The Beach House

Last weekend, precious time, snatched from a whirlwind beginning to what promises to be another enormous year, was spent at a beach north of Sydney that may or may not be my favourite place in the world. It is where, since I was a child, we’ve been spending weeks and weekends of long, hot summers and I wanted SG to see what it’s all about. The scratch dinners and late brunches. The summer fruit and beers on the balcony. Salty skin and hair, sandy feet and skin sticky with sunscreen. The rainbow lorikeets screeching overhead. Lazy minutes spent reading new books from Christmas stockings. The cold, rough, foamy, minty ocean with its annoying blue bottles and sneaky rips. Family. Uno. More beer on the balcony. Drunk Uno.

SG has left now and I will follow in a month. We crammed in as much Australia and as many Australians as we could over the nearly 6 weeks he was here. It was huge and exhausting and fun. So fun. Coming down off the back of it, off the back of the reef and Melbourne and a huge Christmas and far too much wine, time and space to clear heads and enjoy each other and close family before another separation was desperately needed. So that precious time, snatched from this whirlwind year’s beginning, spent at a place of great peace, was perfect. Gentle, lazy, all too quick, but perfect.

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