The home that inspired Alice in Wonderland hits the market for $3.2 million
Located in Ripon, North Yorkshire, 'Ripon Old Hall' is a Grade II listed Georgian town house that was built in the 18th century.
Carroll, whose real name was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, lived in the property as a young man in the 1850s when his father served as canon of the cathedral.
While the classic children's book was published in 1865, according to David Winpenny - co-chairman of Ripon Civic Society - it is believed that Carroll took inspiration from the Ripon house for the story.
"We think he was inspired by some of the carvings of the cathedral, the Cheshire Cat and the rabbits going down rabbit holes in the cathedral," Mr Winpenny said in an interview with the BBC.
"He also wrote poems for the children of the Bishop of Ripon while he was there."
The sale of the property is being managed by agents Ed Stoyle and Mark Lloyd from Savills.
"The house offers a real slice of history and a window into the changing architecture of the last 300 years," said Mr Stoyle.
The historic home is currently owned by Michael Godwin, who is selling the property with the intention of downsizing.
In an interview with the BBC, Godwin said it was love at first sight when he first saw the home.
"I saw this one online and it created a little bit of interest, but I hadn't been to see it. Then one day I just thought, 'oh I've got to see that house', he said.
"As soon as they opened the front door, within two seconds, I looked at the Georgian features and the staircase and the ceiling and I thought, 'yes, I'll have this'."
The three-level property features six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a recently modernised kitchen, majestic drawing room, sitting room and formal dining room.
Attractive period details within the home include a 1738 staircase hall, a ceiling roundel depicting Cupid, oak-balustered staircase, pine wainscotting, and a ceiling in the upper hall depicting a grand Judgement of Paris scene.
Outside, the private walled gardens lead onto a manicured lawn, sun-drenched breakfast garden, and a gated driveway with an expansive parking area.
There is also a self-contained studio on the property with its own kitchen, bedroom, lounge and bathroom. Perfect for guests or intergenerational living.
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The Advertiser
38 minutes ago
- The Advertiser
The immeasurable wonders of life and little Hudson's big question
We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value.
Courier-Mail
an hour ago
- Courier-Mail
Royal cousin's ‘traumatic' cause of death revealed
Don't miss out on the headlines from Royals. Followed categories will be added to My News. The 'traumatic' cause of Prince William and Prince Harry's cousin's death has been revealed. 20-year-old Rosie Roche died of a 'traumatic head injury', the Wiltshire and Swindon coronor confirmed, as per Page Six. No further details were given. As reported yesterday, an inquest heard that Roche, granddaughter of Princess Diana's uncle, died at her family home in the small English village of Norton on July 14. The Sun reported that Roche's body was discovered by her mother and sister, and that she had been packing for a trip away with friends. Rosie Roche has died aged 20. She was a cousin to Princes William and Harry. Picture: AFP MORE: King Charles' savvy $33bn side hustle Area coroner Grant Davies said police 'have deemed the death as non-suspicious and there was no third-party involvement,' according to The Sun. Roche was a university student who had been studying English Literature at Durham University at the time of her death. Princes Harry and William are yet to publicly comment on their cousin's death. The Yorkshire Post published her obituary on July 19, noting that Roche will have a private family funeral and a memorial service will be held at a later date. In the obituary, she was described as 'darling daughter of Hugh and Pippa, incredible sister to Archie and Agatha [and] granddaughter to Derek and Rae Long.' Roche's death comes after another sudden passing rocked the royal family last year. Lady Gabriella and Thomas Kingston were married in St George's Chapel in May 2019. MORE: Prince Williams' dodgy $1.5b property empire revealed Thomas Kingston, the husband of royal cousin Lady Gabriella Windsor and former boyfriend of Pippa Middleton, was found dead in February of last year aged 45. An inquest later deemed his death 'not suspicious.' Kingston had been visiting his parents at their home in the Cotswolds when his father found him dead. 'It is with the deepest sorrow that we announce the death of Thomas Kingston, our beloved husband, son and brother,' a statement issued on behalf of Lady Gabriella and his family said shortly after his death. 'Tom was an exceptional man who lit up the lives of all who knew him. His death has come as a great shock to the whole family and we ask you to respect our privacy as we mourn his passing.' Originally published as Royal cousin's 'traumatic' cause of death revealed
West Australian
2 hours ago
- West Australian
Black Sabbath, Holst & travel — a tribute to Ozzy
