On Saturday, we wake to sunshine and silence. The wind has died down overnight and the sky is a vivid blue. At last we can have a proper walk, follow the coastal path as it meanders above the sequence of spectacular white beaches that we’ve only managed to glimpse in the thick of the storm. The sea, which is a unique and fantastical turquoise colour, remains turbulent despite the drop in wind. There’s a reef not far from the shore that breaks up the waves and tosses them wildly together. Some of these beaches are definitely for experts only.
And we see one; an expert I mean. At first it’s difficult to interpret the movements of the two bodies so far from the shore, but then their choreography falls into a pattern. A jet ski tows a surfer out to sea, to where the waves are just forming. Choosing the right one, the surfer whips the board round, rides the wave for several hundred metres and just before it breaks, flips the board over the back of the wave, locates the tow rope, (which has been manoeuvred into exactly the right place by the jet skier), scoops it up, then stands on the board and is once more pulled out to sea. It’s a seamless operation and the whole exercise takes no more than a couple of minutes. The two bodies repeat it over and over again. It looks utterly exhausting.
But these are not the only creatures catching waves. A pod of dolphins, surfers and jet skis rolled into one, are also enjoying a day at the beach. We watch as their their fins slice in and out of the water, as they tumble over each, surfing and diving, like a group of teenagers larking about. You can almost hear them laughing with the fun of it.
For the most part, the path sits high on a bank of old choral and when we climb down to one of the beaches, we see crazy jagged ivory-coloured cones poking up through the sand. In fact, the whole cliff behind us, the ledge that we’re sitting on, is layer upon layer of spent choral, the white sand under our feet, the final stage of its disintegration. There’s a feeling here of nature barely tamed, accessible via a well-maintained path, yes, but on one side, the eerily bright turbulent sea and, on the other, the wild Australian bush. This is Esperance as it should be seen, in the sunshine, on foot. We’re glad to have this opportunity before we head inland on our way to Perth.
As we turn off the coast road and drive north west into the outback, I expect the landscape to gradually become more arid, dusty, but this is wheat country and there are lush green fields beyond the screens of gum trees, stretching way into the distance on either side of the road. On this wide, well maintained highway, we pass maybe half a dozen cars in two hours. Then we see a large clearing dotted with clusters of eucalyptus and turn in for our picnic. It’s a perfect spot for camper vans and tents but there’s nobody here, just us.
We’re spending the night in Kondinin, which suddenly appears out of nowhere. It’s as surprising as it is tiny (population: 300); clean tidy and perfectly formed just as one can imagine it at the end of the nineteenth century, when it was first established as the centre of Western Australia’s vast wheat belt region.
The terraced row of shops in the high street has the deep verandah of Australia’s past. One can almost see the horses tethered to the posts. Our accommodation, a small fibro bungalow, is just like the one my grandmother lived in, with its pink bath, lacquered floorboards, flat wooden doors with high doorknobs and an outside laundry and loo. Yes, the loo is outside the house. It’s that retro.
In the evening, we walk to the local hotel/bottle shop for a meal and some wifi. It’s the only eatery in town and has been preserved, not in its original nineteenth century form (that building was burnt down), but in its 1980s reincarnation. It’s just as we remember outback pubs used to be back in the day, the bar full of the loud staccato shouts of drinking men, television screens tuned to Ozzie Rules, harsh lighting that picks out the age of the plastic cloths on the tables and the scowl on the face of the woman behind the bar. She takes our order with an indifference bordering on hostility. ‘It’s “Parmy and pint” night, she says wearily, ‘not “Parmy and a glass of wine” night’. That’s chicken parmigiana, in case you’re wondering.
A group of young men and one woman arrive at the table next to us, clearly a gang of visiting workers, ruddy faced, dressed like lumberjacks, jokey but not entirely at ease. Perhaps it’s having the woman there. Contract work in outback Australia has always been a man thing, but this is the 21st century, right?
In the morning we rejoin the road to Perth, where some kind friends, (currently in Falmouth, Cornwall with our other lovely friends), are lending us their house. It’s very close to the centre of the city, nestled in the upmarket tree-lined streets of Subiaco and Gilly’s and Greg’s brother-in-law will meet us there and show us around. We’re looking forward to taking some time to regroup and check out this city that neither of us knows. Once again, we think how lucky we are to have good friends who are prepared to let us live their lives for a while. Try them on and see how they fit.
