go as I’m travelling and relying on what I have with me, ebooks (still to crack that open properly) and audiobooks. And, as I said, I am spending more time reading the world around me.

Mother Mary Comes to Me by Arundhati Roy

I’m reading this on my ereader and am loving it.

Stasiland by Anna Funder

When I was in Berlin, my friend Tracy suggested I read this to understand a little bit more about the before and after of the separation of East and West Germany. I’m listening to the audiobook and am loving it so far.

Listened

I haven’t listened to much this month either, but someone sent me a link to Deborah Levy on Gertrude Stein in The Great Women Artists podcast and I really enjoyed that.

What did you read, listen or watch this month? What’s up next for you to read, listen or watch?

Leave a comment

Until next time, happy reading

x Meg

In case you missed last month’s posts

Postcards from my working holiday

Podcast episodes

• Linda Atkins on writing the novel that was always waiting

• Susan Green on finishing the crap first draft

• Kerry Jewell on writing dark humour

• Graeme Simsion & Anne Buist on a shared writing life

Mindset Insight

• How to have creative confidence

Hello my friends

I have hit the slow button on everything this week as we have gone from spending time attending to some family things in Belgrade to travelling with my boys to Korčula, an island in Croatia. M has joined us here and I have realised that my mind and body are slowing down and are in need of a rest.

Right now, the church bell is ringing. Below my window is the sound of people dining. Inside our old town apartment, M and the boys are in various states of rest before we head out for dinner. The windows are open wide and the evening sun is shining through. It is a pure delight to be wearing summer things, fresh from a dip in the Adriatic. There have been many times in the last few days that one or all of us have declared that it is a privilege to be here to rest.

Let me take you back through my time in Belgrade before I immerse you in this old fort town.

Belgrade & Novi Sad

Last week’s postcard finished with one of the events at the Belgrade University Library commemorating its 100 years of keeping and sharing knowledge. This week, we attended another that was smaller to thank various descendents of donors to the library. Before that, we had an excursion to M’s father’s home town that we had visited last year.

The drive to Novi Sad took us past endless fields of wheat, corn, poppies and sunflower babies. It’s a flat landscape, mostly, known as the Pannonian Plain and is highly fertile. Last year, it was full of golden sunflower heads. Amazing to know that these fields of green will be yellow in only a month. We passed over the Fruška Gora range, rocky with vineyards tumbling down the sides before cascading down into Novi Sad.

It was wonderful to have all three sons with me and I was sad that M had to return to Mönchengladbach for another week of work as I know he wished he could have been there with them, especially F who had not been there before. It was great to go again as I loved Novi Sad last year, and my love of it remained this second visit.

We visited two buildings of Matica Srpska, an institution dedicated to preserving the art and literature of the Serbian culture. Inside the art gallery were amazing paintings from 1638 until now. I will never stop being amazed at art surviving so many years.

We ate lunch in the square that eleven months ago had been heaving with heat and tourists. This day, there was plenty of space and I watched a child amusing itself filling a bottle with water from a fountain and watching it evaporate on the cobblestones. On our way to the Matica Srpska library, we passed new shops opening with clothes, shoes, jewellery, food. How wonderful to see cities evolve. It would be wonderful to come back here again but next time, I would stay here like we did last year. There’s something wonderful about staying in these old regional cities.

The library was in a delightful old building originally built in 1912 as an orphanage for Serbian Orthodox children and now buzzes with librarians, students and researchers hard at work. The library was originally in Pest (founded in 1826) and was moved to Novi Sad in 1928.

From their website:

The Matica Srpska Library is the oldest Serbian library of national importance and the first public and scientific library of the Serbs. Together with the Matica Srpska Literary Society it was founded in Pest in 1826, without any explicit intention, as it is natural for books to gather in a literary society. The founders of the Matica Srpska, led by Jovan Hadžić, wrote that their goal is “to spread out literature and enlightenment of the Serbian people, that is, to publish and distribute Serbian manuscripts around the world.” The first issues of Letopis Matice srpske (Matica Srpska Chronicle), launched in 1824, the first books published by the Matica Srpska, gifts received from Russia, and other books unknown to us, were the core of the Matica Srpska Library collection.

It was opened to the public on August 26, 1838, where “every Slav particularly, regardless of the dialect and descent, will have free access to read books”.

(https://www.bms.rs/en/historical-overview/)

A representative of the library showed us a display about about their 200 years of existence including very early editions of their literary journals. The library is used by students and researchers and we were lucky enough to meet a researcher who has been looking into the agricultural life in Serbia. Aren’t researchers the best!

It was a subdued ride home to Belgrade with everyone tired and hot. Back in Belgrade, the boys and I walked through the leafy old Belgrade streets to find a place to eat. We settled on Casa Nova, and were greeted by a waiter wearing a black Jacobs Creek shirt. I said to him that it was a long way from its home. I’m not sure he understood, but we did have a delightful meal sitting outside watching the world go by: girlfriends going home after dinner out, people walking dogs, people going to and from the gym. I could have been in Fitzroy, Collingwood. Except when the garbos came to empty the bins.

My boys have always been fascinated in bin stuff. When they were little, they’d race to the door when they heard the garbage trucks come. This was no different. We had to pause and watch. The bin on the street is for everyone, for all rubbish. The rubbish collection people unlock something on the footpath and the entire square of footpath tilts up (with bin) and the truck hooks onto a huge underground bin and empties that out. The waiter watched with us. ‘It’s the same all over. We all like watching rubbish go,’ he said. (Side note: no recycling here. ‘You can have that,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be like the Germans who have five bins.’)

It was a long day, especially as I’d been awake since 4 am when M had risen to catch the plane back to Germany. I was happy to crawl into bed that night.

On Tuesday, the boys and I took some time to wander around the old part of Belgrade and find a place in the cool to eat. The temperature had been slowly rising each day, so it was delightful to find a cafe surrounded by trees. At the Belgrade Uni Library and it was a fabulous event with representatives from each of the embassies, the Goethe Institute and descendents of families who’d been part of the library over the years. We rounded it out with a dinner at a fancy restaurant Frans where we were seated near a table of what looked the cast of the Real Housewives of Belgrade (if it existed). Great people-watching experience!

Wednesday was a hot one and was our last day in Belgrade. F, P and I decided to go on the city bus tour that I’d been on already. On their website they say it runs everyday, but it appeared not. We walked to an old market hoping for a coffee, only to find it was fruit and vegetables, and hardware items. On we walked until we found a place out of the sun.

‘Three iced coffees please.’

‘One moment.’ He disappeared inside and came out a while later. ‘Yes, but there is no cream or icecream.’

As long as it has ice. Which it did, thank goodness! I left the boys on the hunt for some hand dyed yarn for my sock yarn souvenir project. The first place was around the corner from where we stayed last year and while it had a lovely display, it didn’t have any sock yarn. I walked on to another place, now dripping in sweat. Maps told me to go one way, which landed me at a gate behind the shop. I walked around the block to find the street busy with people laying out second hand items on sheets for sale. As I closed in on the shop that looked oh so promising, I noticed an electricity truck and fencing around it. I took a photo of the sign on the door to translate it: No electricity. Cash register closed. Bugger.

Defeated, hot and tired, I returned to near our accommodation and messaged the boys that I was having a cold aperol spritz and some food.

Travel days are always big days and even though the flight from Belgrade to Split is less than the flight from Melbourne to Sydney, it’s an international flight so there was a bit of a hoo-ha which meant by the time we got to the other side of customs, we had exactly 45 minutes to get onto our ferry. We bolted, grabbed a taxi and he was the best! We got there with less than a minute spare.

Korčula

It’s a lovely ride from Split to Korčula. I was in awe of the huge rocky hills sliding into the sea, of the terracotta roofed white houses crowded around the bays and valleys. Our accommodation is in the old town in a house that Jasna, our host who is in her late 80s, says her father built. She returned to it after living through the war in Sarajevo. It’s wonderful being in these old places, throwing the windows open, hearing the buzz of the town.

The shock for us has probably been the proliferation of American, English and Australian tourists. We’ve been out of the ‘tourist’ loop and a number of times I have said I feel like I’m in White Lotus. Having said that, we are having a wonderful time. We walk a few minutes to swim in the clear blue-green waters. We have eaten beautiful food. We have rested. Slept. Read. M joined us yesterday and he’s still coming down from the working energy. We’ve had a few days of slow pace and still have some more. As one of the boys said, I usually fall asleep straight away because I’m constantly exhausted, but I’ve rested enough that it’s taking me longer to go to sleep.

Here, the pace is slower and later. It’s now 9pm and we’re about to find some dinner. The middle of the day is rest. The sun rises at 5.30 and that’s when I wake. We’ve only had one hiccup so far and that was one of the boys accidentally stood on a sea urchin and then spent three hours picking the spines out of his foot. He’s no stranger to injuries, yet he reckons it’s right up there with the most painful things he’s done (and he’s the kid who broke more bones than his years before he was ten, and broke two arms at once…). Suddenly my ‘daggy’ water shoes didn’t seem so silly.

So, my friends, that’s it from me for this week. I’ll leave you with some enticing photos of this paradise.

x M

Hello my friends

I am writing to you perched on the smallest balcony in the world sitting high above the old city of Belgrade. Down below, I can hear the bustle of life: violins playing, people talking, birds singing, the occasional whistle. I am looking over the rooftop of the building next door, admiring a centuries-old dome, open windows, satellite dishes, TV antennas and cooling units while swifts circle, dip and dive overhead. These are the things I love about the old cities of Europe. The throng of it all, the mix of old and new.

Inside our small apartment, my three sons lounge on their makeshift beds and M is making tea. We’ve arrived in Belgrade for an event at the university library. When we were here last year, we were so excited and really wanted to come back but hadn’t expected it would be so soon. How lucky are we!

First, though, my last week in what became home for us: Mönchengladbach.

Last days in Möchengladbach

I began my last week in Mönchengladbach feeling slightly breathless that the time has flown so fast. What about all the things I haven’t seen, the people I haven’t met? I had been there long enough to watch a cherry tree go from bloom to leaf, flowers bud and bloom, days length by 1.5 hours, yet had only been there for three weeks at that stage. I still don’t understand Schützenfest other than every town (and sometimes sections in towns) celebrate it for as long as they want whenever they want with bunting and beer. And, at the same time, it was my last week of work before giving myself a three-week holiday (mostly) to spend time with family, and there were many things I still needed to do to make sure things ran smoothly for my writers, coaching clients and retreat attendees. Balancing these felt precarious.

Monday, I was due to go for a walk with my new friend Christiana who I’d met just when we were leaving for Belgium on the previous Thursday and I was really looking forward to navigating our language barriers and our common bond over her sweet little dogs. Unfortunately, she messaged me to let me know that she couldn’t make it as she was heading off on holiday for the week and needed to finish packing. It was a double (triple?) sadness as I knew I wouldn’t see her again, that I would be gone when she returned, and that I had only just met her at such a late hour. My day, otherwise, was taken up with work, a brisk walk to the bakery for a lecker cheese sandwich and work. When M came home, we walked to a restaurant recommended by our host. It was Chinese, and we were unsure how it would be. It felt like an Australian 80s Chinese restaurant … okay, but don’t think I’d go back if I had to.

