F&F Tour, Days 4-6 - Iluka

The mighty Clarence River.

Almost every year since 1994, we have - mostly in family groups - returned to the area of Sue's childhood. 

Sue was born in Maclean, when the family of six and nine years later seven, lived on 35 hectares of dairy farm on Woodford Island. I  was the same farm her father, John Gibbens, was sent to as a 14 year old. Raised by his grandmother in the Blue Mountains behind Sydney, his teenage years were starting to unravel into a skein of ragged wool which the local policeman was concerned might never be knitted into a suitable adult garment. So with the assistance of a Lawson shopkeeper with dairy farm "up north", John was relocated to the early morning starts and long days providing milk to an Australia on the escalation to another world war. At 19, he enlisted and was soon rewarded for his fitness, his accuracy with a rifle and he's penchant for thinking and and acting outside the square, with a spot in the newly formed Independent Companies ( a year or so later the Australian Commando Squadrons). He vowed to the pre-six o'clock swill as he left his last empty glass on the bar of the Brushgrove Hotel, to buy the Roberts Creek farm when he retuned.

He did, seven years later and after seeing service in New Caledonia, New Guinea, Borneo and the occupation forces in Japan. A few years back at Roberts Creek and a lovely young lass from Yorkshire opened a gate for him and his horse and soon enough accompanied him to St Jude's at Brushgrove on their wedding day. Sue has wonderful memories of milk moustaches from creamy milk fresh from the cow and climbing trees for solitude; and floods and snakes being chased from the watery loungeroom by her mother armed with a broom and a terrifying anger at these slithery Satans for threatening the safety of her children.

Later, when the farm no longer was the land of milk and honey, they moved to Yamba and lived, the seven of them, in a two room cottage opposite the then Yamba docks. Sue still values the experience of starting the fire for the chip heater but not the long drop dunny. On the farm they at least had a septic tank and a flushing loo! She recalls her brother Lance gorging himself on oysters from above the low tide mark when the dock was drained and her early teenage years carting her surfboard to Main beach and admiring the clubbies whose mid teen years fooled her into thinking manhood had arrived.

These are the rich memories all of those family get togethers since have invoked.

In order to meet the requirement of "new digs", we stayed across the mouth of the Clarence at Iluka. Its like Yamba only on a very dull afternoon ... when the shops are closed ... and its raining. Nice enough park with friendly staff but crowded and our spot shared a boundary with the park's neighbours who were noisy, unfriendly and gave the impression of not really being in touch with their circumstance or even, come to think on it, reality.

*****

Lunch at the Brushy.

On the way to Iluka, we stopped off to have a cuppa with one of Sue's oldest and dearest friends, Lynne, who has lived west of Grafton, on a farm, for most of her adult life. Their memories date back as far as primary school and devon sandwiches and tomato sauce when Lynne lived not far from Sue's favourite haunt, Main Beach, Yamba. They have a rich history which age, distance and time seem unable to separate. If we needed to be reminded of the import of this tour, a cuppa and a chat with Lynne provided the necessary underlining. 

Not done with diversions, we detoured to Brushgrove and lunch at the pub - the very same Sue's Dad had made the scene of his triumphant promises in 1941 - and a chance encounter with a local bloke, Barry Freeman, who remembered the family from the 1950's and 60's. He knew the farm and its subsequent history, halfway along what is Gibben's Lane.

*****

Climbing the stairs to the
Iluka Bluff lookout.

Regardless of the park's surroundings in Iluka, we had three pleasant enough nights there. On the first day, unable to ride the bikes, we drove to Iluka Bluff which lies to the north, about halfway to Woody Head. Its always a good view from the viewing platform and the associated cliffs which provide a backdrop to the rock platform below. Lots of birdies in the bushes and white-capped waves pushing on past on their blow from the southeast. We closed the day out with a walk along the Iluka Bay foreshore as the sun dropped into the sugarcane fires to the west. It happened to be the last day of a month long campaign of walking and raising money for the Black Dog Institute which my knees and various generous other supporters had helped me through. 180kms and $5,200 later, the sunset seemed a fitting reward.

Click here for photos of our stay.

On the second day, we traveled the long way back around to Yamba after initially planning to ride the pushbikes - via a ferry ride - to and around Yamba. A few niggles and un upset stomach changed our mind. Of course it was straight to Main Beach for the ailing mermaid to renew her gills in the  surf there. As always, I was content with a comfortable seat and a book in the shade, well above the sand.

Coffee, ice cream, hot chips - all the essentials, really, of a day in Yamba.

Road Test - Yamba

Yamba Lighthouse

Yamba is almost in our DNA. My wife was born on the same river and then lived here long enough to still call it one of the places which constitute home.

She has sacred sites dotted about the place to do with the first rites of passage or at least an introduction to what they were. There's the house where she used to eat devon sandwiches and tomato sauce; the shop where she worked her first job; the surf shed where she had her first pash. You get the picture.

She bought me here in our first year - me, a Cronulla boy who hates the beach. An original contradiction in terms.

Then twenty years ago, we started to bring our children and now, they bring theirs, so any visit to Yamba is courting the familiar. There's nothing new to do. Nothing new to report ...

... and that's just fine.

So this week: we've walked along the beach; watched whales from the Pacific Hotel in the last of the afternoon; caught the ferry to Iluka; browsed the shops (there's usually one new boutique each year); lost an hour in the second hand bookshop; had the best chocolate mocha at Latitude 29; had the best seafood basket at Watto's; slept in; went out to Angourie Point but the famous break was working in the strong northeaster; Sat beside the Green Pool at Angourie, which looked okay for swimming and beside the Blue Pool, which didn't; and walked to Lover's Point. Every one of them a highlight, even in repetition.

We had a few additional treats, catching up with lovely Cheryl of the Squeaky Gate Retreat over coffee at Botero in Maclean and some friends at the Grafton Regional Gallery.

Watching whales go past is something of a given in Yamba but we watched an awesome display at Pippi Beach as a whale was attacked by a Great White Shark. The shark leapt clear of the water several times, it's back arching and head shaking from side to side. We watched fifteen minutes of the savagery before cycling on.

Our collapsible bikes have been just the ticket for getting around and we have a well ridden path which gets us up to Clarence St and the top of the hill behind the beach at Yamba.

Surfing the Coldstream Festival

The Surfing the Coldstream Festival was on over the weekend, with its buskers in the main part of the village and the big marquee up in Flinders Park going all day Saturday and into the night with music acts ... well they said some of it was music but baton twirling and kids singing ditties didn't really cut it with me. The garage band from Grafton were only marginally better. These were the lowlights and I'm assuming the highlights happened when I wasn't there.

Earlier, we caught up with Roshani Priddis - yeah, yeah, star spotting again, but we knew her when - who was busking with Tim outside the Back Packers. To that soulful voice, she has added blues harmonica, which give the duo a very strong soul sound. Later in the day, we had a chance to chat about life and times etc. Happy to report that her voice was by several lengths of the Yamba Bay, the best played musical instrument I heard all day.

