There is this thing called the march of progress.
It can be good, or it can be bad.
I remember, a long time ago now, the many holidays I spent at my grandmother’s place in the ‘country’. Back then it was.
Now it is just another suburb of Melbourne.
I remember the drive, and it used to take about half an hour, perhaps longer, and as we traveled, it was mostly the countryside we saw. Little towns like Beaconsfield, Officer, Berwick, oases in the middle of farming land.
The last time I went for that same drive, there was endless houses.
My grandmother’s house was very large, and the land it was built on, extensive. There used to be gardens, several garages, a number of old cars, and a huge workshop.
My brother and I used to spend our Christmases exploring, and on a particular one, found some tools and decided to recover some of it.
We found a huge fountain buried beneath the overgrowth, the centerpiece of what must have been a remarkable display.
It was like we had our own secret garden.
There was also a fernery, also overgrown.
Now, sadly, all of it is gone, and in its place a multilane highway that follows an alternate coastal route between Melbourne and Sydney.
All I have left is the memories of a time that will never return.