Holly Ringland

When I joined Red Bubble just over a year ago now, the first person on my watchlist was a writer who called herself Bellmusker and went by an avatar of red and black swirls. As anyone who has read Bell’s work knows, after stumbling in raptures through a few lines of her prose, her word hooks were well and truly under my skin and I was completely helpless to anything but succumbing to the wordy whims of her magnificent storytelling and ink-spilling magic. I told her this story over a glass of merlot on Friday night, in my bewilderment that only a year later, she was sitting in my writing room, cackling with me over the threads and words of our lives.

I think I’ve celebrated what Red Bubble has brought into my life over and again in the last couple of months. I’ve flown to Melbourne twice: once for a writer’s meet and then for a weekend writer’s retreat... and now, I’ve had the enormous pleasure of showing Bell around Canberra for a weekend, chortling in glee at her ’...and Holls, I looked at it from the air and said, is that the whole thing?’ response to her new home for the next 50 hours or so.

I should point out here that I am not a native Canberran. It was a bit of a blunder and mistake initially… I came here on the coattails of a brave whim and pumpkin ride, only to most delightfully uncover all the silver coach trails Canberra has had to offer this little Cinderella. I’ve been here for the last year or so but will soon be packing up and leaving my life in the capital behind… for the most incredible adventure of my life… that Bell is also in part responsible for… but that’s an entirely separate journal post.

So.

Back to this Easter weekend and the warm and magical medusa leaving behind the tantalising tendrils and charms of Melbourne to immerse herself in the world that is, as we (ahem) locals call it affectionately, the Berra. If you haven’t found her glowing review on her short love affair with the home hunting ground of K-Rudd (that’s Kevin Rudd, our prime minister), you can find it here.

Good Friday was a quiet affair… I made Bell my famous broccoli soup and took her trotting down the streetlight-less Canberra lanes to a tiny little gallery cafe artspace for a few glasses of merlot.

Saturday was filled with feasts and words… traipsing through the “city” and the sprinkling of vintage clothes stores and bric-a-brac shops that I pretty much live for here. I have spent the last six months driving past Pink Inc with a giggle growling in my belly at how repulsed Bell would be by it… so you can imagine my squirming delight when I bargained with her on the street for a happy-snap. She tried her hardest, bless her.

Saturday afternoon was also responsible for our discovery of Dutch black cherry and vanilla vodka that I think it’s safe to say, we both pretty much peed our pants over with excitement. I’m not above reporting that the bottle was opened and sniffed and sampled before we drove home… in completely classy fashion of course. However, I think all class went out the window when the Easter bunny ears came out…

And then, as anyone who knows her will understand, the unthinkable happened and I managed to get Bell in the ears. Brigit’s scowl and growl was firmly in place, in absolute and utter disgust… but it wasn’t long before I got a smile.

Saturday night I was most excited, for we word wenches got to frock up with the help of Sharon Jones and Big Mama Thornton and head out for dinner and cocktails. I know that in the rest of the world things do generally wind down over Easter but in Canberra, tumbleweed was seriously blowing down the street – so the prospect of words, food, laughter and martinis was almost too exciting to bear (after living in remote Australia for four years, the novelty of going out for dinner and cocktails with options still hasn’t worn off). We ate at my favourite little restaurant and I created a vodka and coconut juice drink on the spot that confused even our little waitress – but bliss, it was sheer bliss. Our bellies filled with meals so good our words were silenced, we headed to the two cocktail bars in town for red-walled laughter, mouthwatering martinis called red canary and chaise lounges laced with bad 90s music for a sublime time with my Melbourne/Canberra worlds harmoniously colliding.

Of course anywhere a Bell goes, so too does her little red notebook that quietly watches and pins you in ink when you least expect it… no matter the hour of the day or the local law enforcement presence.

Sunday morning, fresh as daisies, armed with our notebooks, words and a heightened curiosity of advertisements claiming the Portobello Road markets were being recreated at Canberra’s ‘famous’ old bus depot markets, we went foraging. We came away with books, sensational coffee, a vintage butterfly pendant that left me speechless, art nouveau coasters and inspiration for workshopping and writing on Sunday afternoon.

It was such sheer delight that in the most random moments, like buying camera batteries from Ted’s, the two of us would launch into an intense discussion about a narrative thread we’re unravelling, or an idea we’re hunting down, or a moment we were fleshing out in words. And now, as the rain pours down outside, I sit back in awe at what belonging to Red Bubble has brought to my life. I think the most poignant thing about this weekend was how powerful belonging to a creative group is for one’s self-confidence, courage, motivation and inspiration. I thank each of you who has shared your work with me and rendered my heart… and who has supported me on my little piece of Red Bubble grass here, so that my words have come into bloom.

And to Bell, the growling goddess who has lured forth my strutting and straight-black cherry-vodka-swilling muse… what can I say beautiful woman? Thank you. Oh, and just two more little quotes you missed from your red notebook sweetheart, that translate to happiness for me:

Holly: Ohhhh, dinner was so good.
Bell: Ohhhh, we ate so many animals.

and

Bell: There will be NO snorting without me.