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.