There is nothing subtle about the calls of Australian birds. As dawn breaks, the garden erupts with a cacophony of squeals, shrieks, maniacal laughter and screams that sound as if the entire village is being murdered in its bed. And all this to a backing track of the most repetitive of songsters ever created: the incessant, unceasing two-note call of the Koel, a type of cuckoo that has the added irritating habit of dumping its young on other birds to raise.
It takes some getting used to, sharing one’s space with these exotic creatures. Butcher birds, cockatoos and rosellas regularly land on our balcony or fuss in the nearby bottlebrush tree. One can hardly walk along a street without tripping over galahs foraging on the verges.
This week, our very own kookaburra moved in to spend his days, in traditional Australian style, sitting on the washing line and keeping a close eye on the worms in the lawn. Of course, not all birds here are unmusical. The King parrot, with its brilliant red head and chest, twitters and chirrups happily as it goes about its business and the bellbird and whip bird are a joy to hear. But inevitably it’s the raucous louts of the bush, rather than the songbirds, that dominate the dawn.
In our final week in Bundeena, we settle into a relaxed routine of walking, running, swimming and writing: at last I have the time and the head space to get on with my murder mystery. This physical and mental mix is a way of life that seems to suit me better than any. And Adrian is relaxed too. He’s taken on the role of reader and seems happy to spend time discussing with me my evolving plot and characters. I find this surprising. I can’t imagine wanting to use up my brain time talking about someone else’s faltering attempt to put together some convoluted plot. But that probably just shows how selfish I am.
On Wednesday, we break the routine to take a ferry ride to Cronulla and meet with friends for lunch. I’ve known Wendy since we were children at ballet school and for one year, as teenagers, we shared a flat in Melbourne. She was completing her training at the Australian Ballet School while I was dancing with Ballet Victoria; so we had very different schedules and sometimes our paths barely crossed. For decades now, she’s run her own ballet school and, unlike me, she’s kept up with dancers from our past, so there’s lots of gossip.
Garry is a retired police officer, who has always had a great deal of energy and zest for a life that he seems to find constantly amusing. They both talk rapidly and enthusiastically and there’s a lot of laughter about all they do; their activities, the goings on of their friends, their children and grandchildren. We hear about the storm that hit the coast and took away most of the sand from the Cronulla beaches. The restaurant has an uninterrupted view across the water and, at an old sand mine at Kurnell, we see the large white tents where the latest Mad Max movie is being filmed.
On our return journey, we fall into conversation with two Norwegian ecology students who are in Australia to study solar energy. As with so many northern Europeans, their English is perfect. They take an interest in us too and, while the small ferry rises and falls over a gentle swell in the bay, we discuss the delights of Bundeena and I forget just for a while that we’re not all the same age. It’s something that’s struck me many times before; the way that good conversation transcends difference.
At this point in our stay, we’ve walked most of the local paths, including a ten mile round walk to Little Marley Beach, where we stop for a swim and picnic. It’s the weekend and there are far more tourists on the track than anticipated, mostly heading (of course) to Wedding Cake Rock for a photo shoot. The route includes a wade through a fast flowing stream and some very soft sand that makes walking hard going and by the time we return via Gibbon and another swim, we feel we’ve had just about as much fresh air and exercise as we can take. Oh, and I’ve also picked up a slightly sprained ankle and a graze on my knee.
In my rush to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and a noisy group of tourists (with a getto blaster!), I run far too quickly down a set of uneven stone steps and land awkwardly. Then, on the return walk, as we cross the stream once more, I absentmindedly step onto a slime covered rock and . . . well, you can probably picture the scene. It isn’t my most graceful landing and I feel like an idiot.
But it has its compensations. While I prop up my foot, Adrian makes supper and then pours us some wine. ‘You might as well enjoy your injury,’ he says generously. Then he joins me. We clink our glasses, listen to some music and chat quietly, while my swelling ankle and bloody graze sit propped on the sofa, reminding me that I’m not quite as young as I think I am.
