He’s a greasy little sleazeball, is the young Charlie Manson – as portrayed in ‘Aquarius’. But he is seemingly a charismatic figure to the impressionable young maidens who bound around him. They hang out and do the drug thing at his urban commune – such a happening place. Eventually he coerces his teenage acolytes to do deeds for him that he perceives will contribute to him reaching his destiny – later on these will become the epitome of evil. For now his vicious streak is already starting to show – he’s not a person you cross without expecting retribution. I’ve only watched one episode of the series to date. It seemed somewhat cheesy in places, but I’ll stick with it. For you see it stars David Duchovny as your stereotypical rumpled cop, and after ‘Californication’, I am besotted by David D and the roles he makes his own.

But, I suppose, in the strictest sense, Gippsland’s Hope Farm, back in the eighties, was not a commune. It labelled itself an ashram, and I presume there is a difference, despite both being filled with a loose idea about boundaries within personal relationships. In Frew’s eponymous novel the height of flower power is long past, but a group of disparate, mostly ageing, hippies are hanging on at Hope Farm. The place has seen better days, as have most of its communards, but in the novel they are being introduced to New Age mumbo-jumbo by another charismatic figure – Miller. In contrast to Manson, his intent was purer, but still he seemed to have an effect on the ladies, managing to wheedle money out of them. He’s a big hairy bear of a man. Ishtar was soon in his thrall.

Mostly, in Peggy Frew’s ‘Hope Farm’, the hardscrabble life at the commune was seen through the eyes of an adult Silver, casting her mind back to her childhood there. Then she wanted a normal existence and she wanted a loving touch, but what she received from her distant mother, Ishtar, was a transitory existence. She moved from one ashram to another as her parent followed her dreams and men of uncertain quality. But at least at Hope Farm it all improved somewhat for Silver. She meets a mysterious boy down by the creek and he becomes a yearned-for friend of sorts. At the farm she experiences her first crush on a guy who, in turn, is besotted by Ishtar. And in the end an abandoned mine-shaft became Silver’s salvation, leading to an anchored life.

Frew displayed, with her first novel, ‘House of Sticks’, an ability to present a story of the human condition that looks at fractured relationships amongst urban Australians who haven’t quite made it into the mainstream. ‘Hope Farm’ is a very strong follow-up. It kept this reader engaged from cover to cover. I’m not completely sure if the device of having the diary entries of semi-literate Ishtah, interspersed throughout most of Silver’s narrative, is completely convincing. That aside, Frew has shown that she is a vibrant new voice on our recent national condition, conveyed in fiction form.

In the end Miller was no Charlie Manson. The hold he had over those around him was no where near as total as Manson’s, so errors along the way soon caused his world start to unravel. Once he lost control of those he expected to pander to his mental well-being – they being never fully convinced in the first place – his end is inglorious. The put-upon figure of Ian, the lad by the creek, comes out of it all very well as maybe the hero of the piece. Help arrives for Silver from an unlikely source. Frew is skilled with juggling all the threads and is considerate to her readers in not allowing any to dangle. She leaves her surely growing list of fans well sated. I like her for that. Roll on novel three.

From the preface of ‘Modern Love’,- ‘When John and Sunday Reed purchased their semi-rural property on the outskirts of Melbourne in 1931, they could hardly imagine that eighty years later it would be the site of a renowned museum and widely regarded as the birthplace of Australian modernism. The intricate way in which the Reeds’ lives unfolded has given rise to beguiling mythology – the romanticised tale of Heide and its bohemian inhabitants – that has long captured the imagination of the public and scholars alike.’