I woke on Tuesday exhausted from a terrible sleep. I suffer from Restless Leg Syndrome and was only diagnosed with this a few years ago when my neurologist was trying to reduce my migraine attacks. Through a heap of probing and questioning, he worked out that this contributed to the migraine condition as I was having very disturbed sleep (What’s happening when you are awake in the night? Oh, I want to run a marathon, even though I’m exhausted and I hate running.). When he told me at the time, I was like: so? How does knowing that help me? Fast forward to now, I’m on some medication for it, and if I miss it, I don’t sleep at all well and there’s hell to pay. I was sure I’d had my medication on Monday, but it turned out I hadn’t and the hell to pay for me was on Tuesday. I pushed through the day focussing on my work and the things I needed to do, desperate for a great night’s sleep that night. M returned from work and he had pizza on his mind so we walked to our local place. Everything about the place intrigued me. The pokey machine, the cigarette machine, many pizza toppings including tuna … The signs were all there, yet we persisted. I was glad to roll into bed that night until a migraine intruded.

After my slow morning on Wednesday, I ventured out via two buses to meet a local woman who hand dyes her yarn as I wanted to get some as a memento of the city. Luckily, as I sat down on the second bus, I asked a young person if it was heading where I was going … No! It’s going the other way!

It was exciting to see more of the city and see the sweet corners of it mingling with the dreary. Joanna was such a delight to meet and it took me an age to decide on colours (which I then flipped on and returned the next day to change — thank you Joanna!). The rain came on and off but, as though noticing me, it only rained when I was on the bus or in her shop. As I left her shop the sun came out from behind the clouds for the last time while we were in Germany.

I’d booked M and I into that restaurant in the forest we’d failed to get to two weeks earlier and it was so good to drive back into the forest and the sun came out! Oh, our memory of it last time, the darkness of the woods, the sodden leafed ground, the lack of space for us, the drive on the muddy road, the poor cyclist who received the puddle full of water as we passed. This was a completely different place in the sun. Cycles leaned against the timber fence. People gathered on the outside tables. Dream catchers moved gently in the air. By this stage, the place had this ‘otherness’ air about it and our expectations of the food were high, to say the least. So when my plate of chicken and chips, and M’s chicken schnitzel arrived (the entire menu was chicken), we were underwhelmed. It’s not that it wasn’t good, it just wasn’t amazing.

Thursday was a throng of sun and work. In between working, I packed and squeezed things into my bag (and caught the bus to Eicken again to change over the skein of yarn). M was late home as he needed to wrap up a heap of things so we decided to drive back into the old city to return to the fabulous Frenzen which we had been to when we met Rich the English guy who helped people buy planes. The beer garden out the back was a delightful surprise. Lush trees surrounding a wooden deck. I love that the fronts of so many of these buildings look hard, but when you get out the back, there’s an entire natural world awaiting. As the daylight dissipated, we listened to the swifts swirl around while dining on the delicious food and reminisced on our amazing time here. M will be returning this week for one more week of work, but I will stay in Serbia to holiday with the boys.

As we headed out of Mönchengladbach, I had two other yarn shops on my radar (despite my bag already bulging) and the first A Knitters Wish was in a town called Korschenbroich. As we rolled into the town, the bunting hung through the streets as they were at the beginning of a weekend-long festival. May, it seems, is a good month to be in Germany! It was a sweet yarn store and while she didn’t have any German yarn, she did have some beautiful Danish yarn that I couldn’t pass up. Across the road was a bakery full of amazing bread and cakes. They couldn’t speak a word of English, and my basic German was really stretched as we tried to make our choices. We left with a brezel, nusshappen and two coffees feeling like we had hit gold there.

If I was to come here again for a working from Germany trip, I would stay in one of these villages over a bigger city. They are definitely more beautiful and the people are delightful. I have since done a bit of googling about the area to discover that the cities of Mönchengladbach and nearby Viersen were bombed heavily during WWII, which explains why there is little left of the beautiful spaces. Add onto that the loss of industry (they thrived on the textile industry) and you have a sadder place.

A wool store in Viersen was the last one on my list as I had finally worked out how to search for hand dyed yarn and there was a store there that had recently opened. Ilse proudly showed me the yarn dyed by a local woman while M entertained her 10-month-old.

It feels like I need to talk about my yarn obsession, which I am still working out for myself. I had left Melbourne thinking that I might buy a ball of yarn from each city to then knit some souvenir socks when I got home. A simple and sweet thing to do. I would come home with about six balls of yarn. At the end of four weeks, it had taken on its own life and my bag is full of balls of yarn. It turns out that I’m not very good at stopping at one ball…I may have to throw clothes out so I can pack to get home! I have begun to question what the hell I am doing, will I ever knit all of these balls into socks? And does it matter? Maybe not. I have met some delightful people along the way, seen into their creative worlds, which is always something I am curious about.

Düsseldorf

We arrived in Düsseldorf late on Friday afternoon and my reaction to being in such a big city after being out of them was visceral. I pulled against myself. Repacked my bag to squeeze those extra balls of yarn in. Finally, we left the room in the hotel that we were sharing with various football teams who were celebrating the end of season and headed into the wilds of the city. We walked into the old city where I thought I might pick up some Birkenstocks (it was Germany after all), but instead, I hated being in the hot shop buzzing with shoppers and assistants. We walked down past stalls being set up for Japan Day to find the riverfront where we saw people dancing like we had last year in Vienna. We stopped for a spritz to watch the people buzzing around. It felt like all of Germany had come to Düsseldorf for the weekend. We continued our walk until we found a sweet French bistro only to discover that the chef had just closed the kitchen. The waiter pointed us to a pizza place around the corner. At that point, I had hit some kind of tourist wall where anything was okay. We found a seat outside between two other couples who had a pizza each. We ordered one to share and it arrived with a jug of spicy sauce and a jug of garlic sauce. Police marched up and down. An ambulance arrived and left. Tourists thrummed up and down the cobblestones. Japanese drums beat in the distance. Men clothed in friar’s outfits and holding a staff and a candle lantern guided groups through, stopping to point something or another out. Argh… I hate the touristy side of things, but I am one. That tug and pull feels especially strong right now. I just wish to ‘live’ it rather than ‘tourist’ it.

Belgrade

We woke at the crack of dawn on Saturday to catch our flight to Belgrade where we were joining our sons. M is only staying for two nights before heading back to Mönchengladbach for work while I am staying here until Thursday. While waiting for the van to drive us from the carpark to the airport, a group of young men joined us, beer bottles swinging from their hands, voices loud. I suspect they had not yet been to bed. The airport was busy with over 270 check-in desks open. What had felt like enough time to arrive, check in and get coffee quickly became running from one spot to the next and arriving at our gate moments before it closed.

It felt good to return to Belgrade after we enjoyed it so much last year. Our sons had settled into our apartment as though they’d been here for a week not a day and we caught up over coffee.

The boys, M and I returned to a place we’d enjoyed last year for dinner and a drink. We sat next to a table of three men in their thirties or forties with an older man. They got talking to us. They were from Copenhagen and had come to celebrate their dad’s seventieth. Oh, the joy of everything being so close!

Today we have done a bus tour of the city and it was great to see the city this way and to learn more about it. As we came close to some half-destroyed buildings blocks, the narrator told us these buildings of the Federal Secretariat of People’s Defence were bombed in the 1999 NATO strikes and remain in their derelict state. The sight of them brings war close. There have been plans to demolish, but even those haven’t worked. All cities in Europe have their murky pasts, yet all also have beauty. The bus took us past the stunning parks, buildings, fortresses, churches and palaces. Places that have withstood atrocities, somehow. I was reminded of arriving in Phnom Penh in 1996 and as I walked along the riverside, I realised I had seen this place before on the front page of the newspaper as a young person. We are so removed from these realities in Australia, yet here the scars of war (past and present) are everywhere.

Last night’s celebration was about the library and to communicate who they are while recalling the moment of its founding. It was all in Serbian, so we couldn’t understand the whole thing, yet it was wonderful to be in the gorgeous student reading room and be among the people who have protected and encouraged knowledge over the years including Hereditary Prince Filip and Princess Danica. A woman who’d been a part of the library’s history was near us and had lived in the US for much of her life translated snippets for us.

This coming week’s events will include visiting Matica Spriska in Novi Sad and then onto Croatia to begin what I hope to be a relaxing couple of weeks.

x M

Psst: You may have noticed (or not), the lack of 5 Things of Joy last week. It’s not that I didn’t have joy, I was busy and missed it. I hope this postcard makes up for it. I’d love to know what brought you joy last week x

Last week was a super busy one where my feet have barely touched the ground in Mönchengladbach and with only one more week here, I’m beginning to experience a bit of anticipatory grief. In conversation with a local last Thursday, she dubbed it as ‘the ugliest city in Germany’ but the place has grown on me, most likely due to its people.

This postcard is a little late as we spent so much time on the road over the four-day weekend. First stop, Berlin!

Berlin

What’s your thoughts on Berlin, is the most oft asked question since I visited the city last week. I left with complicated feelings for the place. It seems unfathomable that a place can go through the atrocities of one war (WWII) to then plunge its people into another division. To deprive its people of what they need and to have them live in fear. Berlin also, in some ways, seems like Melbourne on steroids. So many people wearing black, dodgy-looking places threaded through hipster-groovy shops and cafes. Upmarket boutique clothes stores mingling with second-hand clothes stores. Parks homes to the homeless, dogs and their owners and kids smoking dope.

I don’t feel the need to see all the things wherever I go and don’t go into any place with a checklist. It’s a slightly stubborn side of me, I guess, but I prefer to learn about places by immersing myself in the streets, plodding the pavement and seeing how the people of the place go about their daily lives. This meant that I didn’t ‘do’ the things that people messaged me about, but I walked and walked and walked. I sat and watched, I listened. I followed my nose and discovering some random things like the site of an old women’s prison tucked away behind my hotel. A place that held women locked away for various unsound reasons over its 70 year history.

Berlin dished up icy and rainy weather in my 48 hours there and I rued the fact I didn’t bring my newly made beanie. It was hard to believe that as it was nearing summer, it was colder than Melbourne! The skies had opened early Monday morning after a stunning Sunday and the temperature dropped delivering a week of on and off raining and temperatures that haven’t got any higher than 15 degrees (more commonly around 12)! I think it’s been warmer in Melbourne, surprisingly. I was a little unprepared clothes-wise! When packing, I was thinking about how incredibly hot it was last year and only brought a couple of cold weather tops.

I went to Berlin because the lovely who I interviewed about a month ago on the pod was there for her exhibition at Michael Reid Gallery, and M was away in Vienna for work. It was a whirlwind visit.

The thick rain drenched me as I ran into the Mönchengladbach Hauptbahnhof (train station) to catch my five hour train to get there. At the entrance I watched the board of arrivals and departures: Amsterdam, Köln, Frankfurt. As people swirled past with pilates tote bags, I remembered that there’d been a pilates conference here as it’s the birthplace of the founder. Next to me stood a man watching the board keenly. He was from Brazil and was freezing and was heading to Amsterdam after being in Düsseldorf for a packing convention.

On the platform, all announcements were in German with no English. I asked a young man to interpret. I’ve discovered that as the young people learn English at school, they’re the best ones to call on for translation. I struck gold with my train seat: a table and the four seats to myself. I settled into doing some work … until a business man at the next station settled in the seat opposite talking loudly on his phone. The next station after, another man arrived and told the man that he was in his seat. He was also talking loudly on his phone. I watched the rainy landscape fly past through villages, fields of canola, wheat. Past fields of wind and solar farms. At Hamm, the train stopped for a long period. The doors opened and shut many times before there was a very long announcement. I asked my train companion if he translate. A technical issue that they are trying to resolve. We finally moved off again and I struck up conversation with this man. He was a data security lawyer on his way to Berlin for work. Many use the trains for commuting rather than flying. We chatted about the country, the decimation from WWII, his mother’s experience from living in Berlin as a child, the trauma the land and people hold and how the people all rallied to repair the buildings, land and work after the war. We parted at Berlin an hour later than expected and him wishing me well.

