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Home and Away

Drilling into brick ain’t easy. But at least it’s – via a series of chunky payments over 360 weeks – my brick. The small hole above the bathroom window where I eventually gave up proving to be an imprint. My signature. The final flourish being the calls to the tradies that follow.

I did fix a wonky cupboard door, rip up a small piece of carpet, revitalise a cooktop and cleanse a stained sink. And I did manage to find a good plumber to repair a leaky tap and got some people around to do measures and quotes and hopefully install new flooring. The flooring has taken on an almost mythical quality, the promised sunlit uplands of when I finally feel I can properly unpack and organise rooms. At the moment, it’s somewhere on a ship trying to get into Sydney.

I think the delineation between non-homeownership and homeownership must be how many times I have been to Bunnings in the last month. It may be double figures though not once have I succumbed to a slimy morsel of cooked entrails with onions loosely encased in a slice of bread. I’ve been to Ikea three times and Kmart at least the same, plus some carpet showrooms and the expensive kitchenware section of David Jones, to browse. It is like I have entered a parallel universe I never knew existed, where a few hundred dollars here and there is offloaded with hardly the bat of an eyelid.

In the meantime, the regular universe has been doing its thing. In my neighbourhood there are some tall dark conifers under which sit a carpet of needles and the occasional crazy person. But there are also some wonderful deciduous trees putting on a rainbow spectacle as the Canberra autumn seeps in. The red and green king parrots blend into the canopy, only startling with delight when whizzing overhead. The cockatoos are voracious, wanton in their pursuit of abundant, nutty delicacies. Leafy detritus scatters the ground.

A week or two of still days in the low twenties has offered much. It’s great for a bushwalk and I took the opportunity of a somewhat back to normal Saturday to head up into the hills. It had been quite some time since I had last walked from Corin Forest out to Square Rock, fresh and pepperminty in the morning sun. At the rock, expansive views west and a flask of tea to go with a Creme Egg. Before popping into Bunnings in Tuggers on the way home.

A couple of four day weekends have propelled April into even more genial heights. While the first over Easter was a bit of a homestay, the second turned into a tale of two weekends, with Monday and Tuesday enjoyed on the South Coast. Narooma was my last minute overnighter, hastily arranged when I decided I was too tired and achy and old to camp. This at least meant plenty of room in the back for the bike, to burn off some of the cakes / ice cream / fish and chips via beautiful boardwalks.

Cognisant of Tuesday being a public holiday I was especially keen to feast on staples on the Monday lest everything be closed the next day. Setting out early meant perfect timing for coffee and a muffin in Mossy Point, enjoyed down on the public jetty. For the most part this was a picture-perfect setting for sipping and munching and soaking up the salty air, prior to the appearance of a wet dog keen to get in on some of the muffin action. I’m not sure if the remainder of my coffee comprised half dog seawater blend.

Next on the agenda after a morning coffee stop was lunch so really I needed to create at least a little time and exercise between the two. A diversion to Moruya Heads offered up a fine way to fill in the gap, taking in golden bays, tranquil lagoons and a blend of dilapidated shacks and multimillion dollar homes. This a scene practically replicated up and down the coast, including in the next town down, Tuross Head.

The Boatshed in Tuross Head caters for prince and pauper alike. While most people drive and park up for a spot of lunch, the more fabulous way would be to pull up in your boat while a member of staff hands out your seafood platter from the deck. If more people were doing this there may actually be somewhere to sit, but I contentedly took mine away anyway, around the corner and beside the lake. The one disappointment being the depletion of salt and pepper calamari from the menu. As I waited for mine to cook, piles of chips topped with calamari taunted me as they were delivered to happy people sitting on sunny tables.

I resolved to make amends with ice cream, filling the next gap between eats with a small but sometimes steep bike ride beside the Tuross beachfront. The ice cream came further down the road in Bodalla. An obligatory stop when anywhere slightly within the vicinity. It never fails to disappoint and I made the point of checking if they were open Anzac Day as well. Store that one in your back pocket.

With a heavier car I eventually make it to Narooma as the afternoon was heading into that moment of low light and lengthening shadows. Enough time to wander beside Wagonga Inlet as it twists its way towards Bar Beach and the small, hazardous outlet into the ocean. In the calmer waters, resident seals await patiently for leftovers from the fishing boats returning from the sea, or maybe to munch on dark chocolate digestives instead. Whatever floats your boat. And I think about the necessity of a light, leafy dinner.

While I missed the dawn services of Anzac Day, I arose early enough to sample the warming glow of a rising sun reflecting off the sea. With barely a breath it would’ve been inexcusable not to ride my bike along the waterways and Oceanside beaches up towards Dalmeny. And back again to Narooma where what I think is a fairly new cafe fulfilled my hopes for simple, waterfront coffee sips.

All that was left was to paddle in the ocean, lie on a beach, eat another ice cream and meet up with friends in Malua Bay before the journey home. Waiting for me there an unexpected delivery of flat pack furniture. Still flat and still packed, ready for that tremendous day when they can be assembled on a fake oak floor. Hoping to make it into the world without any more careless signatures – unless I need to anchor them to the wall.

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Party time

There’s a folksy Australian song that rattles off numerous place names in rapid succession. You know the one, something like Tumbarumba Cootamundra Gooloogong Corryong Arawang Wee Waa etc etc. Macca will play it on his weird Sunday morning radio show, Australia All Over, in which Tony from Mungallala will tell us about the weather in western Queensland before an out-of-tune ukulele solo and some tips from Brenda of Bendigo on making a mint courtesy of franking credits while decimating the countryside in a f*ck off caravan. I sometimes tune in to keep my finger on the pulse.

I bring this to mind only because I feel like I have been living through that song during the first quarter of 2023. A less catchy but almost as infinite Phillip, Wallaroo, Grenfell, Crestwood, Queanbeyan, Nirimba, Lyons, Duffy. Like all good journeys it seems the final destination will also take me back to the beginning, a grande boucle finishing in Phillip. A few hundred metres from my old apartment. Just a matter of selling my soul to a hopefully solvent bank and one or two handshakes away.

Ah, handshakes eh. Remember how they were the norm? And then how a raccoon dog got sick and people thought we would never shake hands again, bewildering the Australian Liberal Party leader. And then we pretended the raccoon dog thing had gone and we went back to shaking hands again as well as not talking to our neighbours and not pickling vegetables and not walking an hour every single day? I tell you, I could live without those pesky handshakes.

For the sake of a good story I like to think it was a soul-selling handshake with a mortgage broker that not only meant my Australia All Over tour was destined to end but gave me the added bonus of COVID-19 on top of hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Most people get a little cashback or a year of insurance with their mortgage. I got an illness that shattered my delusion at being one of the invincibles.

Frankly, this sucked given I was somewhere between Queanbeyan and Nirimba at the time and continued to see the Cs and Ts in Lyons and Duffy. And what of it? I can’t say it was ever too serious for me but it drags on like an episode of Vera and is just as sure to make me feel sleepy. It also has impeccable timing at emerging just at the time when I thought I might have a break away from everything.

Nirimba is also known as a part of Caloundra which is also known as a part of the Sunshine Coast which is also known as a part of Queensland. Needing a few weeks of fill-in accommodation why not spend a little of it on the Sunny Coast instead of, say, Queanbeyan? With the offer put out there, why not seek some payback for those domestique duties back in the rail trail days? Why not celebrate Canberra Day with that time worn custom of fleeing Canberra? I mean, it’s not like anything could go wrong.

Indeed, apart from the terrible option of a Red Rooster dinner off the G’day Bruce Highway, things started off fairly well. A dawn start down by the beach with coffee and a brekkie wrap. Yes, it was a bit dull – the Sunshine Coast doing its usual thing of lacking sunshine – and, yes, it was a bit too early given the backwardness of the time zone, but there were good, healthy, fresh air vibes. In the water, surfers lay as bait for sharks while landlubbers strode with purpose along the boardwalk before settling down to read about rugby players in the Courier Mail. Happy Valley life.

Later in the morning the activewear extravaganza continued as I took a mountain bike along the smooth bike paths of new suburbia and found an island of remnant forest. As islands go it was more of the Drake variety than, say, Greenland, a small reminder of how abundant this ecosystem once was before bulldozers and progress. Just a koala-less snippet enough to take a sexy bike photo and at least pretend this was deep in the heart of the wilderness. Before popping to the IGA.

Perhaps this was the turning point. On the way back, laden with sweet potatoes and a cauliflower, the gloom that had threatened all morning decided to unleash its saturating dampness. It wasn’t especially cold nor especially refreshing but a chore that made the short ride back bitter and infuriating. The only solace coming in brief moments imagining I was some Wouter Van Aert whizzing through the lanes of Flanders. And remembering that there was also an apple turnover being transported in my backpack.

What made me sick? Mortgage brokers, rain, apple turnovers, red roosters, plane flights or, perhaps in keeping with such things, a work planning day? I will never know but on Saturday things started to emerge. Unfortunately this came after a good two hours hard labour on a building site, sweeping up all sorts of dust while musing on the ostentatiousness of so much floor space. A smoko Beefy’s pie and slice of carrot cake wasn’t the only thing irritating my throat.

Do you know how many times I have shoved a swab up my nose and sometimes down my throat and watched as a bit of fluid rises up a small strip of paper on a cheap white plastic thing ironically made in China? You know that moment where the march upward reaches the T and you start to vision a line forming, convinced this time is the time, yet it proceeds up to C without a second thought? Well, the answer is I don’t know how many times that has happened to me, but at least plenty. In some ways it was a relief to finally see that T line glow bright and true, for at least there is a clear reason for how I am feeling. In other ways, my dreams of superhero status were dashed and I was stuck homeless and hopeless in Queensland.

I will not bore you with descriptions of too much sickness as surely we’ve all had enough of that to last a lifetime. In the end it was a blessing to be in Queensland yet also I longed for my own retreat, my own place of solace, my own bed, my own home. The blessing was that I had friends care for me and look out for me and even vacate their own home. I had a bedroom and a bathroom and a dose of warm, humid air when I wanted relief from air conditioning. I had Netflix and a domestique making me coffee, and two generous doggies to pat. I had taste and smell and, mostly, an appetite. Even if gathering treats from the IGA by bike was out of the question for a few days.

