I have been very neglectful of my journal recently. When I first started to write it at the suggestion of a doctor – he was actually a psychologist, something I didn't mention at that time; the idea was to have somewhere to record my thoughts since I no longer had a 'soul mate' with whom I could discuss my feelings. Now, I am lucky because I have James, and the journal is no longer so important. Add to this the fact that I only have a few pages left in the book and I'm thinking it's time to call a halt. I'll still keep my regular diary going of course, but that is mainly about such mundane things as rainfall, stock feed and beef cattle prices.

However, before I finish, I should tidy up a few loose ends. About a fortnight after Tom passed away, I flew down to Sydney for a few days. Melissa finally had her operation, after a delay of a week or so, which so often happens with elective surgery. She rang me when she heard it was to be delayed, very distressed, and I had to try and comfort her over the phone – not an easy thing to do. I promised her that I would fly her back to Brisbane when she was ready to go home, remembering how much I appreciated being flown home after my surgery all those years ago. I heard from John the day she would likely be discharged from hospital, and flew down two days prior to that, since being in Sydney I had the opportunity to visit my cousin Marie who was there with her husband, visiting her son and his family. After they attended our wedding, they had all gone on a caravan tour of parts of Queensland before heading back to Sydney. She was soon due to fly home to Britain, so it was great to take the opportunity to catch up with her again.

First I visited Melissa in hospital to check on her progress. John had taken leave from work and come down with her and was a wonderful support. She reminded me so much of myself when I was in the same position. She was quite pale and admitted that she was having pain management, but was so happy to have finally achieved her goal of matching her body to her mind. John left us to go and have a coffee for a while, so that we could engage in 'girl talk'. She told me that everything had gone very well and that all the surgical and nursing staff had been wonderful. I had experienced the same thing myself all those years ago, but reassignment surgery is much more common nowadays, and that is such a good thing. No longer do so many transgendered people have to endure lives of quiet desperation, and sometimes make the ultimate decision that they cannot go on the way they are, and take that final fatal step. Even the general population is gradually beginning to understand that we are not transvestites or drag queens, not that I have anything against anyone choosing their own life style. If there's one thing being transgendered teaches you it is tolerance.

Marie and I had a very pleasant two days together, catching up on all the things we hadn't got around to saying in the lead-up to the wedding, when there didn't seem time to do anything else but concentrate on the coming event. Together with her husband, we went to the Opera House to a symphony concert, and also dined out in one of Sydney's swankier restaurants. Then of course there was some retail therapy! I did promise her that James and I would visit them in England in the next year or two, and all being well that is what we will do. In between, I paid more visits to Melissa in hospital.

Two days after I arrive, John rang to say Melissa would be discharged the next morning, so I called the airfield to check that the Cessna was ready, had an early night, and the next morning after a slightly tearful goodbye to my cousin, I took a taxi to the hospital. Melissa was already dressed and ready to go. She had been given a discharge summary and a letter for her specialist in Brisbane, and will be coming back to Sydney for a check-up in a couple of months, so that the surgeon can check his handiwork.

We took a taxi to the airfield and eased Melissa into the plane, sitting next to me in the co-pilot seat. It was a case of history repeating itself. I let Melissa handle the controls for a while, just as I had when Steve flew me home after my surgery. Melissa did very well, although I don't know if she will be inspired to train as a pilot. Only time will tell.

After we arrived back at their apartment, they insisted that I have lunch with them before I left and returned to pick up the Cessna and fly home. I will be seeing them again in a few months when I return to Brisbane to see my accountant.

While all this was going on, James, whom of course I telephoned every day, had started initiating his planned changes at the library. He is taking things slowly, but there are so many ways in which libraries are changing now and he is determined that it will be a great learning hub for the district and I know he will achieve that. Anne Prior seems to have settled in well as his assistant. The local grapevine informs me that she already has a boyfriend, the son of a local grazier, so that is a good thing.

James has decided to keep his house in Charleville and rent it out. Librarians are not on a huge salary, so this is a boost to his income. We had a discussion about money long before we got married. I know that this can be a difficult issue, especially when a wife earns more than her husband, and there is no way I want him to feel that he is a 'kept man'. Rather, I want him to feel that he is the 'man of the house', and indeed he is. Our relationship seems to grow stronger by the day. It's wonderful that we seem to be so suited to each other. I've never believed those couples who claim to have never had a cross word. That can only mean that one is acting as a doormat. When James and I have a disagreement – and it happens very rarely, then we can be sure to make it up in bed that night!

