Dog Spike Dreaming

Bluntly speaking, Michael has had a dog of a week. We came home last Saturday full of hope after his surgery; that the worst was over and that progress would surely be steadily upwards.

That has not been the case.

Sunday and Monday - instead of his pain decreasing, the level knocked his socks off. I was worried as Michael has always had a fairly high pain tolerance. For him to have a score of eight out of ten was unusual. And just when we figured the pain couldn't get much worse, by Tuesday morning, he was not coping at all.

I rang the Boy Wonder's rooms. The prescribing of drugs had all been done by Anna, the anaesthetist. In hindsight, I probably should have contacted her. Instead, we were directed to our GP. Who was fully booked but rang us for a phone consult. His advice was to hotfoot it to Northam Hospital and have the cast taken down to check for infection.

We set out at one-thirty, without lunch. By two-thirty, Michael had been admitted to the Emergency department. Nurse Monica and Doctor Kylie were thorough, organised and compassionate. The cast was duly removed to reveal a monstrously swollen hand and wrist that were to blame for his intense pain. Plus, Michael's bruising extended from his fingers to his armpit. Just having the cast taken off gave him relief.

We discussed Michael's meds with Kylie. She recommended we stop the anti-inflammatory as that drug had been responsible for an upsurge of Michael's reflux symptoms. Which had only added to his general misery.

Whilst at Emergency, Michael was given Panadeine forte and an anti-inflammatory injection. A sling was fashioned for additional support. A new cast with room for any swelling was applied to his arm.

We left with more pain killers and a sandwich to tide us over until we arrived home. Wednesday we lay low as Michael attempted to comply with his exercises and the ongoing swelling.

We had an appointment with a specialised hand therapy service on Thursday. Situated in the renovated Midland Railway Workshops, where Michael had served the last two-and-a-half years of his apprenticeship, a return to his past helped divert his attention from his pain as we wandered around after his appointment.

Alva, the occupational therapist, moulded a flexible plastic splint around Michael's hand and wrist. As he had chosen jet black for the colour, his splint was promptly named Darth. Michael and Darth are going to be close buddies for the next couple of months. Alva gave us an actual leaflet of his exercises, which was helpful. And told him to lose the sling, which has turned out to be not terribly helpful...

Thursday night, his splint was just pressing in one spot. Michael was over taking any more trips, so armed with a hairdryer, he levered the splint out slightly to give his thumb more space. This solution did the trick and saved us from yet another trek for help.

All week, we have been searching for ways to distract Michael's very active mind, which actually assists with controlling his pain. His favourite phone games, TV and music takes his attention away to some extent. Complete immobilisation gives him the most comfort. Catnaps, often with the entire menagerie on the bed with him, gives his arm a break from gravity. Surprisingly, being in the Gallery by the fire and surrounded by his and other artworks allows a drift of his imagination towards future projects.

Dreaming about visiting his beloved Goldfields once again is pretty close to the most effective non-drug intervention.

We are planning our escape in three weeks. The anticipation for this latest trip is similar to our 2018 expedition. I had just had my knee replacement and was determined to leave on schedule, even if we had to obtain a small crane to get me in and out of Lily, our 4WD vehicle.

Hopefully, Michael will be able to drive once we get to the Goldfields in late August. Until then, I envisage I will do the bulk of the driving up to Port Hedland and some on the way south. We will see, but we are very much looking forward to heading north out of the winter.

Michael's renewed enthusiasm for one of his sculptures has given him much more pleasure. The original name was unsatisfactory and did not tell the story that he wanted to tell. So, the sculpture has been given an updated title. Without further ado, let me introduce "Dog Spike Destinies".

This sculpture was inspired by Michael's love of railways. Even as a youthful yahoo at the Railway Workshops, he was always transfixed by trains. At that time, he never would have admitted this, but the memories have become far more meaningful and affectionate as he transformed from a long-haired dropkick to a pillock of society.

Constructed with all recycled materials, the sculpture features Michael's beloved spheres and circles, with railway "dog" spikes at its heart. The story is of the railways of the Western Australian Goldfields, which initially opened up the region and significantly reduced deaths from thirst and exposure by those afflicted with "gold fever". The mild steel twists and turns represent the vast network of railways that were the lifeblood of so many communities. Residents would dress up in their Sunday best to visit the railway station as a train arrived. A speed record by a train was set in 1903 when divers with underwater gear travelled to Coolgardie to rescue a miner trapped in a flooded shaft at nearby Bonnievale. The train was the deliverer of goods and mail and passengers. The Goldfields railway eventually made its way to Laverton in the east and operated until 1957.

