Spaghetti with spicy fried zucchini and olives.

I came around the Cape Liptrap road about seven in the evening, partly by accident and partly to burn some time. The more direct route is via Leongatha and Fish Creek, but the Inverloch/Tarwin Lower alternative makes you want to live there.

From high up on the cape, the peaks of Wilson's Promontory down below turn pale red in the early evening and the sea can be seen smashing into the coast below the lighthouse. I drove on through Walkerville, a collection of neat closed-up beach houses. Then, north-east again, I curved clockwise around the top of Waratah Bay right there at my right hand but unseen; crashing waves audible above the quiet hum of the car's motor.

Twenty minutes later I rolled to a stop inside the farm gate. No other cars in sight. The collection of house, barn, studio, potting shed and other outbuildings had an expectant air, as if sundry humans were about to burst out. I got out of the car. Over by the barn, some hens were bickering among themselves.

I went inside. I had correctly suspected they might still be out on the water, or coaxing the groaning old sailing ship into port. So I got dinner going. No hurry; they might still be another hour. Low-angled sun slanted gold bars across the big wooden table in the kitchen. I diced several zucchinis finely and dusted them with dried herbs, salt and pepper. You have to be patient unless you have one of those as-seen-on-TV dicer/cutter/slicer things, but I've never seen anyone actually use one. I fried the seasoned herbed zucchini dice lightly in olive oil in batches, then I chopped and fried two onions, tipped in three jars of arrabiata sauce and added a few garlic cloves and half a cup of pitted and chopped Turkish olives; the ones that come in a tin preserved in oil rather than brine.

I was bringing the water to a boil when there was noise outside, and the house was suddenly full of people. Alex, with wind-burned nose, told her stories of the sea as the spaghetti coiled and rolled in the huge pot. I folded a mountain of fried zucchini dice through the spicy tomato sauce in the second pot and drained the pasta, slithering it into a serving bowl about the size of a tractor's front wheel.

Everyone served themselves. Someone opened a bottle. We ate outside. By now, bars of gold were climbing the walls of the house. Over behind the shed, the hens were still tut-tutting. The heat remained, after a hot day that a ten-year-old girl would remember as her first sailing adventure.