Heide’s mythology has certainly beguiled me over the years. I thought I knew a fair bit about it. For a while I toyed with the idea of a story, written from a child’s perspective – a watcher; drawn to the very different people she espied at the farmstead; reporting on the comings and goings there on the property then fringing Melbourne. Nothing came of it, being replaced by other fascinations in my post-retirement world. Then Emily Bitto’s book ‘The Strays’ up and won the Vogel, the award for female writers, last year. This authorly bar-owner (of Heartattack and Vine, near Readings in Carlton) had the honour of having this, her first book, published by Affirm Press’ new fiction list. She, too, is obviously steeped in that aforementioned mystique of the Reeds. What she has come up with, though, is a paralleling story of the Trenthams, a similar couple who operated a sort of open house for their ‘strays’. These were bods of artistic intent, picked up along the way. As it turned out, the fictional Trenthams were a far more conservative couple than the Reeds, as I discerned from ‘Modern Love’. Evan T is not John Reed. The former was an artist with the temperament that stereotypically goes with those taking to that vocation. Reed, a man of independent means (wife, Sunday, possessed a silver spoon background as well), was an artistic mentor – a word he disliked – of talent; a sometime lawyer and a writer/editor to boot. Unlike the Reeds, who adopted Joy Hester/Albert Tucker’s child, the couple of Bitto’s imagination had three daughters before semi-adopting ‘The Stray’s’ narrator, Lily. The latter befriended one intriguing daughter, Eva, with, in doing so, joining the family’s fluctuating circle. The matriarch, Helena, was a charismatic figure, letting all the children have the run of the place. But as the quartet mature, sexual attraction raises its head and the real world intrudes on Eden. Bitto traces the narrative through to present-day times. Whereas once often reviled, by the artistic establishment, the pair eventually become the darlings of modernism – a resurgence of Aussie art that had its flowering in the forties as war raged around the world. It petered out under the stifling conservatism of the Menzies years when many of our best deserted for the more progressive UK scene. Finally they become lauded gods as they were embraced by the mainstream in the latter decades of last century. Some of the events that affected the Trenthams are factual, such as when, in 1937 RGM, as Attorney-General, formed plans for an Academy of Art to provide a bastion against modern, ie communist, influences, then gaining some traction locally. The Reeds, as well as fictionally, the Trenthams, were outraged by this and were at the vanguard of opposition, forming the Contemporary Art Society (CAS). This period of discourse has prominence in both publications. As one would expect, Lesley Harding’s and Kendrah Morgan’s ‘Modern Love – The Lives of John and Sunday Reed’ is full of the who’s-who of the art world during their lifetime. As well there are other prominent identities, one such being Doc Evatt – a friend and valued confidante. He gets a mention in the fictional take as well.

‘The Strays’ is described in its advertorial blurb as ‘…a beautifully written novel, lyrical and wondrous. Emily Bitto is an elegant writer who knows how to sustain suspense.’ This humble scribe would definitely agree. The book is structured beautifully and her wordsmithery is quite sublime in places. The reader is led through the vicissitudes that play out for the Trenthams and their four girls, if we count Lily, as the years advance. It was a fascinating read, a positive page-turner. Ms Bitto’s follow-up will be eagerly anticipated.

Fascinating as well is ‘Modern Love’. What an incredible story – if this was fiction it would be difficult to believe. I ploughed my way at, for me, a very fast clip through it over a couple of days. I was transfixed. I had prior knowledge of some of the goings on at Heide – Sunday’s affair with Sidney Nolan, for instance – but, dear me, the sexual machinations that went on at that place and within their circle. Sidney’s passion for Mrs Reed was only the tip of the iceberg. It seems Sunday had an attraction for both genders. There were also some other intriguing combinations involving her, as well as some other pairings, mentioned in passing, that would be interesting to investigate further. The authors, both curators at Heide, did state that they refrained from using some particularly sensitive material available to them, so ‘Modern Love’ will not be the last word on the Reeds – that will have to wait till the parties concerned are further in the past. But this tome didn’t only dwell on the politics of attraction. The contribution the Reeds made to Australian art, just as it was rediscovering its own uniqueness, was astronomical and fully examined here.

Other enlightenments provided by the publication included the damage the constant threat of conscription did to the Heide residents during the war years. There was also the role of the couple in the Ern Malley Affair and the way the pair morphed from being privileged gilded youths to the best known representatives of Bohemian free-spiritedness our country has produced. Then there were the vast array of household names (art-wise today) who succumbed to the bucolic charms of their household. It was also interesting that there were Tasmanian connections as well. John R was born here. His family owned a substantial pile, by our standards, at Mt Pleasant, outside Launceston and Nolan also spent time on the island. Examined were the trips the Reeds made to other parts of Oz and overseas. Then there was the curious question of John’s sexuality – just what did he receive in turn from the sexual dalliances of his wife. Finally, heart-breakingly, was the battle to keep their adopted son on the relative straight and narrow before his tragic end.

