It was a last-minute decision to grab a last-chance getaway before Baby B turned our life into glorious, love-filled, sleep-deprived turmoil. So on Wednesday we made the booking and by Saturday morning Mr B and I had turned our faces to the hills for a weekend away in the Yarra Valley.
“It’s so peaceful!” we kept saying to each other, in a kind of wonder that came from the knowledge that we were less than an hour outside of the city. And I kept saying “It’s so green!” in the same awed tones, because I grew up in the country during a 10-year drought.
We travelled and bumped down little dirt lanes for no other reason than they looked appealing.
We strolled through rows of grapevines, all asleep for the winter, and watched our breath form clouds in the late afternoon air.
We wandered in and out of tiny galleries and quirky craft stores.
I developed somewhat of a crush on a collection of neon-coloured crayons made in the shape of little Lego men.
We feasted on chocolate coated strawberries, then laughed through dinner with friends.
We slept in.
We took books and newspapers and read in companionable silence over a leisurely breakfast of fresh eggs and steaming coffee.