Wednesday, October 20, 2010
East of Albany, the whales are still rolling about in the tuquoise waters of long, white bays.
Sand so fine it squeaks beneath your feet.
Smoke haze from the out-of-control fires at Bluff Creek.
Working with necessity being the mother of invention and a strange but fine tuned sense of aesthetics, commercial fishermen have been building shacks along the coast for generations. The one above is Grievous' brother's shack. Another brother built one at Drage's Beach where they fished for herring but now all that remains is a fireplace in the bush.
Next ... Whale Villa, where the Gordon Inlet greets a hard, wind swept sand bar and the flock of resting plovers rise in unison straight into the sky. They settle just as fast, on the skin of the water, as the dog swaggers away.
Below, the caravan's door opens into a dinky verandah, looking out to the sea. The backs of all the fishing shacks appear verdant, healthily green with a lingering smell ... yes, it's the septic tank. There's a great fig tree growing out the back of just about all these shacks.