Sue revisited the surf life saving club, where she had been the mainstay of the nipperettes during the early 1970's. Hopes of bundying on for duty with one of the hunks who had trembled her prepubescence were dashed when there were only old guys operating the BBQ and allowing the public into the club on the open day which was held on Sunday. I don't think she had counted on the fact that those hunks would now be mid sixties and beyond. Still, all was not lost, a few clubbies were dotted about the beach with pecks on standby and their tans on high alerts.

I drank coffee and consoled myself with the unfortunate nature of my predicament while Sue chewed hard on her eye candy. I agreed to leave as soon as it was reasonably acceptable and was careful not to run at top pace to get up the hill.

Click to see today's photos

I still hate the beach, keeping my clothes on all week and not getting within toe wetting range of any cheeky wave which might sneak up the sand to grab me. I do, however, love the rock platforms at either end and had a good explore on the last afternoon walk we did from Convent Beach to the hotel.

For now, that's all. Not unusually, responsibilities have again called us home.

Day 9 - Yamba & Wedding

Morning: bike ride into Yamba, coffee, chats with strangers, trying to solve problems with the water pumping system in the c'van.

Afternoon: a wedding at Ashby. Free wine, interesting conversations, everyone was nice.

Limeburner's Creek to Yamba

Pirate Pete with his flagship
moored behind.

After an evening of hits and memories at Limeburner's Creek - courtesy of the local FM radio station and the blasting speakers of a car radio from one of the other campsites. You wonder why some people bother to come out into the bush?

Despite the noise pollution, we managed probably our best night's sleep since leaving Tamworth but woke to the start of what would be a morning of rain. Pack up was simple and quick and we were back on the bitumen, having escaped the dirt out of Limburner's, soon after 8:00am.

We tracked north, on route to Yamba and planned to catch up with Jenny Robinson at Urunga. Jenny is a friend of Sue's from the days of the brown uniforms and smokes in the common room of Armidale High School. We tried for an off the cuff morning tea but arrived too late for it to reach fruition.

We had been delayed by a detour at Macksville, which took as out through Newee Creek. It was here that John Gibbens, father of Sue, bought his first farm. We had looked before in the area to try and find the farm armed only with a few old photographs from Sue's uncle, Wal Gibbens. Wal had been a reluctant helper on the farm at the age of 14, joining his grandmother there to try and help John get established after his return from occupied Japan. Before that, he had been a Commando in New Guinea, among other Pacific theatres of war. This time, we had a land map from the council which Wal had obtained a few years ago, making his enquiries all the way from Western Australia. In fact, the map was in Tamworth and I was working from my head but we saw enough to whittle it down to two. Unfortunately, with rain outside, a caravan behind and no where to turn off the road, the best we could do was a slow flyby. Another trip needs to be scheduled and this time, before the end of the year.

Despite missing out on Jenny's always bright company, we stopped between the bridges at Urunga, beside the Kalang River, at a pleasant waterfront Cafe whose attractions include a great soundtrack of seventies classics and a pirate boat floating just off the starboard bow. The orange mudcake gave me indigestion, as did the tariff.

The rain was easing as we pushed on to reach Yamba by lunchtime.

There awaited that singular pleasure of going to pay the accommodation charges and realising that I did so two months ago! Bonus.

After we set up camp (including the most recent addition of a TV), we went into town for some bits and pieces. I'm not sure if the new bike helmets we had to buy were a bit or a piece but they were substitutes for the ones at home that I forgot to pack, kept, apparently, on the same shelf as the family maps. A definite piece of the action was the arrival at the Post Office of our new credit cards. These were replacements for the ones the bank failed to send us in time before we left ... the same ones I had overlooked at home and got cancelled! It all ended well, which is the main thing. We visited our chocolate overloaded cafe and I reckon I got as much chocolate in a mocha and complimentary truffle as I need for the rest of my life - so much so that my headache started to resurface.

Eventually, we found our way to the Pacific Hotel for our traditional sundowners but someone let a lot of tourists into the room and the noise was too much for my still tender head, so we left after one drink ... mine a lemonade!

TODAY'S PHOTOS

Home, 7:30 on the TV, writing and clearing the 103 notifications on Facebook which had accumulated over the past few days!

Pushbikes off the rack tomorrow and some touring around to be spoke-n about later.

(More photos later as the camera has flat batteries.)

Yamba 2014 - Day 10

We both sleep well and long. It seemed warmer during the night and we have settled into the rhythm of this new life and new accommodation. Our late breakfast was taken in the sunshine.

Mid morning we drove into Yamba - Sue was unable to ride the bike with the onset of a mad swimmers head cold. Parking at Pippis Cafe, we walked out to and circumnavigated Lover's Point in delightful winter sunshine and the usual blustery breeze which seems to blow only there. There was lots to see in the colourful rock pools and yet another few examples of the teepees built from ocean debris which appear all the rage this year. One was so elaborate that it had a stone table and chairs. On Convent beach, a small crayfish lay abandoned by a retreating tide, fascinating the children who had gone their to splash and be excited by the cold water of the Pacific and the warm hearts of doting parents. The rock platform below Ritz St held more colours and critters a the tide gradually filled the cracks and crevices.

Up the ramp from Main Beach, we enjoyed at coffee at Pippis Cafe and then return to our digs and a BBQ lunch with Mandy's family.

Late into the afternoon, we returned to town for more of the chocolate decadence of Lattitude 29, before Sue went shopping and I went up the hill to the Pacific Hotel and some editing. It was the final instalment and the completion of an entry form as I submitted a play to the Playwriting Australia hoping for a place in a program to workshop it and brush it into stage quality.

Sue joined me for sunset drinks and afterward, we met the near full moon on the beach as the high tide rolled in. I had some fun with the low exposure, low light tricks photography courses had taught me, shooting the two of us in three poses in the one 30' photo. Afterwards, we dined at Sassafras on gluten free pizza.

I went home to write an application for arts funding of the Postcode Poets. Sue went home to snore.

Yamba 2014 - Days 8&9

St Judes Church, Brushgrove

For a break in the normal routine, Tuesday included a trip to Grafton.

After Sue had her obligatory visit to Main Beach, we made the 40 minute trip by car to the home of Jacaranda. Sue had shopping to do - presents for family and friends - and I caught up with Bill North. Bill and I met when he was playing for City United in Tamworth and this marked our second lunch since he returned from overseas and took up the position of Sports Editor at the Daily Examiner.

We spent time discussing the World Cup and cricket and the theatre and many other points in between and did so with the Clarence River as our backdrop at the Crown Hotel on the sad end of Prince Street.

Sue had lunch with her sister Rosemary, solving many of the world's major problems and several of the smaller ones as well. Some lunches out are like that.

Once we both had farewelled our lunch partners, Sue and I paid a return visit to the Grafton Regional Art Gallery. The special exhibition was artworks to do with horses: made topical by the proximity of the Grafton Cup. The other exhibition which caught our eye was a display of photographs of aboriginal people taken in the late 1800's. An attempt is being made to identify the people in the photographs and the public display is part of that process. Most interesting.