Berlin station was a multi-layered hive. People, bags, announcements (German and English), shops. I made a beeline for the exit thankful I’d managed to pack only a small backpack for this side trip. It was too late to go to any places that I had thought I’d get to (one being a yarn shop) and the weather was grey, windy and moments of light rain. I walked to my hotel, some four kilometres away taking in the city, taking in the place. Busy streets with cars, bikes, pedestrians. Empty shops, busy small coffee and takeaway restaurants. The rain came and went. The cold wind swirled the litter. That familiar feeling I’ve had each time I have travelled alone prickled. My discomfort rose. I’ve only done travelled alone a handful of times and each time at the start, I’ve had this wobbly moment. Frustrated with myself, I called M who talked me down and recommended I get some dinner and go to bed. I recalled the first time I travelled alone to India when I was 19 and called Mum reverse charges the night I arrived feeling lost, alone and frightened. She cooed to me, encouraged me to have something to eat and go to bed. I hope to not feel this one day.

I found a restaurant close by and settled into a plate of caprese salad. After eating and doing my journalling, I pulled out my knitting. The woman sitting next to me giggled and said something in German. Through my broken German, and her broken English, I learnt she and her husband were from a farming village down south and were holidaying for the week. She was looking forward to going home as the city was big and noisy. She gave me a recommendation to visit the Hackescher Markt area.

After work calls and writing in the morning on Tuesday, I set out on foot to explore the things that interested me. I discovered Märchenbrunnen garden with statues from the Grimms fairytales, the old, old Berlin wall (Gedenktafel Berliner Stadtmauer) in a forgotten corner of the city where a mother and son were taking photos in front of it and the skeleton of the Franciscan monastery church lost in overgrown trees. Hungry, I headed toward the area recommended by the woman the evening before. Groups of people following a person holding a flag, sign, coloured umbrella swarmed the place. I moved on. On the pavement in front of buildings were brass plaques with the names of those deported, removed against their will. I tried to imagine life in those times, not being able to trust your neighbour, living in true fear. I was in the old ‘East Berlin’ and it seems unfathomable that this area contained that life and the life during WWII. There were stunning old buildings tucked next to austere ones. I think I had imagined that most of the city would be more austere, grey, miserable. Broken.

I found refuge from the sharp cold and drizzle in a yarn shop tucked away in a sweet courtyard and bought myself some locally dyed yarn for my Berlin socks I’ll knit as a memory of the place. The colour is called The Wall and aptly grey with specks of colour. As I walked toward the gallery, school children filed out of a building, climbed onto bikes and ran to the playground nestled among the tall buildings. I love these European pocket parks. I found a cafe and bought an espresso and sandwich of dark rye, salad and cheese. Bearing the cold, I ate outside watching people walk and ride by. A woman with large sunglasses and overcoat, scarf over her head walking a vizsla and dachshund in matching raincoats. Two young women solving problems. A father cycling with his daughter on the back telling him about her day. Life buzzing around me. Is there anything more delightful?

The gallery is up a street that would look at home in Fitzroy or Collingwood. Small art galleries and high fashion speckled with boarded up shops, places black with grime. Coline, the gallerist, let me in. She had only just finished hanging the paintings and was apologetic. We chatted for ages about creativity, reading, art and more before I set off back to the hotel. I met Stacey and her friends and partner for a drink before dinner. They’d just arrived from London. The bar we had hoped for was closed due to the rain, so we found an open one. As we left feeling like we’d all smoked a pack of cigarettes I noticed on the door ‘Smokers Bar’… Over a traditional German meal at Gaststätte Sophieneck, we chatted about our travels, knitting and Stacey’s show opening the next day. It was great to have seen it before so I could let her know how beautiful her work looked in there.

My walk home to the hotel was through Mitte Berlin and it was wonderful seeing the place in the dark. The lights shone on the rainy streets, people huddled over meals with friends, clothes hung in hip boutiques.

I laid low on Wednesday morning as my mid-foot arthritis was not all pleased with the 24K steps I’d done the day before. I had hoped to catch up with Stacey again, but instead had to pass on my apologies and I spent the morning writing thankful for the late checkout. Berlin Hauptbahnhof was a hive of activity and as a writer, it was a treasure trove of people watching. I was catching a train on what was one of the busiest days of the year as it was Vaters Tag (Father’s Day) the next day. The train was packed and I wasn’t as lucky to get a great seat until it slowly emptied out on the long ride back to Mönchengladbach. M was waiting at the station for me and I was pleased to be ‘home’.

Since leaving Berlin, this week I have met some Berliners. One couple in Sint-Martens-Latem and a trio at Ruinart Champagne House in Reims. It has been great to chat with them about what I loved, and didn’t and for them to talk about their experience. As one of them said, it was great not long after the wall fell and for about a decade or more after, since then it has gone down hill a little. One of them said all the things that I’d been thinking. It doesn’t mean I didn’t love it, and he also loves it, but it did validate my feelings about the city.

Four day road trip across five countries

The morning after returning from Berlin, we set off on a road trip as it was yet another long weekend in Germany. As we packed the car, I met a local woman, Christiana who had two adorable dogs. She’s lived here all her life and was surprised we were here. ‘It is the ugliest city in Germany,’ she said. We exchanged details and plan to catch up for a walk this week.

As it turned out, many other Germans and German adjacent people were on the road too. The celebration for the long weekend was Vaters Tag, Fathers Day, and many Germans took the Friday off as well. Why wouldn’t you! M had done the planning for these four days. Initially, we were heading to Charleroi but after talking to a work mate, he changed that to go to three different places.

On Thursday we headed for a tiny town in Belgium for our first stop. From my research, Branchon was where some of my ancestors on my mother’s side came from (the Du Ponts, Vermeesch and Fronvill families) and it was only about an hour’s drive from where we have been living (and about 3 hours by public transport!).

On our way, we came through a regional city Namur that had amazing architecture with three story houses and metal balconies (and toilets). There was the beginnings of an art festival, but the skies opened up yet again with rain and hail. Branchon was about half an hour from Namur and the rain and hail came on and off as we wound around narrow roads lined with fields of young wheat and other grains, poppies and flowers growing like weeds. In Europe, there is a push to not mow during May in an effort to improve the biodiversity and bug life. It is glorious! Floats of red and orange poppies and tall grass seed heads dancing with white and yellow daisies. We passed a woman waiting near her car lost waist high in the grasses. Along the roads are occasional shrines for the pilgrims who had passed through many years ago, filled with icons, statues and plastic flowers weighted with dust and hope.

Branchon is just of five square kilometres with a population about about 550. It reminded me in some ways of Orquevaux where I stayed last year to write for three weeks, with no shops bar a small restaurant Los Santos that opens occasionally (just not when we were there). On the small hill looking down on the church is a chateau or mansion in some stage of huge renovation. We ate a lunch of cherry tomatoes, basil and prosciutto we’d taken from ‘home’ while in the carpark of the church. I recorded a video while looking for any of my ancestors names in the cemetery in the hope to find them, only to find that the earliest was around 1895.

The rain, hail and sun came and went as we moved on to the next village where the ‘old’ cemetery. The sun was out as I walked through the overgrown cemetery. M brushed the leaf litter off the two stones still there. No names that belonged to me. I held a moment thinking about my people walking these lands, through these villages, wondering what their lives were like. I’ve been able to trace them back to the mid 1600s and they came to Australia in the mid 1800s. At this stage, I have no idea why they left and what their lives were like, but having now walked their land, I am more intrigued.

The hail came again and we bolted for the car and made a beeline for our destination of Sint-Martens-Latem, just out of Ghent. Once you are in the countryside of Belgium, it can take a while to find the way back to the highway. M wound through many small villages, their buildings leaning into the narrow streets. We talked about the world wars, the damage on this country and its people. It’s hard to not think about it. The names of places are so familiar: Flanders, Waterloo… Even as I’m writing now, M is watching telly and the only thing on in English is Darkest Hour with Winston Churchill. Fortunately, as it took a bit to find our way back to the highway, we stumbled on a magnificent festival in the town of Jodoigne. M parked the car next to a 13th century church with a chunk out of one of its pillars (I assume through one war or another). Organ music filtered out to us and inside a young man was practising with his mum watching over.

The festival was a gathering of many surrounding villages and was full of music, clothes, food, drink, farming equipment, police looking suave in their uniforms, youth gathering around with beers, and cows with the biggest bums I have ever seen. I found a little bookstore and picked up a copy of Tintin and Asterix as souvenirs.

M was in charge of the accommodation for this trip and he chose very well for Sint-Martens-Latem. The Auberge du Percher sits on the edge of a canal, with a field on the other side of the canal. A young couple arrived at the same time as us for their wedding that would be the next day and all I could think was, how divine. We got chatting with a Berlin couple and one of them, Bernd, joined us while waiting for his meal that he and Martin were having in their room as they had their two dachshunds with them. We chatted about Berlin, life in Germany and Czech, where he met Martin, and how he’d become very interested in animals after watching the Chris Brolga Barns from the Kangaroo Sanctuary. After, we shared details. I do hope they make it to Melbourne one day. As the sun set, we watched the fog roll over the canal and I thought of those poor buggers in the war who lay in these fields.

Our Friday took us to France, because why not! We headed to Reims with champagne being the sole purpose of the visit. On the way, we stopped for breakfast pastries at Luc Fijngebak in Sint-Denijs-Westrem. M asked if they made coffee. ‘Sometimes.’ So they made us coffee as people filed in and out of the bakery.

We deviated from the highway to see if a wool store in a village was open so I could add to my sock souvenir project, but it was not. As we hunted around for a coffee, M stopped in at the open bike store. He came back out beckoning for me to come in. The guys in there had made us coffees and it was great to have a chat with them about life in Belgium, bikes, coffee and tools. They have a great collection of old tools and various artifacts. And kindness! There was a yarn shop open in Thuin, about half an hour away, but would be shut for lunch until 2pm. As it was 12.30 by the time we hit the road again, we headed for it with me hoping that she would have some Belgium yarn. We pulled off the road shy of the town to have some lunch at a little takeaway place. The woman behind the counter had no English, so we struggled through with my meagre French and Google translate to order some burgers. As we ate our lunch (we were the only ones there), she joined us to have more conversation. Oh, I love the universal language of gestures, and how with minimal common words between us, we could talk about having teens, managing their phone use and behaviour. As we wrapped up our meal, she made us coffees: Gratuit pour vous.

The wool store was in very old part of Thuin and finding our way there through the narrow windy streets was fun. We passed many trucks with carnival trailers parked to the side and flags flying out of windows. May is festival time for these towns, it seems. We pulled up in front of the yarn shop at 1.40 as the owner arrived. She said something in French and shut the door. We walked around and looked at the buildings and saw many women arriving with project bags swinging from their hands. I went back to the shop, now open, and waited for her to attend to those in front of me. The women filed through the shop to the back room where they sat around a large table. When it was my turn, I ask (with the help of google translate) if she had any Belgium wool. No, she was disappointed to let me know. By this stage, I knew I couldn’t leave without a purchase, so I found some beautiful alpaca sock yarn in the colours of the poppies and grasses that we’d been seeing by the sides of the road.