The echoes of these railways are reflected in "Dog Spike Destinies". Along with new artists Val Whiting and Igi Velt, this wonderful piece is available for sale at the East End Gallery. Railway enthusiasts - come on down!

Tuesday evening - with new cast and sling...

Darth the splint...

A bit happier on Friday...

Igi with hiking sticks...

Val Whiting - Three Reds...

Val Whiting - Mauve Rose...

Val Whiting - Foreman's Cottage...

Val Whiting - Emu Study...

Trekking to the Goldfields before the railway...

The arrival of civilisation...

Arriving in the Goldfields...

Michael with "Dog Spike Destinies".

Observations Of The Mount...

Michael and I have both been repeat offenders attending the Mount Hospital on a number of occasions, all under the care of our orthopaedic surgeon, Mister Ben Kimberley. Friday morning, we returned once again, Michael to undergo a major operation on his right wrist and hand. We were resident within the walls of the Mount for twenty-five hours and home in thirty hours. During our stay and now safely back in Heavenly Beverley, I have been pondering this excursion and considering how to toss both bouquets and brickbats. As both views are deserved.

The Mount has been "providing high-quality health care" for over thirty years, according to their home page, with two hundred and twenty-four private beds. The hospital admissions information guide is comprehensive and easy to read. Interestingly, little is said about boarding, which is permissible, as I stay with Michael now for every hospital stay. Prior to admission, a lengthy questionnaire needs to be completed and sent electronically. For somebody with limited or no computer understanding, this task alone could be problematic and would certainly require assistance.

To pay for the privilege of being a patient in the Mount costs an eye-watering nineteen hundred dollars per night. Plus, there is a curious "Prosthesis/Gap" fee of twenty-one hundred dollars. With those figures, one might expect very modern and up-market facilities and a gold-coated plate in Michael's forearm. Upon arrival and after attending the COVID 19 station at the front doors, the lobby certainly delivers an air of luxury. I was initially informed to "leave Michael at the door". That was my first inkling that my boarding was, once again, going to be an issue.

Michael's admission was relatively painless and dealt with efficiently by a very pleasant staffer. My admission as a boarder, as I had feared,  did not go smoothly. In spite of double-checking the situation on Tuesday, my status had not been recorded. There was a harried phonecall to Karri ward to check before I could be processed. I can't remember a single instance when my boarding has been straightforward. This lack of communication always causes us grief.

We were shown to a private room with a pleasant view out to Mounts Bay Road and the interchange gardens. The single rooms are not large and I had to work out where my folding bed would be set up. Michael snoozed in between the donning of the atrocious hospital gown, the application of the sexy stockings and a quick shave of his wrist. Whilst he was sleeping, I unpacked our toiletries and other paraphernalia, such as our jarmies, his alkaline water, my computer and his ugg boots. I gazed around 235 as I attended to this task, noting its condition. There were no tissues in either the room or the ensuite and no soap for the shower.

Thirty-plus years have not been kind to the Mount's rooms. The shelf behind Michael's bed was half-heartedly hanging on at a jaunty angle, screws protruding. I decided that even the weight of a feather might be a bit much. The doors were kicked and scuffed, the skirting desperately needed painting and I discovered dust and a discarded bandaid under his bed, with cotton and old blood still attached. Not ideal.

However, the nurses assigned to Michael were outstanding. Sanna and Tracey were cheerful and efficient during our brief stay in 235. Eric in Pre-Op kept our spirits raised whilst waiting for Michael to enter the inner sanctum of the operating theatre.

Communication continued to be patchy and confused. Due to possible COVID 19 rules, I did ask about accompanying Michael to Pre-Op as the theatre orderly arrived. The nurse answered in the negative, whereas our hero orderly, wearing a fund-raising Spiderman mask on the back of his head, contradicted her and confirmed that I was welcome in Pre-Op.

Rumblings about the lack of boarders' beds had already been raised with me. I was astounded that the hospital only had four folding beds for boarders. Apart from the facts that we are country pensioners, we were both aware that Michael was going to need assistance in basic tasks once his surgery was over. He was obviously going to be behind the eightball with his right arm in plaster and his left hand hampered by IV lines and oximeter for post-operative observations. Michael's routine after surgery was usually eating and sleeping. The eating part would not be possible without me. Plus, he disliked nurses helping him with bodily functions, showering and dressing. That had been parts of my boarding role.

