Life Without a Car

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Living in Bundanoon without a car is like starring in my own episode of “Great Escapes: The Golden Years.” At 84, and firmly ensconced in the local nursing home, I’m considered too old to drive. This, however, does not deter me from my daily escapades to the village shops, just a kilometre away. While others struggle with traffic, I revel in the simplicity of life on foot. Almost everyone in Bundanoon owns a car, which is a tad ironic given the current parking crisis. Residents grumble endlessly about the lack of parking near the shops. The influx of tourists and new locals has turned parking into an extreme sport. Finding a spot is akin to winning the lottery, but with more honking and less cash.

But I, the savvy pedestrian, am unfazed by such trivialities. I wait for the perfect moment when the nurses are not looking, then make my daring escape. The entrance to the nursing home is guarded by St Brigid’s Catholic Church, with St Brigid herself keeping a watchful eye. Some might call her the Patroness of Ireland, but to me, she’s the patron saint of successful sneaking out.

As I trot down the road, I’m greeted by the screeching of white cockatoos, who seem to cheer me on with their raucous cries. A family of kangaroos often hops by, giving me curious looks as if to say, “There goes the old man on his daily adventure.” The walk to the shops is my little slice of heaven. I don’t need to worry about petrol prices, parking fees, or finding my car keys. Instead, I enjoy the fresh air and the camaraderie of fellow pedestrians—mainly the birds and the roos, but they count. So, while the rest of Bundanoon battles for parking supremacy, I’ll keep making my great escapes. After all, who needs a car when you’ve got legs, a sense of humour, and the occasional blessing from St Brigid?

Continuing on with my walk into town, I arrived at the newly constructed footpath. This marvel of modern engineering promised a safe and scenic route all the way to the town centre. As I meandered along, admiring the neatly trimmed verges and the occasional bench strategically placed for the weary, I couldn’t help but think about the old days when navigating this stretch was akin to a jungle expedition, machete in hand. Halfway into my pleasant stroll, I encountered a dilemma. The footpath, in its infinite wisdom, offered a choice: remain on the straight and narrow or dare to live dangerously by venturing onto the narrow railway bridge. For a brief moment, I considered the safety of the designated route. But where’s the fun in that? I decided to embrace the spirit of adventure and headed for the bridge.

Approaching the bridge, I was acutely aware of its reputation. Crossing it required the reflexes of a cat and the nerves of a bomb disposal expert. With a deep breath and a quick prayer to the gods of pedestrian safety, I stepped onto the bridge, my eyes scanning for any sign of oncoming traffic. The bridge offered a spectacular view, especially when the express train to Melbourne thundered past just a few metres below. There’s something exhilarating about feeling the ground shake and seeing the train whizz by, a blur of metal and speed. I leaned over the edge, peering down at the carriages below. It’s a perspective you don’t get when you’re cocooned in a car. Midway across, a car approached, and I did my best impression of a nimble deer, darting to the side and flattening myself against the bridge’s railing. The driver gave me a bemused look, perhaps wondering why anyone would choose this route on foot. I waved cheerily, feeling a strange camaraderie with the fellow traveller who had opted for horsepower over shoe leather.

Safely across, I found the old track leading to the fire station, feeling a small thrill of victory. Sure, I could have stayed on the safe route, but where’s the story in that? Life without a car has its challenges, but it also has its moments of unexpected joy. Besides, it wasn’t every day you got to race a train, even if it was just in your imagination.