Australia Day in Portland

Heading out of Sydney for the long weekend- ten minutes to the freeway, half an hour to the foot of the mountains. Out past Mount Victoria the sky starts to open up and the concerns of city life dissipate perceptibly: here there are too few buildings or people for anxiety to reverberate as it does in the crowded psychic spaces of the inner west. Paranoid fantasies develop, detach, and float off into the ether like clouds, lost in a wash of light.

In this state of beautiful unconcern, I miss the turnoff for Rylstone. We drive along a minor road, passing through rural backwaters which are bleached and empty under the midday sun. Until, unexpectedly, after another wrong turn we find ourselves in the main street of Portland.
The road has been blocked off for Australia Day celebrations. There is a tattered jumping castle, a one-horse carousel and the air is rich with the smell of frying sausages. At the very front of this scene, there is a formation of line dancers, none of them younger than 60. One of them has yellow flowers on her hat and a surprising sense of rhythm: her post-menopausal flesh, bulging around her belt, moves in precise time with the music. She sings along, her eyes fixed on the horizon; kicks her leg up, pirouettes. One of her companions dances alongside her carefully on chalky bones, with her fading face obscured by an enormous Stetson.

We walk through the sun- blasted streets, smirking at each other. I cannot decide whether it's a scene possessed of some odd dignity, or the most depressing thing I've ever seen.