Our accommodation in Reims was not nearly as nice as the previous one, and I may have been a little grumpy about that (sorry M), and it was quite a way from the town centre. And it was about 8 degrees when we arrived (after driving through many more rain and hail storms). M drove us into the centre which was quieter than expected and we easily got a park. We sat outside under blankets with a champagne blanc de blanc and a platter of meat and cheese while chatting with a young English couple who were there to celebrate his thirtieth and their upcoming anniversary of their new business in antibodies. Smart kids! I was happy to collapse into bed. Road trips are fun and I get lots of knitting done, but they’re also tiring as I’m chief navigator.

Unfortunately, the walls of this place were paper thin and I drifted off to the sound of my neighbours joy…

As we had only decided last minute to get to Reims, we were unable to get a booked tour of Ruinart, the oldest champagne house, but were told to just go anyway just in case. It was worth going as you can look around the beautiful gardens full of art and the buildings without paying, and then have a glass of champagne. Well, I had three, because when in the champagne region … and we had it with oysters. There has never been a better drink/food marriage. The trio next to us were from Berlin and we chatted about their trip and how they were trying to work out how to get their boxes of champagne back on the train… As M was keen to see the chalk caves, we went next door to Pommery. OMG. It was like arriving at a Disney park. Queues of people, lights, buzz… It was interesting to learn about the chalk tunnels, but if I was to do it again, I’d definitely book the Ruinart one. It is much smaller groups and there isn’t the awful buzz. Some things we learned at Pommery: some Irish men hid down in the tunnels during WWI, the tunnels were from 90 km of tunnels that were dug out for chalk and this stopped as the city would have collapsed so Ruinart organised other champagne houses to purchase them as they provide the ideal conditions for storing champagne, a cubic metre of limestone captures 350 l of water and they never water the plants relying only on the rain, between 23 and 26 million bottles are stored in the tunnels.

On the road again as the skies opened up to welcome us back to the road. Our destination was Arlon, on the borders of Belgium and Luxembourg. This accommodation we were heading for looked much more like the first one so I was pretty happy with that. It was a low-key drive as it was late in the day and we were both keen to get there. There was one deviation to get fuel and M was happy to find a bakery open and delighted in his eclair.

Our accommodation Hostellerie du Peiffeschof just out of Arlon was divine. The owner was very excited to hear that we were from Melbourne. ‘My son played the drums with King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizards in December in Melbourne.’ He pulled out his phone to show us the video his son had sent him. There is nothing better than a proud parent. You can catch Gaspard’s performance here. While they have a restaurant at the hotel, they don’t do dinner on the weekend so we drove into town and after getting stuck in a one-way road loop due to yet another festival (a flower one this time), we parked and chose the restaurant closest to us, Enzo Milano, breaking our rule of eating local food. It turned out to be a wonderful choice with attentive staff who were very excited to learn we were from Australia. I assume that many Australians don’t venture off the main routes and go into the smaller places, but I love them because I learn so much about the people here rather than were all the other tourists are. The place filled up as the evening wore on until it was full of couples, families and groups of friends. A couple arrived with their dachshund who settled under their table…until it vomited (don’t look!). The sous chef came to our table many times to make sure we were okay and to practise speaking English and talk about Australia as he really wants to get there one day. He was 25 and works there, makes desserts to order and flips houses. There’s loads to flip around there and I wouldn’t mind one of my own. I hear my ancestral roots calling… One of the waiters said she spoke Flemish and I was keen to hear what it sounded like, to know what my ancestors language was. It was like a soft Dutch and was music to my ear. A couple joined us at the next table, launching into a French conversation with us as our dessert (cafe gourmand) arrived. ‘Anglais?’ I said. Ah, no problem. He said that was the ideal dessert and began to tell us about local festival next weekend to celebrate the Maitrank, a local drink that all the families make with their own recipe using the macerated sweetscented bedstraw flowers (Galium odoratum) in white wine from the Luxembourg Moselle region. The flower blooms in the month of May, hence the name of the drink. Enzo arrived with his photos from his trip to Australia in February 2020 (what a year to travel!) with two glasses of the drink. On the house! Apparently, the town gets pretty messy next weekend and more police are called in to help.

After a delightful breakfast made by Michelin-trained chef and owner Thierry, we headed toward the ‘three-border second-hand market’ in a small town of Guerlange. We knew we were getting close as the cars were parked everywhere. We parked and walked through. M picked up a number of signs and, thankfully, left the empty bullets, artillery shells, pistols and war medals. Again, locals were surprised to hear where we were from and the guy selling the sausages (the best sausages you can get) was from Italy and delighted in conversing in English with us.

We drove through Luxembourg, stopping by a chateau in the cold bleak rain. This country is only country in the world with a Grand Duke. Blink and you miss the entire country. So, we didn’t really see the country, but glimpsed it through the window. I did discover, however, that they have their own language, Luxembourgish.

We travelled towards Bönn with M hitting the accelerator on the autobahn with no speedlimit. My knitting paused as I watched the number rise… Bönn was on the list to catch up with an old family friend, Hölger and his wife. I met Hölger back in maybe 1980 or 81. He was good friends with our exchange student Michael and he came to visit us. My sister has remained in close contact with him, as had Mum. We arrived around 4 pm and they had a huge platter of cakes ready. It was delightful to reconnect and to meet his wife Elvira, who happened to be wearing exactly the same colour jumper as I!

Wearily, we joined the throng of German holidaymakers finding their way home and were greeted by a vase of flowers from our AirBnB owner as we begin our last week in Germany.

Some facts about Belgium:

• It has three official languages: 40 % French in the Wallonia region, 60 % Dutch in the Flanders region and about 1 % German in the east. There are also people who speak Flemish, which is a dying language.

• It has about 220 days of rain a year.

Until next week’s postcard which will come from Belgrade! We head there on Saturday for some family celebrations. I’m looking forward to seeing my sons, MIL and SIL there.

x M

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the smallest thing can give us breath.

1. Fish doorbell

   One of my lovely people (Jo), asked me if I had heard of the Rottendam fish doorbell. No, I said. I’ll send you the link, she said. May you also get as much joy as I did by pushing the doorbell to let the fish through the lock: Fish Doorbell

2. Seeing friends in the other side of the world

   

3. Stop and Go, Berlin style

   

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

4. Conversations with strangers

   It can be a good thing to not know how to speak the language. On the train to Berlin, the announcements were only in German. At one point, there was a very long announcements. I asked the man opposite me if he could translate, which he did, and that led to a wonderful conversation for the next three hours.

5. Serenity now, Belgium style

   M was in charge for our road trip this long weekend and if the rest of the weekend is anything to go by, I’m about to hand over the planning mantle. Right now in Sint-Martens-Latem, Belgium as the fog rolls across the field

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways. This week’s postcard comes out on Sunday and will be packed with my adventures this week.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• On the podcast: interview with Susan Green

• Postcard from Europe 2026 #4

This week in Mönchengladbach has been quieter with settling into work and less exploring and gloomy weather consumed most days. Returning from Amsterdam was like coming home. The things that rankled last week (lack of shampoo, soap, toilet paper, etc) didn’t matter. But the pillows did: two large square ‘European’ half deflated feather pillows and the second pillows (akin to flat crepes) had been replaced with two tiny lumpy cushion innards (no covers). The joys of travel.

On Monday, the coffee machine flipped the safety switch, twice. Luckily, we found a French press. My sneezing that began at Keukenhof continued. I visited the Apotheke (chemist) for antihistamines and contact eye solution as I’d mucked up how much I needed. Everything was behind perspex screens including the staff, unlike ours in Australia. I used Google Translate to explain what I need. No, to the contact solution. I would have to go to an optometrist for that.

Our local supermarket, Kaufland, is a lot. Imagine Aldi crossed with Bunnings. Fridges full of sliced cheese, not a cheese block to be found, but I could get some camping gear if I wanted, or put a loaf of bread through a slicer unsupervised! I’m amazed at how long it takes to buy a few things when everything is in another language. Not for the first time, I have empathised with non-English speakers trying to navigate everyday things in Australia. Finally after two hours, I left with glass jars of yoghurt, fresh fruit, bread, cheese slices, cold meats, pasta, vegetables and herbs. Feeling dreadful, and exhausted from the supermarket, I napped in the afternoon and began to wonder if I was in fact sick.

Tuesday began in a gloom of fog that never lifted. I cranked the dials on the hydronic heating and plodded through my work. When M returned from the train testing ground, we ate home-cooked chicken with rice. After dinner, we rugged up and walked through the misty evening.

The sun sets around 9.10 pm at the moment. The increase in daylight hours here is more rapid than in Melbourne. When we arrived only two weeks ago, it was setting around 8.45 pm.

We wound our way through the streets to find a garden I’d spotted last week. It began to feel like we were walking between people’s backyards with little fenced off areas containing little cabins the size of a medium caravan and well tended gardens. Some decorated with gnomes, others with fancy fences, chairs, tables and other structures. A man tending his garden waved and continued digging in the cold evening. We arrived at a bigger building: Kleingartenverein Kreuzberg which translates as community gardens. There was a club hall, outside chairs and tables, a little rotunda, and a weathered playground. On the noticeboard were strong instructions about which plot owners needed to attend working bees or they would be removed. Don’t muck around here!

We continued walking on the other side of the gardens through woodlands where a dog bounded up to us, owner nowhere to be seen, then joined by another dog and two men coming from different directions watching their dogs run in circles around each other. They said something to us in German as we passed and we said hello and nodded, like we’d understood. Sometimes it’s easier this way. We found the edge of Mönchengladbach (about the same footprint as Ballarat, with similar population to Geelong), walked along the edge of a meadow of a crop of wheat, passed the edge of the cemetery and wound our way back through the housing. In doing so, we found: a sunken fußball court, abandoned pub, a boundary stone for the 17th-century Benedictine Abbot of Gladbach and a noticeboard with all the fitness activities you can do if you meet at the fir tree (mostly, hiking).

Germans, it seems, love to hike. An early word I relearnt in German with Duolingo is wandern, to hike. Duolingo generally teaches things important to the culture, unlike Schnecke (snail) which seems completely irrelevant. As the German girl I sat next to on my flight from Bangkok to Frankfurt said, Germans take any chance to don a pair of hiking shoes, even if it’s just to walk to the shops.

Wednesday did not cheer weather-wise, but I was through my afflictions and was able to get a good deal of work done. I decided I couldn’t go on anymore with the awful pillows so before going out to buy some, I checked the listing and it mentioned there were extras. I contacted the owner to locate these, and mentioned the broken coffee machine and how I hadn’t found the ironing board.

I use the iron on the kitchen bench, she said. Just put a towel on it. Ah … okay. I’m happy to stay crinkly rather than scold her bench.

On her direction, I located pillows in a cupboard I’d thought was locked. Heaven for a normal and full pillow. Two hours later, she sent a message to saying an ironing board and new coffee machine would arrive on Friday. She also recommended a place for dinner, Fuchsbau Gaststätten: A really nice place to eat, in ‘Hardter Wald‘.

We met a couple about our age with a toddler on our way to the car. He spoke better English than she did, and she spoke better English than I German. We talked about weather, the universal topic. Schlechtes, she said. When I tried to work out what it meant, he said that it was for when it was grey, cold and foggy. Miserable, I said. Ja!