We finished our day in Grafton with a tea at the Purple Haze Cafe, who nomenclature was disappointingly originated in the purple flowers of the Jacaranda tree and not from a love of all things Hendrix. Had it been the latter, the pleasant ladies who served us would have been the most unassuming Fox Ladies of all time.

On the Pacific Highway for the return journey to Yamba, we detoured at Cowper and crossed the South Arm of the Clarence to Brushgrove. This is the southern most tip of Woodford Island and a just a few kilometres from Gibbens Lane and the site of the 86 hectare farm where Sue and family were raised. At Brushgrove, St Judes Church has been rebuilt, but the old church in which John Gibbens and Joy Thomas were married still stands. It a lovely story of courage and determination being finally bested by the economics of circumstance and even thought the farmhouse has migrated up the hill and the farm buildings are no more than memories and a few remaining pieces of rusty metal, standing there and retelling stories I know well, still enhances my wife's sense of place.

We drove back along the South Arm and crossed the McFarlan Bridge into Maclean and stayed by the river all the way to Yamba. A few beers at the Pacific Hotel, a dinner at home and then a rare DVD hire rounded out the day.

Today, it was beach again this morning for Sue and a game of beach cricket which I somehow managed to miss.

I spend the morning and some of the afternoon working on a presentation I am giving at Muswellbrook next week, on behalf of the Black Dog Institute. In between, we had lunch at Pippis Cafe.
.
Sue was shopping again this afternoon, until the sun made for the horizon. We went for a walk along Pippi Beach - me all bare foot and splashing in the incoming tide and Sue with her joggers on and up in the soft sand. A Pacific Hotel finish before dinner and then off to watch the football with Joel and Jack.

Yamba 2014 - Day 4

A day with highlights which included:

• a new basket for Sue's bike
• the most delicious meal we have had since going gluten and lactose free ... thank you Lattitude 29
• a swim in the ocean (Sue)
• a read of a book (Peter)
• a ten kms bike ride
• the discovery of the only accountant/tattooist in Australia
• sunset drinks at the Yamba Tavern
• a lovely dinner back at our maison sur roues of sun dried tomatoes, cheese, bread, grapes, olives and crackers (all inside the food intolerance boundaries)

The lowlight was a migraine which was nipped in the bud by the travelling apothecary but meant we missed a Midnight Oli/Angels tribute band.

Yamba 2014 - Day 2

It was chilly during the night: chilly enough that the heater needed to make a return at sometime before dawn.
It was enough it was needed, so that knowing the exact details of when seemed irrelevant. Asthma always comes visiting on cold camping nights and the insulated walls of the Avan buy us a few degrees of comfort only.

We were in no hurry to get the day rolling - a familiar refrain of most days on the road. Hurrying is for the kilometre burners and our only distances planned for the day would be covered at a lazy man' space and on bicycles. As it turned out, this suited the unsuspected circumstances of our companions for the day, Markus and Virginia Richardson, as one of their fold up treadlies had a flat tyre and then a rim damaged in effecting the repairs.

Eventually, we rode into Yamba via the cycle way which follows Yamba Rd until detouring to the water line past the marina and then follows the shore on past Calypso Caraban Park and on to the break wall car park behind Turners Beach. For Sue and Virginia, this was their target as the rode for the local markets, held every Wednesday in the car park. Markus and I detoured into the village and a bike shop to secure a new brake cable for his bike. The old one had snapped during the trip in.

A brake cable turned into coffee as neither of us like markets.

We eventually caught up with our wives as they were leaving the markets and looking for us ... and wanting a coffee. For Markus, it was his third double shot of the morning!

After coffee, we continued out past the museum and through Beachside to Pippin Beach and some local knowledge shared about Lover's Point, before coming around onto Clarence St as far as Main Beach. Skooting down the hill at a great rate of knots, we met up with family for short while and were back on our circumnavigation of the Yamba hill. Our final leg too us back to the bike tracked home to the caravan park.

Lunch was taken by the lagoon. Among other things, theories were pondered as to why spoonbills stand on one leg and tuck their beak under their wing.

Sue and I spent the afternoon exploring the immediate surroundings and ended up watching pelican and silver gulls between the Yamba Oyster Company and the Clarence Fisherman's Co-Op. A dragon boat launched from the wharf there, crewed by an enthusiastic group of older ladies and one rogue male. We age ice creams, held hands on the return walk and Sue wrapped herself about a street sign on Susan St.

Tonight, Sue will attend her family's annual Christmas in July event and I'll go to dinner with the Richardson's. Split loyalties will be catered for by split attendance. No one will be happy and everyone will be accommodated.

PostScript - dinner with Markus and Virginia was memorable ie full of memories ... and stories about our kids, our lives and how we are going. There definitely is something about time spent with old friends ... both the time spent making the memories and the time spent reliving them.

Yamba 2014 - Day One

The road beckoned ... screamed, actually. After months of watching nervous energy and the decision making of my son and his now new bride, two days after the wedding of the century, we answered it's call.

We didn't answer it quickly though. There were suits to return, items to pick up from scattered locations about out town and the last of our guests to farewell and there was ... as Dylan once put it ... one more cup of coffee for the road. Somewhere after mid morning, that suggested a fast approaching lunch, we left the city limits for Yamba on the NSW North Coast.

Our track was the more convention one, given that we are now towing the Avan Cruiser on it first excursion longer than a few days. North to Armidale and Glen Innes and the eats to Gratfon and Yamba.

The external temperature which had only just been in double figures when we left Tamworth, dropped suddenly as we crested the Moonbi Hills and started out plot along the Northern Tablelands and by the time we reached. Guyra for a late lunch, it was sleeting and 2C. The Caltex Roadhouse on the northern outskirts of town served up a roast lamb lunch and a bottomless mug of tea that hit the spot nicely but sooner, rather than later, we had to make a break for the car and the weather was foul.

After our turn to the east at Glen Innes through scenery which is always at its starkest on days like these, we had settled into the rhythm of the drive and I was noticing a sway in the trailer which hadn't been present on our shorter trips. It didn't take long to realise that mounting of the push bikes on the van's trailing bumper and the extra weight of a full pack of clothes and food, had changed the weight distribution and towing characteristics. Anti-sway bars will be necessary after this trip.

We had a brief stop at Gibraltar Range NP information kiosk and picnic area so Sue could stretch her back. It wasn't sleeting but it was still cold.

Down the mountain and onto the coastal plain under very light traffic conditions and on to Yamba. Arriving an hour after dark - something I am quick to criticise in others - we quickly and quietly set up like a well drilled team.

No traditional first night seafood as everything was shut!

The weather promises warmth and clear skies and we intend to hold it to its promise. Better still, we'll be meeting up with old friends, Markus and Virginia Richardson from Melbourne who are on their way home after completing the Big Loop. Rich stories to share.

Wet Weather & Runny Noses - Yamba 2013

Lunch at the Yamba Shores Tavern

What to do when the rain arrives and that cold which started as nuisance is stopping you from your favourite activities?

There are plenty of options but they mostly involve feeling morose and staying by the window with a book and tea served on a conveyor belt and exchanging wistful glances with the rain.

