Apparently June was the wettest June in Canberra since the last wettest June in Canberra. I can’t say I massively noticed, though – in hindsight – my shoes do seem muddier and car dirtier. There was that whole let’s delay going to Sydney because it is incessantly raining thing, only to go the next day when it was incessantly raining and ridiculously windy. And I did purchase an umbrella from Big W I remember. Still, at least it hasn’t been summer and raining and, oh I don’t know, spiralling into a self-inflicted vacuum of shambolic uncertainty and state-sponsored xenophobia. Arguably.
With all this rain and crass ineptitude what we all need is a bit of stability and reassurance. Like a classic winter day trip to the South Coast of NSW, something which appears to be turning into an annual thing. I think it may be some kind of Aussie beach craving before I venture to the northern hemisphere. That and the potential to just maybe bare my arms for an hour or two in the sun.
Two hours with a stop for coffee at the improvingly-serviced by coffee Braidwood and I can find myself pondering whether to take off my jumper along the calm shoreline of Broulee. I didn’t, because it was only about fifteen degrees, but it was certainly still and sunny and rather blissful for thirty minutes or so. A happiness heightened by the token lunch of fish and chips in nearby Moruya, after which I felt a bit sick.
All this is hors d’oeuvre for the main ingredients of this south coast winter classic: driving through the beautiful spotted gums and spiky palms of Murramarang National Park. Arriving at the pristine sweep of Depot Beach and ambling on foot along the sand and rock platforms to Pebbly Beach. Home to beachside kangaroos offering clichéd images of some kind of idyllic Australia. Scary waves and placid bays, reflections and a sea spray haze. Fishing nomads and foolhardy surfers. And escapees from Canberra hoping to bare their arms.
It was, of course, almost perfect. But if I was to air one little niggle (and one can be prone to a whinge), it was the presence of winter. The afternoon sun soon disappeared behind leaden clouds shrouding the ranges. Bare arms were undoubtedly out of the question. Swollen seas provided drama with a touch of pungent seaweed. And recent storms had cut away at the cliff line to make the walk somewhat more precarious than usual.
In fact, I didn’t even make it to Pebbly Beach, a turn of events making those fish and chips an even guiltier pleasure. Rocky debris and a surging high tide meant that onward travel would be a little bit silly, something only to be attempted on The Island with Bear Grylls. My cut off, my terminus, my turnaround point, was an impromptu cascade, tumbling from the sodden forest and weather beaten cliff. There is only so far one can go in a day, and it was a winter’s day after all.