This walk is one I have done before on a very memorable day. It's a loop walk from Bundeena in the Royal National Park, just south of Sydney. For those of you who don't know it, the Royal National Park is a spectacular major tract of bushland and coast that emerges suddenly from the suburban Sutherland Shire moments after turning in the gate. On a June weekday, the ticket booth is deserted, but entry to the Park will normally cost $11. Money very well spent. Once past the turn-off to Audley, there is nothing to see but bush-covered hills stretching to the horizon in all directions. It seems that you must have left Sydney behind many hours previously. As I drive, a flicker of movement high in the sky catches my attention, and I look up to see the hawk, but instead find the plane coming in to land at Sydney Airport. Coming round a bend, the high rises of Cronulla come startlingly into view, with greater Sydney stretching beyond.
Driving into the Park in my hermetically-sealed car on a glorious sunny day, it would be easy to believe that it is summer, save for the long winter shadows that already lie across the road in the early afternoon, and the t00-green verge. Last time I came here it was summer - January 26, Australia Day. I was with a very close friend, and we caught the ferry from Cronulla. If you can spare the time, this is a charming way to arrive in Bundeena.
A short walk from the small centre of Bundeena through pleasant suburban streets takes you onto the western end of Jibbon Beach. On Australia Day, there was barely a grain of sand not occupied by people, and the waterline was guarded by a flotilla of pleasure boats that formed such a barrier that there were few spots for swimmers to pass in between.
But today, despite the sunshine, I am for a while the only person on the beach. So I kick off my shoes and sit down in the sand to eat my lunch. Two seagulls watch me closely, and I wonder what seagulls eat when there is no-one to feed them chips. There is a parallel here with humans who survive on a diet of take-away food, and have lost the art of cooking. Do seagulls lose the art of fishing?
After lunch, I walk on down the length of the beach. A rustle in the vegetation bordering the beach catches my attention, and I am surprised at a kangaroo being so bold. But in fact, it is a deer. We gaze at one another with mutual curiosity before she turns back to grazing and I to walking. At the end of the beach, the path turns into the scrub and immediately I come upon a whole herd of deer; at least four that I count before they scatter. I imagine that they must be well-used to crowds in summer, and presumably keep away from the paths then. But today I am a solitary walker, and have broken the deer rules for when company is to be expected. Later, on my way back along the beach, I see the sign that explains that they are Rusa deer, and a significant pest, decimating the littoral rainforest and coastal vegetation, assisted by weed invasion and unauthorised camping. I feel a little guilty for having found pleasure in seeing them.
Heading along the coastal path towards Jibbon Head, there is a turn-off to the right that is worth taking. It leads to some Aboriginal rock engravings. Sadly, they are completely unprotected, so that if you wished, you could walk all over them, or even deface them. I step carefully around them on the soft rock. Some previous visitors have felt the need to leave their initials behind, to demonstrate their artistic and cultural inferiority. The carvings clearly show the Aboriginal interaction with the marine environment. There are two whales that dwarf the other carvings, just as they would in the real world. A stingray and a turtle swim past in the rock, and a lawman raises his hands above his head, as if being held at gunpoint. He has no face. I see the carved kangaroo that I had expected to see in reality a few minutes earlier.
Returning to the main path, I come round a corner to be entranced by an echidna ambling across my route. Remembering that they can only see objects if they are moving, I freeze, and spend a delightful few minutes watching it unhurriedly continue with its echidna day. Once it disappears, I look out to sea and have my earlier question about seagulls' fishing abilities probably answered. There must be a large school of fish there, attracting an equally large flock of seagulls. Many of the seagulls are floating in the water, but some swoop overhead, calling in that raucous cry that everyone learns from their first excursions to the beach. Perhaps the ones just floating have indeed lost the art of fishing.
The Jibbon Bombora breaks off shore, a wave that arises, swells and breaks seemingly out of, and into, nowhere. But sailors know it signals an underwater reef.
On the coastal side of Jibbon Head, the path is very wet and muddy, with pools of water lying around despite the sunshine. I pick my way carefully along. It is in remarkable contrast to the bayside path, which was completely dry despite being such a short distance away. Clearly it must have rained a great deal on this side as the weather drives in from the ocean. Focusing on trying not to slip over in the mud, I find myself suddenly at the end of the path, where it emerges onto Shelley Beach, and am hit by a wave of emotion with remembrance.
I mentioned earlier that I had last done this walk on Australia Day. That was the day after I had learned that I would be redundant; that my lovely job, which I had enjoyed so much for more than four years, would go to someone else. Despite Jibbon Beach having been horrendously crowded that day, Shelley Beach had been deserted, just like today. There is a lovely shallow rocky inlet there, where the water washes in with every wave. On that hot day, I sat there in the water for hours with my special and most supportive friend, and we talked. We talked and we talked, through all my fears and my anxieties and my grief.
Today, it is strange to see it again. At 3.30 pm on a wintry afternoon, the inlet is in complete shade, and the air is cool. I'm not quite sure how I feel. So much in my life has changed since that day I was first here. I didn't expect to feel such a complex range of emotions coming here again. I knew it would be a little bit challenging because of my history here. But being here makes me think about life, and of all the unexpected and rapid changes of direction that it can take. And how all of a sudden, sometimes nothing is as you thought it was only the day before. And how the changes may be for the better, and or maybe not. And they may be for the better for one person but not for another. And whether it's better or worse, it's sure different.