If only the home was closer to the beach. I would have gone on soothing strolls away from people, feeling the salty warmth of the ocean on my feet and shutting my eyes to absorb the rhythms of the surf. As it was I had the Dinosaur park and display homes to scrutinise, a sporting oval with distant views to the Glasshouse Mountains and, occasionally, the company of the dogs who will go absolutely bananas at the sense of any other dog in the neighbourhood. By day five, a trip to McDonalds was starting to sound like the most exciting thing to do, if I could make it.

But fast forward several days and it is back to the early morning beachside vibes of Happy Valley. This time, the morning sun is rising, shimmering off the mirror-like sinews of Pumicestone Passage. Surfers stroll down the steps with vigour into a golden glow. The water is gentle and soothing and delightfully warm. The air is still and the day is already on its way to becoming hot. I breathe it in as best I can, this bounteousness of ocean air. Just with a little regret at what could have been.

Now I enter the post-COVID era, superpowers extinguished. Really, how on earth did I last this long? It caps off what has been quite a rubbish start to 2023. All those place names might sound jaunty and adventuresome in a folk song but everyone could do with a place to hang their hat. A place to call their own. A place to mull over kitchen benchtop resurfacing and vinyl tiles and a new vanity. A place to put pictures on the wall, my pictures on a wall! Let the homeowner era finally begin*.

* barring any last minute handshake issues

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Moving on

There is probably so much I have skipped. Top of mind: tranquility at Talland Bay, Dartmoor and chips, Bedruthan jackets and English wines, clubhouse iso, that really hip cafe on Mutley Plain, Mount Edgecumbe, Whitsand and the rest. More pasties in Looe (naturally), Tavistock ambles with coffee and walnut cake, blood tests, Tamerton Foliot creekside discoveries with Ernesettle reminisces, and just those sunny morning cuppas in the garden.

But time moves far more quickly than I can write and there comes a point (sat in a campground in Kangaroo Valley, NSW, for instance) where you simply have to draw a line under it all. Not to consign it to history but as something to live on in your mind and to seep into your heart, as opposed to a memorial of mere letters on a screen. Oh, also: London, crowded Northern Line wearing no mask, train delays to frigid Preston station, Ansdell walks with surprise sunshine and delicious Fairhaven ice cream. But I digress.

I stayed a long time in the United Kingdom, but not as long as it takes to appoint an even more diabolical Prime Minister. And that includes extra time, which was not so much a gift but a sad consequence of the turning of the world, the passage of life. Thank you for all the happy memories, memories that don’t need to be written here but live on at random moments, in places and patterns, in smells and sounds, or simply when a certain light shines through the trees.

Back in Kangaroo Valley, I could’ve had a beer this evening at the Friendly Inn (and with this stream of consciousness you may think this the case). But I didn’t. I had a takeaway pizza and thought I could wile away that black period before it was acceptable to go to bed by catching up with this blog. Occasionally I hear cheers in the distance from the pub, the eels are playing the dingoes or something in a semi-preliminary final or some such. I’ve been away too long.

The pub looked enticing, and far more enticing than where Dad and I ended up in Swanage. However, the first pub we went to was always going to be tough to beat. The Bridge Inn on the River Avon a little out of Amesbury, sparkling in Sunday afternoon sunshine. How good a cider tastes in such surroundings. Swiftly polished off to get away from that guy.

Having started here in June it was interesting to witness how two months had progressed. Upon the Pewsey Downs a landscape of golden grass, sweeping along ridges and hummocks and down into the Vale. A combine below creating a cloud of dust as it sets about its work under a searing sun. On the horizon, more dust, or is it a fire? And just around the corner, maybe Gundagai.

I guess these could be those much vaunted sunlit uplands but to extend the metaphor let me tell you they took a great deal of bashing through prickly, unruly, needless crap to reach. The Ordnance Survey is something great and British but even they cannot always steer us upon the right path (probably, I imagine, because they had their funding cut). The wrong kind of hedge fund.

I always like to have intimate encounters with the English countryside but this was taking it a little too far. A touch more sedentary (and bramble-free) were walks within the Wiltshire villages and towns. Salisbury, with its markets and bunting and majestic cathedral, admired the world over. And Bradford-on-Avon, melding that gracious, Brunel-era industrial heritage with wooded riverside walks and resident kingfishers.

The kingfishers have a following and you catch people lingering for a glance; some simply pausing with the kids on their way to the Co-op, others equipped with shiny lenses and tripods on their way to the Countryfile calendar competition. While the kingfishers remained hidden in town, teasing their audience, Dad and I made our way to Avoncliff, bought a cider each to cool down by the river, and enjoyed the accompaniment of several blurs of vivid blue darting from bank to bank. This is the way to bird.

They were hot days – another plume of continental airmass – and there was appeal in sedentary nature-watching. Like sitting on the sofa and being alerted to the presence of a Hummingbird Hawk-Moth. And another. And another. And, what, how many is that today? And eventually, even though you know it will be a pale imitation of the master’s work, sitting there waiting with your camera to capture this amazing little creature.

The heat didn’t quite last; in fact it inevitably disappeared when we went away to the Dorset coast for a few days. Standing ankle-deep in the water in Devon, I had a feeling I would see the sea again. And, of course, encounter the South West Coast Path.

We were practically straight out onto it, reaching Durlston Country Park on the southern side of Swanage. From here a jaunt along the south coast on a placid nothing kind of day – occasional haze interrupting a bluey-grey sky as small boats on the horizon inch westward toward Portland Bill. With its crumbling chalky cliffs and thicketed combes, the coast path here is a different beast from the western edge of Cornwall. But always, there is ocean.

We ended up walking a fair distance in the end, overlooking the rock formations at Dancing Ledge. These were heavily peopled by those having a ball: bathing, picnicking and, for the most part, engaging in adventure pursuits that require a wetsuit and fluorescent vest. Perhaps the vests aid discovery when they get lost in the brambles and gorse as they make their way up to the ridge away from the coast. Another foray through the rubbish to reach those uplands which, today, were not even sunlit.

We worked up appetite for an ice cream in Swanage and possibly the fish and chips that followed a little later. They were enjoyable enough beside the water, shared with hundreds of other people doing likewise. Yet despite this abundance there are not enough fish and chip eaters to go around to satisfy the voracious seagulls espying any remote opportunity to ruin a moment. Effectively, for protection, we were eating fish and chips from a bag and that somewhat diluted the ambience.

The ambience went further downhill in the only pub in town with seating. And then again the next morning thanks to some persistent rain. I mean I shouldn’t complain, we need the rain, but I will complain anyway. Why don’t you wait one more week when I am far, far away persistent rain? Still, um good weather for golf. If you can call it that.

Victorious on the first play-off ‘hole’ I went to celebrate with coffee and cake, and Dad was all too happy to tag along. Mine was some tiramisu concoction which I feel was born from baking an odd number of chocolate and coffee sponges and deciding the best way to use them up is to slather them with cream and dust with cocoa to entice passing Anglo-Australians on two month holidays who cherish the Britishness of escaping woes with a slice of cake. It was perfect.

Like the gigantic crumbs falling upon on my plate, the dazzling formations of Old Harry Rocks are deserving of attention. Proving almost as busy as the cake shop, a procession of visitors walk the fairly tame path to witness iconic chalk piles crumbling into the sea. On a cloudy, drizzly day, there is a welcome brightness to the rocks and a jollity in communal gathering, with some rather unique TikTok takes and selfie set ups.

Over the ridge from Swanage Bay, we were now in Studland, which is a rather alarming or invigorating prospect depending on whatever floats your boat. I had visions of Dad and I leaning wearily on the ‘Welcome to Studland’ sign in our sexy waterproofs, each sporting a large package. On our back. Unfortunately ladies it never materialised and you may be better off making the trek to Penistone instead.

Thankfully though, finally, some brightness materialised at the end of our walk, which was conveniently next to a pub. I can’t say it was the best ale but the setting was exemplary and ambience was back on the way up. So much so that the sun came out, Dad went into the water, and I watched on at these Englanders embracing chilly water and a green algae fringe.

It felt more like summer holidays again. An alfresco pizza as the sun sets over Swanage and a morning breakfast bap as it heads up into the sky again. There was, of course, a tinge of Australia in this beachside kind of morning. Something I was all too quick to use as an excuse as to why I wouldn’t take a loyalty card for more awful machine-generated coffee in an otherwise lovely spot. Sorry mate, I’ll be in Australia next week.

Indeed time, extra time, was drawing to a close. Swanage was in the rear view mirror, as was Corfe Castle, as was Dorset and Devon and Cornwall. A Prime Minister was still not appointed but they were now down to two. The sun shone again and there were a few days remaining to walk among golden hay-bales, eat another tub of clotted cream, be bombarded by Hummingbird hawk-moths and say farewells. It was time to move on but with farewells that are never really final. For you take with you all the people, places, pasties and they add up to constitute your very being and shape every step forward you take. Whether that is to a cake shop, a mountain top or sat in a glade in the forest, soaking in sun-dappled light.

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We need to talk about Devon

Devon. It feels far from ambrosial when hunting for chicken wings among the half-empty shelves of Lidl on Union Street. Outside, cars circle a small concrete plot as people embark on their quest to endure the least amount of walking possible. Further along the street, once grand facades appear sullen and decrepit, run down by time and indifference. Only pigeons call them home, foraging on the pickings of kebab spilling out like the desperation and menace exiting shady clubs in those dark, seedy hours.

Pan out from Union Street, across the shanty town of cash-in-hand workshops and inevitable vape shops and things will begin to change. Urban renewal they may call it or – worse – gentrification, as if in some way what had gone before was base and unworthy. Waterside apartments in Millbay, loft conversions in Stonehouse, renovated terraces in West Hoe. Far from the wages of a labourer or carer or teacher. But at least they can still afford a bag of chips and a round of crazy golf at West Hoe Park.

And Plymouth Hoe itself acts as a great leveller, a place where anyone can stroll, picnic, kick a ball, or gather in a cluster with several other yoof and create tiktoks. Old ladies may wild swim and Vodka Dave may dance and most people can get a coffee of bitter tears that may mercifully be saved with cake. The sun may shine and, sat beside the glistening water of Plymouth Sound, one may wonder if anything could really be that much finer. Especially when visible in the distance pockets of ambrosia await.

