I feel well-placed to write about the beauty and other joys of the NSW coast, south of Sydney.
If you have had the experiences there that I do, you love the howling north-Easter, up by Midday, and blowing for days.
You understand the gifts a southerly buster brings - waves that stand up impossibly steep, breaking heavily with perfect shape, and sending sharp sea mist and rain reversing back upon surfers, revelling in their cries. Epic tennis matches, sweating in the thick and heavily ionised atmosphere as lightning knots in the rolling front above, slice and topspin gripping the air and performing magic.
I have brought many here to experience it over the years.
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My parents bought an asbestos-ridden fibro getaway at Culburra Beach in 1970 when I was two and a half years old. Every second weekend they transported 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 cats and a grandfather, a 3+ hour journey then. Nuts.
A brief socio-economic analysis follows.
Sydney’s more affluent tended to have holiday homes north on the central and mid-north coasts, potentially as a place to retire to. Working class people, by contrast, seeing opportunity in the spectacular land price differential between Sydney and the south coast, sold up, paid off their mortgages and bought homes outright to move into, with enough left over to establish a Last-name & Sons business in their trade - carpenters, plumbers, electricians, painters, tilers, fitters and turners, etc.
Freedom! Or so they thought, the glut of trades killed the economy for many decades to come.
Some of the sons of Last-name & Sons turned to selling pot. Fathers were perplexed that their garden hoses got shorter. If you know, you know.
One or two of the sons switched me on as a teenager to its pleasures with accompaniment from the Doors, Marley, Pink Floyd, others. Surfing figured prominently. One or two sons and daughters of the south coast have been counted among the best surfers in the world.
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Lest I come across as describing some sort of paradise …for me, this all happened against a backdrop of brutality, family violence, domination, humiliation and betrayal. The secret herbs and spices of fear and shame.
For a dear friend I found out much later, incest, the greatest betrayal of them all.
I do not return here misty-eyed with illusions.
For the first time in many years, I spent a whole month, including most of December, at the beautiful town of Mollymook. It is one of the best holidays I have had in some time.
And that’s how I recommend it. Whether it’s Shoalhaven Heads, Culburra, Hyams Beach, Sussex Inlet, Bendalong, Cunjurong, Conjola, Mollymook, Bawley Point, Durras or somewhere else. Plunk yourself down for a month. Take your time. Look around and immerse.
There are 3 outstanding restaurants here. My favourite is @Gwylo, an Asian fusion delight. It is better than Chin Chin in Sydney, more intimate, more interesting, fabulous people, and with direct access to fresh local produce, like line caught tuna. Better too than Longrain, for those that remember it.
For a pure seafood extravaganza, @RickStein at Bannisters Head is a personal favourite. It brings together his explorations and experiences in seafood flavours from all around the world.
Finally, if you like a country restaurant set in bocage, @CupittsEstate is, while modest, as good as anything you will find in any Australian winery for food and ambiance.
I am told the Milton Hotel is awesome but I am yet to have the pleasure. Next time.
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Beyond food and surf, the Shoalhaven Coast is noted for the stunning and extensive Morton National Park. The Budawangs, Pigeon House Mountain and the Castle behind Mollymook are particularly astounding. Here you can camp by the upper reaches of the Clyde River at Yadboro Flat.
The hiking is superb, my favourite being an overnighter up the Kaliana Ridge, Monolith Valley, looping around Mount Cole and returning via the rift with Mount Owen. A ball-tearer, mind.
A tree stump still stands at Yadboro which sliced my 5 year old foot open along the outstep leading to 8 stitches at Milton Hospital, which I am happy to report also still stands. I imagine the bush walker who recently trod on an Eastern Brown is similarly pleased.