Wolseley Corner

If you pass through Wolseley today, all you'll see is a few semi-derelict trailers stiched together. That place used to be a bakery. Before that, it used to be a gas station.

On the other corner there's somebody trying to get a doggie motel going. I wish them well.

Just east of the intersection of 17 and 20, somebody turned an old church into a lovely home. Right next to that is the boarded-up Orange Lodge.

I'm hoping somebody Catholic (or even better, Muslim,) turns that into a home too.

That's all idle speculation, of course, perhaps due to the culminating mental impact of three hundred years of isolation... or three months...

But the cool thing about Wolseley Corner is I can hear the traffic coming and going, from the front stoop right here at Falling Downs.

Just before I sat down to write these words, I swear I heard a big-bore Ducati heading this way. They have their own sound.

I followed the sound up the hill past the Orange Lodge, then a couple of upshifts as he or she hit the brief straightaway before the downhill, where you're coming off the escarpment and heading into a gentle left and then some twisties, till you hit that straight 3km of highway where that Ducati sounded like it hit its redline, which would have meant something in the order of 160 miles per hour.

My eyes and my ears shared about a quarter second of experience as that bike flashed past my lookout on the stoop.

That's what old guys do... watch and listen as life goes by.