Immediately out of the city limits a web of narrow lanes burrow through trees and hedgerows to places like Heybrook Bay, Bovisand, Down Thomas and Wembury. Wembury is by far the largest of the lot, a virtual suburb of Plymouth renowned for its untamed beach and extortionate parking. Many Plymothians make the trip here but only tight arses like me park up in the village, content to embrace a longer, circular walk promising a different perspective.

I was heading past garden allotments and lone cottages once more towards the River Yealm. This is a river whose waters I have so many times witnessed from the other side. The side with lofty views atop the summit of Revelstoke Drive. The side with densely packed woodland cascading down to sea level. The side with a narrow lane leading to the charms of Noss Mayo and its creekside inns.

Hello from the other side. A similar world of bobbing boats and shingle shores, of dense thickets and a scattering of homes, sitting as neatly into the landscape as they do in my mind when it turns to an idyllic life of fantasy. You could summon a ferry out of nowhere to cross to the pub, but I’ll leave that for another time. And taste the caustic coffee beside Wembury Beach instead.

Not that the Ship Inn was to be bypassed altogether, an addendum for a sunny afternoon in a summer of sunny afternoons. A Friday beer o’clock escape, when you can briefly picture this as your local. Tribute and a pack of pork scratchings among the minions and the millionaires. All the time, the tide imperceptibly creeping in to imperil the cars of those from out of town.

When it comes to millionaires, you’d be hard pressed to encounter a denser population than on the streets of Salcombe. Well, not the streets per se but the grand designs surrounded by moats of lush exotics overlooking sparkling bays. And if not found on wooden deckchairs in the garden absorbed in the Daily Mail, the likelihood is of frequent sightings upon those opal waters below, sweater and chinos all aboard the MV Smug.

With some world-beating inflation in the UK, I could just about afford a millionaires shortbread from M&S. However I opted instead for a bag of Monster Munch left over from some far off Tesco meal deal. Still, with those pickled onion morsels come million dollar views, situated around the corner and down towards Soar Mill Cove. The coastline here is about as dramatic as it gets in South Devon, all ups and downs and ups again. The cove – in its sheltered enclave with raggedy rocky outcrops and see-through waters – a kind of mini Kynance. Only without the million dollar parking fees.

There are, of course, other priceless coves down this way. Conjuring the prospect of Friday night dinner down by the sea, I persuaded someone else to drive down the A379 for a change (thanks Steve). This came with the omnipresent soundtrack of my niece, Brooke, but at least afforded me the chance to be drawn into views of beautiful countryside, stone bridges, tunnels of trees and the wilds of upland Dartmoor in the distance.

We all disembarked at Hope Cove which seems caught somewhere between a rustic fishing village of lobster pots and an upmarket resort of eco-pods. For a while you can play at millionaire here too, taking a perch for some refreshment overlooking the bay. And the coast path is always free. Dinner, however, seems another prospect, with the few places around busy and focusing on menus of the hand-caught goujon of Start Bay Sea Bass served with a melange of Rosemary-flecked Kipfler potatoes and wild lemon-infused baby samphire variety. A pizza on the beach or something would’ve been nice.

So, feeling increasingly hangry, we shifted a few miles up the road to the biggest town around – Kingsbridge. To emphasise its size, Kingsbridge boasts a Tesco and a Morrisons, plus several pubs, restaurants and takeaways. We practically did a tour of them all, before ending back at the first place we saw next to the car park. Of course. But this was pretty close to the town square and quay, and we sat outside alongside summer holiday vibes and terrific weather. The only downer was the early closure of the Salcombe Dairy Ice Cream booth. Off home to count their millions.

I did eventually manage to ingest some Salcombe Dairy at a predictably inflationary price. It came as icing on top of a final Devon cake of a day. A concoction that is so wonderful and blessed but tinged with a background air of melancholy that comes with imminent farewell. For once, the goal wasn’t really to gorge on cake, just the icing on top.

There were cakey temptations at Heron Valley Cider Farm, where it was too early for a cider but perfectly suitable for a coffee. Signs that I had been here for two months were starting to show in the agreeableness of the coffee, an agreeableness that was only usurped by the luscious setting. What is it again? Green, green grass, blue, blue sky? Thank you Heart, as continually always two months on.

Now, normally finding myself with Mum in such a location around eleven o’clock in the morning I would feel obliged to support local business by purchasing one of the many slices and treats arranged on the counter. Mum would murmur things like “oh I probably shouldn’t” and then we’d look at each other with a knowing glance that I would quickly succumb. “Oh sod it, I’m on holiday” I would say, mildly aware that it’s not the best idea when it’s a two month holiday.

Yet today, of all days, I was steadfast. A coffee was enough. But before I pat myself on the back too much, it’s only because lunch was a mere matter of miles down the road.

Farm shops can be funny affairs. In the golden days before Google you would turn up never quite sure whether you’d encounter a smorgasbord of local delights or a few cartons of mismatched eggs next to a pile of withered green beans. Nowadays, the more savvy enterprises promote their wares with funky Instagram stories and filtered Facebook posts.

So I knew beforehand that as well as eggs and green beans and no doubt meat, Aune Valley Meat, just outside of Loddiswell, advertised a hog roast bap in their Valley View Café. I would usually bemoan the strict ordering times and a lengthy wait but this just served to amplify pangs of hunger to the point of drool. And when the food eventually arrives upon its wooden board (oh dear), salivation soon becomes salvation.

Like Beaufort in Beaufort and Pizza in a Piazza, that additional ten percent elevating the taste all comes from the terroir. Those lush, bounteous hills of the South Hams that – thankfully – are not dotted with potential future hams. At least not from our vantage. The Devon flag flutters, the tractors make hay, the tourist caravans tentatively inch past towards their constricted destiny.

Moving south, the terroir of the sea tends to induce thoughts of fish and chips and ice cream. Given the scale of lunch, the fish and chips are quickly ruled out, but perhaps there can be an ice cream in the offing. First, some recovery on the beach at Thurlestone, where crystal waters once again tempt with Caribbean vibes. Caribbean in colour only.

Unwilling to freeze in the ocean for long, I hotfoot it along the coast path. That enduring friend who I shall miss as much as anything. It takes me past Thurlestone Golf Course, adding the hazard of wayward balls to the potential to stumble off a hundred foot cliffs. Looking west, I see the distinctive mount of Burgh Island and, further still, the entrance into Plymouth Sound. Rame Head, Cornwall sticks out beyond. But let us not speak of Cornwall here.

In the other Devon direction lies Hope Cove, Bolt Tail and then Salcombe. I discover their dairy ice cream has made it this way, just along from Thurlestone at South Milton Sands. But its arrival is only in tubs and only in the most preposterous National Trust café I have ever come across. For here, not scones and jam nor crisps and sandwiches. But alcoholic drinks and a DJ. This is what happens when Boris Johnson becomes PM, I tell you. Not that he was actually doing much at the time, but nobody seemed to notice.

Boris and Carrie might have been there as the tunes began to bang and the bouncers evicted non-patrons from the wooden tables outside. It seemed that kind of place. Locals need not apply, except between the months of September and May. Just stick to the farms, thank you very much.

The hog roast roll at Valley View Farm felt a long way from a chicken wing hunt in the heart of Union Street. But wondrously they really aren’t so far apart. And that is probably why the people of Plymouth – unbeknownst to many of them – find themselves in one of the most fortunate locations in the UK.

I thought I was done with Devon with that final day out, but an uplifting Saturday morning and a spare hour encouraged me to see the sea here one more time. I whizzed through Plymstock and around Staddon Heights to Bovisand. Here, warm sunshine beamed down upon a grassy bank as I lingered over another agreeable coffee. A couple of small, sheltered coves welcomed a handful of bathers and boarders who were welcoming the weekend. Life was as sweet as Ambrosia Devon Custard.

It felt like we were here in a forever summer and none of us wanted it to end. Could not every morning be as agreeable as this? Can we not just press pause and dwell in this unreal reality? But time and tide move on, seasons shift, people come and people go. And I had to get back to Plymouth one last time to barbecue those bloody chicken wings.

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Lizard bites (second helping)

What do you do when you visit an epicentre of ice cream? Um, order a massive burger cooked in a wood-fired oven which – circa 2012 – is topped with pulled pork? We were sat at Roskilly’s farm shop on the eastern side of The Lizard. Purveyors of decent ice cream across Cornwall. But, for once, I wasn’t in the mood for that. And there would be plenty of other times.

It may have been that creamy coffee in the morning that satisfied my dairy quota. Sips of goodness in Coverack, overlooking one of those archetypal harbours bedecked with jaunty fishing boats tipping slightly askew on low tide mud. A stone’s throw across from the dream home cottage that had just been sold.

I began to have fantasies of a life here, doing a spot of work in that cottage before popping across the road for a mid-morning drink. Perhaps then a bit more work, a nap and, at day’s end, a trip to a beach. In this utopia, I’d likely head to the wonderful beaches on the western side of The Lizard. But there would be plenty of other options of things to do, places to see, things to eat, closer to home.

One of them would be around Kennack Sands, over which our temporary home for a week was perched. This was far from a dream Coverack cottage, just two six-berth caravans that were a squeeze for ten. But like all good caravans, every little nook was optimised, every fold-up bed assembly a triumph of geometry, every passing of one another in the kitchen an elegant pirouette.

Down the hill, Kennack Sands themselves were less golden than elsewhere but still fine and generous and largely remaining at the mercy of nature. This meant the occasional jellyfish sighting among clear, sometimes warm waters, as well as frequent dog walkers at the start and end of each day. Among the more memorable human sightings was a mass gathering of booty shaking one day and an irksome guitar dude with a three song repertoire on another.

Needless to say, escape via the coast path was always on hand. One afternoon found me on a solo walk up and down towards – but not all the way to – Coverack. After days of family time, the peace was eerie and it felt a lonesome endeavour along a hardy, unkempt landscape. Fellow walkers were few and far between and I found myself yearning for times of mass booty shaking and beach boules.

Companionship was aplenty in the other direction, five of us walking along the coast path from our caravan park to the small village of Cadgwith. Along the way some diverting remnants of serpentine mining at Poltesco – a rare rock type that is abundant on The Lizard. More abundance flowed alongside generous meadows and stony bays kissed by a sparkling sea.

