We are all keyed up, flying from Alice, stopping in Adelaide before the haul across to Perth. There are six of us, two taxis depositing us at our rented premises, our home, five bedrooms and a couch for the next four days.
The National Folk Festival starts tomorrow, and despite the long flights, nobody wants to down tools – we are keen to see the venue, the staging, if possible, to test the acoustics – gain a sense of ‘the vibe’. We drop our bags and are off.
It is early evening when we get back to the rental; time to collect bags from the heap on the loungeroom floor, identify bedrooms, the possibility of a shower, dinner. I have drawn the short-straw – the couch is my home-from-home.
I am the first to notice the unusual wallpaper, small black intermittent, heart-shaped motifs against a crème background. Not unpleasant, just unusual. Pizzas are ordered, a few beers chugged and we are into bed early.
Our first concert is in the late morning, taxis get us there by ten. Our hour-long workshop focuses on the 1830s, NSW’s early penal settlement at Emu Plains. It is well received. It will be repeated tomorrow afternoon, and we are now free to catch other workshops, network with other Folkie-mates, and, when ready, make our own way back to the rental.
Bob and I both need a break and are home by three. I have had a few beers and fall onto the couch. I scrunch around inside the sleeping bag, getting comfy. I glance at the wallpaper. Something is changing – the design looks to pulse, the heart-shaped motifs are actually alive, moving. I call Bob to come into the lounge.
The whole wall, in fact all the walls, are moving! In all directions, a noticeable drift, and I have a really close look. “Oh hell, the dots are bloody ticks, millions of the buggers,” I scream. I manically throw off the sleeping bag, I look at the carpet. Oh Jesus, they are crawling there, too! We are both dancing around, lifting bags, finding them already crawling on and into everything.
We start throwing the luggage out onto the lawn. I have an absolute hatred of ticks; and leeches, lice, mossies and any other bastard that wants to drink my vital forces. I am hopping around, not sure where to prop: Bob swears loudly and I notice he is performing quite a theatrical war dance.
Outside, we inspect each other closely. He finds a couple of the buggers on my back, otherwise we are both ‘clean.’ We go back inside, grabbing the remaining gear from the bedrooms. I alert the others, still at the show, and we are lucky to find two equipped tents at the Festival’s campground.
We all spend an hour on the front lawn, unpacking, closely inspecting, occasionally removing unwanted nasties. The Estate Agent isn’t overly concerned by our outrage but promises a refund.
I have ticks on my brain for days.