It's Sunday morning, and we're going home today. Avalon Beach Retreat is a maelstrom of cases, bags, clothes, towels, shoes, and collection of tangled cables and miscellaneous chargers for cameras, DVD players and Mac. I've packed my hand luggage - which is the only thing that Mrs V insists that I do - so, in the interests of family harmony, I'm now keeping out of the way, tapping diligently at my keyboard.
We've got until 11 o' clock to vacate the house and - as it's now 5 past - I think we're a little behind schedule. Quelle surprise. Still, there's no sign of the landlord yet, so let's keep our heads and concentrate on the task at hand which is, I suppose, updating you on our exploits yesterday.
You'll be far from shocked to hear that, with the weather getting hotter by the day, there was nought for us to do but to hit the beach again. It was our last full day so we managed a relatively early start and installed ourselves on Palm Beach. It was pretty busy, it being a Saturday, but there was a very pleasant cosmopolitan atmosphere with a mix of young families, couples and groups of (well behaved) teenagers. I think I went on enough in my Boxing Day post about the stark differences between a day at the beach Oz style and its dirtier, louder and altogether less appealing alternative back home, so I won't labour the point much further, suffice to say that it was a nice, safe, chav-free environment that suited us just fine.
Tizer and I decided to dig a hole - well, I suppose it was mostly at my insistence rather than her's - but as my pit deepened she seemed suitably impressed and installed herself in it with glee. To be fair, this caused something of a sand-slide back into the hole, which I did my best to stem by digging around her, but I felt I was almost certainly fighting a losing battle.
We lunched on hot-dogs bought from 'Summer Bay' Surf Lifesaving Club. The sign outside actually said 'Summer Bay' - I assume it makes it easier for them when they're filming. The number of people all but queuing up to take photos of themselves in front of the sign astounded me. You will, no doubt, be proud to hear that I managed to resist the temptation myself.
After lunch all that was left to do was to make the most of our very last afternoon in Australia. It could have been a rather depressing and melancholy moment, but with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky, a gentle sea-breeze keeping us cool, children playing in the surf and Tizer destroying all the hard work I'd put into digging my hole, it would have seemed churlish to feel down. It's a truly beautiful spot, and so typically Aussie; I couldn't think of a better place to while away the last hours of our honeymoon.
Our last glimpse of beautiful Palm Beach
Come late afternoon we accepted that it was time to quit. We had the delightful Monica coming to sit for Tizer so that Mrs V and I could have our last night out together, so we needed to head back to get ready. We'd booked a table at Barrenjoey House, the restaurant we ate at on Christmas Eve, and if the delicious fish and mojitos we'd enjoyed on that occasion were anything to go by, we were in for a cracking dining experience to end our jolly hol.
Grown-ups showered and dressed in their finest (well, the finest we had left at this late stage in our trip) and Tizer bathed and pyjama-ed, Monica showed up bang on time. Tizer was very happy to see her again, charging towards her open arms shouting "Mony!". She's clearly made an impression, this lady. We'd booked ourselves a taxi to get us back up to Palm Beach and, as the house is set quite a way back from the main road and behind another bungalow, we went out onto the street to meet it. The allotted time for the cab came - and passed. We gave it 10 minutes, quarter of an hour, 20 minutes, then realised the awful truth: Taxis are a law unto themselves the world over and their reliability will only ever be surpassed by their cleanliness. It wasn't coming, and we were going to have to make alternate plans.
So, we headed back into Avalon and found ourselves at a little cafe/bistro type place on the corner of the crossroads in the centre of town. I ordered scallops and then salmon, as did Mrs V and, it must be said in all fairness, that this was the most appalling meal we'd had during our entire trip. Hell, this was possibly one of the worse meals we'd had in our adult lives - barring the odd and always unfortunate venture into a McDonalds (which in itself is something I choose to do about as readily as having root canal work). Over-cooked, over-garlicy rubbish. The wine was OK, but it wasn't particularly cold, and I'm really not the world's biggest fan of room temperature Sauvignon Blanc. This would have been a crying shame at the best of times, but on our last night it was a horrible disappointment.
We left, without bothering to be offended by desert or coffee and ensuring that we didn't leave a tip, and made our rather dejected way to the tapas restaurant that we'd had such a starkly contrasting evening in only two nights previous. Whilst we were in no mood for anymore food, we did have the energy for a mojito or two and that - combined with another pleasant chat with Charley and the barman - restored our faith in Avalon once again. By the time we made our way home to relieve Monica (who no doubt, by now, had taught Tizer the full Spanish text of 'Hamlet) we were feeling a little more chipper. After all, one has to be philosophical about these things, and one bad meal out of 60-odd can't really be sniffed at, can it? Just a shame it was our last night, that's all.
Tizer was away with the fairies and Monica was, once again, watching Spanish TV when we got back. We had a lovely long chat with her about Chile - which sounds like a fascinating country to visit - and she even gave is the card of a friend who runs a travel agency out there. So - watch this space for an upcoming Chilean blog, perhaps...
Well, still no sign of the landlord and his cleaning team, but by the looks of things we're very nearly packed (I say 'we', but as I've already pointed out, my input has been minimal to say the least). And so, it looks like it's home time, dear reader. The next blog I post will be from a much colder place on the other side of the planet, and the next proper bed I'll sleep in will be my own - in about 40 hours time. So long, Australia, and thanks for the time of our lives.
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