Deep South

The speckled sunlight seeped through an avenue of sprightly gum trees, its path of guiding lights eventually disturbed by his ageing but enduring car. Shot out into the light, the road came to an end in a small circle of freshly ground tarmac. Beside shimmering water, slick and smooth as glass, an unassuming wooden jetty extended, reaching out to nature like a church spire to the gods. Loosely tethered, a rectangular ferryboat bobbed gently in tune to the rhythm of the inlet in which it was parked up for the day. With the earthen sound of footsteps on timber slats, he soon reached the end of the jetty, where he sat. He sat with the sun warming his face. He sat with the sounds of bellbirds ringing up and down the length of the creek. He sat with thousands of gum trees lining the banks, millions of water droplets forming one beautiful whole, and billions of untainted particles in the air.  He sat contented.

And with these small moments we are blessed, and we remember, and we think back fondly to time spent on one of the rambling tentacles of Mallacoota Inlet in Victoria, beyond the far, far south coast of NSW. And we are glad for the opportunities, engineered slightly by re-jigging work days, getting lucky with clearing weather, and requiring commitment to a four hour drive.

Arriving on Friday afternoon, another stretch of the inlet provided a hearty chance to stretch the legs and enjoy what is probably one of the most pristine corners of the southeast coastline – too far from Sydney to be bothered by bogans, distant from Melbourne hoons and a little afar for Canberra weekenders. This isolation also makes accommodation a bargain, and two nights in a spacious holiday unit offered the chance to stop, sit up, and smell the roses. Or smell the eucalypts and tea tree and occasional lemon myrtle, as the afternoon progresses to sundown on Mallacoota Inlet.

There’s not much in the town of Mallacoota itself and I retreated from the two breakfast options and cooked up my own bacon and egg feast the following morning. This resulted in inevitable guilt and subsequently finding myself at the trailhead to Genoa Peak which, though short, was steep, particularly in its latter stages – there were ladders and everything. Alas the views were hazy and the final summit, up the final ladder, brought you out onto a small rock which was festering with midges and mosquitoes and did not encourage loitering.

But it provided a good work out and further room for cake back down beside the coastline later in the day. The coastline here is naturally rugged and the beaches less refined and – I think – slightly less appealing than those further north. At least that is, to sit on and linger. They are walking man’s beaches, where you can fossick for shells, clamber over driftwood and scrape your way through rocks. They are also a wee bit stinky with seaweed and the occasional rotting fish, though I suppose these are the smells of the very natural world, rather than the manicured roses.

And on reflection it was not at all unfortunate that he came face to face with bacon and eggs, a couple of mushrooms and half a tin of baked bins – English Recipe – upon opening the fridge door the next morning. Early sunlight creeping over the clouds on the horizon had been usurped by a monotone white blanket as he tucked into his cholesterol concoction. It was a final flourish to draw a line under the sand, nourishment to set forth and return to the remote highways in a far off corner of a far flung land. Four hours to spend with a loyal friend, pushing the friendship through forests, along splendid valleys and up mountains, back to their home. Where they both sat contented.

Coloured

In a typically gushing blog entry around this time of year I have decided that autumn is the new spring, and, with it, colour is the new black and white. One traditionally thinks of autumn as the drawing of life from the land, the fading of days leading to an inevitable slump towards dark and cold. Here, the slump is very gradual, and autumn heralds a burst of life and colour that is like a second spring. Welcome settled weather brings a serenity that is very special, and a scene fitting of gushing prose.

Whilst walking in the sunshine for a sublime coffee in a funky part of town one day I heard the recent weather described as an Indian summer. Do summers in India always come late, or do we use this term to evoke the warmth that comes with spice and colour and getting cosy with 300 other human beings on a train carriage? I can’t imagine Indian summers being as crisp and clear as this one, but the colour was plain to see as I looked out at a biryani of transforming trees later that day, not so far from the spice of Jewel of India.

You may or may not appreciate, depending on whether you watch the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson or not, that Canberra is blessed with numerous green open spaces and rambling bush-cloaked ridges. Why autumn is so special is because it transcends these official reserves and parklands and sweeps into the boulevards, circles, gardens, and doormats of the happy little residents. Suburbia is king, cast in the vernal spotlight. I cannot think of a much better way to kick off a long Easter weekend by simply turning left out of the door, left again, and rambling through previously unknown streets as the day begins to glow and warm.

Easter managed to embody the spirit of transition that goes with this time of year, as Canberra turned from Indian summer to Russian winter in the space of its chocolaty days. The change was made all the more dramatic by a few days in Sydney in between, departing in shorts and returning to turn on the heating.

Sydney itself provided its own colour, including a wonderful roast dinner, a splendid coastal walk with even more splendid salt and pepper calamari, and an overly punitive parking ticket courtesy of the rip-off capital of the world. I won’t blame it on the carbon tax like everyone else, but when did Australia become so miserly and greedy? The only benefit I see in this seemingly persistent lack of change from a $50 note economy we have is that I appear to have a surplus of petrol vouchers from spending so much at the supermarket each time I go there. Which means I get cheaper petrol to pollute the atmosphere, and more opportunity to park supposedly illegally.

Money makes you wonder whether to put the heating on when Canberra has decided it is time for an early frost or two. Technically you should wait until after Anzac Day, but I’ve never been that technically minded (I was technically minded enough to press the ‘on’ button on the heating however). These cool nights tend to be forgiven once you are out again in those streets, in still very agreeable warm, sunny days. Streets where leaves float like giant red snowflakes, and the comfort of an overpriced coffee is just around the corner. Streets where colour trumps colour as birds fleet between the branches, an oversaturated suburbia very much alive in a frenzy of autumn.