Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 21, 2019

I’m showing Clifton off to a Sydneysider and it’s a pretty big deal.

A friend I used to work with mentioned she wanted to venture up into the Sunshine State for replenish her depleted New South Welsh soul and I decided to take on the role of tourism guide.

I have the stereotypically Aussie hat. I have the booming voice. And, thanks to an overly theatrical primary school principal who took an interest in the town’s history*, I have some local stories up my sleeve.

* We also did what I like to call an arena spectacular dramatisation of the Stations of the Cross one Easter which was a theatrical triumph. The audience sat in the middle and the torture, death and subsequent resurrection of your boi Jesus happened around them. It was delightfully extra and absolutely worth all the hours of practice. 

On a side note, I probably owe said overly theatrical primary school principal a great deal for nurturing and enhancing my extra-ness as a child. His ambitious productions really fostered my melodramatic nature. Bless him. He’s made the world a better place. 

I used to give this tour all the time, when my mates from school would come out for a sleepover. It was honestly one of the highlights of their visits (for me and my mother, at least).

Mum would pick us up from the bus stop at Nobby and as soon as those seatbelts clicked, the official driving tour of Clifton began. We’d slowly snake through the streets, pointing out places of both historical and personal significance to our guests/hostages, not giving much of a toss if they weren’t as emotionally invested in the decision-making process behind the town Christmas tree*. It was more than pointing out the iconic buildings, it was about the stories each street had. And when you have two excitable ramblers in a car, you can imagine how many slightly-disjointed stories we had to tell. What should have been a short ride home would take more than half-an-hour, sometimes longer depending on how long daylight held out.

* In the television series I plan on writing about this town, the Christmas tree issue is going to need a two-part episode. There’s a lot of meat to that topic. Lots.  

It’s been about a decade since Mum and I have given one of these tours, so we’re pretty excited to receive our lucky, lucky guest. We usually go off the cuff for these tours – play it by ear, as my mother says – but I have a few attractions that must be included in this particular excursion:

The church with the dead man under it: This building is another testament to the thrifty and somewhat crafty nature of this town. Back in the day (I’m not sure exactly when but it was back before black-and-white TV, so that’s a long way back) Clifton’s growing Catholic community needed a bigger church, but they didn’t have the dollars to build one. What they did have was the inside knowledge that James Mowen, a wealthy bloke about town, had left aside a large sum of money in his will for a monument to be built over his grave. I’m guessing he didn’t stipulate what this monument would take the form of, as the parish decided that a church could technically be a memorial… so long as it had the right plaque. So they dug him up from his spot at cemetery, plonked his body into the ground on the empty lot and built a church over the top of it, using his money. They named the church St James and St Johns, which I suppose was a sufficient-enough nod to old Jimmy to warrant the use of his money*. Pretty clever.

* So, as we were giving this part of the tour, the local priest was coming back from his afternoon walk and spotted us casing out the joint. He let us in and showed us around, which allowed me to brag about the stained glass windows… because that’s where I am in my life now. Bragging about the stained glass windows in my hometown’s church. Anyway, turns out they also put a plaque up for old Jimmy, but they put it right up the back. 

The path which used to have a coin glued to it: “There used to be a coin glued here,” I’ll say, pointing to roughly about the spot where the coin was once glued, “I’m not sure who finally managed to pick it up or what they did with it, but I imagine they’re a rich soul indeed.”*

*Unfortunately, I missed out on this opportunity, but there’s always next time. I’m hoping that featuring that coin in the paper will prompt someone to come forward with the tale of who finally managed to snag the 20 cents from the footpath. I imagine it’s quite a story. 

My favourite rock in town: This would hands-down have to be the large clump of geological material near the flagpole at the Scout Hutt. It was great for sitting on.

My favourite log in town: Obviously this would be the log in a small clump of trees at the old preschool. If you don’t know the one, I feel sorry for you. It is a brilliant log. It was instrumental in my development as a emotionally-rich, ever-pondering person.  It was the place I could escape the foolish chatter of my peers and find solace in my own deep, complex thoughts… while pretending to be a lion on Pride Rock.

The cement-filled bottle tree: This is without a doubt my favourite Clifton landmark. It just speaks so much to the character of this town. Now, I have no idea how the tree came to be filled with cement, (please do enlighten me via a Letter to the Editor if you know the tale) so I have illustrated the story with my own dialogue. I imagine it went something like “geez, the bottle tree has a hole in it, better do something about that,” to which some cluey person chimes in with a “ya reckon we could just fill her up with this leftover cement?” The group all shrugs in agreement with a chorus of “yeah righto”s and a few “too easy”s. There was no mucking about, nothing fancy, just good, honest concrete-aided problem solving. That tree may have been planted by our banking forefathers, but it’s thriving because our no bulls–t spirit. It’s beautiful.

The Clifton Courier office: Obviously.