Instead, I dosed up on paracetamol and sudafed and we started our day, mid morning, with two big mugs of mocha at our favourite Yamba cafe, Bean Scene in Yamba Rd. If their home made cup cakes aren't enough, there is an array of slices and the more substantial meals and the hot beverages are first rate. There are some great local pictures around the walls and wildlife videos showing on the screen. Of course, if its fresh air you prefer, sit outside in the sunshine and enjoy the passing pedestrian traffic or perhaps feed a titbit to Sam, the overweight Staffie who wanders up from the hardware shop on the and corner and leaves once he has touched up everyone. You can also enjoy a conversation with a couple of local blokes. You don't have to join in. They'll talk loud enough that you won't miss anything, unless their little peekinese Ted starts barking!

From the main street of Yamba, we drove back up the road that takes you out of town but turned left onto the Angourie Rd for the short drive out to a community established by surfers, for surfers, so they could ride the famous left hander off Angourie Point. Nat Young, the four times world champion, is the big kahuna out here and owns all the most exclusive real estate. He's still able to make headlines, wearing the cranky pants out at the point a few years ago after a spat over right of way on the waves became a thumping on the beach from a disgruntled father of the youngster The Champ clashed with. Nat looked a lot different afterwards and surf rage dropped into the common lexicon.

Even under weeping clouds, Angourie Point is a beautiful place. In past years I have captured exciting pictures here of riders doing their thing in spectacular fashion but there were few out and the spirit of adventure is hard to maintain under a layer of snot. Instead we just looked at it. It was enough.

On the way back towards Yamba, we detoured out to the national park but the rain was heavier and

Lake Wooleweah

getting soaked wasn't likely to improve my condition. Instead, we drove the three streets of Woolaweah, which hug the slope above the large, shallow lake behind the coast to the south west of Yamba. Every second home seems to be the property of tradesmen and apart from a small park on the edge of lake, a playground at the top of the hill and the RFS shed, there is nothing here but homes. Visitors aren't shunned, it's just that there a few places to stop, let alone park, so a welcome would be difficult to delivery even if it was offered. The lake is ideal for shallow water activities but can be nasty in a wind. We enjoyed a few minutes listing to magpies and watching the pelicans honk pleasantries to each other.

We took the road back into Yamba and then out to Yamba Shores Tavern, on the banks of the Clarence. It was here that Sue's sister celebrated her marriage several years ago. We enjoyed a big beef burger (Pete) and an excellent curry (Sue) out on the decking beside the river, while the history of Australian rock played over the house sound system.

Cheryl and Lance

A phone call from Sue's brother Lance filled in our afternoon nicely, such that at the conclusion of our meal, we headed west to his property near Ashby. Ashby is a very small village perched on the vulnerable western shore of the northern arm of the Clarence. To get there, it was back to the McFarlan Bridge which takes the Pacific Highway over one of the broadest reaches of the river and then turning off to the west soon after, two bridges in quick succession take you to the Ashby side. A short run south to and then through the village and around a big bend in the river and you reach Lance and Cheryl's property.

They are so close to the river that it has come in to join them three times this year. They currently live in a unit they have built in the back of a big shed at the back of the property. In front of that is the steel construction of the B&B they are building ... literally. It will be an elevated building in two halves, joined by a common area in the middle and surrounded by beautiful, wide decking. Its position will attract those who like peace and quite and it will also be pet friendly. Lance showed us through the rooms, which need more imagination than they have substance at the moment but there is no doubting the hard work that the pair of them are applying to make their dream fly. More will be needed but neither are quitters.

On the way back to Yamba, we stopped at the Ashby Dry Dock, where forty years ago Sue's father John

Nice memories for Sue

Gibbens was the man in charge. We couldn't go in through the padlocked gate, so Sue explained her memories of visiting the dock on weekends when her dad would drain the dock and they would pick up buckets of left over fish to feed the family. She also remembers having the job of ringing for the automated time so her dad could set the clocks at the dock.

Crossing back toward the McFarlan Bridge, we detoured into Hardwood and caught some nice snaps of the Harwood Cane Refinery.

It was so late in the afternoon, we arrived at the Pacific Hotel too late to see the fleet go out but found out they were staying in base. There was nothing to see but beautiful coastline.

We spent the first part of the evening with family over dinner and the start of the first Ashes Test but retired to our own dug out where Sue slept and I set about my responsibilities.

Yamba Day ... The Last Week - 2013

Cruising up the Clarence

That thing they say about the paucity of time when fun imbibes you is basically true ... at least on the
basis of experience of the past week. There are many things I probably should have done but my attention has been deflected by the arrival of the sun and a more appealing chronological method called "Yamba Time".

A few things have been achieved, not that achievement was the goal. In no particular order then ...

... Sue's brother-in-law celebrated his 60th birthday. Russell is a man I greatly admire and have come to call friend, despite making it difficult for him in any manner of ways. He compartmentalises his reactions to life's habit of crowding in on him better than any individual I know. He is quiet and measured and has survived marriage into the same hectic clan as I. His real strength is his devotion to Dr Who. How could you fail to love a man like that?

On Sunday, Sue and I enjoyed the hospitality of the Clarence River Ferries on their weekly music cruise back up the Clarence. Sue enjoyed their hospitality to somewhat excess and during the last hour was literally dancing in the aisles. I joined her sometimes but largely it was only to cut in. She has a habit, when the red fuels her sense of adventure, to drag men from the audience with a persistency that might be annoying if engaged in by anyone else. Beguiled by her still girlish looks and come hither smile, they rarely resist. Luckily, I can still boogie well enough to embarrass the best of them to return to their seat ... usually the lady's aim because she loves to jive and I'm her jive talker.

The scenery up the Clarence on such a clear, sunny day is spectacular and the chug of the old diesel engine works its own intoxication on you. We passed an old cottage on Palmers Island where a legendary local used to bait and catch bull sharks straight off the banks, winch them up a pole and turn passers by white in the knowledge that these aggressive killers had been swimming beneath them all the time. These days, his former cottage is well down market from the millionaires bungalows which dwarf it on either side. A former neighbour, an Ingham's son, has his on the market for $2.75M. The old bloke finally died, although some said it was rumour spread by sharks and wouldn't believe it until they saw him strung up his own pole, feet first.

The music lacked the flair of live musicians, but Warwick and Kelly sang well to musos in  box and with no bass player or drummer, the sets were longer. Warwick's anecdote had that air of authenticity that sometimes masked hyerbole, but not often. It's a cruise we would always recommend. Four hours costs just $30 a head. Food and beverages are available on board. We had a cheese and fruit platter for $15 which was more than enough for us. The alcohol was a little dear for what was available but tea, coffee and soft drink were all reasonable.

Sue left the boat still dancing but gradually lost her co-ordination over the next couple of hours. Final drinks at the Pacific Hotel proved to be an unwise addition to the afternoon and she was snoring not long after the sun left us, waking sometime in the middle of the night for dry toast. What happens on tour etc.

