As I disconcertingly approach twenty years in Australia I forget how many times I have been exposed to “the most highly anticipated Ashes series in history.” Only to be either irritated and / or bored senseless within the time it takes to make a dubious TV umpiring decision.
So, here we are again.
It’s funny how Australia (the cricket team) has irked me over the years, causing me to seek solace in Australia (the country). Give it thirty minutes or so among the gum trees and almost all is forgiven Warnie, Gillie, Mitcho, Smithy, Patty, Garry, and usually some guy slapping it about on “dayboo”. Even if the kookaburras knowingly cackle to rub salt in the wound (or sandpaper on the balls).
Meanwhile, the only time I get to wax lyrical about England is here on these pages, when I am focused on sharing the latest updates on pasties from Cornwall and vistas from a coast path. Indeed, there seems to be more English content for AI to regurgitate to the level of an eight-year-old than there is antipodean. Perhaps because England feels so exotic these days, what with its M&S biscuits and quirky place names and increasingly chaotic populist edginess.
Corners of Australia offer sanctuary from much of the nonsense, helped in part by third world internet and mobile blackspots. Purer, halcyonesque days of sandy toes and salty air, of flip flops floating on the incoming tide as whales flap within a deep blue sea. Places where some numpty on Facebook will film a short video montage to the title of ‘It kills me when people come to Australia and miss this pristine secret hideaway.’ If that’s what bloody well kills you then a) wait until you hear about the snakes and b) please, be my guest.
Since those sojourns in England we have been to the south coast of NSW at least three times by my reckoning. Twice in or around Tathra, where whales thrash their way down the Pacific Highway and prawns land upon the plate. There are friends to catch up with and walks through spotted gums to serpentine lagoons. And trips north or south to an array of small, unassuming coastal towns.
Eden made a change, a place I had not walked upon for several years but reassuringly familiar. There have been catastrophic fires and a pandemic and Trump x 2 and still the prospect over Twofold Bay is soothing to the soul. There is a lost paradise about this place, hidden within the rough edges.
Hidden too, the Bundian Way. An ancient 365km pathway from Turemulerrer (Twofold Bay) to the mountain ranges of Targangal (Mount Kosciuszko) that Aboriginal people from Yuin, Ngarigo, Jaitmathang, Bidawal Country have walked for thousands of years. Now rising in consciousness again following an impressive book and the development of an easy, accessible, beautiful couple of kilometres to start.
On the topic of hidden paradises, a golf course next to the sea would tick many boxes, especially for English cricketers busily training. Just north of Merimbula, Tura Beach has one, although the sea often remains hidden behind dunes and tea tree and banksia. These hazards are supplemented by protective plovers and swampy ponds and numerous retirees doddering along with their dogs. I never realised the entirety of Tura Beach was effectively a Goodwin retirement village.
Still, I might qualify soon. And being ‘of an age’, I have been trying to get into the swing of things again. This includes packing my golf clubs in the car and bringing them along for a coastal trip in the hope my darling wife will fancy a break from me and I’ll kill this time by hacking at a little white ball with a metal rod.
In hindsight perhaps I would have been better off with a siesta too. The recovery shots seem to be my forte, but then I get plenty of practice. Why don’t I just pretend I am smacking a low shot under some trees all of the time?
I could try fishing instead. Which takes me now to Mollymook and a tenuous link with Stein and his seafood cookery. Last time here we stayed above his restaurant overlooking the ocean eating noodles in a cup. This time, we stayed down in the Pavillion, eating at the golf club bistro. I guess, barring the noodles, this was a more downmarket affair.
This is possibly the most privileged paragraph ever written but I guess the problem with staying at Bannister’s Pavillion after previously staying at Bannister’s By The Sea is that you had previously stayed at Bannister’s By The Sea. The comedown is like being, say, 1/105 at lunch and then bowled out for 164. I mean the rooftop pool is pretty and that but what is with all the random gurgling and banging and knocking? Not to mention the parade of 5am Ford Rangers commuting back to the eastern suburbs of Sydney on a Monday morning just outside your room.
But, well, happy birthday me. The sun came out and the pool was inviting enough to dip in and we travelled a road well-travelled to get back home with familiar highlights along the way. Like Bendalong Bays and Kangaroo Valleys and Fitzroy Falls and Bundanoon Bakes. Familiarities becoming more familiar than scones and cream and Tesco and paying for air and countryside pubs. They, like test match wins, are the rarities. They the exotic.
From Tuross Head you can see the ranges of Deua National Park to the west. No doubt a regular sight of alarm at night, illuminated by flame that flickered and flared to its own shape and will. Constantly on edge, unknowing as to where and how far it would come, the fires never did reach Tuross, at least in physical form.
This proved an aperitif for the perfectly timed stroll beside the water to the Pickled Octopus Café, where we availed ourselves of a pristine outdoor table lapping at the glassy calm of the inlet. Fish and chip orders arrived as the daylight turned to dusk, each munch of deep fried saltiness coinciding with a deepening of colours and escalation of heavenly drama. A moment when nothing else can distract and nothing else really matters. Timing again exquisite.
Back in Tuross Heads, it really is a little nugget of a place, especially when you visit out of holidays and weekends when it is neither ferociously scorched by bogan summers or coated in a wintry ghost town gloom. I’d say the perfect time, perfectly timed, would be around the end of March and early April. And here we were, April 2, sat out on the deck of the Boatshed, drinking a coffee and thinking how lucky the local retirees were. But we were there too, and very thankful for that; lucky to able to have this to enjoy no matter how brief.
Just a stone’s throw from here – but via tortuously scenic roads hemmed in by a picture postcard of thatched cottages – sit the pebbles of Slapton Sands. Even on dismal days the pebbles lend vibrancy to the air, clarity to the water, and a chance to display consistent inadequacy at skimming. The alternative option of tossing increasingly giant rocks into the sea proved far more accessible and entertaining.
As the afternoon evolved, summer came back with a bang. Perfect golfing weather and opportunity to get a little burnt. I never get burnt in Australia, only soggy little Britain, quite probably because I never expect to be on the receiving end of such ultraviolet aggression. The golf wasn’t exactly red hot, but we coped around the course sculpted in such a splendid location.
Having abandoned a bunch of wildlings on the beach, it was late afternoon by time my brother and I rejoined the rest of the family, who didn’t seem to miss us one bit. And why would they, frolicking in the sun, attacking one another with water, jumping over surf. It was quite wonderful to see, together in perfect harmony, in amazing weather, in an attractive place. What else do you need? Fish and chips maybe? Okay.
The criminal thing – though actually fortuitous for us locals in the know – are the queues of people backing out of Ye Olde Cornish Bakehouse or West Cornwall Pasty Ltd or whatever they are called. Chain stores in mediocrity. Delivering nourishment to hordes of people trying to find a few metres on the grainy beach. This is why Looe on a hot August afternoon is not for me. But I’d go there for Sarah.
In a final hit and miss cloud affair in which there were more misses than hits we returned to the North Cornwall coast the next day. The aim was a last hoped-for paddle in water and delicious cream tea, something that could please everybody. The setting on the River Camel at Daymer Bay was agreeable enough, and could have been quickly heightened with a spot of sun. But it was under a mackerel sky that a few of us tiptoed into the water and clambered over rock pools.
Because I was actually really enjoying driving around blind bends and along single track lanes I decided we could seek out a cream tea further up the coast near Boscastle. For once eschewing the village, we managed to get a parking spot at 
gbpilgrim 