Last night, my father was taken back to Chester Hill. Back to the retirement village.
However, to a different room. No view over the little main street of the village, from the balcony, or the sports grounds to the left but an opportunity to, albeit with a walking-frame, wander outside, where I found him today. 
He had obviously gone looking for the sun again and walked from his unit to the end of the pathway.
It seems so ironic. He was never really into wanting to be in the sun, on the beach or in nature. He loved showing off Australia’s climate and scenery and sun-shine to relatives, visiting from the Netherlands but it was the company he was after, under a shade umbrella or inside, with a cup of tea. 
Just these last few days, Chester Hill seems to have been on my mind, quite a bit.
It started when I wrote about the way that the management of the retirement village discovered that they needed the Dutch Australian Cultural Centre building for dementia care and then discovered that the building was not suitable. 
It has since turned out that it was needed as an administration building and the workmen are currently in there adjusting it for that purpose.
I guess, if it had still been the Dutch Australian Cultural Centre building, I would have been taking my turn there and my father could have joined me and talk to any visitors.
He would have liked that.
But we cannot undo what has been done. 
He has a safe place to sleep and the space outside to sit in the sun.
(Note the picture of his mother, above the sink!) :) 
Back to Chester Hill.
Chester Hill, in the west of Sydney, has suddenly come into focus again, for me.
Not only the school where I spent a few weeks but also the change of accommodation for my father, who spent his 91st birthday, in hospital.