Bookachino in Yamba Street hosted me for a poetry reading on Saturday morning. I read a selection from "Head Full of Whispers" and a few new poems. The newest, "So Easy To Forget", is about the thirteen cub scouts that drowned in the Clarence at Grafton, late one Saturday afternoon, just before Christmas in 1943. Twenty three of them were crowded on a 4.5m punt, crossing from Susan Island back to the wharf at the end of Prince Street, beside the Crown Hotel. As they drowned, their mothers stood on the banks screaming their names. Not many dry eyes in the house. Sold some books but more importantly, caught up with some people from my past. Pauline Marlin had driven around from Iluka, where she has retired. Pauline and I worked together at Ben Venue school in Armidale in the 1980's. It was wonderful to reacquaint. She was staggered by the size of my boys. Another lovely surprise was Ken Noble, the best friend of my uncle, Brian Langston. Ken is a spritely 80 and recalled much of our collective past and some delightful stories about my favourite uncle, a boyhood hero who taught me how to bat. Ken lives in Yamba and has volunteered in schools since arriving fifteen years ago, helping kids with reading.

My host, Helen Anderson, couldn't have been more inviting. Its fantastic when bookshops welcome you in and give you the chance to promote your work. Drop in there when you get a chance. You can even score a coffee while you browse.

For the rest of the week it has been an endless parade of coffee stops, walking, end of days beers at the Pacific Hotel where we go to count the fishing fleet out (the beers have nothing t do with it), bike rides, pretending to be interested in dress shops, family gatherings and lots of reading. Two books have become dust so far: "No More War" (1958) by Linus Pauling and "Moonshot" (2009) by Dan Parry. Pelham Warner's "Cricket Between Two Wars" is currently in front of the reading glasses.

Yamba has distinct appeal. You can walk until you are exhausted, eat and drink well, take spectacular photographs, be romantic, be athletic (perhaps both at the same time). You'll laugh a lot here. You'll also be dwarfed into silence by sunrises over the ocean and sunsets over the river ... and it's friendly in that way that you feel when you've walked into a room full of old mates.

Perhaps I should buy a bookshop and live here but that would ruin its holiday appeal and there is always the reality that one day I'll age and medical facilities here and in the area are scant. I would hate to die before all available possibilities have been exhausted and when not many are available, growing older elsewhere seems a better option.

Far off thinking. For now, I'll just take breakfast out to the balcony and drown in the lustful sunshine.

Yamba Day 2 - 2013

I will not eat soft cheese. I will not eat soft cheese. I will not eat soft cheese.

The first coffee moments

I'm looking up and to the left, hoping for an neurological imprint to prevent me from having further hostilities with a small, gooey substance which holds a contemptible, unrequited love for me. Up in the night, paracetamol fixed my stair-weary legs but my stomach and nose ran a conga line of discomfort whose origin lay on biscuit six hours earlier.

I'm moaning this morning and allowing Paul McCartney to whisper words of wisdom ... let it brie, let it brie ...

It rained yesterday, more off than on. This morning has reversed that trend and the palm trees are swaying under the onslaught. After nineteen consecutive winters here, you learn to accept the weather as part of the experience. Whilst some will give you dissertations over coffee about the inappropriateness of horizontal rain and blusters of wind, I remain weirdly fascinated when nature misbehaves. It has never bowed to the urging of others who wish to quantify and control: to blandify its desires. No white pills for this babe, nature. I can dig that. Watch it. Write down what it does. Note it for history but don't whine about it.

We stocked the larder, stopping at the fisherman's co-op so Sue could grab her feed of prawns, even if a day late. Across the road was "the murder house", named by Chris many years ago. We had passed the house as we left Yamba one year and three police cars were parked outside and uniformed officers were climbing fences and knocking on doors. I told the children as we reached Glen Innes that I had heard on the radio a double murder had been committed there that morning, a creative licence taken to occupy them on a long trip and it kept them talking all the way back to Tambar Springs. Ever since, its been "the murder house" in our family.

The ancestral Gibbens home somehow ignores time and still stands in its glorious fibre-asbestos glory on the corner of Freeman St. Two bedrooms and John and Joy and five kids to fit. Your maths is as good as mine. With development everywhere in Yamba, this double block defiance opposite the Yamba Mariner, with its matchstick house and lung cancer cladding, is remarkable. A symbol, perhaps, of their former inhabitants endurance.

Sue's sister Rose arrived yesterday from Brisbane and Flick and John left on the long road back to Melbourne. Just like Ronny Corbett, our time with them was too short. Rose arrived in a whirlwind of stories and breathless anticipation of time with family, arriving at our digs with red wine to share.

Our day was one of chores and encounters and the evening devolved, as usual, into the assembled family group, yarns and catch ups. Some had new girlfriends to display, others fresh twists to old news which revived understanding in ways the listeners had not guessed at in their pick-a-path beginnings, despite being there. Sue, as is often the case, was the most revealing. I have often said she is a shocker and just as often, have been misunderstood.

I profess to enjoying watching the Gibbens girls laugh. I can see the best of their Mum on their faces as their eyes squint, sometimes watering and everywhere on them, about them, the humour of the situation is unmistakeable. Hands bang down on thighs or table, reaching to touch shoulders or forearms as they seek permission to interrupt the laughter with a fresh addition, an anecdotal addendum which sends them off to a new set of hysterics. All this achieved without the "noice" sister to stoke the fires.

Small things about this group I guess but reportable, non the less.

Yamba 2013 - Day 1

Fish & chips for dinner

At times, Sue's incapacity can be awkward. Walking around with a time bomb ready to detonate between L4 and L5 is no easy task. Once carefree and willing to try anything, she lives with the danger of picking up shoes. Not a person easily given to limitation, any constriction is an irritant. Add a heavy cold and rain and her favourite place - yes, even more favoured than a certain European destination - and you have a frustrated wild child, fighting pointlessly with valour toward no end.

Then there's the little piece-picker-upper that is me.

Journeys represent significant workloads when your partner in time can't do much but sit there and look cute. You pack it all up, turn it all off, lock it all down ... drive for six hours with long breaks to allow for rest and recovery ... and then you do the reverse at the other end ... only to discover its raining and you have now caught the edges of the cold she has been snotting, coughing and wheezing up all week ...

... but it's not home, the ocean is out there through the fog somewhere and if you have a second, runaway home, this is it.

We were later than desired leaving Tamworth for a variety of technical reasons and weren't disappearing up the Cockburn River Valley towards Moonbi until most of the morning was spent. The rain which had arrived during the previous evening latched a towing rope to the Forester and tagged along with us for most the journey. A long stop at the roadhouse at Guyra for lunch and frivolous chatting was our first stop. We left well fed and laughing.

Everywhere on the tablelands was wet and cold and miserable. Sue had talked about work for most of the moments of the first leg of the journey to Guyra, so I set the iPod to classic rock and drowned out the background hum, eventually beating difficult personalities, inadequacies in the funding system and the heartbreak of children no one cares for ... etc ... into submission under a 4/4 beat. Deep Purple and Grand Funk Railroad finally put our holiday on the road.