My sleeping arrangements came to a head whilst Michael was in theatre. There were no folder beds. I confirmed, politely and firmly, that I would be staying with Michael and I would not be sleeping on the floor.

Within an hour, we had been moved into a double room - 282/283. The view was the carpark, so I pulled down the blinds. The air-conditioning duct was not in the middle of the room, but straight over the bed closer to the window. Michael had the bed closer to the door and the loo with no airflow. As a result, he spent the night either too hot or too cold, dependent on the master thermostat. For some strange reason, there were no longer blankets on the wards. The wonderful and warm cotton blankets were only readily available for theatre or same-day patients. In their place were thin and decidedly not warm covers.

As expected, Michael returned from theatre with both his arms out of commission. Initially, I held his drinks and fed him. As he became more wakeful, we swapped the oximeter onto his right fingers so he had more use of his left hand. He then successfully negotiated to ingest a sandwich and coffee by himself. 

The ensuite loo caused another headache. The toilet seat would not stay up by itself. That may sound like a trifling whinge, but Michael had to try and hold the seat up with his left hand whilst aiming his willy towards the bowl with his right plastered arm. Not easy. 

Time for another bouquet. The nurses were quick to attend to any needs that I could not do. Obs, drugs and a lightning bed straighten for him were all achieved. We would like to thank nurses Cathy, Yelen, Barry and Elsa for all their efforts, performed with both care and a smile.

Michael's Superman change from the ill-fitting hospital gown into his jarmies was one of my night tasks. A warm and leisurely shower, buttering his toast, making him plunger coffee and helping him dress were all completed by eleven o'clock. Ben came in on a Saturday morning, a child in tow, doing his rounds. Then, with a mountain of possessions (and his discharge summary) on a wheelchair, we gratefully left the Mount and headed for Heavenly Beverley.

My last experience of hospitalisation at the Mount was a five-day stay after my knee replacement. Longer hospital stays definitely test one's resolve, patience and humour. Overnight stays are easier to endure. Even so, I think the Mount needs to spend some money on room refurbishment. Individual air-conditioners, fresh paint and renovating the existing fittings could be accomplished in stages. Toilet seats that stay up or down as desired. Cotton blankets for warmth on the beds. New tray tables that don't stick. Upgrading the patients and visitors pantry on Karri ward and the provision of a microwave would also help.

Cleaning continues to be haphazard. Dust, dirt and soiled bandaids under beds should not be there. After discharge, beds need to be moved away from the corners so the cleaners can conduct a thorough job. Enough towels, pillows and additional blankets should be placed in the rooms ready for the next patients.

More folder beds are required. Boarders should be encouraged to stay, rather than spoken about in quiet whispers, particularly to assist frail or lonely relatives or those patients who wish the extra support a boarder can provide. Clear examples of needs include helping with eating, toileting, showering and dressing. Whilst on a two week stay at Joondalup Private Hospital, I made Michael's bed, placed soiled linen in the correct trolleys and aided him with daily tasks. As a result, he was much happier and I relieved the nurses of a number of the more mundane activities. In the end, Joondalup nursing staff were threatening to keep me there permanently.

This is not rocket science. Attending hospital can be frightening, unpleasant or just strange. Rooms should be modern, comfortable and welcoming. All needs should be met. Not all carers or family want to be boarders, but those who want to stay or whose family member wishes them to remain should be given every respect. Admission with a boarder should be a smooth process. Scrambling about for a folder bed when we were charged thousands for an overnight stay should not occur.

Monday afternoon. Michael is asleep as I write. I will be ringing the Boy Wonder's rooms shortly to begin the next stage of Michael's recovery.

Stay tuned.

Mister Ben Kimberley

The exterior of the Mount Hospital

Hospital fashion statement...

How hospitals make one feel...

A wrist...not Michael's...

Ulna shortening - not Michael's

Pins holding hand bones together - not Michael's...

Back from surgery and needing assistance...

Starting to get the hang of this...

The gorgeous gown...

Following morning in his jarmies...

Get me out of here!

 

The feeling of leaving hospital.

   

The Consequences of Being Handy...

Waiting...waiting...waiting...

