Tribute To A Sydney Gem
“Next time mate, rather than jog around the circle road, follow the path on the inside of the perimeter fence. It is a bit longer, but jeez it’s more interesting.” I listened and nodded at my friend Brendan over our beers. I’d never even noticed that path, I said. Still, his adamence for the idea stuck with me.
So – on one of those freezing Saturday mornings in winter, when blue skies seem everywhere – the time felt ripe to give this perimeter path a go. After stretching against the car and tying my shoelaces tight, I warmed my hands with some breath while deciding on a direction to set out in. There was the obvious clockwise option, of course. Or, I could start on up the hill and run against the grain.
Sydney is a city that is rockstar famous for its prettiness. The total sum of all its charming little parts often captures a visitor's heart. Born here and raised here, I’ve always carried this city in my blood and Centennial Park is by far one of my favourite chunks of it.
Plonked right amongst noisy suburbia and surrounded by some particularly busy roads, the constant hum of the city outside gets immediately left behind the minute you step inside the park. I’ve always struggled to pinpoint just why Centennial Park is so special. But each time I go for a jog there, a long walk, or just a lazy lie around – I feel almost immediately relaxed, as the sounds of the city outside disappear.
Sure, so it’s no Yosemite National Park. There are no cloud-high walls of granite to peer up and awe at. However, there’s something in the way the space has been planned out, how you get the sense that the trees probably talk at night when the gates are closed and how there is a subtle happiness blowing right through it.
I've introduced numerous people to Brendan's perimeter path since developing my own dependency on it. Every stretch of fence traversed unravels a different chapter of the park. Chapters that can be difficult to experience from the ring road.
And I think the secret may just lie in the process of meandering through these chapters. A pleasant process that unwinds the mind. A wander that allows our defences to drop a little – which leads to better listening, better sharing, better ideas and also to those deeper conversations that are often so hard to find outside of the fence.
Before it became too hard, Astrid and I discovered that it was easier to have the conversations we needed, while walking the path. The slow saunter always seemed to foster an open discussion. She felt more comfortable to talk about the difficult weights she carried from her country, which allowed me to better understand her point of view on things, but which also made me feel guilty about how lucky perhaps we have it.
Sometimes, she'd stop to put her arm around one of the old boy Moreton Bay figs before giving it a name. That always made me laugh and melt. I would point out the Angophora trees and explain why they were once called "widow makers". Together, we revelled in the personality of the place with all of its private places to stop and talk.
If I'm walking the path by myself, I always know that by the time I get back to the car, I'll be dripping with inspiration. A wild place to let the mind run free is critical for creativity. With that dreadful phone left back in the glovebox and the big trees hushing out the noise of the city – mindfulness pours in, allowing new ideas to bubble up to the surface.
But on that first run on that winter's morning, I didn't go very well at all. I was cold, hungover, incredibly unfit and constantly adjusting to the unpredictable changes on the path.
Early on, I scratched my forehead on a branch. I got sand all through my shoes in the sandy section. The uphill bit nearly killed me and I tripped over two separate tree roots along Darley Street. On the second fall, I fell right at the feet of a passing family with a thud. I tried to apologise, but the wind had been taken out of me as I rolled away and died of obvious embarrassment.
Many famous cities have famous parks that reside at the heart of them, providing their locals with far more than just open space. There's Hampstead Heath in London, New York's Central Park and the beautiful Buttes-Chaumont in Paris.
If you're a Sydneysider though, Centennial Park thrives with so many of the ingredients that we hold close. The brooding Moreton Bay figs, the smooth-barked angophoras, the raucous lorikeets, cockatoos, dogs off leashes and the thousands of fruit bats who flock here at night. All of it is a gift.
Yes, I do worry that writing this small tribute could perhaps reveal one Sydney's most charismatic secrets and I’m certain that Brendan will never forgive me. But when such a whimsical space whispers so seductively of the things that stir us Sydneysiders – well I think that should be celebrated and undoubtedly it should be quietly shared.