Cadgwith itself makes Coverack seem a metropolis, the village focused around a small shingle inlet on which sit a cluster of working boats. At one point there is that distinctive odour of salt and seaweed and fish guts, pungent and evocative at the same time. Fortunately it is fleeting and doesn’t dissuade ice cream refreshment. I was aghast to find out that my niece, Joy, wasn’t a massive ice cream fan and opted for a fishing net instead. But the rest of us made up for it, multiple times.

Give a girl an ice cream and she may eat for a day, but give her a fishing net and she can eat for a lifetime. Maybe. Probably easier to head to Lizard village though and pick up fish and chips. Tender, juicy cod, crisp golden batter and amazing chips made from Cornish new potatoes, soaking up lashings of malt vinegar.

Other than a fish and chip shop I didn’t get a chance to explore Lizard further. My impression was of a place where you could source ample food along with a fair share of useless tat. And be in a situation where you can march off in any direction and discover wonder.

A little south of the village, Lizard Point itself represents the most southerly position on mainland UK. There exists an appropriate edge of world vibe – beaming white lighthouse, cottages hunkered into rocks, rampant rabbits upon tightly shorn grass and a couple of businesses proclaiming themselves as the most southerly spot you can get a cup of tea. As the land plunges into sea and the sun sinks west, spectacle.

We were blessed to witness a couple of sundowns around Lizard Point. A time when the warmth of the day started to fade, and the summer grasses began to breathe. I remember distinctly here for the first time an Australian odour, an almost impossible to describe earthy freshness that comes after a hard day baking under the sun. As if the land is singing in relief.

The very last sunset accompanied our final night. A night to try and use up all those naughty food bits we had accumulated in the week, including two tubs of ice cream from the local farm shop. A night to not be lactose intolerant. A night to count blessings. A night to lament the prospect of leaving tomorrow. And, like the sun coming up again in the morning, to contemplate doing it all over again.

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Lizard bites

The it’s too hot brigade have been out in force lately. The worrying thing is they are probably right. More worryingly, I have caught myself occasionally joining them. This, along with an increasing tolerance of British coffee and quietly muttered acceptance of noisy people in the quiet carriage, suggests I am getting more comfortable on these shores. Apart from when it is too hot of course.

The heat would be more agreeable if Britain boasted fine sandy bays and crystal clear coves, a setting for languid summer holidays and Mediterranean vibes. Perhaps with some tapas, gelato and meze thrown in. Let me introduce you, then, to The Lizard.

Down in far west Cornwall, The Lizard is an area where the southernmost chunk of mainland Britain tapers into the ocean. With water on both sides there is a veritable array of beaches and bays, harbours and headlands to choose from. And it is on its western shore, facing the Atlantic as it feeds into Mounts Bay, where some of the finest sights and sands can be found.

The very first morning of a week-long family holiday provides some pinch yourself moments at Poldhu Cove. I must confess, like so many other annoying tourists, it was Instagram that thrust Poldhu into my consciousness. What entranced me were the golden sands, blue waters and white swirls of cream decorated with all sorts of gooeyness atop a hot chocolate. The excellent Poldhu Beach Café has a slight Aussie vibe perched upon the sand, delivering decent coffee, brownies and down to earth chit-chat. It felt very much peak dream home.

Either side of the cove the outlook becomes even more idyllic as the transparency of the water shines, magnifying the outline of rocky reefs and diffusing the shadows of colourful paddle boards upon the seabed. On shore, the cliffs rise, coated in a swathe of still-green grass and wildflowers flourishing under the sun. The coastline tracks toward the horizon on either side, encasing a welcoming expanse of Cornish perfection. It felt very much peak dream home.

Beyond the northern headland to Poldhu, the next bay along – Church Cove – has a more old school air. Grittier sands, seaweed, emboldened National Trust parking attendants. The presence of the old church wedged between rock and sea oozes tradition and heritage. Lichen-infused gravestones suggest at whole generations of fisherfolk and farmers of centuries past, whose ancestors probably still plough their fields and rent their shepherd’s huts today. The surrounding greens of Mullion Golf Club nestle perfectly, as if they have sat in this landscape forever.

Also fitting in, The National Trust run a small kiosk at Church Cove. Naturally. A pleasant enough mini-menu of Bakewell slices, cheese and onion crisps and ham salad sandwiches. But when you know what is just around the next corner, a short up and down across coast path heaven, then why linger. Especially when you have a partner in crime.

I found myself eating alone overlooking Praa Sands but still wasn’t complaining. While some rosy-hued patrons were already on the booze Magaloof style, I contented myself with coffee and a rocky road. Not Poldhu quality but you could have anything here on a day like today and still feel you had won the lottery. Eat in the view, drink up the ambience.

Praa Sands is a long golden bay, increasingly marvellous as the tide rolls out. Forget the Med, think Australia. Near the car parks, caravan parks, shops and cafes it could be a bit of a Bondi on Boxing Day. But the farther you move away, the closer you come to a NSW south coast style stretch of empty beach.

It’s quite a trek from west to east, but with sand between toes and tepid clear waters lapping at them, the footsteps pass with ease. Eventually Praa Sands can go no further, coming against Rinsey Head, over which the South West Coast Path once more meanders. The scenery becomes a more classic Cornwall, capped off by the archetypal abandoned tin mine. Wheal Prosper. We certainly will.

And confirming that, despite best efforts, this is not really the Med or Australia, how about a pasty back on the beach? Proving this is 100% pure Kernow.

Like pasties, I doubt you would find a bag of pork scratchings on a tapas menu, salty fatty fodder to accompany a pint of St. Austell Tribute. Still, I can easily envisage pints and pork products down on the Costa del Sol. Gammons eating bacon with tea and Estrella.

We were snacking in a pub garden in Mullion, a prelude to ending the day down in Mullion Cove. The small cobbled harbour here almost seems an impossibility. Wedged into the towering coastline, it feels like a tiny fissure in an almighty, unyielding wall. Sanctuary from violent winter storms might only be cursory, sparing. Yet here the harbour still stands, and to stand here is to feel on the very precipice.

Somehow there is a way up from the nook of the harbour, via another goat track section of the coast path. It’s open country, ideal for rabbits and birds of prey eating rabbits and walkers just casually wandering and falling down an unseen ravine. Compared to those fine sandy beaches elsewhere the ocean in front is a less inviting prospect, though arguably more beguiling. A swirling canvas captivating and luring smugglers and pirates and hardy fisherman’s friends of yesteryear.

Illuminating it all, the reddening sun drifts towards a watery horizon, setting closer to ten o’clock in this incredible summer. Glazing the sea and the land and the sky. And kissing our faces a shade of gammon.

And so, the final Lizard bite (part I) culminates in the perfect encapsulation of everything that has gone before: Kynance Cove, with bonus half a pasty.

In recent years, Kynance has become prey to a combination of Poldark Disease and Instagramitis, developing mythical, bucket-list status. All too frequently I am presented with short video clips set to jaunty music showing half-naked people frolicking in crystal waters, often with the caption “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS IS ENGLAND!!!!!!”. As tedious as these become after constant repetition, they have a point. Kynance is an undoubted jewel in a very lavish crown.

The good news is that despite a warm sunny day in July propelling many vehicles to the National Trust car park, the scale of Kynance Cove is sufficient to maintain a sense of space and serenity. This is especially the case with the tide on its way out, revealing wider stretches of sand, secret nooks and unexpected crannies. In spite of everything anyone can find their own little wonderful spot of paradise.

Still, the kids built a fortress of sandcastles on the beach to keep wandering Scousers at bay, encircling our clan from marauding invaders and video influencers. Not that I sat within it for long spells, keen to just potter up and down and in and out and via the NT café for a mediocre coffee and slice of carrot cake.

Views from up high once again highlight the drama and spectacle of nature, as huge lumps of rock appear as they have been thrown haphazardly into translucent waters and edged with golden sand. The people who once seemed many and varied at sea level morph into colourful speckles, dots on a more expansive landscape. But, with a bit of zoom, that family fortress is still visible.

As I descended to sea level to join them, still a bit peckish, I was delighted to find I had been gifted half a pasty. Originating from the locally ubiquitous Ann’s Pasties, it must have been a product of Kynance proportions for there remained a substantial lunch in front of me. Gorgeous, and at least it wasn’t too hot.

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Wales done us

Pretty much at the beginning of this UK22 odyssey I heard one of the blandest songs possible, warbled out by George Ezra on The One Show, spouting insipid lyrics about green grass and blue skies. A summertime money-spinner predictably pounced on by Heart and played every half hour. What young George didn’t take into account was the abundance of blue, blue skies which would naturally turn the green, green grass a tinge of yellow, yellow straw.

The UK is still a green place but I have found myself of late detecting a slight Australian essence: an earthy smell at the end of a hot, hot day, of golden grasses secreting some relief as the sun, sun sets. Waking with an expectation of wearing shorts. Drawing the curtains in the day. Frequent use of sunscreen. Wildfires on the TV news.

One area that might just retain the green, green grass of home longer than others is northwest Wales. And while warm sunshine continued as Caroline and I entered the principality on the second phase of our up over olde at heart road trip, this unseasonal weather was set to wane. Soak it up I say, pausing beside the waters at Tal-y-llyn on our way into the hills…

Woodlands, green views and the Co-op

By handy coincidence, we were staying in Green View Chalet, perched loftily within the Woodlands Holiday Park. It was a neat, quiet little place with a distracting view. Pure Wales rolling down the hill and climbing up the other side, stone walls, sheep and all. With altitude comes a transition from temperate, lush valleys to unkempt, windy moors, topped with all sorts running wild.

Early on I took a short walk, encountering sheep galore and a minefield of droppings. Much the same happened on a longer circular walk that satisfied all the greater for taking place from the front door. The walk was a bit of a gamble in blustery conditions, cloudbursts evident both out to sea and further up towards the high mountain crags of Cader Idris. But I mostly stayed dry, treated instead to changing light and shadows, distant rainbows and soaring birds.