As we travel, we collect pieces of a jigsaw, without even having the lid. That picture may only emerge later, unexpectedly. And this is how a jigsaw came together. It's mealtime and I'm flicking through Emirates' entertainment system, looking for something not-too-long to watch. I stumbled across a music documentary about the heavy metal band Black Sabbath. They're not really my cup of tea, but emerges is the story of a bunch of Birmingham boys who invented a whole musical genre, and remained down to earth, and friends, despite the excesses of the era and frontman Ozzy Osbourne. Musically, it's actually pretty interesting. There are complex time signatures and key shifts. Guitarist Tony Iommi's instrument was tuned lower to slacken the strings under his missing finger tips, which were cut off in a work accident. This is the 50th anniversary year of the Black Sabbath's genesis. They have sold more than 70 million records, won two Grammys and been inducted into both the UK Music Hall of Fame and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The chaps are actually endearing and their story inspiring. I feel like I've found the corner piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Future note to self — Things to see and do in Birmingham . Brindleyplace and the canal quarter (Cinderella story with bars and restaurants), Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery, Jewellery Quarter (more than 200 listed buildings), Cadbury World, just about any Indian restaurant, and Moseley Bog for a walk. (Yes, really. A bog.) I'd always thought the name 'Black Sabbath' came from the band being from the Black Country (so-called for the heavy-industry history of England's second city), but it was actually taken from their first song. And here's the second piece of my jigsaw. Despite his name, Gustav Holst was an English composer born in 1874 in rather elegant Cheltenham, 80km from Birmingham. The descendent of a Swedish family (by way of Latvia and Russia), he's most famous for composing The Planets suite, written in 1914 — Mars, Jupiter, Mercury and all the other known planets of that time given their characters. Mars, the bringer of war, is the first and perhaps most dramatic, opening with a primitive rhythm with an irregular 5 /4 time signature. It develops into an ominous low riff of three notes, based on the note G. An eponymous anthem. Black Sabbath bass player Geezer Butler recalls being in a recording studio in the early days of the band, and being a 'medium-sized fan of Holst's The Planets' he was trying to play the opening to Mars. Then next day, guitarist Iommi came in and played it differently — extending the second note upwards. He was playing G, A and Db — a flattened fifth. He was playing the devil's chord, the 'diabolus in musica', and a sequence that had been forbidden by the church for centuries. He was actually playing what became the signature riff for their first famous song, Black Sabbath. As we travel, we collect pieces of a jigsaw, without even having the lid. That picture may only emerge later, unexpectedly. And this is how a jigsaw came together. There's a refrain in the middle of Holst's Jupiter which, separately, became known as Thaxted. It was once best known for its use in the hymn I Vow To Thee My Country, but it has become rugby union's theme. It was morphed again, into the anthem World in Union, first heard at the 1991 Rugby World Cup, held in England. Rugby union is widely recognised by being invented by William Webb Ellis in 1823. The 2023 Rugby World Cup, to be held by France, will mark its 200th anniversary. Note to self — Things to see and do in France . Paris cafes, the D'Orsay Museum, the Eiffel Tower, Palace of Versailles and stroll the gardens of Luxembourg Palace and the little streets of St Germain and Les Puces flea market , of course. But here comes another part of that jigsaw … For sometime in 1899, Holst, then still an aspiring composer, was in London and visited the British Museum's Reading Room. He asked for several books, including works by the 5th century classical poet Kalidasa. Though having to earn a living playing trombone for the Carl Rosa Opera Company and in a popular orchestra called the White Viennese Band, Holst, who went to the Royal College of Music in London, had become interested in Hindu spirituality. He wanted to set some of its most important texts to music but didn't like the clunky translations he'd found and came here, to the British Museum to find precious early versions. He later told his daughter that he'd never felt more foolish than the moment the huge tomes were brought to him, and he found they were in Sanskrit. He surely felt less foolish after he learnt Sanskrit at University College London, specifically so that he could translate them himself. Holst did, indeed, set many of India's most famous early texts to music. There was Sita, a three-act opera based on part of the epic Ramayana poem, composed between 1899 and 1906. In 1908, Holst wrote Savitri, a chamber opera based a story from the Mahabharata. He wrote Hymns from the Rig Veda, and based other works on texts by the great Indian poet Kalidasa. Note to self — Things to see and do in London . British Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum, Science Museum, Natural History Museum — all free. But don't forget the Royal Academy of Music Museum and