Alongside death and taxes it seems a certainty in life that you will be greeted by heavy rain on your first day of holiday. This after many weeks of glorious weather, hotter-than-average temperatures, and hours stuck inside on a computer, gazing out at it all.
I suppose it was all due, departing a chilly Queanbeyan car pick up point, heading into weather fronts through Bungendore and Braidwood and down the sliding mountain road to Batemans Bay. At least there was finally rationale in Mum packing a raincoat and good sense in waiting out a particularly heavy burst in the shopping mall.
Back it is to BOM radar viewing then. This was more promising than times past and a gap allowed at least a foray to the waterfront for a big bowl of prawns and some deep fried snack packs. Eating passes time and weather fronts and when we made it through the majestic forests and potholes of Mt Agony Road, the sun appeared to enliven the greens, blues and yellows of Pebbly Beach. Sopping wet kangaroos sought vantages from which to dry, positioned perfectly for wandering tourists to capture Australia. Potholes also dried out a bit.
Almost unbelievably the rest of the day featured ice creams and dips in the pool and one of those early evening ambles on Mollymook Beach that bring a singular satisfaction that can only be fostered by golden light with seaside sounds and sandy, salty sensations. Hardly a wash out.
Still, a potential wash out was forecast for later in the week so with fair weather we hot-footed it to Jervis Bay the next day. Things started a little cloudy but were blessedly calm; calm enough to exit the marina at Huskisson and venture out looking for dolphins. A distant flap in the water proved a signal beckoning the boat to hang out with them for a good hour or so. Animals and humans enjoying the ride.
The day won’t get too much worse with lunch among the spotted gums and an almost empty white sand and aqua bay. And while Mum was more than content to bask in the middle of Greenfield Beach I conformed to type and wandered off into the trees and out upon another almost empty white sandy beach.
With boat trips and beaches this may have been peak holiday, the only blip being the iced coffee hastily gathered in Vincentia. It is rare that I would waste something but Mum and I agreed this would be better served to the plants than to us. We’d make up for it with cocktails later.
And so to make the day even more insufferable we gathered at the Pool Bar at Bannisters Point as the daylight faded to gold and red and indigo and black. Yes, it is the cheaper option to Rick Stein’s seafood restaurant next door but with what I imagine is less formality and fewer bisques. The salt content – if you have ever seen one of Rick’s TV shows where he adds just “a little pinch” – was certainly on point.
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And so to that day of heavy rain which turned out to be an early morning spell of rain clearing to drizzle and mackerel skies. Among all the excess it was kind of nice just to mull around; to dawdle over breakfast, to take a short drive out for morning coffee, to lightly lunch and to nap. It was far from a write off either, with steps gained on a looping afternoon ramble around Mollymook itself while Mum prepared a warming, home-cooked dinner to go with some wine.
And with that day ticked off, the next was certainly clearer if a little cool thanks to a wind change. The kind of breeze that sets you thinking where can I go to maximise advantage of the sun with natural shelter? Well, bustling Milton wasn’t such a bad start, basking in the concrete next to the Princes Highway, coffee on tap. And then along many a bend to the peaceful shores of Bendalong, for a spot of paradise.
It wasn’t the friendly rays or the handsome bay or, indeed, shelter from forest that put Bendalong a touch above. It was our very own ocean swimming pool, formed by a quirk of tide and rock. A clear water haven warmed and bejewelled by the sun. A gentle place to wallow.
A fitting final taste of the beach, before a fitting final dinner. Sure, it was at Mollymook Golf Club which was less Pringle sweaters and plus fours and more meat raffles and franking credits. I’d usually do my best to avoid an establishment where you need a membership card, one additionally thriving from the misery of gambling addiction. But it was nearby, had a reasonable menu and – with a little extra effort to snare a table – oceanside views.
Perfect to watch as surf rowers charge full on over the first white cap, the reddening sun lengthening shadows and softening the skies. Gulls scatter and soar while – finally – the last winning ticket of the never-ending meat raffle is loudly aired. A few murmurs, the odd shuffle and – now all out of slabs of minute steak and glutenous pink snags – the club practically empties. Until next week.
For Mum and I it is until some other time and probably some other place. We linger one final morning beside the sea before meandering towards charming towns and verdant valleys of the Highlands, pausing to admire precipitous falls and rugged sandstone wilderness. A taster of – come rain or, more likely, shine – a little more still to come.
As the fading gentrification of the Southern Highlands descends toward the sea you can be in no doubt that this is Australia. Indeed, an Australia as it was before anyone, even its first peoples, decided to venture over by boat. The plateau abruptly falls away into a dense system of deep valleys and gorges. Massive walls of sandstone plummet towards pristine creeks obscured by a blanket of gums. A pair of black cockatoos glide in the air, conversing in prehistoric shrieks. Banksia and wattles compete for attention in the understorey topping the escarpment. And a thin veil of water tumbles over its edge, destined ultimately for the ocean.
From bay to bay, traversing succulent coastal forests in between, it’s an easy amble from Blenheim Beach to Hyams Beach. The only real difficulty is deciding whether to take your shoes and socks off on the sandy bits only to then have the hassle of putting them on again for rougher terrain (conclusion: wear sandals or thongs). Plus there’s the challenge of restraining your photo-taking so that you don’t have endless, repetitive pictures of clear water lapping at fine, white sand.
The sand is so white here that it famously gets on every piece of tourist literature and recurrently features on Sydney Weekender as the whitest sand in the world. In fact, it is genuinely so white that even small-minded immigration ministers would feel unthreatened and some cretin with a golden toupee would approve. Personally, I think there is probably whiter (for instance, around Esperance), but that is probably just supremacist talk.
gbpilgrim 