Little Marley beach is seven kilometres from Bundeena and we have the path almost to ourselves. We see the usual tourists at Wedding Cake Rock, scaling the fence that’s been erected to protect them from the crumbling cliff. The sandstone is soft and erodes from beneath. Periodically large pieces break off and crash onto the rock ledges far below. One day, Wedding Cake Rock itself will also break and fall off, possibly with several tourists standing on it, taking selfies.
But beyond this point, we see few people. The path meanders across large flat rocks, disappears into the bush for short spells and then emerges back onto the cliffs. There are kilometres of raised walkway that keep walkers’ feet out of the boggy bits and above the vulnerable ground. It’s an easy walk with only a couple of steep ascents and we constantly encounter creatures with wings: bugs, butterflies, birds. The air is full of sounds, here the pounding of the sea, there the high pitched call of the Golden Whistler. At Marley, there’s a small stream permanently making its way out to sea and cutting us off from the beach. There are semi-submerged rocks scattered through the water with gaps between them that require some basic athleticism. As we approach, we see two women considering that important question: shoes off or on?
We leave our shoes on and take the rock-hopping route, then continue our trek until it’s time to stop for a picnic. At Little Marley beach, our only company is a crow who eyes our sandwiches with intent. He scores an apple core and flies off, a little disgruntled but resigned.
And then we pack up our temporary Bundeena home, head out of the National Park and drive north, calling at Belrose in northern Sydney to meet Guy. In a few weeks’ time we’ll be house-sitting for a young family from Israel and it’s Guy who shows us around. The house comes with a ragdoll cat, who’s called Cookie and has stitches in her face and a cone around her neck. Guy assures us that she’ll be fit and well by the time we take charge, but right now she’s very unhappy. We take a quick tour of the house and pool, leave Guy to his busy working day and drive away, heads spinning slightly with his rapid fire explanations.
But the house-sit is in the future. For the next week, we’ll be at Lake Macquarie where we’re giving my mother another brief holiday before we head away to Sydney and eventually to the UK. She’s on good form, well recovered from a recent bout of Covid and moving incredibly well for a woman who’s about to be 95. We go walking, sit and talk while we watch for activity on the lake. There isn’t a great deal: the weather has been stormy, wet and discouraging and even the ducks seem to have taken cover, much to mum’s disappointment.
And then, on Sunday afternoon, we take in a performance given by an amateur (but extremely competent) concert band and talk about it all the way back to our holiday house. Settled on the sofa, she’s tired but happy and still animated enough to tell Adrian about all that he missed. She eats an early supper and then, like a small child, is suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. As she says good night, she frowns and asks when she’s going back to the care home. ‘Wednesday,’ I say and feel like a heel.