perhaps The Musical Museum, which has one of the world's best collections of self-playing instruments, including a massive Wurlitzer. It's in Brentford, near Kew Bridge railway station. Phrases in the poem by Kalidasa which follows will be recognisable the pieces of many jigsaws. For Kalidasa wrote this, possibly more than 1600 years ago … 'Listen to the exhortation of the dawn! Look to this day! For it is life, the very life of life. In its brief course lie all the verities and realities of your existence. The bliss of growth, the glory of action, the splendor of beauty; for yesterday is but a dream, and tomorrow is only a vision; But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness, and every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well therefore to this day! Such is the salutation of the dawn!' Kalidasa poet probably lived from around 350 to 460AD and, I think, it is widely accepted (and logical) that he was associated with the informed era of Chandra Gupta II (who reigned from around 380AD to 415AD). His work flourished in the 5th century. I have been collecting Kalidasa's works for years. It takes me to backstreet book shops in odd little towns in India. It takes me into tight little conversations with intellectuals and locals on the streets, who just read and know the poet. I see the Encylopaedia Britannica sites him as 'probably the greatest Indian writer of any epoch'. Note to self — Things to see and do in India . In Mumbai, visit the main railway station,Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, and Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya museum in South Mumbai, join Bollywood Tours and a one hour boat trip from Gateway of India to Elephant Island, with its 5th-century temples cut from the rock. Fly one and a half hours north east to the Ujjain in the state of Madhya Pradesh to visit the Kalidasa Academy, with its museum of Sanskrit theatrical arts and outdoor theatre, and the nearby Gadkalika Temple, dedicated to Goddess Kalika, who is associated with universal energy. It is said that Kalidasa, who had no formal education, acquired his knowledge and literary skills through blessings from the goddess, because of his complete devotion to her. The final part of this jigsaw comes when friend and outback travelling companion Grady Brand sends me a picture of a page from the book Legend of the Kimberley, about flying doctor Lawson Holman, compiled by Janet Holman. Found among Dr Holman's papers was this quote – another version of Kalidasa's word — which is published in the book: 'Yesterday has gone, it is no more than a memory. Tomorrow is the future, for which you plan and hope. Today is life. Make the most of this day, for in it is all the truth and reality of your existence; of heartache and happiness of learning and experiencing new things; the joy and the glory of action; the splendour of beauty. Today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness and every tomorrow a vision of hope. Such is life.' — Kaladasa It sang out to Grady, and he sent it to me. And that sent me, immediately, back to the red dust and blue sky of the Kimberley. I've always had an affinity for Derby, out there, surrounded by the sun-crazed mudflats, with that huge tide driving its rhythm, and its wide streets lined with big boabs. It marks the west end of the Gibb River Road, opened as a beef road in the early 1960s and now, usually, busy with mobs of tourists. At the start of the road, among boabs and the woodlands of this pindan country, is Holman House, built by Owen Ah Chee about 1915, and where Old Doc Holman, as Lawson Holman was affectionately known around here, lived in the 1950s. Doc died in 1993, aged 64, but is still a legend in these parts, remembered for his outstanding commitment to the health of the town, its outlying communities and the patients of the Derby Leprosarium. Holman House is recognised as a State heritage icon — just like the man who lived in it and 'invented' his own blood bank. For Old Doc Holman set about categorising Derby residents into blood groups. When blood was urgently needed, he rushed to the compulsory donor and bled them. I'm leaving Derby, driving east on the Gibb River Road, as I have so many times, with country music drifting out of the windows and bulldust drifting in as sneezy as snuff. And I'm playing country music (of course). And I'm playing Kris Kristofferson (of course). It's a digital version of his greatest hits, which I've been playing since the 80s, after I spent some time with Kris and wrote about him. And he sings … 'Yesterday is dead and gone And tomorrow's out of sight …' Another piece in the comforting jigsaws that help me make it through the night. Note to self — Things to see and do in Derby and the West Kimberley . Do the flight out to Horizontal Falls in a seaplane; it's worth the money. Fish and chips on the jetty, visit Derby pioneer cemetery, and the grave of PC William Richardson, who was killed by Pigeon, and graves overtaken by antbed mounds. See if Sandy is still doing the best boab nut carving in WA. Set out on the Gibb River Road and have a swim Bell Gorge. Live life to the full + Legend of the Kimberley, Lawson Holman — Flying Doctor is published by WA's Hesperian Press ($35 plus postage. )
