A town names Bright

The gentle rain softly rustles through the layers of fallen autumn leaves, perhaps accumulated over years. The rain, though light and barely enough to dampen one’s head, crackles on the dry-leaf-covered ground. The faint crackling of dry firewood burning in the hearth blends into the symphony of nature. Human breaths escape as thin white wisps, fragile against the shrouding mist. The scent of decaying wood and dry leaves fills the air, mingling with the distant murmur of a stream trickling over icy stones. Here, noise would be a jarring excess. Even the cars passing along the roads seem oddly subdued.

Under the ethereal mist and light rain, kangaroos quietly forage, their ears pricked, ever alert to every approaching sounds. Their hearing is undeniably sharp.

The path to the church of Our Lady of the Snows winds between rows of ancient trees cloaked in golden autumn leaves. This small, unadorned church carries none of the majestic splendour seen in grand basilicas of far-off cities. There is no lofty cross atop its roof—only a statue of the Risen Christ, arms outstretched, standing at the centre, with the sacred Tabernacle at His feet, quietly affirming the Divine Presence, even in such a humble place. Beneath the sharp triangular roof of this simple church, as rain fell steadily outside, a refugee family from Myanmar was welcomed during the Pentecost celebration. As he performed the baptismal rite, the elderly priest introduced them as living witnesses—a solemn reminder of a world that has never ceased its unrest.

In this valley called “Bright,” tranquillity is carefully preserved, perhaps to offer visitors a moment of inner stillness. Or perhaps it is simply to let them marvel at the stunning autumn scenery and rare serenity, so elusive in the bustling streets of a city like Melbourne. Yet, the unrelenting rhythm of a world fraught with unrest cannot pause, not even here.

— A travel dairy.