The train rolled out of Bomaderry. I’d been planning to do this but had put it on the backburner. So far back I’d forgotten but a cancellation had put it back on the agenda. That, and the fact the swell was up. I was Kiama bound.
The countryside was a feast for the eyes. Verdant fields rolled either side of the tracks with the sandstone ridge line prominent in the western sector. Grain crops soon to be harvested and cattle seemed to be the main reasons for farming around here.
As we approached Kiama, after leaving Gerringong, my first view of the coast in some time brought forth lonely beaches and headlands. I pondered their access. Was it possible to get up close and personal with these remote beaches?
Then we disappeared into a tunnel and there was a beach on the other side as well. Faint hope I would ever get to see them other than the railway.
I dragged my bike off the train at Kiama, thankful the railways had re-configured the carriages so a couple of bikes and wheelchairs could use the transport with ease. Bound for the number one tourist attraction, the blowhole, it would be a shared experience. It was school holidays, the swell was up, it was a fine day. The local cafes must have been rubbing their hands in glee.
At the famed site there was indeed a gathering of around sixty or so and the whooomp as the unseen swell roared into the cave beneath before ejecting skywards is always guaranteed to heighten expectations. Gasps followed moment later as the spume roared skywards, creating its own rainbow if you stood in the right place to take advantage of the sun’s rays.
Eventually tiring of the spectacle I drifted east across the coarse magma remnants. The jagged edges of tiny air holes from millennia ago made for a good walking grip but my fingers were not amused.
The swell was pounding the coast, trying to climb over any protruding piece of rock it could find. It seemed that if one area was not going to succumb it would try each succeeding protrusion until something finally gave. Spray popped up in so many places you weren’t quite sure where to look but I found a spot where one could watch the ocean’s rise and fall and spent some time there.
The droplets drifted across the coarse volcanic remnants. The salt could be tasted as I rolled my tongue across my upper lip and moustache. In time I moved around to the harbourside, snapped a couple of headland shots and was soon off. The cafes got my business soon after. Nothing like a lamb pie and some hot chocolate to rejuvenate the body and soul.
Seeking greener photographic pastures around the harbour, I made my way towards one of the excellent ocean baths. Surprisingly, on this day where the winds were clearly coming from the snowy peaks further south, a couple of older males slowly churned up the water while I wondered whether or not I should have brought a second jumper.
The receding tide made walking on the rock shelf possible. The light was bright and the cliffs behind, where some residences enjoyed “genuine water views”, stood proud before the sun. One or two crevices had water rushing back and forth with kelp keeping time with the sea’s rhythm. There was a certain bliss to be had walking here on this day and I hoped my shots would reflect that.
With some time left I headed to the other side of the peninsula where a small bay welcomed the advancing swells. A group of men with funny looking things were nearby as I clambered across the rocks seeking vantage points. As the button was pressed for the first video it was impossible not to hear the wailing bagpipes beside me. Coupled with the thrashing waves, it made for an unusual background noise.
Soon after I boarded the train, wondering if I would see its like again.