The closest town of note from here, sitting upon Cardigan Bay, is Tywyn. While devoid of vowels, it was handy for supplies, hosting a remarkably large Co-op and at least three Indian Restaurants where cash is king. Meanwhile, down on the seafront there was an old school feel to the air, conjuring a town tucked away in the nostalgia of childhood bucket and spade holidays. A town that is lost in time. A town where steam from the railways still rises into a disappointing monotone sky…

Tally ho Talyllyn

One of the very interesting things about North Wales is the multitude of heritage railway lines. You can imagine Portillo on constant loop here, stoking coals in blue dungarees or shoving a homemade Welsh Cake into his plummy mouth. While naturally providing tourist tucker, the network of vintage railways probably provides a more reliable service than the modern, expensive, strike-riven mainlines of Tory Britain, 2022.

The Talyllyn Railway departs from Tywyn, heading up the valley to Abergynolwyn. The railway was constructed in 1863 and – like many others in this region – was used to transport slate from the hills to the sea. Today, the slate lingers on in trackside fence lines and in the specials boards of train station cafés.

It was a grey, patchy rain kind of day, a suitably slate-like sky greeting us at Tywyn Station. More alarmingly, a parade of schoolchildren appeared to be heading in the same direction, seemingly set to infest numerous wooden carriages on the 10:00 to Nant Gwernol. But a stroke of luck – either they were off to the museum or a tour of the Co-op, which would keep them occupied for some time.

Full steam ahead then to the first stop of the day at Dolgoch, via chalet-spotting views over to Woodlands. Disembarkation here was a controversial affair – just us and two others while everyone else on board wonders what the heck. The attraction are some falls, silky slivers of white enveloped among a peaceful forested gorge. And hopefully a tea shop.

A tea shop that looks like a council house and looks very closed. It’s drizzling and sometimes more than drizzling and the next train is an hour away. What to do with an hour in Dolgoch? Check out the historic slate fence and wait for a train coming the other way and be entertained by the nesting sparrow chicks in the waiting area and the returning couple living life in imperfect harmony.

And then full steam ahead again, the arrival of the train a moment of great fanfare when a quiet forest glade transforms into a hissing, steaming pocket of noise and fury. The sparrows hide, the wayward tourists board, the drivers stoke coals and in one final giant puff of steam toot-toot we’re away.

The journey seems more attractive as we progress up the valley, partly because the sun briefly comes out, trees parting to reveal a patchwork of fields inching upwards into the exposed bracken and gorse of steeply rising hills. Here and there the odd farmhouse, the odd car, the odd siding decorated with purple foxglove. Briefly summer again before more rain sets in.

Turning around in a downpour, the train heads back with a layover of thirty minutes at Abergynolwyn. A period of time insufficient to do little else than converge en masse upon the station café. As if it was designed that way.

At first, there is panic as everyone wonders whether they can get served, eat, and do the toilet in time. But the café operates smoothly and efficiently. As if they do it every day. I get my bacon sandwich, Caroline gets her jacket potato and the two old-timers sharing our table get their crisps, partly funded by a 60p increase in their pension, so I am informed.

It is unlikely they have money left over for that delicious looking cake. But perhaps some shortbread. A tasty treat that is balm to my coffee and lingers long in the memory, longer than it felt to head back to the future in Tywyn. Or 1980 at least.

Aberdyfi-dovey

Though hardly light years ahead, I think it’s fair to say the town of Aberdyfi is a notch above Tywyn in the seaside locations of upper mid-Wales stakes. Slightly more genteel, slightly more attractive, slightly more touristy, even the jellyfish seem to prefer it here.

We stopped at Aberdyfi a couple of times. The first a grey affair that still warranted ice cream, the second of sunnier disposition that still warranted ice cream. Any visit to Aberdyfi would warrant ice cream, simply because the Aberdyfi Ice Cream Company produces some top-notch stuff. The fruits of all that green, green grass.

The other highlight of Aberdyfi (and certainly up there in terms of the whole trip) was pizza on the beach. Sure, it was probably 14C and a tad blustery, but after a long day and the threat of frequent showers, we were rewarded with a touch of tranquility, golden light and golden sands bathing a stone-baked feast. Close your eyes, wrap yourself up and pretend you’re in Bondi. With an ice cream on top.

Shut your Barmouth

In the other direction from Tywyn the road becomes a rugged affair, hugging the coastline on one side and winding below calamitous slopes on the other. The sea eventually forces its way inland at Barmouth, the wide estuary of Afon Mawddach forcing its way around tidal flats into the heart of Snowdonia. It is all rather impressive and grand.

It is a landscape that proves difficult to tame, the road resigned to following the Mawwdach for many miles on either side before it can even attempt to cross. But fortunately for us and for Michael Portillo there is a long rail bridge spanning the estuary. A considerable engineering feat that sits perfectly within a breathtaking landscape of shifting sands and looming mountains.

While lacking steam and turn-of-the-century attire, the train ride would no doubt prove an interesting affair. Today the trains are on strike but thankfully the bridge includes a pedestrian and cycle-friendly thoroughfare. A suggested voluntary toll of two pounds to cross would be worth it if it didn’t convey the air of dodgy scam.

Still, Barmouth was far from a freebie with lunch and afternoon tea at the same place; seemingly the only place that had a small garden and didn’t offer an array of fast food and sticks of rock served up with seagull terror. While possessing an attractive harbour and ample sands, the approach to Barmouth proves more compelling than the town itself, where West Midland accents are as commonplace as vape shops and amusement arcades. I begin to tire of Barmouth, perked up by the prospect that the exit is the very best part. Majestic in fact.

Prisoners

And so we reach our last day in Wales and what a way to end. Heavy rain, gusty winds, cloaked in four layers and topped with the beanie I wasn’t sure about packing. Feels like something is in the air.

Driving north it certainly wasn’t a very Italian Riviera feeling day; more hot drink in a cosy cafe in a grey slate town like Dolgellau vibes. Still, we push on through a downpour, sit in traffic and park up to be greeted by only the slightest drizzle and possibly one of the most startling sights in Wales: Portmeirion.

How to describe Portmeirion? A vaguely Italianate village near the French border acting as a film set in the guise of a theme park pretending it is not in North Wales. A perverse colourful curiosity that is equally weird and enchanting at the same time. Possibly qualifying as a bit quirky. And naturally a beacon for all those COVID-confined celebrities yearning to make travel television somewhere, anywhere.

With all that publicity you would expect the place to be heaving, but the rain today actually has a benefit in keeping the crowds at bay. This means at times we seem to have a Mediterranean square to ourselves, a quiet Tuscan alcove to explore alone, pastel views unimpeded by fluoro kagools and monotone brollies. And thankfully most of the bad weather bypasses Portmeirion, the heaviest of showers conveniently coinciding with a car picnic.

I’m not sure how the plants feel about this weather. Some, I suspect, are struggling a bit like us. Nonetheless, the grounds at Portmeirion are a delight, boasting exotic species from around the globe, hidden pagodas and ornamental ponds. And from loftier heights there are snatched views of downtown and out across the estuary towards Porthmadog. Loftier heights that prove occasionally breathtaking as the rain marches forth.

Farewales…

The morning after dawned bright and fresh at Green View, features of the landscape cleansed like sparkling champagne flutes straight out of the dishwasher. The view, how you are drawn to that view. Those wild, undulating hills, plunging into a rich patchwork of fields. Lone cottages and barns and the perfectly imperfect lines of hedgerow and dry stone wall. Copses of broadleaf woodland sprout up while clusters of white dots decorate the grass. And a little after 10:00, slicing through it all is the toot and steam of a choo-choo train inching ever up the valley.

And there we are, yet another corner of this incredibly ample little country successfully navigated with much enjoyment, comfort and companionship over the past few days. Nothing could go wrong. Wales done us.

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Poppies and daisies

Well that was a first. I literally spat out my coffee. In front of bemused patrons of the National Trust. It is not the standard one expects within the National Trust, but it was bloody hot. I think I forgot how it is acceptable here to ruin coffee by ensuring it has similar properties to molten steel. And this was a sizeable gulp whose safest pathway was back out onto the grass.

On the plus side, the cake at Lanhydrock eased the palate and I was able to wash it down with sips of coffee after 15 minutes. Plus there could always be something cooler and soothing to come later on.

Unwilling to invest substantial capital to enter the property at Lanhydrock, the cafe was a mere pit stop on the way to the coast of North Cornwall. It was a dispiritingly cloudy, drizzly kind of drive but one in which I felt a little on autopilot: over the bridge, Trago, the A30 and past the holiday homes littering the outskirts of Newquay.

Mum and I were heading to West Pentire, where social media had amply promoted the annual appearance of poppies. Clumps of poppies. Swathes of poppies. Whole fields full of poppies. Enough poppies for influencers the world over. So many, that you can easily find your own patch.

This spectacle for once diverts attention from some classic Cornish scenery. On one side, the golden sands of Polly Joke Beach call out to those willing to carry deckchairs and bodyboards, while the massive expanse of the Gannel estuary with the tide out magnifies Crantock Beach a hundred times over.

Such is the scale, it takes a fair few minutes to drive to the car park for Crantock, run by our good friends at The National Trust. I hope I haven’t been blacklisted already for my earlier misdemeanours, but they seem happy enough to take our two quid for an hour. It is an hour to eat some packed lunch on a sand dune and cram in a walk to the fringe of the Atlantic. In the shallows it feels fairly warm but I do not linger any longer than the sole lifesaver escaping the creep of the returning tide in his four by four.

Being a National Trust bad boy I think I exceeded the parking by four minutes but I blame it on the sand-shaking and shoe-shuffling. Sensible footwear for the journey back to Plymouth. Yet those shoes took us on a little diversion, via a charming farmhouse in Callestick, a spot where they happen to churn out mountains of ice cream. Naughty shoes. Least I didn’t spit any of this out.

Foodstuffs continued to be on the mind during other forays into Cornwall. This included throughout a three day hike along the South West Coast Path – much more of which can be digested in another post here. In brief: fish and chips, ice cream, cider, cream tea, chips, ham sandwich, double decker, crisps and beer, croissants and celebratory pasty. With some walking.

And then there was Looe. Pasty? Cream Tea? Pasty? Cream Tea? Both? For all my bravado beforehand I couldn’t do both on the same day, so instead visited Looe twice. Once to see Sarah and her pasty paradise, the other to revisit Daisies which, despite being under new ownership, still served a fine cream tea (8/10, needs a little work to reach previous heights, but extra points for cream top up).

Though it has good foodstuffs and is convenient I am getting a bit over Looe. It must be all those visits for pasties and cream teas and occasional fudge. Countless laps of the car park, voracious seagulls, tacky gift shops, stinky low tide and shuffling grockles. It may well initially charm, and does always nourish, but there are better places I might be.