And to join it all full circle, it was more than interesting to read Emily Bitto’s review of ‘Modern Love’, as published recently in the Fairfax Press. She points to the thoroughness of the research involved and its readability, even if, from her point of view, nothing earth-shatteringly new was added to their legend. ‘Modern Love’, she concurs, had all the rigour of an academic text, but its lightness of touch ensures it will reach a wider audience as well. There is a judicious use of photographic images, some quite touchingly intimate, bringing to life the major players. Added are some of the seminal works of art of the period. These include paintings by Sam Alyeo (Sunday’s initial lover at Heide), Moya Dyring’s beautiful portrait of her, Adrian Lawlor’s ‘John Reed’ and several notable daubings by Joy Hester who, with Albert Tucker, are prominent in the book’s pages. There’s Charles Blackman, John Perceval, Mirka Moya and Arthur Boyd featuring as well. They are all participants in Heide’s tale, a riveting account of a couple whose iconic status in the cultural history of Australia is unrivalled. And I submit that it will only grow in stature and mystique – there’s that word again – as time progresses.

And for this punter, there’s only one thing left to do now that I am fully versed in the life and times of the Reeds, thanks to Bitto, Harding and Morgan – and that’s to visit Heide myself. I’ve been promising myself to do it each time I visit Yarra City, but the transport logistics to actually getting there so far have proven too daunting. I’ll eventually sort it out and make it – one day.

Heide Museum of Modern Art website = https://www.heide.com.au/

Emily Bitto’s review of ‘Modern Love’ = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/modern-love-by-lesley-harding-and-kendrah-morgan-the-couple-at-the-heart-of-the-magic-circle-20151027-gkiuo0.html

In summer it’s gridlock on the roads into and through Cornwall. To cope, most of the little seaside villages that charm – and even if we may never visit them they still do (‘Doc Martin’) – have giant holding areas on their outskirts. From them holiday makers/day trippers are then taken by bus into into these tiny, narrow-streeted places to witness their joys. It was at one such that Bill Bryson met Matthew Facey.

The latter was a parking attendant at the facility outside Mevagissey. Bill had endured an interminable drive into the duchy – Cornwall is not a county. He was heartily sick of constant hold-ups on the freeway so, on the spur of the moment, decided a quiet country lane into the Cornish resort would be preferable. Mistake. It was bumper to bumper chockers and it took him forever to get to its carpark. On arrival, not only was it packed to the gunnels, but there was a long queue waiting. Bill realised it was pointless to wait as to do so would mean he wouldn’t make his ultimate destination before nightfall – but, of course, he was trapped. So it was Matthew F to the rescue. He orchestrated the author’s about turn. In their manoeuvrings Bill discovered Facey did camera-pointing on the side. Bryson resolved to check out his rescuer’s on-line gallery and was impressed with what he saw. Turns out he is one of Cornwall’s most esteemed snappers and his work is quite lovely. I know. I checked it out too.

Needless to say, as with all of Bill Bryson’s publications, ‘The Road to Little Dribbling’ is a gem. It’s a belated sequel to the tome that set him on the way – ‘Notes From a Small Country’. And it’s also a celebration, being that it’s twenty years since that break-through publication descended on us, making his name. This latest offering was to give Bill an opportunity to note and riff on all the changes in those years to the places he visited first time around – or at least that was his agent’s notion of what he should do. Bill, after some musing, decided he would take a different approach. He resolved to travel from the south to the north of the UK – but taking as his guide a vague following of longest possible straight line that can be drawn between those two compass points that doesn’t cross any water of the salted kind. We should emphasise the ‘vaguely’ bit. In the end he sort of criss-crossed the Bryson Line, working his way up from south to north – with numerous side excursions en route. The result of all this is an engrossing, funny and at times, even worrying read. Worrying because of the stupidity of humankind – numerous examples of which Bill is only too happy to point out to his readers.

There’s a lovely review of the Anglo-American’s effort this time around, to be found on-line, by Richard Glover – himself having received some recent kudos as a writer of memoirs. RG claims there is a game of one-upmanship played by Bill B devotees revolving around which is the funniest passage to be found in all of author’s now numerous list of titles. These Brysonists are able to reel their anecdotes off word perfect. The reviewer cites some examples. It’s worth reading. I will never get out of my own mind the image of our man as a new arrival in the UK. He fronts up in Dover, landing on the doorstep of a prospective bed and breakfast and greeting its host with his underpants firmly attached to his noggin. The self-deprecating description of him reluctantly dipping his toe into the Pacific Ocean at Bondi, in his account of his travels in Oz, is pretty memorable too. He’d read of all the creatures in it that are out to kill unsuspecting bathers and doubted his prospects of survival – despite the thousands of fellow humans frolicking off the same stretch of strand. And, likewise, he doesn’t let us down in ‘…Little Dribbling’. He regales us with the account, early on, of how he bravely, without fear, walked up to the counter, during an infrequent visit to a McDonalds, intending to place a family order. Despite numerous attempts to get it right and having to deal with a clueless and incompetent pimpled dolt taking and entering said order, he is left enraged and had to be led away quivering by his ever-patient wife before blood was spilt. It was vintage Bryson and the choked chortles I was emitting reading it led my lovely lady to come post haste from another room as she feared I was suffering some form of apoplectic fit.

