There is always one day when you know. It’s not about the temperature, it just kind of feels different, like you’ve moved on.
*
Near midday, we walked down the hill and along the street towards the beach. At first you can’t see the water but you can see ships passing by, as if they were sliding down Point Nepean Road along with the cars.
The Blairgowrie café was the usual jumble of dogs and people and prams and waitpeople running in and out with plates up and down their arms. We sat outside, as always. There was a new steel in the wind, a coldness I haven’t felt for months. Yesterday the bay was all twinkling blue in the sunshine. Today the water was grey and had little white caps.
We kept our jackets on and ate. Tracy ordered the open salmon sandwich which came out about a foot high and had a blizzard of capers and an avalanche of house-made mayonnaise on top. I had the house salad which was big enough to feed a hutch of rabbits for a week, if only they could get their noses into the bowl it came in. It was one of those silly things with a rim that orbits 45 degrees off the horizontal, like the earth’s trajectory around the sun. Eating out of them is like eating out of a 1960s chair.
Then we had cake. See? Cooler weather hits and you just keep right on eating. Did someone mention ships on the bay? The slice of pear and walnut cake was about the size of the Sorrento ferry. Its bow jutted out over the edge of the plate which was as big as Port Philip Bay and syrup rained down on its deck and it was anchored with double cream and a strawberry. We got through it. It was magnificent as well as large. We won't be needing dinner.
*
Late in the afternoon, I drove to the beach, climbed down the hundred or so stairs to the lonely ocean beach roaring to itself way below. Here, it’s always cloudy. The clouds scud in on a southerly and break up when they hit land. They were already orange-tinged by the westering sun, even though it was only five o'clock. I carried William onto the sand.
The beach slopes down dramatically to the water and the waves charge in like trains. It’s the kind of beach where the surf looks higher than your head. We walked along a little way. I put William on the sand and he tried to make a game of running almost into the water, down the hard packed sand towards the roiling sea. I hoisted him high just as the waves came and tried to grab our legs with briny hands. The backwash only came up to my ankles but it felt like it could drag a tree out of the ground. These beaches are dangerous if you don’t know them well. I know them well. You don’t mess with them.
The only other people on the beach were a straggle in the distance, walking. After a while they got closer and approached us, handed me their camera and asked me if I would mind taking a photo of them on the beach. I said I wouldn’t mind. They were Indian tourists, young men in their twenties, impeccably polite and impeccably dressed in brightly coloured designer clothes, but barefoot for the beach. I took their photo and they thanked me very much and went on their way.
After a while William and I walked up the sand and climbed the steps to the craggy carpark and drove back to the beach house in soft silent rain.
*
Near midday, we walked down the hill and along the street towards the beach. At first you can’t see the water but you can see ships passing by, as if they were sliding down Point Nepean Road along with the cars.
The Blairgowrie café was the usual jumble of dogs and people and prams and waitpeople running in and out with plates up and down their arms. We sat outside, as always. There was a new steel in the wind, a coldness I haven’t felt for months. Yesterday the bay was all twinkling blue in the sunshine. Today the water was grey and had little white caps.
We kept our jackets on and ate. Tracy ordered the open salmon sandwich which came out about a foot high and had a blizzard of capers and an avalanche of house-made mayonnaise on top. I had the house salad which was big enough to feed a hutch of rabbits for a week, if only they could get their noses into the bowl it came in. It was one of those silly things with a rim that orbits 45 degrees off the horizontal, like the earth’s trajectory around the sun. Eating out of them is like eating out of a 1960s chair.
Then we had cake. See? Cooler weather hits and you just keep right on eating. Did someone mention ships on the bay? The slice of pear and walnut cake was about the size of the Sorrento ferry. Its bow jutted out over the edge of the plate which was as big as Port Philip Bay and syrup rained down on its deck and it was anchored with double cream and a strawberry. We got through it. It was magnificent as well as large. We won't be needing dinner.
*
Late in the afternoon, I drove to the beach, climbed down the hundred or so stairs to the lonely ocean beach roaring to itself way below. Here, it’s always cloudy. The clouds scud in on a southerly and break up when they hit land. They were already orange-tinged by the westering sun, even though it was only five o'clock. I carried William onto the sand.
The beach slopes down dramatically to the water and the waves charge in like trains. It’s the kind of beach where the surf looks higher than your head. We walked along a little way. I put William on the sand and he tried to make a game of running almost into the water, down the hard packed sand towards the roiling sea. I hoisted him high just as the waves came and tried to grab our legs with briny hands. The backwash only came up to my ankles but it felt like it could drag a tree out of the ground. These beaches are dangerous if you don’t know them well. I know them well. You don’t mess with them.
The only other people on the beach were a straggle in the distance, walking. After a while they got closer and approached us, handed me their camera and asked me if I would mind taking a photo of them on the beach. I said I wouldn’t mind. They were Indian tourists, young men in their twenties, impeccably polite and impeccably dressed in brightly coloured designer clothes, but barefoot for the beach. I took their photo and they thanked me very much and went on their way.
After a while William and I walked up the sand and climbed the steps to the craggy carpark and drove back to the beach house in soft silent rain.
I read this and find I'm walking on the beach.
ReplyDeleteI have been waiting for this signal form you that my hemisphere is heading towards spring.
ReplyDeleteThe clocks changed an hour ahead on Sunday, the sun isn't setting now until 7:00(ish) and the birdsong is distinctly spring like. Chickadees have switched to chick a dee dee dee which is always a good sign.
When the grill makes it out of its winter nesting hole for the first inaugural ceremony I will know it is truly on its way.
It's astounding how time passes when you're only reading about someone's life in a blog... After reading this, I thought "William? Walking?", and of course, when I calculated, I realised he must be old enough, but somehow I'm still thinking of him as the infant he was when I first found your blog.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure it must be much more dramatic for you, sometimes. :)
It's a great place to be, HalfCups.
ReplyDeleteAnd here, Jo, spring's magpie chicks are nearly full-grown and have their black and white plumage, ready for winter's rigours.
Sarah, William walked the week Thomas came home. Now he actually runs.