There’s a street I walk down regularly that is like entering a magical mystery tour. Every time I turn off Darling St, Balmain into Datchett St it’s like entering another world. The houses are mostly weatherboard cottages, built in the 1840’s and the street quickly narrows to a stone laneway that descends towards the harbour down a steep hill. It is always quiet. A creative enclave that has views of the harbour filtered through the lush greenery. It’s in the middle of Sydney’s inner west, a densely populated, urban environment, but it always conjures up a small seaside town ambience.
Walking down this street always unleashes the creative child in me as I imagine stories and adventures that have filled these cottages. The shoes that have trodden the old and worn stones before mine. It’s a daily gift for a writer.
And that hill is steep, far more pleasurable to amble leisurely down, taking in the view, than to huff and puff upwards.