And also, with this wordsmith, there is always a background story to most of the sights he sees. One that particularly intrigues this time was the snippet of information he gave about a Taswegian. In the 1860s a railway company, the Midland, was searching for a new route into Scotland. Competitors had taken up the two seaboard options, so the controllers of the new player decided to construct right up the middle, receiving parliamentary approval to do so. Trouble was, right up the middle meant a section of the Pennines that was particularly inhospitable. The company had a go, but soon realised building a railway there was such a challenge it would more than likely bankrupt them. They asked the country’s lawmakers to give them permission to desist. As this was against the provisions of the contract they were refused and the company was forced to plough on. Fortunately they found someone willing to accept responsibility for the completion of the task. I’ll let Bill take up the story at this point:-
‘Almost nothing is known about Sharland other than that he came from Tasmania and was only in his early twenties. The immensity of the task confronting him was almost unimaginable and made all the harder by the privations of labouring in the wilderness. Sharland slept in a wagon and often worked for hours in drenching rain or driving snow. Even more remarkable, he did all this while suffering acutely from tuberculous. Inevitably, it caught up with him and, with his work almost finished, he retired to Torquay at the age of just twenty-five. He died soon after, having never seen a train run on the line he helped to create.’
That line, through the Yorkshire Dales, is now regarded as the most dramatic and scenic in the UK – but Bill’s right. I checked to see if the ether held any more on Charles Stanley Sharland and came up with zilch extra information, although there does seem to have been a UK book about him back in 2012.

Bryson has been chided by some critics for being so crabby in this latest release. He is very unhappy in many sections, dropping the f-bomb with unprecedented frequency in his ire. His piss-offedness knows no bounds as he vents his spleen at the state of humanity in the world around him. But in places he still finds the old-fashioned Englishness of the sort that first attracted him back in ‘Notes From a Small Country’ – a quality he feels, to his distress, is fast disappearing. But his delight in renewing acquaintanceship with it in some locations is palpable in his writing.

In ‘…Little Dribbling’ he indulges in a fair amount of railing about the pressure the money-makers are placing on government to do away with the famous green belts of British cities – they want to cover them with mass housing and already are having some success in shearing off the green bits to allow this to happen. The author is most vociferous, persistent and eloquent in placing his arguments down on paper as to why continuing to do so would be a travesty. He laments the increasingly ‘Black Booksian’ nature of the service to be found in the retail outlets of his adopted country, contrasting it with the intrusive inanity of customer service in his birth nation. Which is worse is the question. He produces an extended list of his pet hates at one stage – these include people who say ‘stonking’; salmon coloured trousers and the men who wear them; the parents of any child named Tarquin and Meryl Streep when she’s being ‘adorable’. He despises the new ‘loudness’ to be found around a country once noted for its quietude, again likening it to what’s always been in the brasher US of A. He blames the mobile phone into which moronic chavs have to shout on the public transport and streets of the once more restrained UK. And don’t get him stated on the Chinese made tat that passes for souvenirs found in tourist hot-spots all around the country.

But amongst much ranting he gives us some marvellous yarns as well. There’s the story of the invention of the public park by the redoubtable Joseph Paxton and how a visit to it in Birmingham inspired the creation of NYC’s Central Park as a result. And he gives us a close encounter with a Beatle. He was gobsmacked at one stage to discover his home bordered on Ringo Starr’s estate and that his wife was encountering the legendary drummer in their village all the time, conveying to a stunned husband that she found him ‘…quite a nice man’ in their chats. Bryson, to his disgust, never laid eyes on him when out and about. There’s the tale of how the tongue twister ‘She sells sea shells by the sea shore’ became part of the parlance – and just who the real Eliza Doolittle truly was.

Spending time with Bill Bryson and one of his books is like shooting the breeze with an old mate. There’s only been one of his oeuvre I haven’t taken to and that’s the one they made the recent movie about. There are a handful of writers these days I would term global, as opposed to national, living treasures. I think this bloke has just about reached that stage.

Bill B’s website = http://www.billbrysonbooks.com/

Richard Glover’s review = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/road-to-little-dribbling-review-bill-bryson-has-another-romp-through-england-20151020-gkcjbr.html