I spent pretty well every easter, when I was a little kid, visiting my mother’s best friend Margaret Mason. A formidable woman, she ran a dairy farm on her own about 20 kms north of Gloucester and up a valley off Thunderbolts Way.
The place was and still is magic. She moved into town later in life and gifted her land to the National Park. I took the long way home back from Bluesfest and meandered through the mist and lanes.
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