Without a doubt Banjo had been expecting some super-long journey which would have seen the first sliver of dawn’s light teasing their arrival; his explanation of drop-bears and bunyips alike, reflected that expectation and by the time they set hoof and nail upon the more fertile, sheltered soils of the grove, he had barely even grazed the surface.

It had started like this…

“Some will try to convince you that they aren’t real, but they're about as dinky-di as the skin on my  ba…on my back, yep. By the light of a white crescent moon, swaggies sit around campfires spinnin’ yarns about an old outback legend, the drop bear! Savage and cunning, those nasty ol cousins of the much smaller - and cuter, koala are the curse of any silly buggers who take a stroll through the bush…”

And then they arrived, and that was that.

It wasn’t a particularly interesting tale anyway - he had better.

“Safe n sound, eh?” he teased as they slid beneath the soft, sombre caress of a massive tree. Brisa stopped there, and through the dim, moon-lit grove (leafy limbs above and vine tangled everywhere else) Banjo could make out the shift of her pale face as she surveyed the area around them. Ignoring the creepy haze of glowing bugs, he went to work promptly, clearing a mare-sized patch of forest floor for her to seat that rump against - twigs, stones and leaves - well not those, he gathered them back again quickly for  some padding. “OW!” …and a spiny thistle which seemed keener for his blood that an empty mozzie.

Somewhere nearby, water babbled softly and the buck could smell it, the moisture, all thick in the air; humidity thick enough to slice with a claw. It was a romantic setting to say the least, but such a feeling could not have been further from his mind right at that time.

Brisa described home, and perhaps with just a smudge of some bias Banjo thought as he listened quietly, comparing it to the long, flat, dusty nothingness of the outback, and the scraggly bush with sun-loving, camel-like trees; they could go on for years without even a drop of that liquid gold. All of that back home was more to the part-roo’s liking - but each to their own. “Sounds beaut…” he commented brightly as her soft, feminine voice cut off, before adding, “I’d probly eat myself a few extra tyres round this tum given ‘alf a chance, haha!” There was no trace of the same effect on the svelte missus however. Admirable.

“The bush ay? Well! Its pretty much the exact opposite to all that. My ‘ex’ home’s bout as dry as a dead dingo’s donga. It rains every every once in a blue moon, but all the folks have learned to deal with it or wander. Good grub is about as rare as wings on a wombat, so we eat other kinds of bush-tucker like berries and bugs - dam what I’d give to gnaw a grasshopper leg right now.” He laughed softly with eyes closed, as he visualised days long ago when Tilda and he had foraged about for witchery grubs and millipedes. Ah, the good times had. “Tisn’t all like that though, that was the old guy’s pad. Mum was from the bush ‘bout two dozen days walk, next door. Her joint was still bout that dry, but shaded here and there by old eucs and covered in smaller, spiky scrub. It was a bit more comfy, but without the luxury I reckon you’ve got goin.”

Like his friend, Banjo didn’t want to bore her with the ins out outs of life back home, there were more important fish to fry. “Now, these tricks ya mentioned before - spill the beans lady!” He was intrigued, unquestionably.

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Dress | cork hat on head, bandana around top of neck
@Brisa