The little girl put her arms up for me to pick her up, so I naturally did after getting a nod from the couple. I asked if she was their daughter or granddaughter. Through a bit of charades, we worked out that she was a foster child. They’ve fostered many, they said, and she’d likely be with them until she was eighteen. When they asked where we were staying, there was a little bit of clicking of tongues. He said they were unaware it was an AirBnB. He told us the people upstairs drink and smoke too much, then said this weekend was Schützenfest (shooting festival) with people in uniform. She made a call and told us that the man next door would drop in with a timetable of the festivities. We left hoping we hadn’t ‘outed’ our host about the AirBnB.

The phone signal died as we drove into the woods. The restaurant carpark was full, ground sodden leaf litter. At the entrance a man shook his head and told us that we must book to go there. M asked for a recommendation. The man pointed to the right: That way for five kilometre, left at roundabout then you find Jägerhof. Say hi from Frank. He like me but younger and smaller.

We drove for more than five kilometres deeper into the woods and onto a dirt, well, mud road. The misty rain continued. It’s easy to see how all those dark fairytales were imagined. Around a corner a man in a yellow t-shirt and black jeans was cycling down the road looking like he was riding down Sydney Road. M slowed, waited for him to move to one side then M passed, unfortunately through a puddle. The cyclist shook his fist and swore loudly at us in German. M pulled over and wound down the window to apologise, only to be sprayed with more German words before the man rode off gesturing to his leg. We emerged from the forest into a village where a woman was tending her horses. No roundabout, no Jägerhof. But we did have our signal back. I searched for Jägerhof, which there were plenty. Then I found one in Rheindahlen, only five kilometres from where we are staying. It was what we would call a gastropub. A little bit of fancy pub food. Our waiter delighted in having to practise his English and we delighted in the food and the warmth of the place.

The sun came out on Thursday! What a delight to see its return. I did wonder if I would survive a northern hemisphere winter. I washed clothes, hung them on the clothes rack in the backyard and worked in the sunroom enjoying the heat of the sun. When M returned from work, we went to a place around the corner that we’ve walked past many times, Schützenhof. Pretty much no one spoke English. When we arrived at 6.45, we joined the five men on bar stools. The bartender was delighted that we had come from Somewhere Else. I struggled through my Year 10 German and ordered some drinks. She filled a wine glass nearly to the brim with Weißwein, writing 2.8 on M’s coaster and one dash for a beer. More men arrived, and at seven, they all moved into the back room sitting around a long table with beers and pieces of paper. I asked her what they were doing. Spielkarten? Playing cards? She shook her head and said a lot of German words, then put a clipboard with papers filled with schedules on it. Google Translate gave me: Old Boys Meeting.

She also told us about the Schützenfest this weekend and the 156 Year celebration of the St Josef Brotherhood (Bruderschaft), and gave me the same booklet that the neighbour had just dropped in. The booklet was filled with photos of men in military-type uniforms with medals and badges. I have so many images in my head from watching WWII movies and reading books, that it feels difficult to separate uniform and shooting from these. Also, I’m still confused about the whole shooting festival/brotherhood thing and no one seems to have enough English to explain it to me.

On Friday night at 6.30, we walked to festival location only to discover that it didn’t kick off until 8. We kept walking into the old city marvelling at how old everything is, how these bricks were fired so so many years ago and are still standing! Mönchengladbach is a mix of gorgeous old buildings, so-so new buildings and scrappy abandoned buildings and shops.

We had a sundowner at the bar M’s work mates had shown us on the first day with Igor pleased to see us again, then into a shopping mall. Anyone who knows me well, knows I don’t love shopping malls but, there was a wool shop in there and I have a mission on this trip to get a ball from each city to knit socks as souvenirs. I chose yarn in the colours of the local football team.

We dined at Alter Haus, a sunken restaurant on the edge of the medieval wall, which had enough seating for about 200 so it was easy to find a seat given there were only two other guests there. The fare was Macedonian and delightful. On our way home, we wandered down a street that I had walked down in my first week when I had thought it was a grungy and abandoned place, and one to avoid. This may have been influenced by an ambo and two police cars out the front of one of the old night clubs. As we were looking around the still-lifeless street, a man stopped to chat. I mentioned we were trying to work out if this place came alive at night (it was about 9.30 by now). In a crisp English access, he agreed. We exchanged pleasantries and asked if he would like to join us for a drink. We kept walking down the street and found what I think is the nicest place in Mönchengladbach so far, Frenzen. Over more drinks, we found out that Rich helps people buy planes (yes, apparently, loads of people are still buying planes). We stumbled out into the cold night air, walking through the streets and past the Schützenfest that, if this was in Australia at this stage, was in its I luv youse all moment. Those uniformed jackets unbutton, medals jangling. We left them to their moment.

Saturday we drove to Wüppertal as there is a hanging railway, and when travelling with M, he likes to see as many train like things as possible. We’d hoped to catch up with an old family friend who lives there, but he was away. Wüppertal is about an hour’s drive and is a fairly industrial city. The Schwebebahn was the most interesting thing for us and was alarmingly just normal public transport for everyone else. We rode back and forth stopping for lunch at one end before leaving the city. We drove home via the B roads as the autobahns are great for getting you from A to B as fast as you can, but we love seeing the smaller villages and landscape along the way. A point of interest was driving through Neandertal and getting caught behind a horse and cart, only to realise after we’d driven through that this was the place where the bones of ‘Neanderthal Man’ were discovered in 1856. We stopped for dinner at a place recommended by M’s workmates, Los Amigos, that reminded me to 1980s Taco Bill (or Taco Bell for the copycat restaurant chain). No further notes needed.

It seems that on Sundays, we like to go to the Netherlands. This is the third Sunday where we have spent some time the adjoining country, and we did drive about 500 m of Belgium as well. First, we had seen signs to a Trödelmarkt (flea market) in Wassenberg so we checked that out and I bought a German made travel alarm clock. There was a lot of other things, but nothing else interested me, or would fit in my bag.

Then, as it was Mothers Day I said I wanted to go back to Thorn, Netherlands for a coffee and cake. Thorn was as delightful to walk through as it had been to drive through two weeks ago. The old city is all painted which with black and grey trims. From where we’d parked on the edge of the village, we meandered alongside a small stream with ducks and tall grasses and flowers until we found the cobblestoned road. A woman was watering her pot plants and, as I tend to, I said hello. She spoke to me in English with a strong Dutch accent. They were Dutch and lived in the UK and Netherlands and were about to leave to go back to the UK. Somehow we got onto creative work (Anna make clothes and her partner Rob maintains flutes). Before we knew it, they’d invited us in to have a look at their house. Oh. My. Goodness. Their place used to be a barn and had multiple levels. Each ‘space’ was decorated to represent different countries and cultures. There was a ‘castle’ corner, Middle Eastern snug, Indonesian bathroom, Indian bedroom, Chinese lounge area… It goes on. As we were leaving, I noted an old and damaged Jesus statue sitting on a piece of wood. She told me that she was planting some flowers at the cemetery and had dug up some of these damaged little statues. She pressed one of them into my hands. It is meant to be, she said. As we let, she showed me her case of hand writing, meticulously kept in a case with handmade paper on either side of each volume.

I found my coffee and cake, a banana pie that’s a speciality here, and followed that with a Trappist beer in the sun. A divine day to end another full week.

For the week ahead, M is off to Vienna for 24 hours for work and I’m heading to Berlin for a couple of days where I’ll see the lovely before her exhibition. Then, believe it or not, we have another long weekend where we will visit at least two more countries!

Until next week,

x M

PS: on the knitting side of things, I finished my beanie last night! Next up is my first set of socks from yarn purchased at Stephen & Penelope’s shop in Amsterdarm

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the smallest thing can give us breath.

1. Mother Hen

2. Community Gardens

   I’ve always been a fan of them, so it was great to discover that there are some community gardens near where we’re staying. These ones have little houses/cabins in them and as it is spring, it is all blossoms and young plants

   

3. Kindness

   On our way to the car the other day, we got into conversation with a couple who looked about our age with a toddler. We got talking about the weather, a universal topic and it was a bit shit, life in Mönchengladbach, etc. The little girl put her arms up for me to pick her up, so I naturally did after getting a nod from the couple. We asked, in my basic German, if she was their daughter or granddaughter. They struggled to find the words, then through a bit of charades, we worked out that she was a foster child. ‘Your first?’ I asked. ‘Nein.’ They have fostered many, they said and she would likely be with them until she was eighteen.

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

4. Sunshine and green space

   Having access to a backyard never ceases to delight me. This week has been a bit drizzly to having the sun pop out was pure joy.

   

5. Air balloon

   We were in a small beer house (I think is the best translation), which seemed to be a place that a lot of men congregate for some kind of meeting (the translation was lost on me). The owner’s husband was the cook and as we ate the food (we were the only ones eating there), I spotted this air balloon out the window. The bartender came over to see what we were looking at. She said something in very fast German, gesticulated (a lot) and walked away.

   

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• On the podcast: interview with

• Writing Opps and Comps

• Postcard from Europe 2026 #3

My dear Muser

This week has gone by in a flash and felt like two weeks or more! In the last week, while M worked in Germany, I worked from ‘home’. On Wednesday evening, we drove from Mönchengladbach to Amsterdam as he had one day of work north of Amsterdam followed by a long weekend in the city. What a ride!

Speaking of rides, I am writing this from Amsterdam, a city that prioritises its cyclists above cars! It has been incredible to witness the Dutch cycling lifestyle. But more on that later.

If you missed last week’s postcard you can catch it here.

My week began quietly. I have been hit with daily (nightly) migraines since arriving overseas and early in the week, it began to really drain me. On Thursday, I emailed my neurologist for some suggestions on what to do. By the time he responded with really useful suggestions and noting that the time zone difference was most likely to blame, it was the next day and the first day I finally woke without a migraine since arriving. My brain had obviously caught up with the time difference. While I am quite used to managing life with a chronic migraine disorder, an increase in attacks puts a real dampener on being in different places.

We’ve been really blessed with the weather since arriving. Most days, it’s been warm and sunny after a cool start. Monday was M’s first day at his workplace. After my work in the morning, I caught a bus toward the Altstadt (the old part of town) getting off to walk through a park full of life. There were young couples lying on blankets by the pond, omas taking their grandchildren for walks and children riding their bikes around. The park is at the base of the remnants of the old city wall. On the edge, is an old turret. Next to this was a plaque for Joseph Pilates who was born in Mönchengladbach.

The old road up to the town square was full of deserted buildings and nightclubs. The only people I saw through there were cops and ambos who were attending an incident. Wisely, I moved on.

I grabbed a seat outside the Sunside bar in the square to have a beer and do some writing in the sunshine in the late afternoon. I love the town squares in Europe for their openness, the bars and restaurants with their outside tables and chairs, and all that wonderful people watching. While Mönchengladbach isn’t the prettiest of towns I’ve been in, it still has loads of charm. Driving around the town later, we discovered there is more to it than we had initially thought and I will be exploring more of it in the next few weeks.

After my work on Tuesday, I ventured over the road to the small Netta supermarket. With shelf upon shelf of pickled meat products, I thought for a moment that I could easily turn vegetarian. At the checkout, I practised my German, to which she responded quickly in words that made no sense to me. On seeing my blank expression, she replied to me in English. The woman behind me in the queue shared a look with her elderly mother. It is very clear that where we are staying is not used to sharing their space with foreigners. When M returned from Wegberg, we went for a walk to find a place for a close by post-work drink only to discover that there none on a Tuesday. We asked a guy delivering Dominos flyers. He responded in a broad British accent that there were loads of bars near the old city. We got chatting, as we have a want to do. He told us that he owned Dominos, which seemed like a far fetched idea for someone delivering flyers in the small town of Mönchengladbach. Surprised, I said, ‘Oh! You own Dominos?’ ‘Well, Germany and UK.’ I was not convinced.

