Celia's driving into Blandford this summer morning, slowing down from the New England Highway as she nears the rust-worn gates of her family's farm.
She's back, on annual leave, helping out a couple of weeks, pitching in. Window down, Celia smells the sweet strawberry scents of red stringybark eucalypts. They line this long gravel-dirt driveway she used to hurtle down in her battered billycart way back when. Smells like the past.
