Later in the valley we replaced the howl of the wind with the soft munching of furry jaws. The wallabies gently nibbled, while their coarser cousins spent the afternoon fully dedicated to a good scratch. Standing on hind legs, faces pinched in concentration, nails running over their bellies and backs – a little gang of hairy old men, inhibitions long lost, pot bellies out and proud.
I watched a wallaby with a low furry tum lop closer, then suddenly a tiny bright eyed face appeared behind her forefoot. A surge of pure joy jumped through me, delight is not lost with childhood, just harder to grasp.