Wednesday was pack up and wash day, which meant I had to venture down to the basement, always a terrifying experience. The dankness, the locked rooms! I have watched too many thrillers over the years not to dread a basement.

Dear reader, the good news is that I survived. M came home (yes, already I think of this place as home) and we headed off to Amsterdam. I have always felt safe with M at the wheel, but the autobahns and highways are nail-biting. There’s being on the wrong side of the road (but right for Europe), the speed (no limit!), and the constant stream of semitrailers. There was one point where I held my breath as M steered our car through a tight passage between two speeding trucks. These roads are owned by the semis and fast cars. A few hours later, we arrived (alive) in Amsterdam.

Amsterdam

M found an interesting looking wine bar in Zuid, a borough of Amsterdam (we’re staying in Amstelkwatier about five km from the centre) and caught train in. The streets were heaving with pedestrians and cyclists. Amsterdam became a bike city in the late 19th century. Young and old sitting high on their upright bikes, people sitting on the back rack, helmetless, hair flying behind, friends riding together with one holding onto the other’s bike. The streets have wide lanes for bikes and tiny cars (brommobielen) about 1.5 m wide and they don’t stop for anything. The cars are the intruders on the roads here. Short of the bar was a little cafe with a young woman rolling a cigarette and an older man dressed in chef’s uniform. M looked at the menu: three items. ‘Any good?’ he said. ‘Of course,’ the man said. ‘I am the chef and this is the best couscous restaurant in Amsterdam. You can have couscous vegan, couscous with lamb or couscous royal with lamb and chicken. You get seven steamed vegetables and a broth with it.’ Sold. I loved the simplicity. No menu. Want a drink? Yes. Wine or beer. On the table next to us two women dissected a friendship that was dissolving. ‘I think she hates me.’ ‘No, she does not.’ ‘She left me waiting for her at the cinema. No message. No apology.’ Friends as therapists. After our meal, the chef showed us his greenhouse room out the back. A table surrounded by plants, a wood-fired heater, the residue of a good dinner waiting to be cleared. Divine.

On Thursday, M left for work early and I ventured into the centre of Amsterdam. Unfortunately, due to the late notice that we would be here, I hadn’t been able to book into Anne Frank’s house, or Van Gogh, but I was happy to stroll around and soak in the city. First stop was Stephen West’s yarn shop, Stephen & Penelope. For those non knitters, Stephen is a guru of wild and exciting knitting patterns. I’d set out on this trip to buy a ball of local yarn from each city I visit so I can knit a set of souvenir socks when I’m home. I was chatting with my knitting group on WhatsApp as they gathered for our once a month knitting night as I drew close to the shop. ‘Send pictures!’ It was a well oiled machine in the shop with young women fulfilling online orders, others tidying, restocking the pegs. I was not the only foreigner coming to the knitting mecca, and not the only one unable to leave the shop with only one ball of yarn. In my defence, I chose one that was dyed in Amsterdam, one dyed specifically for the shop, and one of his brand. Across the road was Hook & Yarn. Inside was a calm atmosphere with only one shop assistant. He had much more choice of yarn from the Netherlands so I chose one and another ball of yak and silk to use for something else as this blend wouldn’t be strong enough for socks but is divine to touch. All yarned up, I set out for some lunch. I walked toward Jordaan, I stopped short of the much-talked-about Winkel 43 at Café Hegeraad, a traditional Amsterdam cafe. It was great sitting outside drinking coffee, watching the city cycle by seeing elm seeds confetti around. Being alone, more women stopped to speak, say hello. A good reminder that it’s good to travel solo sometimes.

I walked to Anne Frank’s house, realising, with surprise, that it was on a canal. I was unable to recall that but it has been probably forty years since I read her book. I recorded my feelings as I neared it thinking I’d do the same after but instead I was overwhelmed by the swarm of people and needed to get away.

I had imagined I’d sit and reflect while there but there was no place for quiet. A buzzy queue of people snacked around the corner. Instead I walked and walked, imaging what this city was like occupied by the Nazis, the horror of it. I ended up at the library which was full of students. On the top floor I found a quiet place to be and write and look at the canal.

We walked to a nearby restaurant by the canal for dinner. Friends and families gathered in the lush gardens around the house that used to be occupied the gas works supervisor. Inside, rooms were filled with art and treasures.

Friday was a public holiday for Germany so M had the day off. I’d booked us into Keukenhof and we’d planned to find the North Sea beach. It turned out that most of Amsterdam had the same idea—apparently, as it was 24 degrees, many took the day off. Keukenhof is only open for 7 weeks each year and showcases flowers. There were tulips of all colours and sizes, daffodils and jonquils, and so much more. Stunning, fragrant … and set off a long sneezing attack! From there we followed our nose and ended up on a country road. We both spotted the windmill in the distance at the same time and M made a beeline. It’s such a thrill having a car which allows us to travel in a familiar way, being able to steer clear of the main crowds.

The Korenmolen windmill is one of ten functioning traditional mills in the Netherlands. It’s run by Jos Kors and he encourages people to have a good look around. We climbed up the various floors, seeing the flour mill in action and the other miller Teunis took M right to the top. After, they invited us into Jos’s house next door for a cup of tea. An absolute treat. Teunis suggested we visit a nearby castle ruin.

The Brederode castle (originally built in early thirteenth century) had been besieged twice and never rebuilt. Now, you can climb to the top of the remaining turret. It’s really well set up for kids to learn and play, and there’s a great little cafe that sells delicious crunchy rye rolls.

Our next stop was the beach and so began a very slow crawl to Bloemendaal aan Zee. When we arrived at the incredibly well organised carpark, I questioned if we were at the beach as everyone was dressed up, wearing nice sandals and shoes. The beach was packed and there were about four people in the water. The water was freezing and … brown? I dipped my toe in and that was enough. After loads of people-watching, we found a cute inn for dinner in the middle of the forest to have some bitterballen, kaasfondue and kaastengels (basically, meatballs, cheese and more cheese) followed by a crepe with fresh strawberries. As I overheard a Dutch person telling a tourist that if they don’t like dairy, there’s not much for them to eat.

Our good friend who lives in the UK joined us on Saturday morning to hang out with us for about 30 hours. Feeling a little like a local from my one day exploring, I took them to Cafe Hegeraad and Noordermarkt which was a delightful buzz of fruit and vegetables, seafood, meat and cheese, flowers and other wares. Our mate’s wife had a friend who owned a beer tasting room (Bierproeflokaal In De Wildeman) where we caught up properly over beers. We asked the bartender for recommendation for dinner and landed at the delightful Cafe Scheltema that has been in the same family since 1902. It’s a place that journalists used to hang out and had a wonderful vibe of traditional Dutch life.

On our last day in Amsterdam, today, we took a canal tour. Everyone says it’s a must, and it is, but I think you need to choose your operator wisely. Ours was wonderful but M’s boss who’d been there before didn’t have such a good experience. What I learned from Igor:

1. Amsterdam is built on long poles into the ground and the whole of the Netherlands is below sea level (the ‘under lands’). The sea water is kept back by dykes. There buildings and roads are at risk in the canal areas as the weight of the cars, electric cars in particular, is too much as the city was not engineered for this weight.

2. Another problem with the poles is that people skimped on the length of the poles used as timber was very expensive and had to be imported. This has led to buildings sinking and leaning on each other.

3. The hooks on the top of all of the buildings are to pulley things up to the top floors. This is also why the houses have a slight leaning forward angle.

4. Amsterdam used to be known as the lady with the stinky breath due to the level of sewerage after the increase of houseboats which managed the need for more housing when there was a baby boom after the war.

5. The houses are narrow as they were taxed on the width of the house and the number of windows.

6. The logo of Amsterdam is XXX which means:

   1. Be safe

   2. Be brave

   3. Be there for each other.

The final thing I did before leaving Amsterdam to drive back home to Mönchengladbach was go to Scheltema bookshop and get a Dutch copy of Miffy and a fresh copy of The Diary of Anne Frank as I now need to reread it.

Thanks for reading! This week has been big! I hope your week has gone well.

Until next week,

x M

Here’s my wrap of last month’s books read, bookish events attended, and movies and shows watched, and what’s on the bedside table in various states of being read.

A lot less books read this month, mostly because I was busy getting ready to travel, etc.

Don’t forget to tell me what you’ve been reading or what your think of the books I’ve read.

Books

Books read

Periodic Bitch by Emma Hardy

Emma Hardy’s debut Periodic Bitch not only has a smashing title, but tackles a subject that has long been treated as taboo: women’s periods and menstrual health. Hardy shares her experience of living with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), charting both the difficulty of getting diagnosed and the enormous disruption the condition caused in her life. She underpins her personal story with a history of the language surrounding women’s health and a sharp social commentary on how routinely these experiences are minimised or misunderstood.

I met Emma when she was in the grips of this, and it is telling that even though what I saw was a vibrant and funny improv teacher, she was privately managing an extraordinarily difficult condition. That tension between outward competence and inward struggle gives the book much of its emotional power.

Hardy writes with humour and clarity, which makes the book accessible even as it explores painful and frustrating experiences. The blend of memoir, research, and cultural critique works especially well, because it never feels overly clinical or detached.

This is a book worth reading not only to better understand PMDD, but also to see how women’s health has historically been sidelined and obscured. Recent estimates suggest that between three and eight percent of women live with PMDD, meaning there are likely many people enduring it without recognising the condition or knowing support is available.

I highly recommend Periodic Bitch. It is an insightful, well written and deeply human account that deserves a wide readership especially among people who think they already understand women’s health.

Listen to my interview with Emma

I received an advance reader copy from Allen & Unwin through NetGallery

The News from Dublin by Colm Tóibín

The News from Dublin is a collection of short stories centred on Dubliners writing home from abroad and in many ways felt like a meditation on distance from family, place and the versions of ourselves we leave behind. The stories move across Ireland, Spain, Argentina and the US, but are bound together by themes of longing, exile, family obligation and the quiet burden of history.

What Tóibín does so well is the restrained emotional register he brings to his characters. Nothing is overstated, yet everything feels deeply felt. He has a way of letting small moments carry enormous emotional weight, so that what’s left unsaid often matters as much as what’s spoken.

Even in their bleakness, these stories are absorbing. There’s a steady compassion in the writing that makes the characters feel fully human, even when they’re at their most isolated or uncertain. The idea of “home” runs through the collection in a way that feels both physical and emotional, something remembered, resisted or longed for rather than simply returned to.

Listening to these stories brought me quiet joy and they linger because they’re so precisely observed and understand how complicated it is to belong anywhere at all.

I listened to this on BorrowBox via my library

All Our Shimmering Stars by Trent Dalton

Trent Dalton’s Our Shimmering Stars is another reminder of what he does so well as a writer: capturing the lives of outsiders and underdogs with enormous heart, while filtering the world through the strange, luminous logic of childhood.

Dalton has a gift for finding magic in difficult places. His stories are grounded in hardship and vulnerability, yet they never feel bleak because they are infused with wonder, humour, and a kind of emotional optimism. In All Our Shimmering Stars, that magical realism works beautifully, giving the story the feeling of being both gritty and dreamlike at the same time.

