By Bree Carlton:

After a frantic Sunday morning spring cleaning and gardening, we decide to venture out with Isaac and Oskar down to Flinders Beach. It’s a wintery, devilishly freezing day but the weather is changeable. On our drive down the coast we move from fits of drizzle to bursts of sunshine. The sky is yellowy golden and dramatic; the big billowy white and purple clouds scattered and interspersed with deep patches of blue and dramatic rainbow arcs.

Flinders is located on the tip of the Australian state of Victoria where Western Port Bay flows into the Bass Strait. It is well known for its picturesque national parklands and wildlife, crisp air blown fresh off the Antarctic, and its beautiful safety and ocean beaches. But for me Flinders holds the richness of fond childhood memories. Mum and Dad used to take my brother and me there when we were kids. Years ago Dad made our livelihood as a ceramic artist. On weekends he used to deliver his wares -crockery; vases; tea and dinner sets- to various art galleries and craft outlets up and down the Peninsula coast. Bittern, Red Hill, Balnarring and Flinders were just some of the places we visited on listless Sunday afternoon drives.

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Walking to Sean’s new apartment on Friday we had to pass through the strange open spaces just south of the Storkower Straße S-Bahn station. This was once the central stockyard and slaughterhouse for Berlin although on even my old GDR maps this was referred to as its “former” function and until the 1990s it appears to have been little more than a wide open space. In the past decade or so the area immediately around the station has been filled with car parks for box-like shopping halls, some of the stores have built themselves into the old frameworks of the former buildings. Other metal frames have been left open and uncovered, standing in a patch of parkland, with grass growing beneath the iron skeleton, and locals drinking beer or grilling on those disposable barbecues as kids ride their bikes along ad hoc, dusty pathways.

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A late springtime trip three hours north of Berlin…

We walk along the dune-top path towards Wustrow, occasionally moving to one side to allow lycra-clad cyclists to whizz past, some on their way to the next town – perhaps to grab the last available beach chair down on the sands – others stretching their legs on the Ostsee-Radweg, the Baltic bike path that hugs the German coastline between the Polish border and the Danish. At Wustrow the pier stretches out above the calm waters. All the benches are taken. Walkers and cyclists rest. Couples enjoy the view. An old man scratches the solution to crossword clues onto a folded paper.

Down on the sands tattooed sunworshippers are building their their little patch of territory around their striped, rented beach chair, but only their dogs are hardy enough to brave the chill of the May waters. A kindergarten class walks along in formation, and is surprisingly quiet, but the kids still receive a look of distaste from the angler on the pier who wishes he had the whole place to himself.

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Saturday afternoon and the weather is unpredictable. In May you have to hope for a nice weekend, and this one is not sure how exactly it wants to be. When the sun comes out it is too warm for a jacket. When it hides behind the cloud it is too cold for a jumper. It is a reminder that summer is not yet here.

But still, with the first sign of sunshine and the first blossom on the trees Berliners head outside, to the beer gardens, the playgrounds, and most of all, the parks. At the Bürgerpark in Pankow families kick footballs around on the grass, or attempt to launch kites into the blustery sky. The goats grazing behind high fences look unimpressed at being watched by young kids in football shirts, waiting for a cup final that will take place past their bedtime. The beer garden is half-heartedly open, with sausages on the grill and beer on tap, but the shutters are down on the ice cream stand as if to say, “come on guys, not yet…”

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Last weekend we decided to climb the rubble hill of Humboldthain to take a look at the remains of the Flak Towers that stand there among the trees, looking out across the city. I have been in this park many times, but for whatever reason I had never been up to look at the towers that were built between 1941-42 as part of the anti-aircraft defences of the city during the Allied bombing raids of the Second World War. The tower, that was designed to be bomb-proof, also provided an air-raid shelter for up to 15,000 civilians.

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