From Dover Heights to a sad place

 


As I get older, and spend more time in magnificent harsh and empty landscapes, I am less and less tolerant of our urban environment.  So it comes as no surprise to me that this was not one of my most enjoyable walks, lined as it is on one side for much of the way with houses and apartments, testament to the ugly triumph of wealth over aesthetics.

 

 

A bungalow/castle?  What were they thinking?

                             



 

But these are as nothing compared with the ugliness of a 1960s Harry Seidler apartment building; breathtaking in its incompatibility with the soaring cliffs and thundering ocean.  I don't understand brutalist architecture.  I understand the lure of brutal landscapes, and even of brutal weather, but not this.  At least it's white.
     






This walk commences at Dover Heights Reserve, at the end of Lancaster Rd.  On a weekday at least, parking is easy.  The reserve is an uneven strip of grass separating the houses bordering it from the cliff edge; insurance no doubt against a cliff fall taking millions of dollars of real estate into the sea.  You arrive there by walking through a gate in a rather charming, if dilapidated, white picket fence, then descending a set of wooden stairs.  If you're bothered by stairs that aren't closed in, you might have some trouble here. 

At the end of the reserve, it's back through another iteration of the picket fence, a brief walk through suburban streets, then back onto the clifftop at the southern edge of Diamond Bay, descending more wooden stairs next to that Seidler building.  In these times of great concern for community safety, the entire cliff edge is fenced, but there is evidence of earlier attempts to hold the masses back from a lemming-like leap over the edge.  I particularly liked the daring of this gateway to a small rock platform, with the swirling sea below. 

Diamond Bay is in fact a V-shape, and according to the sign, no-one knows why it's called Diamond Bay.  There are various theories, most of which have been refuted.  It's a small gash in the unstable cliff, lined with ferns and tinkling waterfalls.  It's very pretty from above, and worth looking down to the shoreline below.  Probably this was my favourite moment of the walk.  There is an apartment block built across the apex of the V, right up to the cliff.  The end apartments must be dark and damp, but being able to reach out to the ferns from your balcony probably goes some way towards recompense for the mould.

 
 
 

After skirting Diamond Bay, you stick to the clifftop from there on.  It's an attractive but largely manicured walk from here, with mown grass, seats, and plenty of dog walkers.  Just north of Diamond Bay is Christison Park, a suburban football field which has to be distracting for the spectators, if not the players as well.  Stand at its verge and look west all the way to the Bridge; turn 180 degrees to look out to the Pacific Ocean.

Then comes a bit of history.  The Dunbar, a clipper carrying passengers and goods from England, arrived off the Heads on a stormy night in August 1857.  She failed to make it through into the Harbour, and instead foundered on the cliffs just south of the Gap.  Of the 122 crew and passengers, only one survived.  James Johnson, a crewman, managed to swim to a rock shelf, from whence he was rescued.  This shipwreck, and another soon after, led to the construction of the first lighthouse on South Head.

If you're thinking of a picnic lunch at some point, I advise you to stop around this area.  Once you get near to the Gap, the tourist hordes are in evidence even on a weekday, selfie sticks in hand, ridiculous pouting poses oblivious to the tragic reason the Gap is so well known.  Of course, if you really want to throw yourself off a cliff in Sydney, you don't have to go to the Gap to do it.  But the Gap is inextricably linked to tragedy and suffering, and for those in despair, it must beckon. 

 

 

And for Trevor Coombs, just after his 41st birthday earlier this year, it did.

 

Enormous resources have been put into protecting those like Trevor who come to the Gap to end their lives.  I found a report of a study from the University of Melbourne that found that increasing the likelihood of someone intervening, by the presence of fences, signs, crisis phones and such measures, can reduce the suicide rate in areas including the Gap by 90%. 

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2015-09-23/blocking-means-of-suicide-at-'hotspots'-reduces-deaths-by-90pc/6796702 

 

The Gap, on the sunniest of days, is a sad place for me, lightened only by the memorial to Don Ritchie, a legendary figure in the dark history of the Gap.  From his loungeroom, Don could see people scaling the fence to stand at the cliff edge.  He would go down, talk to them, invite them home for a cup of tea...  It is thought that his simple interventions of kindness saved hundreds of lives over the fifty years he reached out to those in need.

So, trying in vain to shake off the pervasive gloom of this place, I headed down the hill to Watson's Bay, to feel sand between my toes, have my picnic lunch and a cup of coffee.  The crowds increased.  I sat on the seawall and undid the plastic wrap around my lunch.  The seagulls descended.  They are feral, not helped by the tourist who thought it highly amusing to throw them an entire serve of chips, one chip at a time, whilst standing right next to me, as her husband photographed the screaming heckling fighting flock of birds.  I hurriedly ate my lunch, waving the seagulls away, put my shoes back on, and retreated to find a cup of coffee.  This can be had on the ferry wharf.

I headed back the way I came, with the Gap walking with me back to the car and home.