What I particularly enjoy about Dalton’s writing is the compassion he brings to his characters. Even the flawed or broken characters are treated with tenderness, and the children in his stories often see truths that adults overlook. That perspective gives the novel much of its emotional pull.

Like his earlier work, this is a book that balances darkness with hope. Dalton reminds us that imagination can be a survival tool, especially for people living on the margins.

All Our Shimmering Stars is heartfelt, vivid, and deeply Australian storytelling. This is the kind of novel that lingers after I finish it.

I read my physical copy of this

Like, Follow, Die by Ashley Kalagian Blunt

Ashley Kalagian Blunt’s Like, Follow, Die is exactly the kind of thriller I enjoy most: fast-paced, unsettling and uncomfortably close to reality. What I particularly admire about Kalagian Blunt’s writing is her ability to take dangers hiding in plain sight and turn them into gripping fiction. This time, she tackles the toxicity of the manosphere and the ways online radicalisation can seep into everyday life.

The novel moves at an impressive pace, but it is the underlying social observation that gives it real weight. Kalagian Blunt understands how internet culture, loneliness, insecurity and algorithms can combine into something genuinely dangerous, and she explores those themes without ever losing the momentum of the story.

I was lucky enough to attend the Melbourne launch for Like, Follow, Die at Readings Carlton, where Ashley was in conversation with bestselling crime writer JP Pomare. The event was packed with thriller and crime fans, and true to Ashley’s style, it was warm, generous, and thoughtfully put together complete with games, prizes, chocolates and even a map tied to the book. It reflected the same energy she brings to her writing and to the literary community more broadly.

Kalagian Blunt is not only a terrific writer, but also a genuinely warm and generous person, and that combination makes it easy to champion her work. Like, Follow, Die is a sharp, timely thriller that taps directly into contemporary anxieties while remaining hugely entertaining.

I read my physical copy of this book

Current reads

I don’t have as many on the go as I’m travelling and relying on what I have with me, ebooks (still to crack that open properly) and audiobooks. I had thought I wouldn’t be able to access my library’s audiobooks while in another country, but I can! Huzzah!

Monkey Grip by Helen Garner

I’m listening to the audiobook while we travel. It’s read by Helen and it’s great having an Australian accent, and Helen’s sharpness accompany us. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to read this classic Australian book by our literary queen.

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

I brought my physical copy of this book with me on my travels. So far six pages have fallen out due to, what I can only assume is, poor production by the publisher. It’s a hugely popular book, one that has made it to the Women’s Fiction Awards 2026, so maybe they’re having to pump them out too fast to get the glue right. Anyway, it won’t come home with me due to this, but I am loving it.

Bookish events attended

I haven’t made it to many bookish things as I’ve had a bit on, so it was great to see writers who I haven’t seen in ages at the ones I got to.

Frogsong book launch at Willows & Wine

Melissa Manning’s launch was held at the North Melbourne Willows & Wine, a small bookish bar. Toni Jordan led a beautiful conversation with Melissa. The room was full of love for Melissa and her new book. As I said last month, get yourself a copy as you won’t regret it.

The General Hospital book launch at The Oratory, Abbotsford Convent

The Oratory was a pack room of authors, psychiatrists and friends of Anne Buist and Graeme Simsion. This book is the third in the Menzies Mental Health series cowritten by Anne and Graeme. Anne brings her expertise as a psychiatrist and from her junior years as a doctor into these books. The great conversation was led by Dr Manjula O’Connor. At the event, I not only caught up with writers and authors I know, but also a past colleague and friend from my neighbourhood. I’m really looking forward to reading this but it will have to wait until I return as I couldn’t pack it into my case.

What I’ve watched

Bridgerton (Season 4) – Series

Divine. Now more please!

DTF (please don’t make me spell it out…) – Series

If you watch this, have the tissues ready for the end.

The True False Prophet – Documentary Series

Wow. This was a lot and it feels hard to believe that people and places exist. This limited series (four episodes) follows one woman’s mission to expose and a small sect of Mormons who basically traffic young women.

Euphoria (Season 2) – Series

It’s back baby and continues its wild pace.

King William – Film

I watched this on the plane and had to find tissues at the end. It is the story of Serena and Venus William’s dad and his dream to make them tennis champions.

Over to you

What did you read or watch this month? What’s up next for you to read or watch?

Leave a comment

Until next time, happy reading

x Meg

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the smallest thing can give us breath. This is a day late. My apologies but I was too busy exploring some of the Netherlands. Some of these five things will give you a taste of what this week’s postcard contains.

1. Why make art

   “As for Louise Bourgeois, what I learned from Bourgeois is, when she says something like, I make art because my emotions are bigger than I am, that’s a very uncool thing to say.

   And I love how uncool it is.”

   From The Great Women Artists: Deborah Levy on Gertrude Stein, 22 Apr 2026

2. Tulips

   Of all colours and sizes

3. Kindness

   In the shape of a working windmill containing passionate and kind people willing to share their knowledge of milling flour and maintaining a heritage windmill.

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

4. A grey heron

   Spied through an arrow slit at a castle ruin

   

5. Amsterdam library

   Libraries are always a great refuge. The Amsterdam one has a great space on the top floor with a balcony overlooking the canal, a cafe and tables and chairs to work. The library was packed with young and old, studying, reading and catching up.

   

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• On the podcast: interview with Graeme Simsion and Anne Buist

• April reads (heads up that I’ve not read nearly as this month)

• Postcard from Europe 2026 #2

My tooth had been playing up since I’d returned from Europe last year. Prior to that trip, I’d had a root canal and crown and I shouldn’t have been feeling anything but I had been feeling, a lot. We spend an hour chatting first. It had been a while. I’ve always loved seeing her. We’ve both got a lot to say.

Most people don’t like coming to the dentist, I say. But maybe that’s because they haven’t met you.

Some dentists I know hate talking with their patients, she says.

Lucky I’ve got you then, I say.

Same, she says and says she loves the tips on parenting. Her kids are four and two. I’m twenty more years down the path.

What are you doing for Christmas? I say.

Nothing, she says. I figure the kids are young enough that we can get away with doing nothing on Christmas Day. We’ve got a big family thing the day after so we’re just gonna pretend that it’s not even Christmas Day on Christmas Day. Do you think we’ll get away with it?

Did I tell you about the time I was so tired I tricked the kids into going to bed at five o’clock? I say

She laughs. Tell me your trick!

I was bone tired so I pretended that it was dinner time at four o’clock. I fed them, shut the curtains, gave them a bath, read to them and put them to bed. They would have been about one, three and four. Before school years. When M came home from work, he found me on the front step drinking a glass of wine. He looked worried and asked where the kids were. I said, They’re all in bed already. I was just too tired.

Genius, she says.

Before Easter, I see her. There’s a bowl of chocolate eggs on the counter.

Counterintuitive? I say, Or drumming up business?

I’m a real sweettooth, she says.

She tries to fit the new crown on the tooth, but it won’t go on. We talk more about my upcoming trip to Europe while she scans my tooth again, makes calls to the crown people, organises another.

Are you seeing F (my oldest)?

No, he’s going away with his girlfriend.

I can’t even imagine not having the kids with me. Even when they shit me.

I’m back for the new, new crown.

What happened to your knee? She points to the bandaid on my knee.

I fell. I may have had a few drinks but it was the lack of footpath on the corner. I just fell and threw my phone. Skinned my knee like a kid. It bloody hurt.

My kids ate all my Easter eggs. Can you believe it? she says. I didn’t get a single one.

Buy one for yourself and hide it, I say.

My kids would find them. How did you do it?

We put them on the top of the fridge in a container that didn’t have anything in it. We use the same container for the kids party bags. Screwed the lid on.

Smart, she says.

You’ve got to make sure it’s a container that you can’t see through, though. And put it up high enough that they can’t reach, like on top of the fridge. Otherwise they’ll drag the chair over and climb up to it. M would eat all the kid’s lollies when they went to bed and they didn’t even seem to know.

I’ve been thinking about the fuel crisis. I’ve decided I’m going to start growing some vegetables. Do you think they’ll grow in time?

Maybe, I say. Maybe the crisis will be done by then. Either way … you can’t go wrong with fresh veggies.

I’m also thinking about getting some chickens. That way we’ve got fresh eggs as well. Although I don’t know how much space they’ll need.

We had five chickens and they took up most of the garden. We had them in closed off area. Fenced in. They had a third of the garden. We lost four flocks to foxes so then we built the Taj Mahal for them so the foxes couldn’t get in, but then my husband didn’t like them being trapped away so he would let them out and then they would dig up the entire garden. Even still, the fox found a way in. Gruesome stuff. Headless chickens everywhere. So it depends. Do you want a garden or do you want chickens?

She pushes the new, new crown onto the tooth and holds it in place until the glue has set. We went to Port Arlington over Easter.

I swish the bitter taste of the glue out of my mouth. We were there not long ago. We loved it. Did you get the mussels?

No! They looked too big, looked like a huge bag.

Smart move, I say. It was it was five kilo. We cooked one meal with it and still have three kilos in the freezer. I don’t know if we’ll ever eat them.

I call the dentist to say I’m running five minutes late the receptionist says no worries. She’s still with someone. I say I’m running down the hill. She says, please don’t run. The dentist is waiting for me. I’m out of breath.

She says, Please tell me you didn’t run.

I say, I walked fast.

She says, I’d just hate for you to have a …

A fall? I say.

She says, Yeah, and, I remember two weeks ago you had and you skinned your knee.

She gives me the new splint and asks me to put it in to see if it fits.

Shit, I lisp. I can’t get it out. Thish will just be the way I talk now.

If it went in …

You’d think it should … but not everything does. Did I tell you about the time J got his head stuck in the back of a dining chair?

She can’t stop laughing. It came out though?

No! It should have. I lisp through the conversation. He was only four maybe. We were eating tea, M wasn’t home. I kept telling J to turn his head to get it out, but it just wouldn’t.

Vasoline on the ears?

Didn’t work! I went to the shed and found a saw and cut the rung off.

I tell her I’m writing an essay called Conversations with My Dentist.

She grins. I can’t wait to read it.

Until next time

x Meg

My dear Muser, it has begun again. My series of Postcards from Europe has been dusted off from last year to bring you a fresh postcard each Sunday of this year’s seven-week working holiday trip.

I have travelled for over twenty-seven hours to accompany M, who is working on the other side of the world for a month. At the end of the month, we travel to Belgrade, where we will be joined by our three sons, MIL and SIL for a special event at the Belgrade University Library for M’s family, followed by a short family holiday on the Adriatic Sea.

If you had asked me last year if I would be back in Europe so soon, I would have laughed, and probably cried. I loved my trip last year so much. Everything was new. I arrived like a wide-eyed child, ready to have my mind expanded. It was truly an expansive trip of travel and creative work. When I came home, I was bereft. I wanted to be back in the Château, playing with the other creatives instead of returning to the reality of home.

This trip, I have done minimal planning. I am the plus-one to my husband’s work trip, and I will continue working and writing while I am here. A friend asked last week if I was excited, and I answered her honestly that I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have that puppy-like excitement I’d had last year, so was I?

She gently suggested that maybe I was calmly excited. She’s right. It’s a different kind of excitement. This time, Europe is not an unknown, and as we are mostly in Germany, I thought I already knew more about it than I actually do. My family learnt German at school, my eldest sister and brother did exchanges there, we hosted a German student and their friends, and Mum became so obsessed with it that we did conversational German classes once a week. I am still haunted by my classmates saying, “Guten Morgen Megan Morgan”, at the start of class.

