Nun's Pool Breakfast

The Nun’s Hole my uncle called it. Ahem!

 It wasn’t until I was older that I realised this name for a local swimming spot was a rude version of it’s proper name The Nun’s Pool. Local people used the name too, not just uncles from the north of England imbued with a tradie's humour. 

 

If you stroll in a relaxed manner across the grass of Shelly Beach park  and then wend your way north over the pitted sandstone (taking your time to peer into the rock pools) , you will come to a little rectangular sandy beach in a natural split between orange sandstone shelves.

In the 50’s the swimming spot was used by young nuns from the nearby Mercy Convent who dared to don a swimsuit, and thus the place got it's name.

 I wonder if it was a popular spot for the original Gweagal people. Cronulla in fact comes from the indigenous word Kurranulla meaning 'place of pink shells.'

 In any case the former convent which gave the beach it's modern name is now a retirement home for those same people. I imagine as they sip tea, looking out to sea, they must occasionally say to one another “Hey Sister Mary- Bernadette, do you remember the day you were bitten by a lobster?”

On this particular summer morning Fil and I have come down to this pocket-sized beach for breakfast and a swim.

 It’s just after 7am on a Saturday and though the esplanade is already heaving with frowning, healthy people intent on tuning their hearts, the Nun's Pool, hidden between the sandstone shelves, is serenely empty.

 It’s a glorious salty morning of silver ocean and lacy waves. The sun has not long been up and is playing peekaboo between clouds. Even so, the air is warm and the idea of a swim seems  a reasonable prospect.

I have often compared Fil to a Labrador in terms of fitness, friendliness and bottomless appetite and so it is no surprise he is first in the water (yes, I am more a terrier, barking at the waves).

 

 

While Fil floats in the water below like a basking sea-otter, I rove around the beach over the rock pools for a while, admiring views to the south of Shelly Beach and to the north of South Cronulla Beach (it may sound confusing but further north is a North Cronulla Beach:)

 

 

 On the sand, amongst the usual treasure of seashells is lots of of pumice stone (nub-lumps I call them). They are an anomaly here and I wonder which part of the planet they have come from, bobbing over the ocean, pushed by the wind like tiny untethered islands.  I am impressed by a nub-lump that Fil finds which is as big as my head. Later we research recent volcanic activity and discover a volcano has been erupting for months in Indonesia. “Halo! Apa kabar nub-lumps?”
I also read somewhere that after a volcanic eruption in Fiji some years back, pumice rafts some 30km long were travelling around the sea. My head-sized nub-lump no longer seems impressive.

 I take my knees for a dip in the clear water and stand there watching the salmon sunlight glint off the sea.  It’s so peaceful and lovely…

 I take ten slow deep breaths and decide I have laboured enough to deserve breakfast. We place our towels on dry sand and haul out or booty of fresh coffee and a couple of pastries from our local baker. I ask which variety is mine and Fil looks hurt since he thought he would have some of both.
 Ahh, Labradors…

Munching on a half a danish, I admire the shells around my towel. In Kurnell where I grew up, there are lots of seashells ,but at Cronulla, with it’s pounding surf, most of the beaches are veritable shell-deserts until you move further south along the peninsula toward the mouth of the Port Hacking river.

 

Though I grew up in Kurnell, I was in fact born just around the corner (well to my mothers relief I was born at the hospital, but my parents lived just up the road from here) so I have been visiting this spot on and off for four decades now. The land behind the beach has changed immensely in that time; buildings growing taller and taller, but the beach remains the same and yet is somehow always fresh and new, no two days the same.

 

 

One thing that is particular to this area, surrounded as it is by sandstone and small surf, is the presence of sand-blasted glass on the beach. I have collected it many times and it’s something I never feel bad about taking a little, even though it seems a part of the beach as much as the shells.

 The glass I notice is diminished in quantity theses days. I can’t help mixed feelings about this. Of course it means there is less pollution which is wonderful and how I should want it, but it means there are less pieces to appreciate.

Can you appreciate broken glass? Of course you can. None of that sharp, nasty stuff; the sea has sorted that out, rolling it around in the waves like a boiled lolly in the mouth, until its smooth and frosted.

