Growing up in a working class suburb of Melbourne, I lived in only two homes during my pre-adult life. The first was a Californian bungalow, the other a simple weatherboard. Although my childhood was stereotypically suburban (albeit we had more freedom in the 90s compared to urban kids today), the two places that left the biggest imprint on me were two homes I loved but never lived in - one in the country and one by the coast. My grandparents rural plot in the small historic town of Rushworth and the beach shack my parents rented each year in the seaside village of Lorne.
Both properties were equidistant from home but the journeys traversed contrasting terrain in opposing directions. Heading north inland to the heart of regional Victoria, the highway was largely long and straight with jade or bronze hills rolling along beside us, depending on the season of our visit. Driving west around the bay towards the Surf Coast we’d drink in a 360 degree view of the city before winding our way along the Great Ocean Road in awe of the towering gum trees and steep cliffs rising out of the sea. These picturesque routes and the sensorial environments that awaited us on arrival couldn’t have been more different from one another, or from where I was raised.
Lorne was a deluge of greens and blues, a place of mostly sun and sand. Always of water. We’d watch it shape-shift, listen to it sing, when not submerged in it we would feel it hanging in the air, always on our skin, in our hair, on our lips.
There is no ocean near Rushworth, there rain is a precious gift. In the country it is the wind that dances through the overgrown and under-watered grass that communes with you alongside a chorus of serenading insects. There is vast open space and vistas to rest your gaze upon. The dirt is dry, the air dusty and the heat scorches underfoot.
Whilst visiting Rushworth I felt grounded by the silence of the bush, in Lorne the ocean engulfed me.
The sound of savage waves announcing their arrival with a forceful crescendo upon the shore is the soundtrack of my childhood holidays spent in Lorne. The simple two bedroom elevated beach shack we occupied for a week every Autumn was perched only 20 metres back from the sand and fierce swell. We practically tasted the salt spray in the air from the front deck, which ran the length of the house and looked out over a panoramic view of the Southern Ocean, glimpsing the town in the crook of Louttit bay. The heady mix of sea air and salty chips lingers in my memory still, sitting on that balcony after long days in the surf, engulfed in the beauty and rapture of that magnetic, melodic tide.
At night it would sing us to sleep. Its echoes permeating our dreams. When we woke from the deepest of slumbers and emerged from our beds, it spoke in shimmers ‘good morning’ as the early light danced across its rippling surface. Another day at the beach beckoned.
Most days we’d set up a spot with our beach-going gear not far from the shops and boogie board for hours on end. All of us - mum, dad, me and my brother; only pausing to inhale lunch before immersing ourselves in the push and pull of waves until the tide gave in.
Other days we’d simply cut through the overgrowth that separated our house from the shore, cross the highway and hang out at our favourite rock pool. A natural lagoon large enough to swim in and far enough away from the main drag to warrant seclusion, here our imaginations were granted freedom to run wild. Smooth, weather worn, coffee coloured rocks dominate the eastern stretch of this bay and this protected pool was our favourite of all. We longed to reacquaint ourselves with our oasis every year as a matter of urgency. I loved to daydream here, scrambling on rocks, imagining what lurked in the nooks and crannies I was far too fearful to approach. Whilst our minds wandered over masses of barnacles and clusters of mussels, we only needed to tilt our heads inland to spy our humble little abode jutting out above the she-oaks, to once again find our bearings. This pool and that house are etched upon my heart forever. They will always feel like home because for a week every year of my childhood they were.
The house still stands today surprisingly, in spite of the developments that have overtaken the street as land prices have skyrocketed in subsequent decades. That priceless view now only belongs to the ridiculously wealthy or the generationally fortunate. Although I haven’t stepped foot inside that house for 20 years, I remember every inch as if I occupied it at present. The mustard lino clad kitchen, the timber panelled cupboards that smelled of dust and aging boardgames, the retro corner shower lined with the sand we’d shed each day, the unsealed grooves of the decking boards pressing into our feet as we’d run back and forth, up and down with the sheer excitement of being in our favourite place in the whole world. We wanted for nothing those languid weeks by the sea but to be within earshot of those thunderous white caps at all times.
As darkness fell we’d all shriek with delight at the sighting of ‘Magic Beach’, watching with awe as the moon made ‘a silvery path on the sea’, illuminating a staircase directly to us from across the water. I was convinced our family’s favourite book was written about this beach, our beach. The rock pools, the jetty, the moon - our holidays were mirrored back to us in Alison Lesters prose and pictures.
‘Magic Beach’ still sits pride of place on my children’s bookshelves. Like many Australian families, we adore this book (it was the first my own mother bought our eldest daughter when she was still in utero) and never tire of reading and re-reading it. The memories all the more sweeter having lived the story.
My kids have a different relationship with the ocean than I did as a child. It is not a place they visit everyday for a week once a year but a natural extension of their home. They interact with the sea as equally as they do parks and playgrounds. The beach is one of their classrooms (an open air, living, breathing science lab) that alongside our garden, the local library, green spaces and wild places, make up their homeschool campus. They are growing up beside the sea but also, in the bush.
We live in a semi-rural town beside Western Port Bay on a 1/4 acre block surrounded by eucalypts, acacias and casuarinas. Sulphur crested cockatoos, kookaburras, eastern rosellas, galahs, rainbow lorikeets and magpies are our neighbours. It is peaceful and quiet in this little pocket of the Peninsula and we are absolutely spoiled for choice when it comes to choosing which beach to explore on any given day.
It is only on reflection that this all comes into alignment. The knowing in my bones that this is where I want to spend the rest of my life. Our home is the ideal blend of two places I never lived in but always loved. Whether deliberately or unknowingly, I was always meant to find my way here. I know this is where I belong, where we all belong.
And just like those two houses, one in the country and one by the sea, our humble home is small and it overflows with love. It connects us to the land upon which it is built and the country on which we gather with our beloved community. Here, life is simple, slow and intentional. This is the home I live in and will always love.