Open Writing

The 17th of March: a day to be celebrated - and why not at Fremantle, the Port serving Perth, where ships used to land hundreds of migrants before the jet planes took over.

This little town, with its holiday atmosphere, delights in celebrations and always puts on a special show for St. Patrick. It's a great day for Irish nationals, for those descended from the Irish - or for those who just enjoy Irish music and culture.

There was to be a Grand Parade marching from St Patrick's Cathedral, winding its way through the Town to the Esplanade for a concert of Irish Music. Chaos in the car park so I'd take the train, my favourite way to travel from childhood days when very few people had cars and we all went by rail.

Off to the seaside, dressed in summer clothes, with suitcases bumping along and a taxi at the other end to take us to relatives or boarding house.

At the Railway Station in Perth, I met up with my companion for the day - Deirdre. A fine Irish name, though my friend is fourth generation Australian descended from Danish and English settlers.
So many nationalities and race types are packed into the population of Western Australia.

The train rolled in and was soon packed with our multicultural mixture, young and old. Standing room only and we clung to the nearest rail as the train took off.

Young men dressed in oversized jeans and baseball caps were sprawled casually on seats, their feet in gigantic trainers a hazard to the other travellers. They seemed unaware of the older passengers who might be a bit shaky on their pins.

Have parents stopped teaching manners, I wondered - or is it just that they have never been on public transport with their kids. Do they always go by car?

Then my faith was restored - two young teenage girls hopped out of their double seat and with shy smiles and giggles invited us to take their place. These two would be the caring parents and good neighbours of the future.

As we drew nearer to Freemantle, dark clouds kept pace with the train. Please don't let it rain on the Parade, I told St Patrick.

Coming out of the Station, we were all caught in a windswept shower. Feet in thongs and sandals leapt across puddles, newspapers were held over hairstyles.

Just time for a tea break before the Parade would start. The café was right there. We sat down to a pot of tea (no Earl Grey here - just your Lipton’s daily brew) and sandwiches - soft rye bread packed with salad stuff, shredded lettuce escaping from the sides.

At a nearby table, a young man sat with two little girls aged about seven or eight, enjoying tea and cakes. A happy smiling trio they were, chatting and teasing each other, but without a sound. They talked by hand signs, body language, facial expression and silent word of mouth .

Without staring, we observed them. Was this a Dad with his kids? Were they all deaf and mute, or was the adult a parent who had learnt to communicate in this way. The impression we took away with us was the joy and pleasure on the children's faces.

We took our place among the crowds already gathered on the pavements. The sun shone on wet streets as the floats appeared, led by a pipe band in red tartan gear. Patrick also lived in Scotland!

Lorries bedecked with bunting glided by, carrying fairies, assorted prancing animals and gorgeous girls, all smiling and waving to the crowds. More musicians, dancers and acrobats, police motorcycles at the rear - they streamed on and we followed - down to the Esplanade for a Feast of Celtic music and dance.

Ancient Britain celebrated in this ancient continent.

Drifting off at the end of the day we found seats on the train back to Perth, well contented with our day out. I reckoned Patrick would be pleased.