The fog thickened as we headed north west and a departure point from the tablelands at Gibraltar Range NP. In late afternoon light muted by constant rain and fog, the giant ferns took on a deep green glow as the most obvious vanguards of might have been an advancing nature. The road seemed narrower today. Over the leap and down the mountain pass, the road sides closed in dramatically, with two landslides reducing us to a single lane and turn-taking with approaching mountain climbers. On the eastern side of the range, the cloud thinned to sunshine and the fog was frightened away by the warmer coastal air.

Our pace quickened as we met and travelled with the Mann River. Its odd topography makes it appear to be flowing uphill. Its other unusual trait, is being the same river you drive beside when you make the descent of the tablelands along the Old Grafton Road.

The rest of the trip was quick but we sill arrived after sunset. Having rented the same flat for nine years, there's always a comfort in opening the door.

The evening was spent in the company of family in the unit owned by Sue's brother Lance. It's always good to catch up by being in the same room. Despite smart phone, emails and social media keeping us "closer" than in the dark ages of my early adulthood, sitting across the table from an anecdote still rates as the superior experience. For Sue and I, spending some time with nephew John and niece Flick, was the most treasured of these few hours. Strong and independent and both studying law, their sharp minds and courageous spirit is a recommendation for the mother they lost in brutal suddenness only two months ago. As the crazy uncle, I play no favourites but I really enjoy their company. A light shines from both of them.

Bed ... rain ... the sound of an ocean angry that it's not permitted to sparkle ... and a warm doona.

Yamba - Day 12

Yamba holidays have a rhythm which belongs only to the two weeks we spend here in July. The first week is frenetic, full of family events, catch ups, jokes at usually the older brother's expense and the ticking of boxes to make sure we fulfil our expectations of the place, of the event.

The second week is so different. The pace is so slow that rust forms on the pair of us and is only brushed away during periods of sporadic activity. We sleep late, breakfast later, ramble on long walks, linger over coffee or lunch and read books in the afternoon. In between, we even engage in adult parlour games to remind us of our past levels of testosterone and fitness, safe in the knowledge that those aches and pains during and afterward are of no real concern to doctors back home.

The only fixed appointment in this week without diary is sunset at the Pacific Hotel. This week, Sue has used red wine and snacks as the fishing boats go out to work, as an opportunity to tap away on the iPad and gather intel about Paris and London, whilst I have have extinguished Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 and books of poems by CJ Dennis and Cate Kennedy.

It was just so today.

We had lunch at the Bean Scene (this years favourite) and whilst Sue shopped or browsed or did what ever it was she needed to do for three hours among the limited shops of Yamba, I went back to the flat and sank into deep chairs with a book. Billys Thorpe and Bragg provided company as it drizzled rain and the surf beat itself into a larger lather at the end of the street (have you heard Tangiers yet?).

Sue returned with a pair of $4 jeans which will grow into a retail legend to make her sisters cry in the retelling.

We finished at the pub but ate dinner at home.

If you were expecting Tolstoy today, I dare say you are disappointed. It seemed more peace than war to us.

Yamba - Day 10

Lots of walking today. We travelled 6kms in all, with our first decent walk of the holiday which took in Lovers Point and Pippi Beach in the morning and then town in the afternoon.

Coffee and shopping in town, Sue had her ears pierced for the third time on Yamba holidays but all through the same spot on her ear lobes. She has just never managed to maintain the anchor point very well or worn the wrong ear rings and infection and laziness has caused the site to repair. Don't understand the whole/hole puncturing thing but to each their own. Sue also grabbed groceries whilst I just wandered, grazing on retail until finding myself, inevitably, in the bookshop. An illustrated history of Led Zeppelin seemed so reasonable and lonely that it will return with me to Tamworth.

In between walks we had home made bread rolls for lunch, stuffed with salad.

Pacific Hotel at sunset and a longer than usual stay. We met an interesting couple - Celestine and Bill - who opened the conversation by commenting on my Hawaiian shirts, a ploy which made them immediately interested. Bill is a retired TAFE teacher - among other things - and Celestine (spelling?) a Careers Advisor in high school education. Of course, these are just their jobs, rarely a definition of the person. How often do we meet people and ask them their job in order to box them into a stereotype? What a totally useless line of enquiry. I had a longish chat with Celestine as she was within a year of my age and had grown up in The Shire. There was much to be compared.

I took this willingness to engage as a sign the dark clouds had passed.

Early night after watching Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis in "The Outoftowners", a very funny Neil Simon story of a couple who travel to New York for his job interview. He's a left-mode, super organised, list following man whose world falls apart when planes run late, hotels give his room to someone else, transport systems are on strike and he is twice robbed. They sleep in Central Park, steal food from a dog for breakfast and are skyjacked on the way home. Just the tonic for us who leave Australia to be at the hands of others in four weeks!

Yamba - Day 8

This is all I can show
without getting  intellectual

After greeting and then farewelling the passing parade of family who were departing Yamba during the morning, the afternoon was spent on another road trip as Sue is yet to return to pedestrian speed yet.

Before lunch, we drove to Gulmarrad Public School, the setting for the Lower Clarence Arts and Craft Exhibition. In previous years I have submitted entries in the photographic section but I have cut back on such endeavours this year. The place was alive with little old ladies protecting their intellectual ownership from mean middle aged men who night rob them of their property with a camera. I had no intention of taking shots of the artwork or the photography but was somewhat surprised when one old dear turned storm trouper and all but frog-matched me from the grounds for being rude enough to snap her friend at a spinning wheel and catch her in the background. She insisted I should have asked and when I erased the picture and asked after the event, I was given a resounding no as she stood up to her full height of 4'11" and strutted across the room to brag about her efforts to a friend. The spinner, meanwhile, said she'd be more than happy for me to take another photo and that "Agnes sometimes goes off like that". By then, I'd lost interest and declined the invitation.

At the fine art room - and some of it was fine art - I had the camera slung behind my back ... holstered as it were ... but before more than a word could be spoken, Katharine, the border guard on duty in fine art, said she remembered me from last time, knew my name and my reputation and forbid me from taking any photos. This was all news to me, as I was fairly convinced I had never previously met Katharine. Perhaps, like a regular throng of others, she thought I was Rolf Harris and the bastard ply-board flogger had been giving me a bad name by stealing the intellectual property of crafty old ladies across the length and breadth of the Lower Clarence. More likely, dementia is now a membership requirement of the LCACA.

The quilts were impressive.

Earlier, as we arrived, smithies were demonstrating the forging and manipulation of hot iron into many useful and remarkably cheap tools. They posed for photos, clearly in a state of intellectual abandonment.

We continued out along the road to the small village of Brooms Head, a postage stamp which clings to the coast mainly because of the caravan park which occupies a two level line along the water's edge. The elevated lookout is on top of the head itself and provided stunning views. In little more than a month, the coast view we'll be taking in will be in southern France. Its still disturbing our minds.

Late, late afternoon

Heading north west, we were off with the ferries for lunch, eating late at the Ferry Park Gallery at the southern turn off to Maclean from the Pacific Highway. The food was delicious but over-priced. As usual, the gallery had a wide collection of art and crafts for sale from local artisans. My favourites were a wood carved stork bent drinking in perfect arc from feet to bill and a companion piece, a fairy wren.

