Eurobodalla beaches: from Tilba Cemetery towards 1080

Tags

rocks, sea, Tilba beach north to 1080

Returning to Australian weekends is easy, in winter sunshine before the wind picks up. We drive the new car out along the spur towards Tilba Cemetery, and suddenly the Pacific Ocean sprawls before us. A sandy track leads us down to a wide beach, backed by grassy dunes, and, towering behind farmland, under bright clouds, sacred Gulaga.

The beach is distinctive. The tideline is marked by lines of small shells in curves and points, depending on the whim of the retreating sea.

The sea is smooth, lazy waves plopping on the sand and splashing laconically.

I’m fascinated by horizontality. J is far ahead as I snap snap snap, his leg functioning well again, the rocks at the far end of the beach dragging him along by his geological curiosity. I’m not focused on geology, just on the feel of Australian sand and wind and sun. I’ve lost any knack I had of geological analytics in my seven weeks in Warsaw. I have to relearn diorite, and … what on earth were the other -ites?

There are no rocks till we approach the northern end and then sudden outcrops and bluffs appear.

I’m easily pleased by sand and rock gardens; rock patterns; and traces of attempted ownership.

We sit companionably for a while in the sun, sheltered by the rocks from the wind.

As we head back, a flock of tiny birds announce their presence by mazes of claw-prints, and then appear, scurry-pause-scurry, shadows and minute sand-spurts in tow.

We return to the car up a different track, through a gate and onto a bare grassy hillside capped by the cemetery

Hotchpotch 17

Tags

beaches, cafés, farewell Potato Point, flowers, rocks

This will be the last post from snippetsandsnaps for a couple of months. Meanwhile, I’ll be blogging at warsaw2018 if you’d like to join me there as I visit Warsaw for the seventh time since 2012 and catch up with my twin grandchildren, Maja and Jaś, now 5 years and 4 months – and of course their parents.

This fare-well-for-now hotchpotch is a catalogue of things I’ll miss while I’m on the other side of the world.

Morning maraudings

I’ll probably ramble the streets of Warsaw on early spring mornings, but I won’t dare take the liberties I take in the streets of Potato Point.

Catching up with friends

I have plenty of special places to do that here, a few of them visited recently in the ceremony of farewells. Downward Dog in Bodalla has added a few delights since I was there last – the big back room offers games to play with lunch or coffee and cake (we tested ourselves with the Trivial Pursuit cards) and the outdoor area is bright with tiles, dog-panels, hanging baskets, and a tower topped by bowls and a teapot

(Cafe shots are the first photos taken on my new camera – Sony Cyber-shot DSC-HX90V – a younger sibling of the one I drowned)

The Tilba Teapot offers a verandah nook and on this visit a free scone, and both cafes give me the company of an old friend and the comfort of speaking English.

In Warsaw I’ll have to hunt out pleasant venues for coffee; be satisfied with my own company; and put my chatter on mute.

Rocks

The geology museum is on the agenda for Warsaw, but it won’t be able to compete with the explorations at home. J has just begun his categorisation of rocks, repurposing two of the hall bookcases and relocating them to the living room. He reckons he needs me to harangue on all matters geological, but I bet progress is made while I’m away.

The beach, the beach

There will be no substitute for the beaches of home, fingers of god early on a dull morning, perfect sunshine at Honeymoon Beach, even on rainy days through the window of the car.

Oddities and artworks

I imagine I’ll see plenty of art but probably not a visitors book held in place like this …

… or sculptures on a headland like this

Vegetables

There’ll be vegetables in Warsaw, but they won’t be free (although they’ll be very cheap) or presented as a still life, straight from the grower’s garden.

Close companions

In so many ways, for so many years, these two have enriched my life. A pity they couldn’t accompany me.

Eurobodalla beaches: 1080

Tags

geology, rocks

1080 is a poison, banned in many countries but still used in Australia in an attempt to eradicate foxes, rabbits and wild dogs. Edward Hoagland calls it “a drastic potion”. How come it is also the name of a beach in the Eurobodalla National Park, and a very beautiful beach at that? When we first moved to this part of the world, surfies J knew kept talking about this great beach called 1080. It was one of those nameless beaches around here that surfies identified using the name of the poison on warning signs. The name stuck.

We drive through bushland from Mystery Bay, the sign for 1080 invisible from the road, a familiar habit of National Parks and Wildlife NSW. The bushland opens out into a clearing on the headland, a scattering of picnic tables and short tracks leading to the edge of the cliff. There are long views south to Mumbulla Mountain and an emphatic sea empty of surfers. A wooden staircase leads down to the beach, and to the rocks that are of course the focus of our interest.

As with most of our weekend beaches we’re in sole possession as we move amongst the rocks, expecting to see something similar to rocks we’ve seen before. Not so. How to characterise these rocks? 

There are rocks in conjoined piles crowned by grass and sky; rocks displaying panels, parallel and differentiated in shades of brown and pumpkin and grey; and rocks sporting a blue line meandering past minute shelves where sand has settled.

There are clean-edged black basalt rocks stretching out into the turmoil of surf. They’re johnny-come-latelies on this coast, only 99 million years old and related in origin to the rocks of nearby Gulaga Mountain and the offshore island, Baranguba.