Hospitals are a law unto themselves. Take the passing of time, for example. Either one is inundated with all manner of staff coming out of the woodwork at once or feeling as if one is resident on a desert island, anxiously waiting for a largish vessel to wander past and wave frantically. Then there is cognitive ability. Obviously, we all become village idiots once admitted as medications taken with gay abandon at home are removed from our control and placed in a locked drawer with no access to the key.  I understand the rationale of safety from theft. However, why can't the patient or companion hold the key? And information. We are trickle fed bits and bots, but only if we ask. Yesterday morning, in our attempts to discharge at the official ten o'clock blast-off, we were told that we were stuck there until Michael had the last dose of IV antibiotics. At eleven o'clock. There went another great plan of Mice and Men.

Some git of a Federal Treasurer had once suggested that we could all happily work until we were seventy. In whatever profession we were trained. He had in mind spending the entirety of our working lives pushing around a very light pen and seated in a very expensive and comfortable ergonomic chair. I think the same idiot pontificated that all first home-owners needed was a Very Good Job That Pays Well. I believe that the thought of sixty-five-year-olds still engaged in employment other than pencil-pushing was way beyond his comprehension.

Unlike this geezer, who was also seen smoking cigars with the Finance Minister on Budget Night and moved onto a cushy post as Ambassador to the United States, Michael spent the entirety of his working life in somewhat more physical roles. Which also required critical thinking, problem-solving and desired outcomes. All this intellectual stuff was done by his brain. The actual doing was with his hands.

Hence, Michael's hands have copped nearly fifty years of consistent and repetitive movements. Plus, random but regular thumps, whacks and knocks haven't helped his overall situation. His discomfort levels eventually reached the point of incapacitation. Most movements of his right hand were resulting in intense pain. Not to be outdone, his left hand developed"trigger finger", a humorously named condition that was anything but. His ring finger began imitating an ancient gearbox with clunking and grinding, the "pulleys" weren't frightfully operational so his finger could change directions without warning,  rather like a bizarre Quickstep.

A cortisone injection, although unpleasant, made the world of difference to his left hand. Sent off for an MRI of his right wrist and hand, the extensive damage caused our Orthopaedic Surgeon to the Stars to exclaim "What a mess!".

Michael's tale of woe included the lack of cartilage, bones fused that shouldn't have, an ulna that had grown spurs to rival the spiky parts of that famous throne in "Game of Thrones" and was rubbing bone on bone with the next set at the junction of his hand and wrist. Dem bones...dem bones...

Ageing is definitely not for the delicate, the squeamish or the cowardly. Bits of us stop working, need removal, drop, sag or grow in the wrong places. Take hairy ears for blokes or witchy-pooh hairs on girls as a case in point. Some of us, like my beloved Michael, end up with multiple health issues and as many specialists. Pill taking, after breakfast and at bedtime, gains notoriety as Second Course.

Thus, the concept of working until the age of seventy never (thankfully) gained any merit, as the human body tends to be prone to more problems as we grow older and give up the ghost in a variety of ways.

Diagnosis of his troublesome wrist was last Tuesday. Michael had had enough. He was very anxious about his freedom of movement. He voiced his ten-year desire to produce more artworks. We were also looking down the barrel of having to postpone our Northern Jaunt again. First COVID, now this. We decided to go for gold and repair his wrist as much as possible. So, we headed for the Big Smoke's Mount Hospital on Friday morning to enter the surreal world of admission, surgery and overnight "accommodation".

Until Michael went to theatre, he was my only focus. Leaving him in the safe hands of Ben Kimberley and anaesthetist Anna Negus was as good as I could have hoped. Ben had been part of our lives for ten years, putting us back together again on a fairly frequent basis. We have referred to him as the Boy Wonder due to his youthful appearance and his ability to care for five children, whilst also being a surgeon who can actually talk to his patients. Anna had been my anaesthetist with my knee replacement surgery. A great and compassionate communicator, a very gentle and caring medico, Anna rescues and homes mutant sheep in her spare time. Apparently, she has just added a rather scrumptious ram to her flock. Being slightly unusual and a bit quirky definitely qualified her as one of the Good Guys.

I travelled up to Pre-Op with Michael and talked to both Ben and Anna. Returning to Karri Ward was hard. As usual. I downloaded the Patient Tracking app and waited. Cal was journeying down from the wilds of Butler to collect a flannelette shirt of Bron's and his Year 12 folio ( which I had neglected to give him for fourteen years).