We returned to Yamba via the shopping centre on the outskirts of town and then left the car at the flat and walked up to the Pacific Hotel for the sunset. On the way, I snapped a pretty rainbow over the ocean. I was on solid ground. With showers sweeping across the watery landscape, the ocean was in a variety of moods from bright sunshine to grey-out conditions. It was as stunning as it was yet again different.

Quiet night in tonight.

Yamba - Day 7

Almost to the halfway mark of the holiday and rain threatened for the first time today.

With Sue feeling better every sunrise, we made our way to Pippis for breakfast. Delicious Bircher Muesli for me and eggs, bacon and mushrooms for Sue.

It was Mandy, Joel and the kids last day on a shortened tour of duty for them this year, so with Rose in tow, we undertook a car convoy to revisit starting points and explain some of them to Jack and Ava, the youngest Gibbens. Driving inland through Maclean, we crossed the bridge across the south arm of the Clarence and onto the largest riverine island in Australia, Woodford Island. Skirting down the western side of the island, out trip took us across the Lawrence vehicular ferry and the north arm of the Clarence. The crossing created a deal of excitement in the youngsters.

Lawrence lies on the other side of the ferry ride and it was a few hundred metres to the tavern. There was a chilly wind blowing from the south so we ordered lunches and ate inside. The only bar has an interesting attraction: hanging above and behind the bar on a high wall stretching up to an extended ceiling, must have been a hundred hats. Most were battered and beaten, first into shape and then into history. The vast majority were broad brimmed Aussie work hats made from pelt, leather, canvas and other tough materials. There were a few caps, a hard hat and the odd variation but mostly they had been the shade structure of honest, Aussie bushmen. The selection hanging to the right had been grabbed when left on or in the bar but it was the mob on the left which hung with poignancy for their owners could not longer claim them and sat up n the wall as a permanent reminder of mates lost but not forgotten.

After lunch, we crossed the Clarence again and a few kms after retracing our steps towards Maclean, turned off on the Roberts Creek Rd and headed to the heart of the island. The road follows Roberts Creek, which is not as it seems. After weeks of generous rain, "Roberts Creek" is a series of deepening puddles in depressions which will join only in times of flood. The "creek" flows at no other time. Towards the end of Roberts Creek Rd, we turn down a single vehicle dirt road which enjoys the traffic of tractors and farm machinery more than it does cars. It was along this narrow road, Gibbens Lane, that Rose, Mandy and Sue once travelled to and from the family farm which fronted the lane about half way along its length. They travelled it again today, with a more family tread than previous times in the adult lives, to stand outside the fence line and imagine the house on brick piers which were never high enough to keep snakes from floating in the house during a flood. I was told again where the dairy used to stand and anecdotes which were subsets of that fact. I love going back there even though my eyes can only see the farm buildings and five bare foot kids, their burdened mother and the straight back and honest sweat of their father through their recounts. Its more than enough.

Leaving Gibbens Lane, we made brief stops at the site of what had been the South Arm School and the remains of their house, modified and moved from the flood prone flats, up to Red Hill. We followed the road along the South Arm and soon found ourself back at the McFarlane Bridge which joins Maclean to Woodford Island. Afternoon tea was a combination of milkshakes, coffees, babychinos and red spiders, in a cafe in Maclean.

The return journey was marked by rain as we drove into Yamba.

In the evening, we had a meal out at Sol's Cantina, making the Sydney mob's departure in the morning. It was noisy and I don't do noisy very well but the food was fair and the company I could hear was good.

Yamba - Day 6

Gumby and Co

Sue woke improved after the application of antibiotics and lots of sleep, so after breakfast and some balcony sunshine, was able to walk the short distance to Pippi's - our close and handy cafe/restaurant - where we met up with Rose. We discussed our businesses, past lives, present successes and future directions.

Rose returned with us to the flat when Sue's health licence expired and Mandy and daughter Ava joined us soon after for a late morning modelling class but nothing Miranda Kerr would ever have taken part in. This was plasticine "in the round", with all but me taking part in the shaping of best examples of the art and the display of same on the central table. Pride soon turned to panic as the colourful creations of furtive imaginations soon imitated the Wicked Witch of the West and could be heard screaming "I'm melting, I'm melting" as the hot winter sun slacked their spines and puddled the aspirations of creator and creation.

Rose was good enough to be Susie Sitter Sister whilst I walked into town to post the box of shells Ava and I had collected for my daughter Sarah. A Yamba shell held in the pocket can fix many a problem and ward of even the most persistent demons, so we sent her a box of them because placed in a bag, they could play merry hell with a demon's face.

Encouraged by the the Wobbly One, I had lunch in town - a bacon and egg roll and a bowl of fruit salad and yogurt washed down with tea - and then walked home. They were both asleep in the same position I left them, although they assured me they had absented themselves from the bed to devour lunch. I'm not sure I'm that gullible.

Sue and I are great walkers, especially on holidays and by now, had this been a "normal" Yamba, we would already have thirty kms up for the week but as Sue's head had wanted to walk in circles, then smaller circles  and then not at all, we have been missing our long walks, geography lessons and hands held to bind us to this life we have made ...

... so, in an effort to make amends, we went for a drive instead. On Pacific Parade, which runs behind Pippi Beach, I got some spectacular snaps of three guys riding para-boards ... surfboards with wind sail kites attached. The waves were choppy and the wind gusty so their manoeuvres were pretty exciting. As I was taking photos, the wind blew my cap off. After finishing, it looked like I had lost my cap because I couldn't see it anywhere until an nice old lady pointed out it was at my feet. Doh!

Next stop was Main Beach, scene of many of Sue's greatest Yamba achievements, many of them involving boys not buoys.

Lone surfer

At Turners Beach, I got some good snaps. One in particular, of an older surfer sitting with his board on the sand watching the waves and readying himself to go out, was a goodie. Seagulls and rocks and trees also become subjects. From there, we went to the Yamba Wharf which reminded me to make a booking for the Jazz Cruise on Sunday. We went last year and had a ball listening and dancing to a five piece, and enjoying a cheese platter and a few bottles of red. A very pleasant way to spend four hours on the Clarence.

Further west, we drove down Carrs Rd to Oyster Channel. Our children will remember this as the place where I bogged the Nissan Patrol and their mother instructed them in the merits of discretion being ultimately the far superior part valour. I dropped it to the back axil in mud and water, ruined a pair of joggers suck-stepping around the car to inspect what the fool driving had caused and then coloured the day with language unbecoming. These were back in my days of being a turd. We eventually got out thanks to luck, although at the time I talked up my skill to an appreciative but hardly gullible audience. Home was home no matter what pretence it took to get you there. There were no such dramas today - the track is blocked by large boulders, not just the "do not enter" signs which were there previously. It looked a quiet place to sit and read ... as long as no Nissan Patrols turned up.

It was late in the afternoon, so we drove back into Yamba and had coffee as the staff packed up around us at Caperberry's, before I returned Sue back to the flat, no worse for wear. I went out to the Plaza to hunt and gather, with Dylan and then John Mayer blasting in the white ear pieces whist people smiled at me dancing up aisle three amongst the pasta sauces. Don't talk to me about surrealism Salvador.

