I seem to have misplaced March. One minute it was hovering there with good intentions and half-written lists, and the next—gone. No forwarding address. No polite note of explanation. Just a vague sense that I’d blinked, possibly sneezed, and missed an entire month. Mind you, I was still recovering from the last couple of months, so could be excused for not writing much.
Misplaced March is how we found ourselves retreating to the block for Easter, slightly bewildered but quietly relieved. There’s something deeply comforting about disappearing in a deliberate way—especially when the rest of the world appears to have done the same, thanks to a fuel crisis that kept many sensible people firmly at home.
The result? Silence. Glorious, uninterrupted, slightly eerie silence. No distant hum of traffic as wheels cope with the corrugations and no dust hanging in the air or wafting over the paddock. No weekend influx. Just the occasional breeze, the creak of settling timber, and the distinct feeling that we had accidentally booked the entire countryside for ourselves.
Not that we were entirely alone. We did have a couple of human visitors over the long weekend, but the wagtails, for instance, needed to check on us and had opinions.
They’ve been regular visitors, but this weekend they took on the role of neighbourhood inspectors—darting in with that purposeful strut, tails flicking like tiny metronomes of judgement. Every new item, every subtle shift in arrangement, was thoroughly investigated.
Moved a chair? Noted.
Left a mug outside? Questionable.
Dog sat still for too long? Suspicious.
They are, it turns out, both curious and deeply territorial. A fascinating combination. One in particular seemed convinced we were long-term guests who needed firm but fair supervision.
There is something reassuring about their vigilance and their chatter. While I may have misplaced March entirely, the wagtails clearly haven’t lost track of anything. So I have decided to rename the small building “Wagtail Cottage”.
Time here has a different texture. It stretches and softens. Days are marked less by clocks and more by light shifting across the ground, by cups of tea, and by the slow realisation that not much has happened. And that this is, in fact, the point. I’ve also decided to stop calling it “the block” and use the term “the retreat” going forward.
The fuel crisis may have kept others away, but it gifted us a rare kind of Easter: one without the usual background noise of doing. Saturday saw the trip into town for the Easter Parade in the main street and the market. Crowds, noise, new smells for the dog and a desire to return to the peace and quiet.
Instead at the retreat there was watching.
Listening.
Noticing.
The (almost) full moon rising and viewed through a moon gate.
Clear night skies with stars sparkling. And being gently reminded—by a small, determined bird—that even when time slips through your fingers, life continues to unfold in the most attentive, present way imaginable.
I may have missed March, but nothing else is missing at the moment.