So after devouring the last cream tea on an overcast day, it was straight back to the car park to gift a space to a happy Mercedes. Leaving Looe to seek a quieter, mellow kind of place. Discovered not so far away at Talland Bay, where the natural delights of the coast meet tractor-friendly dreams.

Espying there a building sat upon the cove. A scene for another day, another year. A café by the water.

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Sand shifts

Do you ever linger long enough to wonder whether this is the last time you will ever see something again? We pass through, move on, find the next thing all too quickly, rarely pausing to contemplate a moment that will most likely never recur. To do so can be confronting and, deep down, we simply assume – or hope – that this will not be the end.

I can relate to these ponderings on a recent, spontaneous trip down to the the far south coast of New South Wales. Unexpectedly treading along the white sands of the Pambula River once more. A cool but sunny Monday morning when I could pretend at being retired and living my best franking-credit fuelled coast life. Replete with eastern sunrises, fish and chip quests, wooden boardwalks and sand in toes.

I first came across these shallow sapphire waters in December 2006, enamoured with the trill of bellbirds and the dazzling contours of tide and land. Discovering the depths of Australia for essentially the very first time, one of several south coast missions with Georgina who was doing the very same. I materialised in the same place many times since: with Jill in 2013, prior to our off-road slip-sliding drama in Ben Boyd National Park; with Dad and Michael on our way to the border in 2018; a day or two before bushfire calamity at the end of 2019; and, the last time, sheltering from a sea breeze as I munched on fish and chips from Wheelers.

Each one of those visits may have been the last. But here I am again in May 2022. Sharing the place with a couple of fishermen missing all the action in the middle of the river and an old codger and his dog, sporting an unkempt slept-in-car look but quite probably owning one of those houses commanding an outlook over Eden. He remarks on the frenzy of fish coming to the surface, a sight still so remarkable as to catch the attention of even visitors more regular than I.

Like the glittery dance of fish breaching water, there are other jewels to be had down this way. In fact, it’s an embarrassment of riches. After the morning at the river I head back into Merimbula. The night before had seen me navigate its boardwalk until dusk, filling in time before picking up some fish and chips (verdict: a bit underwhelming, sadly). As time-fillers go it wasn’t a bad option, with a few remnants of laser-like sun infiltrating the mangroves and reflecting off rows of oyster bed. There is something so soothing about stepping out on a boardwalk, even as some jog off in a breathless frenzy.

Today I am looking to reacquaint myself with another blast from the past: a coffee and bacon and egg roll nestling within the sparkling cove at Bar Beach. The coffee was everything a perfect coffee should be in such a setting; all too often, advantageous spots such as these yield disappointing fare. But not here. Chilled vibes, friendly baristas, a scattered mix of retirees, young Mums, ambos on a break, fishing type. Drinking it all in.

However, since this is 2022, not everything can be quite so exemplary. I note with alarm that the bacon and egg roll has been crossed out on the chalkboard menu. I set off for a walk to figure out how to recover from such news, passing a food delivery truck on the way up the hill which provides a glimmer of hope. It’s hope that stays with me as I glimpse the estuary through the trees, the beach through the scrub, the ocean through massive orb spider conglomerations. Ducking low under one final palatial web back to the kiosk. Where I now notice a sign on the counter proclaiming no food at all.

Things cannot exactly always be the same as before. And divergence throws up different pleasures and opportunities for new delights. Certainly, eating a couple of – admittedly pricey – takeaway sushi rolls in my comfy fold up chair upon the sheltered sands in the sun was a pretty decent way to spend my remaining few hours on the coast. And the lighter lunch makes a forthcoming stop, another repeat, at Nimmitabel Bakery all the more necessary. Shame.

With cake in mind, I say adieu to these crystal waters once again. Crossing country through Cathcart and Bemboka and up the big hill to Nimmitabel. Struck by the verdurous landscape spilling over the horizon in every direction. Embraced by green with a sense of manure, it only takes a few gears to imagine myself driving in the midst of Devon. There again. By fate, magnetism, and sheer good luck, once more coming back to something I love.

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Half a world away

Until recently, the last time I witnessed the ocean it was obediently marching towards the stoic cliff line of North Cornwall. A showery, blustery day unsurprising in early December, as fickle and mean-spirited as the lack of warming jacket potatoes and the distribution of parking tickets. Utterly glorious but only in fleeting spells between disenchantment.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to see the sea again. But fate and circumstance have been unpredictable allies, regularly conspiring to deliver huge volumes of rain along eastern Australia, more often than not over the course of a whole weekend. Floods, landslips, surges, maelstrom. The usual 2022 kind of stuff really.

Canberra, naturally, has been a little more protected from the onslaught, feasting its way through annual festivities towards the ambience of autumn. But there’s only so many gum trees and mountain vistas and cafes on bike rides and lake reflections one can digest before yearning for a saltier breeze. Waiting, watching, hoping for a porthole.

And finally there is a Sunday in April. A Sunday following several more days of heavy rain but a window nonetheless. A Sunday when I hotfooted it east with haste, bypassing the regulation coffee stop in Braidwood so that I could enjoy one instead on the sand. From Mossy Point down to Broulee. Regulation muffin making for a vision realised.

Broulee is always a good bet, boasting a selection of beaches and bays, aforementioned coffee (and muffin), and a diverting walk around its not quite island. Here it’s not all fine white sand and azure water, but slabs of rock, stunted scrub and seaweed lending a dose of unkempt nature to proceedings.

Indeed, with the generous gift of La Niña there is plenty of seaweed to mar those paradisiacal sands, the water a distinctly browner shade than normal from all the run off. But under blue skies today, who’s complaining?

With a spot of dawdling and reading and milling around to give the muffin at least some time to digest, I headed onto Moruya to source some fish and chips for lunch. Or fish cocktails and a potato scallop to be precise. The cocktails – all crunch outside and softness within – are to be commended, the scallop – all undercooked insipidness – to be fed to the gulls.

Still, the food was more than enough to propel me towards a post lunch lull and I had visions of fading in and out of consciousness on a sheltered bay somewhere nearby. On name alone, Lilli Pilli Beach tempted me towards it and I settled on the sand with hope, only to be distracted by a cool, funnelling breeze and pooey wafts from a stagnant creek. This motivated me to move and explore among the wonderful spotted gums above the bay.

Trying again for a final dose of utopia I pulled off the road at McKenzies Beach. This was more like it: no smells, no wind, and the rhythmic throb of surf as it meets the crescent of fine, south coast sand. And while there was no nap to be had, I sat contentedly, sun on back, reading about some lady cycling around France eating cake. There is no shame to have an escape within an escape, especially when it involves patisserie.

Back in the very present, I finished a chapter atop the Col de Joux Plane and cast imprints of my feet in the sand. Greeting the ocean and wading ankle deep. Thinking the next time they touch the sea, they may well be half a world away.

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‘Twas four weeks before Christmas

Is December 25 any more than an arbitrary date? That one day where it was decided the shops would be shut and we should horde food as if the end of the world was nigh (possibly true). That one day when we all pretend to love Brussels sprouts and Christmas pudding. That one day when instead of miserable news on the radio in the morning, there is earnest preaching and high-pitched singing about miraculous events from afar. That one day when we are supposed to gather with loved ones. That one day to share things before the next lockdown.

I will happily oblige in the festivity and jolliness of December 25 and even tolerate a few Brussels sprouts as long as there is enough gravy to mask their evil. I shall do so again this year, perhaps taking in a prawn or two and a glass of chilled wine as I sweat profusely under a thirty degree sun. It should be pleasant enough, but in reality I feel like I have had my Christmas Day in 2021 already.

To be frank, by time it reaches November 28 in the UK it feels like you should all bloody well have had your Christmas Day by now! For weeks beforehand, the same five Christmas songs have been playing ad infinitum on Heart. Soft toy carrots have been flying out the doors of Aldi. Christmas lights from Poundland sparkle and shimmer outside every three or four houses as you drive down the street. Shopping is madness and the insanity of retail staff bombarded by Christmas music is plain to see.

Besides, the Christmas Day of November 28 2021 was one of the most magical in years. It was a day that dawned crisp and clear in the little town of Plymouth. All was calm. All was bright. While magical mother elves stayed at home to prepare a feast, I set off across the rolling green fields of South Devon. Follow the car. It stopped initially in some free parking alongside the river in Dartmouth. For a coffee before getting going, out onto the infinite gift that is the South West Coast Path.

It is here that I need to bring in a fictional character who wears bright clothes, often bellows with much jollity and possibly keeps a list of good and naughty children in a little red book. Naturally, I always thought of Michael Portillo as a bit of a posh tory twerp. But in his reinvention as doyen of trains and intrepid traveller who displays surprising warmth and rapport with the people he comes across, he is – well – incredibly likeable.

During the latter half of the year in Australia a show came on which was – for me at least – dream lockdown viewing (naturally it was on SBS). Michael Portillo going on a walk along the South West Coast Path. It was a bit of a departure from train japes Michael. A COVID-era Michael, who was wistful and introspective and possessing of fewer lime green jackets. It was simply a guy going for a walk along the most beautiful path in the world. On my country.

I remember an episode that commenced at Start Point and finished on the edge of Dartmouth, and the scenes on my walk today followed a small part of the same route. I set off from a car park at a spot called Little Dartmouth, quickly connecting to the coast path. There was an unmatched tranquillity about today, from the placid blue of the sea to the gentle undulations of the fields. Occasional sail boats emerged out of the Dart. Cows grazed contentedly. Robins flitted and chirped unseen among the browned hedges and trees.

After a delectable snack on a delectable bench overlooking serenity, the path soon led to Michael’s massive pole – a signpost at a junction ensuring everyone is kept on track. Only weirdoes like me would give this a second glance, but the signpost boasts a unique feature – installed by M.P. 2021. In locked down Canberra, taking comfort sharing in Michael’s frequent torment (somehow, a pleasant walk on a gorgeous coast path is way outside of his Kensington & Chelsea comfort zone), I thought there would be something fitting about making the pilgrimage to this spot. In many ways, it was still unbelievable that I could be here, just a few weeks on.