Buritos for dinner and then out to Lance's place for the evening and a chance to catch up with nephew John - Lance and ex-wife Jenny's son. He's taller and still has an easy smile and is always pleasant to spend time with. It was a nice night. Sue felt well enough to give her brother heaps but then, she'd need to be in a box not to do that. She lasted to ten o'clock and then, apparently concerned I would turn back into a house mouse and the Forester into a pumpkin, she yawned instructions to be taken home.

I squeaked agreement and took her arm for the dangerous passage down stairs, upstairs and into bed.

Tired now, I'll clean my whiskers and dream of cheese.

Yamba - Day 4

Sunset behind, moonrise ahead

The morning started with the obligatory breakfast on the balcony and sometime mid morning Sue wandered to the beach whilst I finished drafting a new poem. Timing my run, I joined her with coffee before she had her dose of the white water. She can no longer body surf or go much beyond waist level owing to the power of the water and the twists and contortions it might place upon her lower back, so she allows the low waves to wash past her instead. Its a poor substitute for a beach babe but better than being land locked.

While she watched Mandy boogey board, Mandy's daughter Ava and I gathered shells along the beach for Sarah. Many were broken, pulverised by the storm surged waves and high tides which have removed the sand from Main Beach and have largely replaced it with smooth rocks up to fist size. Despite this, we managed to find shells of differing shapes and colours and quantities to make a reasonable collection. Ava lovingly washed and sorted them and stored them in a bag for me to take to the post office. What a sweetie.

Back to the balcony for lunch.

Sue and I went for a walk into the village during the afternoon and coffee at one of the haunts. I was left soon after, Sue and Mandy having most important business to attend to which included wax and dye and eyebrows. Some mysteries are best left ravelled.

I wandered the shops, stopping several times to chat with proprietors. The most enjoyable of these chats was with Nicole at Corindelo Arts & Crafts. Her and her husband were originally from Toowoomba, where they operated a locksmiths business but both had a desire for another life, in another place. Nicole is an artist who has ventured into wheel thrown pottery in the last few years and Rob likes working with wood. The bench top of the service counter in the shop is a highly polished single piece of irregularly shaped wood which speaks loudly of Rob's talent. Their shop is an eclectic mix of items, some tourist, some artistic but its the back galleries which drew me in, with their collection of paintings and ceramics. They are still in the early stages of their arts journey, which is far less important than the fact they are heading out.

From the shopping centre I walked to the breakwall and then climbed the stairs to the lighthouse and headland beneath. Its always a breathtaking view. Then it was home past the Pacific Hotel, down to Main Beach and along the platform in the late afternoon to discover a multitude of recreational users. A couple in their thirties combed rock pools with their young kids, pointing out creatures and colours to their excited students. Fishermen cast long rods to lazy fish. A reverse generation gap had been set up by coincidence on adjacent rocks. A women in her late forties sat reading from a laptop, making sporadic satisfied entries followed by hand to mouth laughing as though it was illegal to enjoy yourself in such a setting. Not far away sat a boy in his late teens, ensconced in a paperback. Both were no more than three metres from an ocean which pounded the rock platform in its tireless desire to tear it down. Juxtaposition has probably never been so sweetly exampled.

Senioritis and margaritas

Returning to the flat, I was informed I would be left alone for sunset drinks at the Pacific Hotel. Sue hand stood me up for margaritas at the cantina. Pity. It was probably the best reverse sunset I have seen, accompanied as it was by a full moon, the rolling surf and the fishing fleet heading out to sea. I wrote bitter poetry for those I know trapped by the cruelty of others and drank one too many reds but all in a good cause.

Unification over meatballs, then we retired to Rose's flat for the evening patter.

Yamba - Day 3

I spent the morning writing. Yamba has been a rich place to mine and refine ideas from raw materials into the stories I need to tell. "Head Full of Whispers" alone had six of them. This morning I drafted some ideas, only one of them enthusing me and the others might well stay as dot points but at least they are no longer "whispers".

Sue was late to the beach and initially missed connections with family but the tribal drums soon beat rhythms of meeting places and she was able to find Mandy & Joel at Turners Beach. By the time they had toed the water and played at beach babes and then wandered back into town, I joined them. As always with Mandy & Joel, the conversation was swift, interesting, often funny and with that enveloping warmth the best of family brings to the table. We probably enjoy their company more than anyone else we know. For me, Joel has become a good mate (despite being a Manly supporter) and Mandy the intelligent, witty, funny little sister I never had. Time with her warms my soul.

After this morning tea/lunch time interlude - its not always easy to tell on Yamba Time - I was able to secure a place for "Head Full of Whispers" at the Yamba Bookshop. The proprietor, Helen Anderson, is a strong supporter of independent publishers and authors and welcomed the opportunity of stocking my second collection of poetry. It also gives me a convenient excuse to return to Yamba in three months to check on returns.

We had many good intentions for a long walk during the afternoon but I became lost in creating words and Sue in reading them so sunset was nearly upon us before we realised that much of the day was gone. We made it to the glass walled bar of the Pacific Hotel in time to watch blue become pink and then black on the eastern horizon, as the sun retreated to warm some other place, leaving the moon to ignite silver sparks on the rolling high tide below us. A Taylor's Cab Sav helped accentuate the view. Sue watched the ocean as I watched the people gathered to worship with beers and phone cameras, their conversation punctuated by the silences of Google searches to win one argument or another.

Dinner was steak cooked on the Weber which now lives on our balcony. Like the completely reworked kitchen, its a new addition to our two bedroom flat on Clarence St, just behind Main Beach. Now in our eighth year in the same digs, we are always surprised to be paying the same tariff as that first year, especially when things change. Last year it was a flat screen TV but the change this year smacks of preparations for the owners to retire here. A farming couple from the New England Tablelands, its seems unlikely that such an investment as a new kitchen would be made unless occupancy was imminent. Next year may be a new place and a shock as most places are $200 dearer now.

We spent several evening hours with family at Mandy and Joel's place. It was the usual round of cut and thrust. The eldest, Lance, accords himself full local status after being a wannabe who arrived annually from Melbourne for many years. He is the reason we started coming here eighteen years ago. For all the Gibbens, it was their childhood home, back in the day. Lance is developing the full blown aging surfer/hippy look but the personality needs more change to keep pace. The hard edged cynic still lives inside the long hair and hair band. In order to honour his new appearance, we all wore hair bands last night, a fact not noticed until my red plastic strip showed prominently in my white hair. It doubled as a show of strength for St George, who showed none of the same losing again last night. The evening devolved into half an hour of discussion which started with confident statements saying Monty Python films aren't funny when you watch them now and ended with us all wetting ourselves as we quoted from "The Life Of Brian" and "The Holy Grail".

Go figure.

The dark cloud on our evening was news from Sydney. Sarah had been assaulted in a robbery attempt on her suburban street in Dulwich Hill. The outcome was subsequently better than it might have been but I'm sick of Sarah having to be tested by these ordeals. My sleep was difficult and ended by a dream I haven't endured for ten years.

Tea ... writing ... patience ... and eventually sunrise.