Jolted from sleep by our 4:30 a.m. alarms, Vilis and I were nonetheless striding up the Castle Hill road by 5:15 a.m., our leg muscles stretching out the stiffness resulting from yesterday’s bushwalking and cycling excursion. Warmth pervaded the cloak of darkness surrounding us, with the lights of Townsville rendering the grey thickness of overhead clouds faintly orange. Sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched at our disruption of their rest before returning to silence. As vehicles chugged up the hill’s steep switchbacks, we flicked on our flashlights to warn drivers of our presence.

At the summit of Castle Hill, we joined a crowd already assembled and awaiting the 6 a.m. start of the sunrise Easter service. I noted every age in the gathering, including newborns suckling at the breast, toddlers, schoolchildren, strong, young men clustered on the curb, and frail, white-haired women seated in patio chairs and covered with blankets.

During the service, wind whipped over the summit, as though seeking to drown out words of  singers and speakers and the music provided by a Salvo’s band. Drizzle spit onto us, and while dancers leapt and twirled in the joy of the resurrection celebration, media cameras recorded the proceedings. As the sun rose in a pink and orange smear cramped by cloud, thunder rumbled overhead, like an echo of the Scriptural words repeated by several speakers, “He is not here. He is risen.”  The service ended with those gathered looking out over Townsville and singing a prayer for the future of this tropical city.

On our descent from the summit, the hill was cluttered with runners, walkers, and cyclists. On our return to the house, the day stretched out before us in a slow-moving span of time we filled with writing and reading, creeping outdoors to photograph wary butterflies, strolling the parkway, and preparing our Easter supper of barramundi and stir-fried veggies. The fish had a light, clean taste delicious along with a dressing of orange juice and spiced and herbed breadcrumbs. I could suddenly relate a lot more closely to all those ‘fishos’  I’d seen casting for barra at Aplins Weir.