Anyway, no camera crews and gold-plated chauffeur driven cars for me, I must trudge on. Before long the path turns from the sea and follows the Dart estuary. Here, the other main motive for my walk today emerges – Dartmouth Castle and, more specifically, the presence of a café. I opt for the safety of a cup of tea and pick up some form of caramel and chocolate and biscuit. Many others are doing the same, sat outside overlooking the river from a generous array of benches. Attracted by my crumbs, a robin comes to offer company. And I am reminded how I shouldn’t eat too much and ruin my dinner.

Luckily, there is a fair chance to walk off some of the food with a steep climb up to Gallants Bower, an old hill fort offering lofty views back towards Dartmouth and, of course, out to sea. With this effort and the still sparkling afternoon sunshine I am actually starting to feel quite warm. For what I believe was the only time outdoors on this trip, I peel down to just a jumper.

I should get a move on for a date with another jumper though. Whenever the last time I was here during Christmas (maybe 2015?), I was lovingly gifted a Christmas jumper. It’s not the kind of thing that suits Australia and so it has sat gathering that musty smell in a drawer in a small room in Plymouth. In many ways I am surprised it is getting more than the one use, thankful that it is allowing me to fit in with the other elves who assemble for our Christmas dinner.

Roast pork and potatoes and parsnips. Veggies and stuffing and gravy. Pigs in blankets with crappy crackers and paper hats. That warm, rosy feeling of bodies crammed in a small space accompanying wine and noise and condensation on the windows. The lights, the very many sparkling lights. Secret Santa presents adding to the complexities of fitting everything in a suitcase. Funny quizzes and roaring, unstoppable, contagious laughter. Comfort and joy and belonging, providing culmination to a Most Perfect day which has been so long, too long, in coming. The gift of family and home. Merry November 28.

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A tale of two Cornwalls

I doubt I could have arranged things any more perfectly for my long-awaited return to the coast of North Cornwall. Brilliant blue skies with barely a breath of wind. Quiet roads and quiet towns. Views to Lundy and North Devon and down the coast to Trevose. Coffee and walnut cake under the sun.

I’d like to say I stopped at Boscastle Farm Shop because my Mum and sister were on board and they needed a wee and some retail action but of course this was entirely a brilliant idea of my own making. Something to celebrate being together and seeing that rich blue line of the Atlantic stretching into infinity. Something to pay homage to the fruits of this most beautiful county of verdant green pasture and rugged, wild coast. A fillip to start the day off with a bang and another six million calories.

Boscastle. That place you come back to time and again just because. I would have done so without the delights of a farm shop café open on a weekday in November, but I also had a little extra motivation: Calendar Quest 2022, a frenetic mission to try to include a few shots that are not Australia in my annual make-Christmas-gift-giving-relatively-easy creation. Today, the challenge might be which one to pick.

An early Christmas gift offered inspiration to go just that little further, rising high above the crumpled S of the harbour as it makes its way to the ocean. I find it quite inexplicable that I had never risen to Penally Hill before, but every step was a moment. Perhaps a moment to capture in a calendar but we shall just have to wait and see.

In continuing happy vibes, the coast path from here is relatively flat, all the way along to Boscastle Farm Shop, where you could quite easily nip in for a cheeky slice of cake even though you had already done so. I didn’t, but next time.

As night follows day and cream follows jam, the next stop on this splendid day was inevitably Tintagel. An absolute ghost town, possibly haunted by Merlin’s beard. I have never seen the main strip so lifeless; so quiet I was able to drive to the very end, pull into a driveway outside Pengenna, and pick up a steak and Stilton pasty and a few cheese straws.

Last time I came to Tintagel there was the rude shock of finding out that Granny Wobbly’s Fudge Pantry had been taken over by some young punks from not round this way who had done some market research to tell them that people preferred fudge that was non-crumbly and bore an uncanny resemblance to something mass produced a long way away. Kind of like how people prefer a sausage roll from Greggs over something homemade from an independent bakery (oh, St. Agnes, next time…). Anyway, such was the speed at being able to get through Tintagel I didn’t even see if Grandkid Wankstain iFudge Laboratory was in business.

On that same visit I also discovered that it’s largely best to skip the high street of Tintagel altogether and head down from the town and up again with a ninety degree turn on a lane barely wide enough for your vehicle to park near St. Materiana’s Church. Perfect picnic vantages, and you can walk gently down towards Tintagel Castle without the prospect of a heart-busting climb back.

As timeless as it is, I sensed something different about this view. Oh, yeah, a great big brand spanking new shiny bridge connecting mainland Cornwall with the island. It’s the kind of place some ex-politician might visit as he walks the coast path for TV, grumbling about steps and characteristically enquiring about the use of some local slate during the first world war. It is undoubtedly a bridge made for TV and I rather like it.

As ex-politician muses on the mythical and spiritual energy of Tintagel island, he retreats for a final shot with a pint in hand at Trebarwith Strand. It’s a scene easy to enjoy, thanks to the enviable location of the Port William Inn. This time around I opt for an awful coffee, but I have my fudge stash (not from Tintagel) to make things better. The coast remains calm, the sky filling with high cloud, while the sun shifts lower towards the ocean. And you wonder if there is any better place in the world.

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A lot happened between that first visit to North Cornwall and the last. Storm Arwen. Omicron. Masks intermittently became a thing for some people again. Christmas parties at Number Ten. Depleted fudge stashes.

Returning in December, what was previously idyllic turned to something more irritating. Treats yearned for were closed. Parking and toilets were complicated and costly. Seagulls possessed added rage. And the weather was far more lousy, with frequent, heavy showers blowing in from the sea. However, amongst all this gloom there were just enough bright spots emerging precisely at the right moment to make everything seem absolutely wonderful again. This seems to me a very British condition, and not just in relation to the weather.

It was my last day in the South West before commencing the elongated journey back to Australia. In spite of several previous encounters, I had in mind a final cream tea though the allure of tasty jacket potatoes was also weighing on my mind. Maybe it was a day for both?

But first, another crappy coffee at Trevone Bay. Brought to you in association with a 50p toilet visit and a £60 parking fine. Complemented by a squally shower and chill wind. Footsteps upon the fine sandy cove cannot quite compensate, particularly when they sink into oozing outposts of the ocean.

Disappointment was threatening to turn into despair arriving at Carnewas. THE CAFE WAS CLOSED! Making things worse, staff were clearly present but busily affixing bunting and decking halls in preparation for Christmas shindigs. They should have been baking scones and potatoes, just for me. Didn’t they know how far I had come for this?

Mercifully the staggering coastline centred around Bedruthan Steps offered both comfort and awe. It usually does. A cloud front passed quickly overhead to reveal a strip of blue, illuminating the unstoppable lines of the ocean pulsating upwards into the receding beach and crashing upon the feet of mighty monoliths. The slightly frenzied sound of the surf funnelled up the high cliffs, out of sync with the sights below, as if in some badly dubbed episode of El Poldarko. Over towards Padstow, a rainbow glowed, set against a threatening sky heading our way. It was brief enlightenment.

Devoid of longed-for lunch, we retreated to Padstow to find something. Relative to many other towns on this trip it was positively buzzing, though not crazy enough to make parking down by the harbour a challenge. Among the odd restaurant inflated with a 25% Padstein premium, we counted at least four pasty shops. Kind of ridiculous really. With little other choice and not a great deal of enthusiasm, we opted for the best looking one.

Mum’s phone blared away somewhere in the depths of her bag. Distracted, the local seagull population espied an opportunity. A close call were it not for my wild screaming. By now, they sensed a kill and stalked us all the way back to the car. And so most of our time in Padstow was spent eating reasonable pasties in a silver Suzuki while webbed feet pounded the roof. A long way from the dream lunch I envisioned.

Not to be disheartened I knew of a potential ace up my sleeve. Or at least a Queen of Hearts. Midway between here and home there is a café actually open at Cardinham Woods, selling a decent scone with decent jam and indecent cream. Just the way I like it. Tomorrow I would be travelling to Wiltshire. Then onto London. Then, god-willing, Australia. I can only really properly farewell Cornwall – come rain or shine – in the most appropriate way. Handsome.

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Just out of town

In November 2021 I never expected I would be drier in southwest England than I would have been remaining in southeast Australia. And while it was certainly far short of wall-to-wall sunshine, most days provided conditions suitable enough for forays outdoors. Prepare for downpours, gales, and mud and most of the time expectations will be surpassed.

The more challenging aspect of the season was getting used to the rapidly shrinking presence of daylight and then – once any sun had disappeared – bracing for six hours or so to occupy yourself before bed. Often in life I will take a walk towards the end of day but here the prospect of outdoors before or after dinner is so unappealing that you find yourself more comforted by watching The Chase with Bradley Walsh. That’s not the greatest state of affairs so the best thing to do is make sure you get out at some point into the daylight before it gets cut short. Even if this is just down the road.

Take Wembury, which is essentially Plymouth’s premier beachside suburb. A place you go to retire or fund the National Trust through parking fees. It’s not the most sparkling beach in the world but possesses a raw enough quality to blow away the city cobwebs, with plenty of nooks and crannies and pools and items on a café menu for exploration.

During the Saturday of Storm Arwen, cobwebs were certainly braced to be blown away but there was also surprising shelter to be had in the lee of a gusty nor’wester. Accompanied by Mum and Brooke, conditions were apt for a spot of beachcombing and hide and seek and trying to escape the clutches of Brooke wanting to play yet more hide and seek. Café menu exploration was a little more disappointing, a reduced list of items and takeaway only evocative of a sombre this-is-living-with-COVID-(before-Omicron) air.

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Frolicking on a bright and breezy beach there is a good case to argue that storm force winds are preferable to the old classic enshrouding by drizzle. A Plymothian occurrence so regular that it feels like an innate part of your soul. The kind of day where going into town to pick up a jam donut from Sainsburys and a pack of free test kits seems appealing.

Still, it wasn’t torrential rain and I packed my waterproof in order to escape to the moors afterwards. You can marvel at this landscape for miles around on blue sky days but it feels more at peace with itself when hunkered down in the murk. The trees seep with moisture, their trunks wrapped in bright green moss while their withered roots thrust down into the crevices of a dry stone wall. Smoke rises from the dour, sturdy blocks of a farmhouse, looking out over swathes of browned bracken and the shattered granite piercings of a couple of tors. Crossing the land, lichen sprayed boulders prove a slippery adversary in between the boggy hollows where unkempt sheep stagger around on their spindly legs.