I keep in regular contact with Ellen. She keeps herself busy with a number of local clubs, the CWA, bowls club etc. I hope for her sake that in the fullness of time she will find someone to share her life with.

The Station goes well, and Jack has proved to be an excellent deputy, so all in all, I have to say like Albert Facey that I have 'A Fortunate Life'. No-one can expect a life of non-stop happiness – it just doesn't work that way, but I count myself very lucky the way things have turned out for me. I take nothing for granted, but rejoice in my good fortune to once again have the love of a wonderful man.

From time to time when I want a little free time to myself, I saddle up one of the horses and ride out, often to the ring of hills that surrounds the Station homestead and its nearby paddocks. Not long after John died and while I was still in the throes of grief, I saddled up my favourite horse named Clyde (goodness knows why), and let him take me where he wanted. He was ambling along close the an area of the hills which has a cliff face, possibly due to an earth tremor millennia ago, or perhaps even eroded by a long-gone inland sea.

I was lost in thought, and totally unaware of the darkening sky above me until a clap of thunder and a sudden downpour of torrential rain brought me back to reality. In only a minute I was soaked to the skin but the air temperature was warm and I was not concerned until a lightning strike hit a tree barely one hundred yards away. The ear-splitting thunder-clap that immediately followed spooked Clyde and caused him to rear, and I was nearly thrown from the saddle. Out in the open was not a good place to be and I peered through the curtain of rain looking for shelter, anywhere but another tree. I turned Clyde towards the cliff face and suddenly became aware of an over-hanging rock, just high enough to shelter a horse and rider. I slipped off Clyde's back and clutching the reins tightly led him out of the rain. I stroked his mane and murmured soothing words in his ear until he settled down. Fortunately the storm was already receding, and the subsequent thunder claps were not nearly so loud.

The interior of the shelter was larger than I expected, and as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I suddenly realised the the rock walls were covered in aboriginal paintings. Some showed men hunting kangaroos with their woomeras, spears and boomerangs; in others they were spearing fish. In another part of the cave were numerous hand stencils, produced when the maker placed his or her hand on the wall, and then spat a mixture of ochre, fat and water onto it. Some of the ones near the ground were small and obviously made by children; higher up were larger ones which I took to be made by women, and still higher above them were larger ones made by the tribal elders. Now I am used to visiting Western art galleries where the rules are strictly 'look but don't touch', but for some reason I found myself drawn to these relics of people who had lived here hundreds or even thousands of years ago.

One stencil in particular appeared to be of a hand about the same size as my own, and slowly I raised my own hand, and spreading my fingers, placed it gently on the wall, matching the outline. What happened next I cannot explain, but I felt a tingling sensation starting in my palm and spreading out to the tips of my fingers. It felt like a mild electric shock but it was not unpleasant, so I kept my hand there for around a minute before slowly taking it away. That was all that happened; no vision appeared and there was no sound, other than the drumming of the rain on the bone-hard ground and the rumbling of receding thunder, and yet I felt that I had somehow made a connection with the ancient custodians of the land. In the light of what happened years previously when I first encountered the Elder, and then again not long ago when James was lost in the outback, perhaps it is not unreasonable to think this way.

Since that time, I have visited the rock shelter on several occasions but never again have I felt compelled to touch the rock surface. I've told no-one but James about it, and once I took him to see those amazing images. He was as awestruck as me. No-one at the Station has ever mentioned it, although I don't doubt that the aboriginal stockmen know of its existence. For myself, I don't want it to be a tourist attraction, having heard that other such sites have been desecrated by people scratching their initials into the rock. For that reason I don't intend to record its exact location lest that should fall into the wrong hands.

Today I was visiting a favourite spot where a steep track leads up the cliff, and after tethering my horse, I climbed up it until I reached a flat rock where I can sit and gaze out over the valley. I know there is a piece of paper that says all the land I can see is mine, but in reality I don't believe that is the case. If it belongs to anyone then it belongs to the people who first saw it thousands of years ago – perhaps the same people who recorded their presence in the rock shelter. For them the land was and is everything. As for myself, I love and respect it too; this precious country, this land of my heart.

Image credit: Australian cattle station by Harris Walker reproduced under Creative Commons license with attribution.

Albert Facey's autobiography 'A Fortunate Life' referred to in this chapter may not be familiar to non-Australians, but I can recommend it as a very good read.

I would like to acknowledge the assistance of Carla Bay in helping me with some technical details in this story.

I wish to thank everyone who has awarded Kudos, and especially those readers who took the trouble to write a comment. That is especially appreciated.