Blog life seems to be taking the form of a brief flurry of updates followed by months of silence followed by simmering guilt that I should be creating something and sharing it followed by slowly creating something and sharing it followed by a brief flurry of inspiration and productivity followed by months of silence.
In real life, 2024 started with a bang in Sydney as one parent flew home, another arrived and, in between, the weather got better, I hung out in a pizza truck, held down a job, looked for new butterflies and scored some gold. And then sapphire.
What further superlatives can one spout about the Sapphire Coast in southern New South Wales? Visited once again but on this occasion seen through the fresh eyes of my Mum, down under for the very first time. Pinch yourself moments on white sand, vivid blue water, dense green eucalyptus. We’ll get there, with some fuel.
Alas after a week of heat and sunshine in Australia’s capital we hit the coast just as the cloud started to roll in. This didn’t stop obligatory visits to Tuross for waterfront seafood and Bodalla for sublime ice cream afters. A stop overnight in Narooma was pleasant if a little gloomy while morning coffee in charming Tilba brightened things up a touch.
It is at the parental intersection of Bermagui where glimmers of sunshine again reemerge. With vintage cheese from Tilba, bread from Honorbread and assorted extras from Woollies, we decamp at its lovely bay just as a blue hole in the grey opens up, like a portal into the upside up. A few regulars wade into the water for a swim, while the summit of Gulaga emerges beneath the receding sheet of cloud. The sapphire has tepidly begun.
By the time we reached beachside in Pambula, the atmospherics were notably more sparkly. A short walk from our cabin past delinquent kangaroos led to the sweeping arc of sand disappearing all the way up to Merimbula. A decent chunk of sun livened things up and illuminated the colours of the water. Here was – wrapped up a little because of the wind – a chance to unfold the seating contraption and maybe just doze. And then to open the eyes and be dazzled.
For dazzling it is hard to look past the shallow waters of the Pambula River, lapping at powder white sand and banks of eucalyptus chiming with the sound of bellbird. A cloudy start the next morning magically evaporated for a perfect amble. Peaceful apart from the occasional fisher and brisk walking lady having a cathartic meltdown on the phone.
It doesn’t take much to consider how this must look to virgin, English eyes. The vibrancy as if the TV has gone on the blink during an episode of Eastenders. Deep blues, shimmering gold, blinding white, blanketing green. Gently lapping translucent water, warm and pristine. Nature largely uninterrupted, heard in melody but rarely seen. Apart from a resting Orchard Swallowtail.
We returned to the Pambula River later in the day, just because it was there, around the corner. In between, the hustle and senior shuffle of downtown Merimbula, where millions of tax rebates are frittered away on hot weak cappuccinos and chicken parmigianas annually.
Bar Beach is a favoured spot, partly because you can get a good coffee overlooking a small, sheltered aquamarine bay. It is calm and appealing enough to swim in, especially with those English eyes. Thus a mother is submerged while I inch out just past knee high.
It would be good to come back here for a double bacon and egg roll. So we do just that on Monday morning and not for the first time in my life I am facing abject disappointment at a sign proclaiming the availability of a limited menu only. There is no double bacon and egg today, at least not this side of the estuary. Tomorrow will be fine, I am told. But there is to be no tomorrow.
And so sometimes fate dictates change, a new experience for me too. Nothing radically different of course, but a bacon and egg roll across that channel of sapphire on an isthmus of land known as Fishpen. A takeaway taken away to a small pontoon, bedecked by self-funded retirees living their best life. With ample time to dwell and, should they wish, write about another day in paradise. Such luxury.
It’s a decent enough walk to require sustenance, so I strategically commenced in Bondi with a favourite pile of seafood. The beach was fairly busy – as you’d expect on a Sunday in February – but there is enough green space surrounding the bay to get your own little plot of land. Around me, every other person Facetiming to someone a million miles away, absent, distant. Nearby, a scruffy young guy settles down with a guitar, assuming the world near and far wants to be entertained by his derivative Passenger twaddle. It’s time to get moving.