It’s a timeless, peaceful scene, captured not so far from Plymouth around Sheepstor. Sure, the arrival of two armoured troop carriers interrupted things for a time at Burrator, but other than that it was all pretty uneventful.

I love immersing myself in the landscape on a circular walk here, a walk I have revisited at different times of the year. Starting at the dam wall, the route takes in peaceful wooded paths, narrow country lanes, a small hamlet whose cottages cluster around an old church, countryside views, sounds and smells, and the final rocky ascent of Sheepstor. From this vantage, views south to the sea, west over Burrator, the Tamar Valley and Bodmin Moor, and north and east to the rugged, foreboding empty uplands of Dartmoor.

Today, by time I reached Sheepstor the murk had lifted a touch and the world below expanded. That was probably thanks to our old friend the wind, which offered a reminder atop the rocks of the need for more clothing. Forgetting my gloves, I would be pleased to return to the car, to Plymouth, and to a warm living room watching Bradley Everywhere Walsh.

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As the crow flies (in volatile winds), Whitsand Bay is but a few miles from downtown Dempourt / Devonport. Literally around the corner yet a place that feels another world away. This sense of exoticism is bolstered when traversing the Tamar aboard the Torpoint Ferry. Nothing like a water crossing to evoke those island vibes.

I suppose at the eastern end of the bay, Rame Head is almost an island. Just a narrow neck of land bridging across to a rocky outcrop rising volcano-like above the foaming ocean. A perfect destination to head off for alone as Storm Arwen approaches.

An earlier slip on a steep bank of mud boded well, and that was before a blustery shower deposited further grease along the South West Coast Path. If there was an upside, it was the presentation of drama and wildness and awe captured underneath a rainbow. The pot of gold being this is just around the corner from a large city, remember.

Other than that shower, I somehow managed to stay dry. And upright. The crossing to Rame Head wasn’t quite as scary as I expected; wider, drier, calmer, at least until the lee of the land subsided. The small stone ruin sitting upon Rame Head possessed nooks offering refuge and in other places a full on wind tunnel. Exiting the door proved the biggest challenge to remaining upright.

As I leaned into the wind to return to wider land, further rainbows came and went over delectable countryside and plunging coastline. The small shacks littering the sides of the cliffs flitted rapidly between sun and shade, beaming and fading. One of them somewhere over there might reward me with a cuppa.

Not just a cuppa, but also a scone with jam and cream. An outcome in this part of the world as inevitable as the swell of the sea releasing its force upon the land, or the onset of a good old-fashioned Plymouth drizzle. Or the likelihood that you’ll get back to a cosy indoor sanctuary and find Bradley Bloody Everywhere Walsh on the TV. Get out of town.

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About town

A part of me was dreading going into Plymouth City Centre. The goal: obtain cheap greeting cards, find a secret Santa present and see if I can pick up any of those free tests for the covids. Entering Card Factory double-masked felt every bit the gauntlet run, as old dears shuffled slowly through the narrow aisle, perusing every single Christmas card for every single family member. I swiftly picked up a box of impersonal festive cards, another random selection of five for a quid, and – unfortunately in haste – a birthday card for a non-existent sister-in-law. Meanwhile, my secret Santa exceeded the five pound limit, an extra two pounds worth it for the relief of not venturing into multiple stores rubbing up against bare faced contaminants.

The fresh air, ah the fresh air. Unfortunately it is also quite dull air as I reserve such conditions for trips to town, rather than waste good sunshine on Primark and Costa. This means the view from Plymouth Hoe today is rather monotone. The red of Smeaton’s Tower is subdued, while the placid water of the Sound passes a blur of Drake’s Island as it meets a similar shaded horizon.

By time I reach the Barbican, the gloom lifts a little and I feel in the mood for a coffee on the quay. Nearby Boston Tea Party offers potential for something half-decent but ends up with me confronting the prospect of sitting inside for a whole five minutes. It’s something to do with the worthy cause of not using takeaway cups. Never have I drunk an average latte in such rapid a time.

It’s kind of nice to wander Plymouth, even though it feels as if I am skimming through. As I pass, people continue to vape like there is no tomorrow (or airborne virus), queue along Royal Parade for a Citybus home, arrive en masse at Poundland. There are new things and old things and things which have simply changed their position. New things like ‘The Barcode’ and ‘The Box’ – while hardly inspiring in name – at least offer the sense of a city progressing. Old things either decay with neglect or prosper in their complex history.

One thing unchanged for a while are the two bridges crossing the River Tamar. I head to these later on the same day hoping for some kind of repeat of a previous sunset. I was intending to view proceedings from the Devon side but inadvertently get stuck crossing the road bridge and end up in Cornwall. While this provides a touch of charm down by the river in Saltash, I am fuming inside at the prospect of paying two pounds toll on the way back. I walk over to Devon nonetheless, and back to Cornwall again, as the daylight fades.

From this lofty vantage I can see further down the Tamar as it passes the Dockyard and enters the Sound. It is around there that Devil’s Point and the adjoining Royal William Yard provide a pleasant outlet from city noise and grime. I find myself in that vicinity the next morning, the gloom having well and truly lifted to a blue sky day. Being November, a chill remains in the hard stone buildings and shady wind tunnels of the Yard. Better seek the sea for reflection of warmth.

Nearby, Firestone Bay has risen in prominence thanks to the growth of wild swimming, visiting wildlife and posing figures on Instagram. I take time for a coffee and delicious slice of some kind here; these slices always propel the quality of the coffee in my memory. It’s only then that I notice the latest resident seal, chilling out on the shingle as the odd swimmer and paddleboarder lathers up. Calm and sparkling, it feels a long way from the city, and the congested aisles of Card Factory.

This is the Plymouth I could see myself in, the one where it is eternally sunny and I am literally strolling around beside the ocean with a decent coffee without having to work or shop for cut-price greeting cards. It is an unattainable Plymouth in reality, only appearing in these brief snippets of circumstance and good fortune. In such fleeting passage, they are of a Plymouth to treasure and remember. And to hope for in time again.

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Dream times

Do you remember the time when you could leave footprints in the sand to melt away with the tide? Or take walks within forests as the sun scatters golden through a canopy of spotted gum? Can you recall when you could linger on a bench to feast on deep fried fruits of the sea? And what about that period when Australia really was the place to be?

Footsteps in the sand

I do, but it feels a long time ago, even though it was little over a month. With opportunity and freedom I had journeyed to the coast, cognisant of wintry weather in Canberra and the pervasive feeling that you might not be able to do this again. For a while.

I had found a quiet kind of place to stay in North Durras. The kind of place you might hunker down to see out a pandemic. A place where the biggest drama at this point in time was the wind, though where small reminders of far more disastrous natural events stir the mind. The wind quelled the temperature and whipped up sandy frenzy, but it was still an improvement on Canberra. And an invigorating reminder of the power of nature.

A view of a small town next to the beach with forested hills in the background

Not that I was thanking the wind when the power went down, just as I was about to settle into an evening escaping on a tour around France. I had to read and that felt like hard work when you really just want to lounge as lazily as possible. Thank goodness for the lights coming back on and the Col de Tourmalet.

Around North Durras I made friends with some King Parrots and Kangaroos, explored the sands and forests, and found my way wandering along the waterways as they infiltrate inland. Always across the channel, signs of South Durras peeked above the scrub and I wondered if there was a strong rivalry between the two. The South were probably boastful of having a shop while the North derided snooty Canberra-by-Sea.

Kangaroos hopping on some grass next to the ocean

Just for a while I had to remove myself from such unlikely drama. It was Saturday morning, and I was hoping for that perfect combination of sheltered sunshine and oceanside coffee strolling. I aimed for Bawley Point, noting some positive signs in my research: small bays protected from the south-easterly; a coffee caravan on a headland with a strong showing on TripAdvisor; Canberra-by-Sea.

At least the bays were sublime.

A beach with some red flowers in the foreground

For some reason, the thought crossed my mind that Barry Cassidy had a holiday home in Bawley Point and hung out with Mike Bowers while Heather was off on some back road cracking a horse whip with Old Reggie Mundoon of Canowindra. This will mean nothing to any English readers, and most Australians too. Anyway, I think I remember this because Mike posted a picture of plumes of smoke from Bazza’s ample deck around the Christmas of 2019.

I could’ve watched Barry’s successors waffle on about ineptitude and continue to needlessly debate the pros and cons of lockdowns on the ABC on Sunday morning. But why do that when I can just take a few steps from my cabin and expose myself to a world of beautiful calm. From the abundant forest full of melodies to the glassy clear water stretching across to the south. No wind and a beaming radiance to lift the soul.

Sunlight shining through a forest
An inlet next to the ocean

This would be a fine place to ride out a pandemic, though it could handle a decent café otherwise I may not survive. To ensure an improvement on the day before I left North Durras and drove south to Mossy Point, where there is a reliable spot for coffee. And a raspberry and white chocolate muffin. Just because.

The day was continuing to sparkle, and I was in no rush to head back home. With hardly a breath of wind it would’ve been the perfect day for a bike ride. Perhaps heading from Moruya along the river and out through pasture towards the ocean at Moruya Heads. You could pack some lunch and eat it in a sheltered bay, glistening under warm sunshine. Good job I packed my bike and prized $16 bike rack.

A red bike next to a river
A bike on a sandy beach with the ocean in the background

Doesn’t it look nice?

There was a beach at Moruya Heads – Shelly Beach – that offered the kind of nirvana that would prove an entirely effective crescendo to a piece of writing. The very essence of what I was seeking on this little break to the south coast of New South Wales in winter. Comfort, delight, beauty, and a quiet spot to sit in a T-shirt. I could have gone full shorts, but none were packed.

A beach and clear ocean

An ice cream would’ve hit the spot too, but I had to cycle back to Moruya – including over what felt like a mini Tourmalet – and then drive a fifty kilometre round trip. I mean, I didn’t have to take a fifty kilometre round trip but no, really I did. I’d done fish and chips, I’d done coffee by the sea and now I needed a double shot of Bodalla Dairy.

Another moment to treasure, to add to the bank of dream times to remember. And to look forward to when they are there to spoil us again.

Picture of fish and chips, ice cream and coffee

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