Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Memoir Monday - BOO! .

Only my love of the big Trav could draw me back to post a Memoir Monday whilst on holidays. Yes, you read it right, *cough*, holidays. Madmother has run away to her home of the heart to enjoy time with the family, catch up with old, dear, uh, did I mention old?, friends.

So, here I am sitting in my kitchen (this one) scroll down trying write a Memoir. The sadness of recent times has lifted being back on home turf. It is true, you can take the girl out of the valley but you sure can't take the valley from the girl. And being back in the area I grew up in has triggered a long forgotten tale. Or more - but I'll save the second one for next week.
So I present for your entertainment:

The Tale of Bluey.

Once upon a time... Oh, hang on, this isn't a fairy tale, whoops. This is a tale of a ghost. Maybe. A nearly forgotten tale from my misspent youth.  A couple of days ago we went out to a nearby (as in an hour's drive) friend's beach house. Now this mansion overlooks one of the haunts (hee hee) of my younger days - Blueys Beach.

Now when Madmother motored out to this spot it was truly in the middle of nowhere  - old farm house amidst cow scattered paddocks rolling on down from headland to beach. Glorious, untouched and decidely spooky in the late hours with only a bonfire to keep us teenagers company.

It was in these giggling, end of school/edge of adulthood, relationships-burgeoning evenings that I first heard of Bluey's Ghost. Over the dying embers the boys liked to put the fear into us wanna-be cool girls. It may have been in the hope of us scurrying closer under salt-crusted towels, or it may have been in sheer mischief, who knows. But in hushed tones the legend was slowly, spine-chillingly revealed as we sat wide-eyed around the dying embers. 

The ghost of Bluey was said to appear as a lantern-carrying apparition walking down the headland over the rocks and along the beach in the dark of night. Light swinging from side to side, if you stared closely enough you could make out the burley shape of the stumbling old man holding it high, peering into the gloom. Or so they said.

Many theories abounded about Bluey. One said he was an old farmer who helped many a ship-wrecked sailor in the old days, wading into the treacherous surf to pull the men to safety when their ships flounded until one day the angry sea took him to its depths. Another said he was a local fisherman who went looking for his wife and her smuggler lover only to drown as he waded after their boat alternately screaming obscenities and begging her to come back. The third, far more boring theory is that it is a hoard of fireflies who group together on the still summer nights when the conditions are right. This one was offered by our resident geek of the group, to many jeers and calls to shut up. Personally I think it would take one hell of a big party of bugs to look like a lantern, but that is just my opinion.

So, the other day as we sat on top of the hill in this beautiful house I told the story of Bluey to four boys with faces full of fearful fascination. I offered them all three explanations, and left it up to each to decide which they chose. As I will you. Who do you think Bluey was? Or what? This is my Memoir Monday.

Oh, and yes, I have seen the light. Bahahahahahahahahaha...


Travis said...

You have been linked, and I like this post. I would have gone with the firefly explanation, because I'm a pansy/nerd. Thank you for playing along and helping me keep it alive!

bigwords is... said...

OOOOOOhhhh I love a good ghost story. I like the first Bluey theory best!

Met you through Aus Mum Bloggers, pop over to bigwords if you get a chance x

Ro said...

I think he's a local who misses the last train back to Brissy and is always looking for the nearest comfy spot to curl up til dawn :P

Melissa *Suger Coat It* said...

I like to think he's the hero one. And that he is still watching out for floundering boats forever, maybe showing them the way. Rather than being trapped here.

Great post. An excellent memoir.