I’m delighted to spot a geological feature I recognise, a substantial dyke intruding into 470 million year old sandstone, if I’m to believe the results of a search. 

Perhaps the most distinctive feature of this rocky profusion are the wavy lines, unlike anything we’ve seen before.

Unfamiliar too are the frilled vertical layers, from some angles looking like old-fashioned bonnets.

I wander round contentedly as the tide begins to drop, relishing textures and patterns and colours; tiny pebbly coves gentled by crystomint wavelets; rocks vivid with orange lichen; and the view back to Mumbulla Mountain. A lowering sky does not, sadly, deliver on what looks like a promise of rain.



Wordless walk: Potato Point Beach at sunrise

Tags

light, Potato Point beach, rocks, sunrise

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Wordless walk: Girraween National Park

Tags

banksias, Dr Roberts Waterhole, Girraween National Park, rocks, Underground Creek, wattle

Wordless walk: Bald Rock National Park

Tags

Bald Rock NP, flowers, lichen, moss, rocks, tracks

Eurobodalla Beaches: Billy’s Beach

Tags

Billy's Beach, rockpools, rocks

To visit most beaches, I just hop out of the car and step pretty well straight down onto the sand. This time I walk through a vast bush camping area shaded by spotted gums and graceful red-barked mahogany, and brightened by the jewelled fruit on pittosporums. Some of the campsites are on the edge of the cliff, and I can feel a camping urge coming on me. The air is warm-crisp. I’m delighted to be walking through bush and predisposed for love.

Enticing tracks take me right to the edge, looking out over unexpectedly rugged rocks to the blue ocean, rock islands and strips of distant sand.

I walk somewhat gingerly along the rocks and find myself looking down into a most unexpected gorge, steeper and deeper than the photo shows. The auguries for love are looking good: surprise is an aphrodisiac.

I reach the end of the camping area and find myself entering Eurobodalla National Park, the same park that surrounds me at Potato Point – a long, reclaimed, “non-contiguous” strip stretching down the coast from Moruya Heads to Tilba Tilba Lake. I encounter two families with small children, reminding me that Billy’s is billed as child friendly. And then there it is …

… a small serene beach with a view out to Mother Gulaga’s son, Baranguba. I don’t hesitate. I head for the sunny end, wondering what it will offer me. Underfoot is the scrunch of large grey pebbles and shells. My first impression is of rather undistinguished grey rock, creating uninteresting rock pools. The possibility of love retreats.

And then my eyes are opened, suddenly, as they often are in love affairs. They’re drawn to large rock faces, rather than close up patches. Everything is on a grand scale.

Already smitten, I stroll 200 metres along the beach to the other end, anticipating further delights and I am not disappointed. Other people have been here before me, delineating the meandering lines in the rock with white pebbles. The cliffs tilt and present a range of colours and patterns. The rockpools are vivid.

I realise I’m more than smitten. I’m deeply in love. I look back along the beach and out beyond a rocky outcrop to the sea. I’d stay here in solitude, soaking up the sun, but I’m meeting a gang of friends from my children’s childhood. Love has to give way to friendship, even fresh love. I walk past a huge dune of gravel, back to the wooden stairs, where I sit briefly, revelling in a new amour.

***********************************************

I’m prepared to share my new love with special people, bits of it at least, this time specifically Gilly who has shown an interest in plants and their foothold in rock. For you, my friend.

Eurobodalla beaches: One Tree Beach (the north end)

Tags

contrasts, nonsense, One Tree north, rockpools, rocks, shells

This morning I think I’m visiting a beach, but the sign tells me it’s a “facility”, the use of which may be hazardous. It’s likely to dish up rough surf, rips and currents, deep holes and gutters and submerged rocks. However, the tide is low, the ocean serene and I’m not planning to enter the water: I’m in more danger walking down the rotted wooden stairs to reach … the facility.

Enough quibbling over bureaucratic word choice! I survey the coastline from the lookout: south (where I beachwalked last) and north (where I’m beachwalking today). I take a brief memory detour via Menindee Lakes, transported back to weekend camping trips by pink and green hop plants very like the ones that grew in the landscape of my desert walks. Finally I access the beach and begin my gasping-with-delight tour of the southern end.

 The rocks here are knobbly, honeycombed, patterned in pink and blue, seamed with thick bands of gold, and host to rockpools. But my delight is equally the pastel sky and the rocky outcrops stretching darkly into the sea. This morning, mutterings of delight are accompanied by questions centring on the geological history of the rocks. The facility provides no answers.

In fact it generates more questions when I reach the other end of the beach and find smooth rocks lying like beached whales, spotted with dark grey patches and the tracery of barnacles and the lively black of tiny mussels. I climb the flanks somewhat gingerly and peer down into rounded crevices.