Meanwhile, another drama was afoot. There was no folder bed for me. In a major city hospital, I was told that there were only four folder beds and they were all in use. I looked at the nurses square in the face and confirmed that I would not sleep on the floor and that I was staying with Michael. They needed to sort this challenge.

Callum arrived and stayed with me for a coffee. We caught up and then I waved him goodbye back to his family. Time was marching on. A double room was produced for Michael and me and I moved our belongings.

Michael eventually was returned to Karri Ward around six. He alternated between sleeping and eating. I was shattered. By eight o'clock, I was in the other bed, knowing I was in for a disturbed night, so choosing to grab slumber whenever possible.

I was absolutely correct in my reasoning. Hospitals are not renowned for their restful qualities. Over the next twelve hours, I was woken to help Michael or just be disturbed five or six times. The machines went ping or beep or brrr. Bed coverings had to be removed or added according to the airconditioning over which we had no control. Michael decided he wanted to change into his jarmies at some stage of the early hours. His pain levels dictated further attendance of the nurses.

And then, suddenly, the machinations of the ward began for another day. We were both sound asleep as the kitchen attendant barged in with our breakfast at eight o'clock. GOOD MORNING (whether you like it or not...)! Individual routines have no credence in hospitals. We were utterly shell shocked, but compliant to the rules.

What a difference a day makes. This post began on Friday afternoon. Now, on Sunday morning, the dogs are engaging in their typical shenanigans, after being hysterically delighted to see us. Jan and Greg deserve our undying gratitude for holding the fort, exercising the Canine Clowns on a frequent basis and preventing wholesale carnage of our worldly possessions. Michael is still asleep, having only woken for pain relief twice.

The surgery is done. Next, come the recovery and rehab.

Stay tuned.

The rather pleasant view from Michael's initial room

Pre-Op snoozing

Note the sexy stockings...

Such an innocent face!

Back from theatre -

Finally waking up properly...

Saturday morning - lightning change during the night into jarmies...

A man and his coffee -

Homeward bound!

Does Michael look happy...?!

All Roads Really Do Lead To Heavenly Beverley

The Wheatbelt has come alive again. Almost overnight, the rain has turned the paddocks from dusty grey to vivid green underpinned by thick chocolate soil. Lambs, lambs, lambs and lambs are being born in spite of cooler and wetter conditions. We can view them from the roads, skinny legs in full flight as they flee from the scary shapes passing at speed. The braver ones turn their heads in mild interest as they bask in the sun or huddle against their mothers for shelter against the elements.

I do enjoy the changing of the seasons here in Heavenly Beverley. My favourite times of the year are the days of warming sunshine after an episode of windy showers. Monday was a perfect example. Released after a busy weekend in the Gallery, even a trip to the Big Smoke didn't dampen our spirits, driving through the forest and around farms under a glorious blue sky. Except there appeared to be more traffic than usual on West Talbot Road. I continued to ponder this occurrence as we sped towards  Perth.

We had managed to snag an early appointment with the Boy Wonder and Orthopaedic Surgeon to the Stars, Mister Ben Kimberley. Michael was finally in so much pain with his right wrist that he really needed to be seen. Plus his left ring finger had become dodgy as well, but not to the same extent.

Ben sent him off for a cortisone injection into the ring finger and we booked an MRI for next week. Nasty bone spurs rubbing along his wrist's tendons are expected to be the culprits. Nearly fifty years of repetitive activities had landed Michael in these circumstances. Surgery appears likely. A double-edged sword. We want to head north in just over five weeks. Yet another episode when we are grateful for private health insurance. If Michael needs surgery, we want to have the procedure done as quickly as possible.

I drove us home to Beverley. As ever, we were heartily relieved to leave the suburbs behind. I thought again about the increased traffic. With the lifting of many COVID 19 restrictions, I realised that city slickers were spreading their wings after the weeks of lockdown. They were looking for any excuse for a day trip or a short break away.

And so began an inkling for this post. The stubble and dust have been replaced by the luscious dark brown soil that supports the crops. All the ground needed was a flourish of water from the sky. A verdant carpet popping into view almost overnight has changed the face of the Wheatbelt. From now until late spring is the perfect time for an escape to Heavenly Beverley.

