Visiting a random part of inland Australia in the summer is kind of like choosing blindly from a bag of jalapeños: no matter what you get, it’s probably going to be uncomfortable. And yet, as with the jalapeños, there’s something oddly compelling about the subtle variations in flavour. Western hot is distinct from eastern hot. Southern hot’s not the same as northern hot. My flavour involves houses turning into islands and wombats lying spread-eagled on their backs beneath ceiling fans – which the humans who own the house begrudgingly allow because, after all, it is a wombat. (This is a true story – I’ll get to it in a minute.)
Every summer, the towns of central-west New South Wales transform into archipelagos. Not actual chains of islands, but houses separated from one another by the heat. It results partly from the area’s unique geography: the central west begins at the edge of the Great Dividing Range and cascades down into the western plains, leading to temperature extremes at both ends of the spectrum. It’s hard to mentally prepare yourself for a hellish summer when there’s snow on the main street (I’m looking at you, Orange). Harder still when so many new arrivals come for the “milder climate”.