In my later teens when I had seen too many Indiana Jones movies, I did a week’s work experience in archaeology. A certain Museum in Sydney did a good job of deflating my interest in whip-cracking adventure science by making me sort bottle shards from early Sydney (the fifth day I sorted their latest archaeological dig/boozy camping photos).

I hated that week at the time, but an interesting consequence was that I could no longer help, upon finding beach glass, trying to identify a lip, base or body of a bottle. There are pieces that are decades old- milk bottles and soda bottles from when both these items were delivered and the bottles reused. Wine and beer bottle pieces from a thousand celebrations and commiserations.

The colours- browns and greens and whites and rarer blues (pale blue is my favourite!) are like jewels - some are common and some unusual and I fully admit to excitement on finding unusual colours or even patterned glass or decorated porcelain.

The shells are the real stars though, tinkling as the waves wash in and out. And the colourful rainbow of sandstone...
And you can't forget the myriad of rock-pools with their micro-worlds of sea anemones and shells and squirty old cunjevoi, and the rock crabs skittering around the crevices, blowing bubbles at you as you peer in at them.

Most of all, I just love that this quiet spot still exists among the bustling suburbs for those that rise early enough to find it, like some mystical little sanity isle.

Standing in the clear cool water facing east at dawn with nothing but the wide Pacific before you and the murmur of civilisation behind you... now that is a wonderful way to start your day.

 

 

 

Walking Vs Pounding

Do you walk? Right, best to go read another article then because frankly you probably know more than me on the subject, and I don’t need that sort of pressure peering over my shoulder. For the rest of us i.e.myself and the dog watching me type, it’s time to discuss Walking versus Pounding. What is ‘walking’? Walking is an upwardly mobile activity, done at a relaxed enough pace that you can notice the nearly expired rego on your vehicle and sigh, the kind of speed you can see the rain sweeping toward you and fumble to get your brolli up, but also the right speed to notice pleasant naturey things. If you are panting after 10 paces and not 400kg, slow it down. It should feel natural, organic, unshaven. It is not to be confused with ‘the dawdle’, which should only be used for markets (included the synthetic variety), thrift shops and Ikea. This pace was surely not natural to MPP (my primitive peoples) as it invariable screws up my back. Use dawdling infrequently and with due care. So, walking is a speed at which you can take in the fresh air and birdsong and easily pause to fill a dog-poop bag without yanking the head off the dog. It is useful for noting the seasons and relaxing and of course a bit of exercise although this is never to be used as first priority. Dear me. Pounding? Pounding is putting your feet down at such a pace as to feel like you are planning to 'cover some miles today Legolas'. It is not ‘running to catch the train’ speed. Nor is it power-walking. Sigh. Who invented that coronary assault? Never ever call power-walking walking for a start. A friend once asked me if I wanted to go for a ‘walk’ one morning. Sure, says I. Well she shot off like a rocket I’d just lit- I had to jog to catch up. Of course I felt compelled to match pace. Alas, I had trimmed the topiary less than three days before and I could feel the sort of friction only an elephant’s arse and a tree-trunk can produce, beginning. Then there was the ‘trying to chat’, when every millipound of oxygen really needed using to keeping me from passing out.The speed at which we went caused my eyes to water so I couldn’t appreciate any nature that blurred by, and if it was called exercise it can only mean in the military sense where I needed to try and stay alive with just the clothes on my back. By walks end I almost had herniated dyspepsia. I do not know what that is, but the words feel right to describe my pain. So power-walking. Only for sports people and others who enjoy hurting. Pounding on the other hand is great. It can be done in happy times (tra la la) or angry times (bloody phone technician cancelled again, bloody...) and it feels good anyway. You are not walking too fast to enjoy the scents in the air (blossom, wood smoke, blood and bone) but the thighs get a right jiggling and the dog must trot. I find this the best pace for ideas to pop into my head. And, I must say, the pounding of your feet on the ground feels like an accomplishment. Even if the rest of your day is boring waffley crap (you work for a big company), you know you already ‘achieved something’ at the beginning of the day. Ha! They can’t take that off you Francine! Having said that, you can pound or walk in the evening too and it is most pleasant to do so. Dog poo is a little harder to skirt and car headlights make you want to bolt back to your bunny hole, but overall, it’s the other best bit of the day to do your stuff. And, if you do back to back evening and morning, you’ll think you’re pretty bloody amazing which is probably more than the boss or the kids are going to tell you. Win-win all round young Skywalker.