Walking by Bronte Beach and around the cemetery, through the cove of Clovelly, up the worse steps to circumnavigate Gordons Bay, and down again into Coogee. An egalitarian scene of Sunday sessions, volleyball, buckets and spades and barbecues. The beach has been in better shape, seemingly plagued by masses of seaweed that are surely something to do with the weird weather and warming seas. By now I finally feel a tad toasty, but ice cream proves the best way to cool back down.
In a window distant, the towers of central Sydney loom large, shimmering like temples to the unstoppable commute. For me, it is onto a chilly train, bypassing under this city and out to Parramatta. Where equally chilly tower blocks await. Later, a chilly taxi crawls to the airport, where I am temporarily warmed by a beer with an old friend. We depart for chilly planes home through chillier skies. And, for once, arriving in Canberra there is the greatest relief at disembarking into the balmy evening air of a city getting back to its best.
And then, through Bombala and into South East Forests National Park, there was something resembling freshness. Blue sky. Green. Giant trees untainted by fire. A campground almost deserted, the camp guardian a spirited Kookaburra feeding its young. A sense of wonder and relief that this is all still actually possible. Breathe.
This region – East Gippsland – is sparsely populated and only has a few access points to the coast, through the gorgeously pristine Croajingalong National Park. Camping in the park is popular over Christmas and I had no chance. But at Cann River itself, a free campground was available in which to set up at ten in the morning. And it came alongside a short walk through woodland that in places reminded me of somewhere in England, such were the treasured patches of greenery.
I remember Orbost quite fondly from the only other time I was here in 2013, mainly because I found a bakery that served something akin to a Paris-Brest. It’s not really what you expect but my memory of this raised expectations beyond what I should have expected. I was looking to pick up some supplies for dinner, which I managed but not to the standard I had expected. The result was a very Christmas meze of leftover ham, sausage rolls, cheese and a couple of salads. How I craved a hot meal! Oh well, there is always tomorrow.
Reaching Bondi – oh hallowed be thy name – I was determined to find a favourite little seafood haunt from times past; this was, after all, the prime reason I had not driven straight back to Canberra and had pottered about sufficiently to arrive at an acceptable time for dinner. And there it wasn’t. And there I was thinking why didn’t I just drive back to Canberra and have KFC at Marulan Service Centre instead? And there it was, on a different, quieter, cheaper street and life in Sydney was liveable for a few minutes again.
Melbourne was – typical Melbourne – half the temperature of Sydney and a darn sight cooler than the world’s most liveable city, Canberra. It is sometimes proclaimed the most European of Australian metropolises, which means cloud and showery rain and a sometimes dingy – some may say grungy – countenance. And also, trams, which laugh in the face at numerous contemporary attempts to retrofit light rail elsewhere, like a wizened professor in a pokie room full of drongoes.
You’d think the latter is more Melbourne while the former is all Sydney. But for me it was vice versa, the fish and chips the target of seagulls on St Kilda Beach, just for that extra European touch. If I had another jumper and another million dollars and an escape option from the oppression of another inevitable choking summer, I could probably live here, and I could probably live in Sydney too. If nothing else, I’d sure know some good spots for dinner.
No doubt many of the loftier residents of Salcombe were in jovial mood; not only from their elevated perch surveying the ambling peasants seeking a cheap pasty, but with the news of a royal baby to join the ranks. Does it have a name yet? I can’t even remember. Have the Daily Mail criticised the parents yet? Oh probably.
And so, the unexpected and unplanned once again yields some of the most memorable moments. Waiting in a small layby among the gorgeous fields of Devon in the warming sunshine could be worse. Being patched up and guided to Totnes for repairs by endearing locals eager to provide a helping hand (and earn some pennies) proved heart-warming. Spending a few hours in Totnes, charmed and enlightened by good coffee, markets overflowing with abundance and leafy riverside walks. And the satisfaction of rediscovering batter bits with malt vinegar (good work Mum!)
Such are the ample proportions of the landscape here that the coast path between Strete and Blackpool Sands struggles to keep to the coast. The barriers are too immense, and the trail cuts inland as it dips down towards the bay. But this too is something of a blessing, for not only do you make it without falling to an inevitable death into the sea, but you become once again immersed into a countryside apparently so utopian. Farming must still be productive here, despite the temptation to become a campsite or a tearoom or a paddock for some pampered hobby horses.
gbpilgrim 