For Paul Daley, a favourite place is not just a location but a repository of fond memories. Among the many magical places he has visited, from Arnhem Land to Mediterranean islands, it is Canberra's Red Hill that holds the strongest pull. With its walking tracks, scar trees, and ochre earth underfoot, the hill remains vivid in his recollections, even though he no longer lives in the city.
Daley's connection to Red Hill is deeply personal, rooted in his experiences as a young parent and dog owner. From its pinnacle, he could view the ghostly visage of the Griffins' geometrically designed city on the limestone plains, with monuments symbolising a federation born of noble ideals. He thought of this every time he went up there, weekly during his years as a journalist at Parliament House, and daily after he left that role.
Canberra, landlocked by bush and often ostracised by the rest of Australia, became an unlikely sanctuary for Daley, a devoted urban Melburnian. While some dislike the city for its quietness and seeming unfinished-ness, Daley found the bush a balm—meditative and creatively inspiring. He did his best thinking on Red Hill, trudging up steep tracks in sleet or blazing sun, with his dogs intoxicated by the scents of wildlife.
His most extraordinary dog, Nari, a black lab with the stamina of a collie, is long dead, but lives on in his mind on the hill. The pup, Ronda, who died at 13 just before Christmas, also left enduring memories of haring about ancient eucalypts and rocky knolls. Dogs, Daley notes, are poignant markers of our own time here.
Red Hill was also a playground for his three children. The two youngest were hauled up there by his partner while still in utero, and later they went up regularly as babies strapped to their parents. The hill remains a place where memories of family, dogs, and the bush are intertwined, transporting him back whenever he thinks of it.
