Ah work. It pays the bills. And sometimes it allows you to wake up on the Gold Coast on a Friday morning after a heavy night of taxable labour; to gaze over the cluster of Sim City towers toward an undulating Pacific, where a reluctant sun tentatively heralds the start of the day. It proffers one of those buffet breakfasts that demand an unfeasible stack of bacon, and impels a walk along the shoreline, barefoot in sand, into the agreeable caress of the ocean.
Fairly or not, the Gold Coast has its critics, but let me tell you, having grown up on a council estate in Southwest England where highlights of childhood involve watching the lamppost out on the street flailing in lashing gales and horizontal rain, there is a lot to be said for an ambient climate and carefree air. And while I would never wish to have grown up here instead (yes, really), I do not mind being on the Gold Coast the morning after the night before, thank you very much. And with that happy thought and a rinse off of sand, I promptly escaped to Brisbane.
On this occasion Brisbane was a mere stopover to the less golden but sunnier coast up north. A weekend in a masterly constructed holiday home nestled into the hills of Buderim, surrounded by the morning cacophony of birds and the silent industry of bees. A weekend to spend with an old friend – Jason – and a new one – Cheryl – embarking on surf club breakfasts and Bear Grylls Ultimate Survival Jungle hikes. First up: the Sunshine Coast Hinterland, where we hopefully won’t be required to drink our own urine for show.
Coming from a Canberra dried out all yellow and brown (and anxious for the survival prospects of my plants while away), the Hinterland was a relative Devon. Rarely do I encounter such undeniable lushness in Australia, lovingly arranged into tumbling green fields and succulent gardens. Stretching along the ridgeline of the Blackall Range, towns like Mapleton and Montville ooze weekender charm, overburdened with incense but – on the upside – generously populated with cake.
This comfortable civility dissipates quickly once away from the main road; national parks host waterfalls and rock pools and scenic views over jungle. Tracks weave through palms and strangler figs and giant feathery ferns. Snakes and spiders probably hide. While the crowds loiter all the way down to pools and falls at Kondalilla National Park, beyond the swimming spots, the jungle is almost all yours. Yours and a couple of fellow pioneers, hoping to steer clear of Drop Bears and survive on rations of emergency salt and vinegar crisps and deodorant. We made it, and went to eat cake to celebrate.
In the jungle, the blue skies are shielded, the sun only penetrating the perforated layers in the treetop canopy. Blue sky is always there, but it’s often not on display. I think that is some kind of metaphor, strategically placed. With the afternoon progressing, the expanse of Southeast Queensland was happily basking under blue skies again, with the phenomenal Glass House Mountains piercing the air. From here, at Mary Cairncross Reserve, they are tantalisingly alluring, and you wonder which one you may well be able to climb, next time around.
For now it is the dash to sunset, made more complicated by the stupid habit the Earth has of tilting on its axis. Like the transition from single storey beach shack to glass fronted condominium, Mooloolaba is now the place to see and be seen. The sun dipping in the direction of soon to be repossessed fibreglass dinosaurs coats the gentle bay in the warmest, golden light. People gather under the branches of trees, upon manicured grass and cosily crammed into picnic tables and benches. Corks pop, sausages sizzle, children run carefree in that manically possessed way that they sometimes do. Strollers amble, runners pound and kayakers paddle out as shark bait. It is relaxed and serene and I wonder again whether the people around me realise just how lucky they are.
The return of the sun the next day prompted the usual screeching, warbling, cackling and occasionally tuneful singing of the Buderim birdlife. It is a struggle to sleep in and I was more than ready to escape down the road into Buderim Forest Park for some early morning exercise. While others decided to jog, I was content enough to engage in spells of brisk walking punctuated by abrupt stops for Instasnaps. A kilometre in, the falls came as a surprise. I mean, I knew they were there, but I wasn’t actually expecting much to be falling. And while it was hardly a deluge, there was something aesthetically pleasing about Buderim Falls that was absent at Kondalilla yesterday.
After the falls three burly locals passed me heading in the other direction back to the bottom car park. Eventually, I decided to chase them, conscious that they were driving me out of here. Visions of headlines in the Buderim Slacker materialised: ‘Pommie Found after 8 Days Ravaged by Drop Bears by Man Walking his Pet Lizard’. And so it was that for the first time in a long time I – what do they call it – jogged. Trail running no less (sounds more adventurous hey) and I actually quite liked it. I mean, I would choose to cycle over run any day, but at least with this you had the fun of negotiating occasional boulders and creeks and the omnipresent likelihood of spraining an ankle. Obviously it was all in vain, but thankfully three burly locals have a habit of cruising Buderim looking for wayward tourists and returned to pick me up.
Feeling virtuous I was quite happy to find that the breakfast provided at Maroochydore Surf Club was in buffet form. Layers of rubbery bacon ensued (if only these surf clubs could invest as much on food and service as they do pokies and glass windows), but this provided ample fuel to go rather more upmarket at Noosa.
Now, I have some doubts that the Noosa tourist board would declare their little haven the ‘Jewel of the Sunshine Coast’. Not because it is nothing other than a sparkling, glistening, extravagantly expensive diamond; but purely because of a wish to disassociate with the working families, plebs and bogans cropping up south of here. Indeed, they might want to start closing the gates and patrolling the waterways in paramilitary costumes and a trumped up sense of importance. Like some kind of Border Force or something.
You see, the tourist board have been so successful that Noosa is brimming at the seams on a warm, sunny Sunday lunchtime, jammed with locals and foreigners alike. Parking is in the lap of the gods, but boy, have they got some of the prettiest parking spots around. The beach is – well – busy for an Australian beach, but admittedly it is a rather pretty beach. And even the national park, which shelters Noosa from encroachment from the south, is bustling with a steady stream of backpackers, families, joggers, and adventurers most of whom are, of course, exceedingly pretty. It is, undoubtedly, a very pretty place, and a requisite on a two day drop bear bushwalk adventure beach and waterfall honey monster tour.
Like all of the most accomplished tours though, the best is saved for last. No tour is complete without a visit to a twee little spot providing lovingly crafted local produce and quirkily endearing owners. Honey Bear Honey of Buderim is not yet on the tourist itinerary, but with a bit more blue sky and a 10% cut it could well be. Look, I’m even promoting it on this blog for goodness sake, reaching tens of
thousands of people (if I am lucky). So I implore you to come see the bees, taste the honey.
Finally, a sugary buzz was no doubt helpful in another last minute scramble to watch the Sunshine Coast sun depart, at which point this area is known as the Moonshine Coast, clear as day on the streets of Caloundra. I’ve been up this way a few times and so am practically a local, but had never been to ‘Clown Town’ before. I guess it’s a bit like Mooloolaba, in that everyone gathers around five in the evening beside the water, on the grass, along the benches waiting in anticipation for the deafening high pitched screaming of thousands of rainbow lorikeets in the Norfolk Pines.
Some might go on to watch the sun disappear, over the apartments and occasional jagged plugs of the Glass House Mountains. Many linger in the warm air, sedated by sparkling wine and a sense of being the luckiest people on this planet; making the most of it all before heading back to work; living each day as if it is your last. Sensible, because, in this splendid corner of Queensland, you never know when a Drop Bear might strike.