So, what are you waiting for? Pull out the beanies, the padded jackets and your walking shoes. Visit our extinct volcano Quadjabin and marvel at the view from the top. Even if you tumble, as I did, injury is highly unlikely.  Only my bum and dignity were bruised. Gaze onto the stark splendour of Yenyening Lakes and pop over for a closer look at our "beach" in the Wheatbelt. Poke through old churchyards and read the stories of our pioneers. Look for any relatives in our cemeteries or have a chat with Billy Noongate, John Forrest's tracker, buried in the Vincent Street cemetery. His grave has pride of place at the highest point. I'm sure he would have had some great tales to tell.

Consider a glider flight or just watch the spectacle. The Beverley Soaring Society is the second biggest club in the world, based on the number of kilometres flown. Those magnificent men in their gliding machines are in the skies most weekends and may often be found in the evenings in one of the pubs. They are more than willing for a chat.

Have a meander through Beverley's streets. We have wonderful examples of Federation and Art Deco architecture. Street art by James Giddy is dotted along Vincent Street. The main residential road, Forrest Street, was wide enough for a horse and wagon to turn around. Beverley has a big and modern playground on Forrest Street, adjacent to the new sports Pavillion, where the kids can burn off some energy.

Take a break in the garden of the Dead Finish Museum on Hunt Road. Although the museum hasn't resumed operation yet, the building which was Beverley's oldest hotel is charming from the exterior and the garden is based upon the early settlers' yards. Well worth a wander.

The Visitors' Centre, open Monday to Friday in the Cornerstone Building, has a number of self-guided interactive displays concerning Beverley's history, particularly early aviation. The friendly and informative staff at the Beverley Community Resource Centre are just across the hall to assist.

There are plenty of accommodation solutions. Beverley boasts two pubs, an Airbnb, Beverley Bed and Breakfast, Sheoaks Bed and Breakfast, Avondale Farm Cottages and Lavendale, halfway to York. We also have the world-famous Beverley Caravan Park (right in town centre behind the Shire Offices) and an RV Friendly site on the Avon River.

For anybody feeling a tad peckish, the Hotel Beverley, Freemasons' Tavern (bookings only), the Red Vault Cafe and the Beverley Bakehouse Cafe (closed Sundays) have all resumed business.

Station Arts, located within the beautifully restored railway station will open again in July. The Artists-In-Residence programme is also resuming, with an array of interesting practitioners available to chat about their artworks.

Lastly, we invite everybody who is coming to Beverley to visit the East End Gallery. We are situated on Vincent Street, adjacent to the pharmacy and opposite the Red Vault. Now open for over five and a half years, we showcase over ninety artists and their works. With the aim of supporting and promoting Wheatbelt artists, they are our priority. We also welcome artists who have links to Beverley, the Wheatbelt or us.

Michael and I look forward to meeting you at the East End Gallery. Did I mention that there are lambs being born?

Wandoo forest - West Talbot Road...

West Talbot Road bush...

Do all roads lead to Beverley?

The Art Deco-inspired Beverley Cornerstone...

Inside the Beverley Cornerstone and Tourism Centre...

Beverley Town Hall...

More Art Deco @ the Hotel Beverley...

Meanwhile, inside the Freemasons' Tavern...

With beautifully restored leadlight windows...

The restored Beverley Railway Station...

Which houses the charming Station Arts complex...

Artist James Giddy working on one of Beverley's public murals...

Bit of a thrillseeker?

Then hotfoot it to the Beverley Soaring Society!

Did I mention lambs?

And the BELLOW yellow of Canola in flower...

View from Quajabin/ County Peak...

Which overlooks the raw beauty of the Yenyening Lakes...

Yenyening night sky...

At the Beverley Caravan Park...

Winter mornings can be a tad foggy...

Or a few puddles at the Beverley RV Friendly site...

Or if indoors is more your scene, try the Beverley Bed and Breakfast...

Avondale Farm Cottages...

Lavendale Cottages...

Or She-Oaks Bed and Breakfast...

On a Vincent Street stroll - the old Courthouse...

The original Beverley School...

And the Central buildings...

Historical buffs might enjoy St Peter's, Gilgering...

Or St Paul's at Edward's Crossing...

Or pay your respects to Billy Noongate...

Meanwhile, for the kids, the Skate Park is underway!

And on 17-18 October, join in Kids' Cyclocross...

Or join a slightly more strenuous ride...

Go on - Google the Beverley Heroic...

Did I mention lambs?

Don't forget to make new friends at the East End Gallery!

And all roads really do lead to Beverley - Beverley Tourism Officer Jacinta Murray and Local Legend John Islip.