It’s sometimes refreshing to escape the routine of life, to engender a fresh approach, an injection of spirit. There are times when a simple life feels one dimensional. Even though deep down in one’s soul one knows it isn’t.
In any case, husband and self booked a five star stay a long journey to the north of our own cottage (still by the sea, mind. I can’t seem to break that anchor point). I was very mindful that we had a pup with us, an 8 month old who might find the travelling (3+ hours there and the same back) difficult. Who might find staying in a new house with different smells and new boundaries to navigate just a little too hard. Nevertheless, we thought we’d give it a try.
I had a ballet class prior to leaving and then it was, to coin a phrase oft used by
– onwards by all means.
We stopped twice on the journey there. For good beach walks and smell-a-thons which soothed him and settled him for the next section of travel. Once at our rental, and once the Womble had his bearings, we went for a walk along a massive beach where shells carpeted the coast.
Whilst I found half of a large pen shell (razor clam - I’d never seen one that large before) and a loose chiton just lying amongst the beach debris, the pup found a library of smells. Pulling one after another off the shelves, smelling and tasting, then excitedly moving on.
He has been confused, there’s no doubt. But whereas routine was what was itching me the wrong way, we tried to keep to his routine for his sake. We brought his crate and bed and toys with us. His meals parcelled up for each day. His mat, his treats. I swear I just managed to remember most of what I needed – cosmetics, footwear and meds – and flung them in an overnight bag but forgot my Kindle and extra clothes. But remembered food for us because where we stayed there were no shops at all, no restaurants, no conveniences. Then again, we’re simple folk who are happy to settle for simple repasts. Even toast and vegemite, if it comes to that.
There are dirt roads, no gutters or paths and no street lighting. We love the complete lack of urbanisation. This is just a cluster of houses on a headland, and most are unoccupied so it’s quiet, apart from the sound of nature beyond the front gate.
The horizons have been vast. Terrifyingly empty in their extent. Looking out on nothing but more sea. No vessels of any sort. No islands, not like our own place. Just coast and rocks and reefs offshore as far as forever. With waves remorselessly breaking and sucking and swirling great swathes of kelp onto the beaches.
There’s a smell of the sea for sure, but it’s different to our home. And yet, when one crunches the millions of shells underfoot and realises there’s a trillion more ‘out there’ somewhere, one knows there’s an underwater life as filled with stories as our own smaller bays and coves.
There was an Australian pelican, a huge bird, the B52 of birds with a massive wingspan of over 2 metres, and the longest beak of any avian. This bird flew past us at eye-level, swept out over the waves, circled and flew back toward us still at eye-level, to land gracefully, barely a ripple, upon the placid lagoon waters.
One night, as we walked with the Pup, we gazed at a moonlit sea. The horizon looked as if it curved in the moonlight and I thought of all those through the centuries who believed our world was flat. Not only that, the sailors who sailed the faraway seas and yet couldn’t swim. All those convicts who were transported from Britain to Van Diemens’ Land (Tasmania) in tall ships, staring at a coastline, trees and skies which held not one iota of familiarity. They were my ancestors.
We met up with friends who live on this raw coastline and whilst talking over a cuppa and Italian shortbread, and whilst our 8 month old pup and their 10 month old pup ran rampant, they directed us to a Salt Path of worth.
On walking it, one can’t be anything but awed at the power of the sea, the thunder and turmoil. I gave the pup’s longline to my husband to hold. It was all I could do to stand upright against the low sun, the spume and the noise. Exhilarating! So very different to familiar paths further south.
As I write this, I can hear the roar off the headland and to me it’s a comfort, the heart and blood of the earth that has thumped rhythmically for aeons and will do so for ever more.
Before we leave, I will take a picture of our friends’ fantasy mailbox (created in Melbourne and carefully carried back to Tasmania) – one could just craft the most perfect tale around that alone, and then we’ll begin the journey ‘back again’, stopping for the Womble to pee and to smell. A euphemism for we Olds to stretch our legs and backs. We’ll picnic somewhere and maybe grab a hot chocolate with marshmallows as we head into the home strait.
By the time you read this, we will be back at our cottage, unpacked and like our clothes, folded and tucked away. We will have had the chance to see that grass isn’t necessarily greener over far fences and that our life is actually not at all one dimensional. That maybe the little house in the big garden, our own beaches and the enigmatic island across the Passage aren’t really as mundane as we think. But we will come home from an escape refreshed and planning another in due course. In addition, we can be grateful to live in such a peaceful and free place where our worst problems are nothing but a speck of dust in the scheme of things.
No music this week, just a short video – one of the stories from deep in the ocean where a little fish escapes, just for the moment…
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Ah Sabrina, I’m always happy to be in my own little space with my limited routine.
I needed the trip away to remind me of that. Sometimes I think our eyes are bigger than our stomachs and one should just take a breath and enjoy where one is.
Pups and I anchored ourselves today with a bush walk and life goes on.
Once you’ve settled, take time to visit some of the amazing RHS gardens - they’re to die for!
Wow. I even smelled the sea thanks Prue.