Sunday, July 10, 2011

Grey Point, Lorne, Victoria

Woke to a white-out, but not a snowy sort of white-out, a bottom-of-the-cloud sort that blanks and buffets from the west and lights the windows with cotton-wool fluffy-light until its bottom edge  flirts with the trees on our hill, over the gully.
As the cloud lifts, the lazy long streaks of moisture seem reluctant to let go of the trees, and I don't blame them. I would do exactly the same thing myself if I was headed up that gully on a cold whisp, headed for the great southern ocean.

But here inside, snug as a bug in a rug, it is time for that strange winter logic that declares that this is the moment to confront the grey coast and see what she's able to throw at us...from the safety of a beach.     The wilder the day, the more likely we are, it seems, to stand in awe at the frenzied energy of mother-sea, and  to think respectful thoughts at the power of things beyond us.


  1. It's one of the all too few delights of winter, we wander down to Hurst Spit in a SW gale to watch the seas piling up on the Shingles Bank and think ourselves lucky that we can retreat to the comfort of the Gun Inn a roaring fire and lunch!!

  2. I can relate to that. Ah, the Gun Inn. I'm told by Julia that English pubs (and northern ales in particular) have the effect of making me very appreciative of bar maids. It's nice to think that they are sometimes properly appreciated. But I have to admit we haven't sampled the wares in your area. When we were last in Bath we headed north, following a sort of Roman path to York. Next time (despite my love of the big northern skies and the warmth of the folk) I really want to explore the south.