Getting here was the first and biggest hurdle. Our flights were booked via Doha, like many others travelling to Europe. Some swift cancelling and rebooking (at double the price) meant we could still get here. A huge reminder of the enormous privilege it is to be able to travel, despite the atrocities going on in the world.

The next hurdle was working out how to get my knitting needles through security. I had begun a beanie as part of the Bendigo Project and wanted to keep going with it. My knitting friends and I workshopped it over coffee on Monday, and I decided to use bamboo interchangeable needles stored in my pencil tin. Much to my delight, it worked.

Our flight was smooth, with some wonderful surprises and gentle reminders of the joy and camaraderie of travel. While waiting for check-in to open (M is an “early arriver”, which lowers stress levels enormously), the man two parties in front of us at the front of the queue turned and said my name. As soon as he said it, I realised who he was. He’d lived with my family during a particularly tricky time in his teen years. We always had people living with us, with Mum and Dad supporting them. I hadn’t seen him since Mum’s funeral eleven years ago. We caught up on who’s doing what until check-in opened.

The girl behind us was travelling home to see her family in Germany, and we continued our conversation each time we saw each other in the queues from Melbourne to Bangkok to Frankfurt. There is something special about that bubble of passage where we are all in this thing together. Long-haul flights are a strange time-travel capsule. People of all kinds are thrown together: the snorers, the coughers, the talkers, the private. I will always be in awe of these huge metal birds carrying such diverse passengers across the sky.

Across the aisle from me on the first leg was another knitter, working on a dress for her sister’s wedding in Germany on Saturday. She had to finish it on the flights. We exchanged details, and I was delighted to see her post a photo on her instagram of the finished dress.

On arrival in Frankfurt, a security guard pointed the growing mass of tired and confused travellers to a long corridor saying, “Hold the line”. How is it that airports always seem surprised by the arrival of a huge group of passengers? A trio of young men, eshay-like, passed and only after they had gone did I realise the middle one was in handcuffs.

Our first stop was a café for “Zwei Kaffees und eins…” Everyone had told me I wouldn’t need my Year 10 German, as most Germans speak English. Even so, I’d been brushing up on Duolingo, and I’m glad I did. The man behind the counter didn’t seem to understand English, and many others we’ve met so far don’t either. Thankfully, the language of gestures works universally.

From Frankfurt we travelled to Düsseldorf on the ICE train, chatting with a German couple on their way home from holiday as the train flew through the countryside at 300 km/h. We arrived in Mönchengladbach, a fairly industrial town, on a foggy, cold morning. The apartment I had chosen for its garden was dark. I had that “oh, bugger” moment. Would I survive a month here? We walked off our long-haul legs to explore the area, returning fresher and happier, just as the sun made its welcome appearance. Later, we met M’s colleagues in the old town centre for a drink, and I breathed out. Oh, how I love these European town squares: the tables and chairs facing outward, the early evening sun.

Yesterday, after M’s colleague dropped off equipment for him to use, I found a market not far away. That was the moment I felt that deep delight of being on the other side of the world. European markets seem to share a similar spirit across countries, something I haven’t seen replicated in the same way in Australia. The music, the tables of people drinking coffee or beer, eating pastries or sausages or soup, buckets of flowers, fresh fruit and vegetables. People’s curiosity about us only surfaced when I butchered my German trying to order coffee or respond to questions. The thrill of the mental gymnastics of communication.

Today, before a test drive to M’s workplace forty minutes away, we stopped by Bernd Verfürth, a bakery not far from our place. Oh, the joy that the baker had little English. I spoke broken German and ordered a bienenstich, our second of the trip. It’s my favourite German cake, the same one my childhood bakery used to make.

After checking the map, we decided to have lunch in the Netherlands, twenty minutes away. Oh, the joy of navigating two languages with staff who speak both fluently, while realising how hopeless we are as Australians with only one! I drank a Trappist beer from Belgium and we enjoyed white asparagus specials.

After lunch, we drove another twenty minutes to Belgium and discovered Kessenich (not to be confused with Kessenich in Bonn, Germany). This is a very old town, with ceramics and coins dating back to the tenth century having been discovered there. It is also a busy route for cyclists riding the Maas route. A man stopped to tell us something in Dutch or French, I wasn’t sure. I asked if he spoke English, and luckily he did. He told us to go to the next town, Thorn, where the old buildings are all painted white. If I could live in any European village, this might be the one.

Now we are home. We have travelled through three countries in an afternoon and are settling into our Sunday night routine, sorting out the working week, which includes a trip to Amsterdam.

While here, I will continue working with my clients, running my Writing Momentum group, interviewing creatives for the podcast, and more. I will also be working towards the end of the first draft of a manuscript, with the goal of finishing it before I leave Germany if I don’t get too distracted by all there is to explore!

Until next week,

x M

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the smallest thing can give us breath.

1. Travel

   I am feeling like the luckiest gal on earth because not only did I get to travel to Europe for the first time last year, but this week, I have headed over there again to join M while he is working in Germany. I’ll continue working and writing, but I’ll do it from here and we’ll get to do a bunch of other amazing things while here. Including me practising my (terrible) Year 10 German.

   You know what this also means? A new Postcards from Europe series! Keep your eye out for them coming your way with me spotting things like this gorgeous mural at the Düsseldorf station

   

2. Knitting on planes

   Across the aisle from me on my flight from Melbourne to Bangkok, was a fellow knitter who was knitting a beautifully bright orange and pink pattern on a white background. She was knitting very fast and in the same way I do (continental style). After a number of hours, I caught her attention and asked what she was knitting. A dress! For her sister’s wedding this Saturday (today for Australians). She was flying for the wedding to then turn around and fly home to Tasmania for work on Tuesday.

   The whole knitting on planes thing was a very big discussion with some of my knitters last week. The end solution was to use bamboo interchangeable needles, take them off and put them with the pencils for security checks. It worked! And I got to knit a lot (and undo and redo … knitters out there will understand that this is just a thing that we do, especially when knitting brioche cable…)

3. A fleeting moment

   We were standing at the check-in queue, third from the front. The guy at the front was with his partner. We were all early and conversation flowed easily exchanging stories about who was going where for whatever reason. He recognised me first, and the minute he said my name I knew exactly who he was. I haven’t seen him since Mum’s funeral 11 years ago, and that day was a blur. Before that, it was years, maybe decades. He’d lived with my family during his teens; our house was one of those house where there was always another living with us for all sorts of reasons. His grin was wide and in that brief moment we caught each other up with everything before parting ways.

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

4. A great egret

   The delightful walk on the first morning of fog in Melbourne was only made better by catching sight of this elegant bird.

   

5. Book launch with a truck load of authors and serious wine

   On Tuesday this week, I joined in celebrating Graeme Simsion and Anne Buist launching their latest Menzies Mental Health book. It was a room full of authors, writers from my community, mates from my RMIT course, someone from my Kensington Ladies Auxiliary (our knitting group) and a woman I worked with while at V-Line! It was one of those fabulous moments when I wished I could have longer time to chat with all of them.

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• On the podcast: interview with Emma Hardy

• April reads (heads up that I’ve not read nearly as this month)

• A new essay

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the smallest thing can give us breath.

1. A wholesome Thread on jars

   Hello fellow jar collectors! I have a big stash of jars in the pantry that M keeps threatening to send to the op shop. This thread has given fuel to my reasons to keep them. Some of the things I reuse jars for are: collections of feathers, shells, seeds and stones; propagating; pencils; sand; and pantry items. What do you reuse jars for?

   

2. Autumn colour

   

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

3. A gathering of my people

   Twice a year I gather my people who have retreated with me or attended my workshops or coaching. This time I added a fun secret book swap. I love the conversations between those who come, meeting new friends, having conversations about creativity. Joy!

   

4. Off the needles

   It’s always a great thing to finish a knitting project. I started this Aava cardigan in November last year and it may be the fastest I’ve knitted a cardigan. I’ve already started my next knitting project, a beanie as part of the Bendigo Project (let me know if you’re playing along!)

   

5. Free public transport month

   This April in Victoria, public transport is free and many are taking advantage of this (hello, crowded trains), which is a wonderful thing. Sophia Cussell has been posting very funny reels on Instagram about how to make the most of it.

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• On the podcast: interview with Toni Jordan

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the tiniest of things can give us breath. Now, more than ever, do we need to look for joy in the small things.

1. Walks with a friend

   A friend of mine who lives on the other side of town suggested that we lock in a regular time to walk and talk. We both love a chat and we both love to walk, so it is no surprise that talking on the phone with her while walking down to the wetlands brought a huge sense of joy to my morning.

2. Time

   We stayed home over Easter and there was a deep joy in spending time, precious time, at home. I went to the gym (twice), M and I had an excursion in the city to eat Balkan food, good friends dropped by (twice (!)), M and I gardened, and I knitted and listened to books. On the Sunday, I realised I still had a whole day of weekend and I was overwhelmed with happiness.

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

3. Rain

   Just as I was about to head to the dentist yesterday, the skies opened up with torrential rain. Instead of reaching for the car keys, I donned my raincoat, changed from sandals to boots and grabbed my umbrella. There is something so delightful and childlike to walk in the rain with joy.

4. A dog in a gingham pinny

   No explanation needed.

   

5. Snail mail

   Always brings me joy

   

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• Monday 13 April 12.30-1.30 pm AEST online event : A masterclass for creatives on creative intuition and decision making to help you distinguish between fear and genuine intuition, develop a personal writing decision process and start making confident creative choices even without certainty.

  Find out more

• Wednesday 15 April: Writing Opportunities & Competitions Issue 4, 2026

• Wednesday 15 April: on the podcast an interview with Melbourne artist Stacey McCall

• Friday 17 April: 5 Things of Joy

Five things that have brought me joy this week because joy is a salve and even the tiniest of things can give us breath.

1. Colourful blooms

   A delightful surprise of these glorious flowers from a writing friend.

   

2. A fawn called Cheryl

   May we all embrace our days the way Cheryl does.

   Musings with Meg is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

3. Kindness in surprising places

   A young guy, beanie clad, low slung track pants, a dude by all accounts, leaves his seated row machine at the gym to help an elderly man adjust the weights and demonstrate how to use it, then making sure the man was okay while discreetly moving the walking stick to ensure it doesn’t fall.

4. 25 years of J

   This kid has been a source of joy for me for 25 years now. It’s been a week of celebration with a family dinner (stir fry and an upside down pear cake) then a dinner with his friends where he cooked up a feast of homemade focacia, slow cooked lamb, spanakopita and ginger fluff cake.

5. Bonsai

   I love neighbourhood houses for so many reasons. This week was because of this fun Australian native bonsai class J and I did. Bonsai is a long game! There is so much to learn, but there’s no rush. In the words of the bonsai master: the worst thing you can do with your bonsai is do nothing. I’ve shaped, clipped and wired my tree and in a few months, I’ll halve the pot then wire it into a bonsai pot.

What gave you joy this week?

Leave a comment

Until next time, my friend, keep seeking joy — in small, ordinary or defiant ways.

x M

Share

If this gave you joy today but you’re not looking for another subscription, a one-off tip is a beautiful way to say thanks. x Meg

Tip jar: tip what you like

In case you missed it

Coming up next week

• On the podcast: interview with musicians Alice Garner and Dave Bowers

• A new Mindset Insights on how to manage your creative energy