City and Chinese Gardens Photo Playdate.

Recently I got to throw down my paintbrush, wipe the Dulux off my arms and enjoy a well-earned city adventure with my lovely sister-in-law. We had promised many months ago that we would grab our cameras and head off somewhere yonder for a creative playdate. Of course we didn't intend so many months to pass but happily we did finally wangle it.
We chugged it into the city and enjoyed a delish brunch at a cafe with chairs lined up down a quaint alleyway. Even the old painted walls were inviting a photo; thus armed in the belly and the creative mind, we began the stop-start wander of the photo-buff.
As we discussed, this works well in pairs, but not solo with non-photographing family or friends. Otherwise this is professionally termed-"giving people the shits". Together it's fab because you are in simpatico company.
So, we wandered from Town Hall (St James and Town Hall beg a photo) down to Darling Harbour (great pier and water/boat pics to be found) and onto the gorgeous Chinese Gardens where you will be totally spoilt for choice and can take a lovely shot blindfolded ( though this method is a hazard on the rocky climbing pathways).
As an added bonus to the gorgeous plants and wildlife (turtles, water dragons, koi), people can hire traditional chinese Emperor/Empress garb for only $10. What we orginally thought were wedding parties, were just regular folks taking vanity shots among the waterfall and pagoda's. Fun!
Our last leg was back through part of China Town (great shops for pics) and back up to Town Hall for much needed victuals at a bookstore cafe. Sigh. What a lovely way to spend a great day. Then finally gathering your photo bounty at home and having a second load of fun playing round with your gleaned treasures. Brilliant.

Sydney Walk and Rail Adventure

I don't get many chances to play tourist in my own city, nor days adventuring with my family, so I combined the two and we all caught the train into town on the weekend.
The best way to get teens out of bed, is to promise a hearty breakfast at the destination. Hence, less than an hour later we were having a delicious hot breakfast at Bona Fides on Druitt street, Town Hall. It is a lovely medium sized cafe with most tables outdoors and set down a little alley way. A history of this little lane is written on the ground.
I'm no food critic but breakfast was very tasty and the organic coffee delish. Such good moods were induced by full bellies that I was able to quickly drag the family into three bookstores before the protests began (Abbeys, Galaxy and Kinokuniya). Working in a book store does not seem to cure you of wanting to go into others!
I was rather shocked to find my husband who has worked in the city all his life had never been on the monorail, so we did the full loop. I didn't realise one of my boys spent the whole ride contemplating how well the monorail was attached to it's track! We alighted at Darling Harbour and after a quick look around to see what was on, we headed towards The Rocks. There were so many beautiful little terraces we passed and some large fine old houses that I'm afraid I don't know the history of. Theres a big horrible development whose name I won't mention, taking up that part of the waterfront. I'm afraid the peace and relative quiet of so many little old houses will soon be gone.
Despite the fact that my husband seemed to know the area well by all the old pubs visited in years gone by, he had no trouble leading us round the streets and up steps till I called for a detour to Observatory Hill.
What a view! It must look spectacular on any day, looking as it does past Walsh bay and onto the Harbour and bridge but we were extra lucky with clear blue skies and sunshine- I could have taken a picture with a brick and it would have come out well. I have never been to the observatory itself- another adventure mentally booked for the future.
With a promise of ice cream at The Quay, we set off again through my favourite part of The Rocks. Sandstone is everywhere and you can't help imagining the convicts breaking their backs cutting it a few hundred years ago. Amazing!
The markets were on as usual but I was out-numbered by males 3 to 1 and didn't stand a chance of browsing. Plus, there was that ice cream I'd promised, luring them on!
We cut through to the Quay via the Nurses Walk, I think it's called- tiny old buildings, walkways and worn steps. In one spot they have left the foundations of a home (perhaps it is two) so you can see the size of the places they lived in. It has a funny atmosphere to it though it is only small and out in the open.
After the quiet back way, it is a shock to walk out onto the crowded Quay.It is the Festival of Sydney at the moment and school holidays, so the waterfront is bustling with people and buskers.
With all the ferries,water taxi's and jet-boats bobbing enticingly on the water, my younger son wanted to catch a boat somewhere. I couldn't blame him, the harbour looked beautiful and it would be nice to get away from the crowds, but it will have to wait another day.
I am not an ice cream fan, so it has to be good stuff to entice me, which is why I will happily eat the amazing stuff at Gelatissimo- and no I am not being paid to say this! I had two scoops in a cone- panetone and coconut- mm mm.
Lastly we walked around to the Opera House, because you just have to, and the boys sat on the fountain and played with the water jets. You are never too old to do this, especially if you get to chuck water at your sibling.
With a promise of a fish and chip lunch back on home turf (this carrot thing really works), we all headed back to collapse gratefully on the train, having had a thoroughly lovely adventure in the city.