I’m tempted into a kind of mythic storymaking by geological ignorance: a return to the ancient response in the face of something mysterious. So …

Long long ago not far from the beginning of time, a primeval competition between two sculptors in rock to see who can create the best beach end. The competitors represent two aesthetics that match their appearance: one suave and debonair, smoothed to featurelessness, spare and minimal: the other gnarled and pitted by life, with mysterious dramatic episodes. They set to work, these two mythical beings, proto-Henry Moore and proto-Alberto Giacometti, beginning with the same landscape and invoking wind and water, and possibly tectonic plates, to help them shape it to their individual delight. They take a long time, eons in fact, and they haven’t finished yet. The Great Judge eyes off their handiwork so far, and with a fanfare of trumpets and a roar of sea horns announces his judgement: “They are … different.”

I decide I’m not much of a myth maker, so I venture into the field of allegory, at least I think that’s what it is. Maybe I can construct an allegory of the self: myself. Behold the rough hewn self: filled with secrets, inconsistencies, discontinuities; lunging from intention to intention. And yet in all this a richness of variety. Then there’s the smooth bland self, that offers always what’s expected, covered in barnacles and clams, non-intrinsic beauties, gifts from outside that are the personality. This self is still capable of the odd blush.

Eurobodalla beaches: Dalmeny

Tags

Aboriginal connection, Dalmeny, history, rocks, whales

There are people about today: playing in teams with some kind of throwing thing on the beach; splashing in the water where Mummaga Lake enters the sea with a rush; fishing placidly from the rocks; clambering around with bucket and spade; picnicking on the grass; watching an infant take her first steps; and staggering around watching every footfall amongst the pools and slashes of rock poking out of the sand, camera at the ready. 

This beach is just in front of a caravan park, still occupied by school holiday makers. It’s the peak of low tide, so the rocky platform is exposed and the sand firm. This is my third unfamiliar beach in a week, and they couldn’t be more different. What is the essence of this one? Shingle consisting of bigger shells than I saw at Plantation Beach, or McKenzies. Rocks piled up into a rounded turret or weathered to the shape of Opera House sails. Seams of white quartzlike rock wandering their way through the surface and crevices of their host. Narrow vertical ridges. Gleaming mustard-yellow slabs with smooth hollows.  Rockpools, and rock-dimples filled with shells.

That’s my narrow world, at noon on a particular day. But there are other worlds here too.

Geology has been busy for eons, shaping the shoreline and its beauties, making it unique. Weathering and the repetitious action of the sea are co-creators of all the shapes and patterns that have given pleasure to the tiny dot in the universe that is me.

Yuin Elder, YIrrimah evokes the Aboiginal world: “We’ve got totems here. Our sisters swim through the rocks. The whales, the seabirds, eels, crabs, they’re our family.” An information board lists Aboriginal names: maara maara, waagal, junga, yannga, bimbulla, wondarma, mingo. (What whitefellas call sea mullet, blackfish, octopus, lobster, Sydney cockles, appleberry, grass tree.)

Migrating Humpback whales come in close to shore on their long journey north to breed in the tropics in winter and then back to the Antarctic summer feeding grounds. If you’re lucky you can see them spouting and breaching, sometimes mother and baby playing together.

William Mort brought the whitefella world of sheep and dairy cows here in the 1880s. He settled land behind the beach and along Mummaga Lake, now State Forest and the suburb of Dalmeny, named by him after his Eton schoolfriend who became Lord Dalmeny, an obscure British Prime Minister.

Intrepid camping holiday-makers began coming in the 1920s, although by then Narooma just down the coast was a holiday destination with some pretty classy guest houses. This influx continues: a number of people I meet holiday here for years before they make it their retirement home, and the population swells dramatically over summer.

And then there are the current holiday makers, grabbing the last of the warmth, and me on my mission to visit every beach in the shire.

Dalmeny is the next beach down from Potato Point: to access it take the Tourist Drive turnoff from the Princes Highway about 8 kilometres south of Bodalla, until you reach the caravan park. There’s some confusion about the name. My coastal bible, Beaches of Batemans Bay and the Eurobodalla Coast by Peter and Manuela Henry, calls the northern part Brou Beach with Dalmeny in brackets: and the southern part (where I photographed for this post) Josh’s Beach. Names in this coastal strip seem to be mutable.

Eurobodalla beaches: Plantation Point

Tags

Plantation Beach, rocks

For the first time since I came home, I need my spotted gum walking stick as I feel my way down the narrow track to this beach of boulders. It’s like no other beach I’ve seen on my coastline: the rocks are large and chunky, with only occasional patches of sand, shingle, and shell debris. Some are rounded-rectangular, some smooth and eliptoid, some pitted and honeycombed, some patterned with apricot shapes or whitish splotches. Many carry an embedded line that wanders over gaps. Sometimes oyster shells cling to their undersurface, or a dead crab lies orange and exposed. It’s low tide and I clamber cautiously out onto the flatter slabs closer to the sea, where green weed grows luxuriantly and a living crab scuttles for cover.

I return to the track, uneasy through grass. It’s steeper than I remember and paved with elegant interwoven droppings of Norfolk pines. As I walk back towards the car, I realise I’ve edged my way north and staggered up a different track. I walk into a plantation of grand pines, not exactly natives, but providing pleasant deep shade and wonderful bark. My son tells me such trees were used as navigation markers for ships at sea.