La Perouse Peruse

I set off yesterday to view 'Sculptures By the Sea' between Tamarama and Bondi in Sydney's east. Unwittingly, I chose the day that Prince Frederick and Princess Mary also decided to take a squiz. I joked I had to search so far west for parking, I may have reached the eastern suburbs of Perth. In the end I gave up and decided upon Adventure Plan B- La Perouse.
I hadn't visited this area in years. Sure it had it's tourist attractions in the nearby sewerage treatment plant and Long Bay Gaol (I can make these jokes- I grew up in Kurnell.),but somehow almost twenty years have passed since I had been there.
La Perouse was named after a French navigator called Jean-François de Galaup, comte de Lapérouse (!)and is at the northern headland of Botany Bay. On the southern side, at Silver Beach in Kurnell, La Parouse was the thing you preferred to look over the water at, rather than the airport, the shipping docks or the huge oil tankers in the bay. As a kid, you visited La Perouse to watch the reptile show (done by the same family since the 1920's)or to watch the boomerang demonstration and then beg your dad to buy you one, which never flew again except away from you.
The place actually has a really fascinating history with a great museum. Bare Island (which I thought was filled with bears as a kid) is a small island with an old military fortification on it, attached to the headland by a wooden bridge. The waters around the area are thick with scuba divers. Apparently the area is considered one of the best off-the-shore dive sites in Australia. You learn something new every day.
I had a really lovely visit. There are several sweet little beaches nearby and also good food (in my non-gourmet opinion)and coffee. Next time I would try book a tour of Bare Island and make a day of it. Perhaps give a nod to La Perouse himself and take a little picnic of french wine, crusty bread and some suitably stinky cheese.

Bonnie Vale

There's a place not too far from where I live that I fall in love with each time I visit. In my mind it qualifies as an island because it is a group of little seaside communities overlooking various beaches, sandbars and creeks.
Houses are everything from tiny old fisherman/holiday shacks right up to million dollar(+) mansions.
The 'island' has a perpetual holiday feel to it and in acknowledgement of this the place is peppered with B & B's and a lovely camp ground. Shops are small and quaint with handpainted signs and home-style food.
A ferry arrives on the hour dropping off locals and tourists alike, the latter like me, peering wistfully into the real-estate window. Good or bad, it is the 'island' like isolation which keeps many people from staying longer than an idyllic weekend. The one road out is long and can be treacherous, the activities for young people limited beyond the great outdoors. Highschool is a ferry and bus-ride away.
Still, I could live here very happily in a few years when my children have left home. There are lots of creative people living here, drawn to the beautiful and peaceful setting. It has a strong community feel.
I could definitely live a life by the sea, looking over the water to the 'mainland' and be blissfully glad to have escaped the bustle and highrise of suburbia.
This special island can be accessed by visiting by car or ferry, the villages of Bundeena, Bonnie Vale and Maianbar.

The Needles

Isn't it funny how you can live in an area for ages and then hear about a spot that everyone seems to know about except you.
The Needles was one such spot I heard about recently and I refused to be left out! Hence I went for a little explore yesterday. Some of the prettiest spots I find are right next to suburbia which gives them special meaning since I know they must be dear to the hearts of locals and visited by grateful adults, yelling happy children and wet excited dogs alike.
I have no idea how The Needles got it's name since it is a concrete causeway on a river with shallow rapids on one side and deeper water interspersed with shallow slabs of rock on the other. No needle like rocky pinacles in sight. In fact I thought it should be called The Hill since the walk back up it is a doozy! Not for the unfit, hence my mild exhaustion! This is a lovely spot for swimming in the warmer months, but bear in mind that return trip- you will not want to carry moaning children up it!