Did I sleep peacefully? That’s an excellent question. If we ignore the fact that my legs far exceed the width of the car’s rear space, and that several times over the night (after having bent them, stretched them, against the window, against the front seat’s headrest, on the floor) I just wanted to get rid of those two annoying excrescences, yes, I slept peacefully. I opened an eye under a windscreen dotted with massive raindrops – seems like it rained! -, as the top of the skulls of the first strollers came into my field of vision. I secretly hoped none of them had noticed me.

But fundamentally, what difference would it have made if they’s seen me and wondered what the hell I was doing here, snoozing at the back of my MG? Exactly. Nothing.

The sky is overcast when I drag out. I have breakfast on a soaked picnic table, watching the (old) early birds walking their dogs and power-walking. You can feel the atmosphere lightening, and by the time I head for the local café, it’s starting to get quite nice. I take a seat on Mormors’ tree-lined sunny terrace, caressed by the warm and comforting air as I scribble in my notebook. I visit the little boutiques, talk ancestors search with an eccentric shopkeeper in love with Italy, then I set off. 

My first stop is not so far. A pinnacle site, apparently worth the detour, a little before the town of Eden. I enter the road, which is actually a dusty red dirt track, wide enough perhaps, but rough, mostly. I pray I won’t lose a tire. It’s a bumpy ride all the way to a parking lot in the middle of a sparse forest. There’s only one other vehicle, not a single soul around. 

The path that leads to the viewpoint weaves its way through grey and crooked trees. As I have absolutely no idea what kind of creatures might be living in arid vegetation like this, I reactivated my highest vigilance level. I’m thinking about vipers and scorpions. Ugh. I don’t want to think about it.

I emerge onto a cliff plateau reminiscent of the hot and dry atmosphere of southern France. Then, finally, there they are, the pinnacles. Ok, that’s awesome. The colors are violent and sublime, almost dazzling me. It’s sharp, vivid. And I have all this just for me.

Back on the road, I don’t know it yet, but the (very long) portion ahead of me is a hell of nothing. I leave Eden behind me, the roadside fills with dark-trunked eucalyptus trees, and that’s it. For three hours. No exit, no crossroad, no roundabout, only trees, trees, trees. I pass from NSW to Victoria. Occasionally, the road crosses a plateau and the view clears, the ocean of forest stretches to the horizon, and this immensity makes me a little anxious. On top of that, the network fails me half the time, interrupting my avid listening to the first (excellent) episode of Memento Mori, The Weeknd’s radio show. I lose it behind the wheel.

Eventually, I reach Cann River, a godforsaken place exactly halfway between Merimbula and Lakes Entrance, my next stop. If the idea of a hole in the middle of Victoria’s forest evokes you Texas in the 90s, please know you got it right. There I try a meat pie pepper steak with more pepper than steak (brilliant idea given that it’s 40° in the shade) and a biscoff cheesecake that was probably not essential. Let’s rate 4/10 for this purely utilitarian lunch.

I arrive at Lakes Entrance with the firm intention to make the best out of the holiday sea breeze of this pleasant and popular seaside resort. But as in Batemans Bay, what my brain projects when it hears nice seaside resort is hit hard by reality, which it judges seaside, maybe, but pleasant, not that much. This doesn’t stop me from heading to the ocean to feel it with the tips of my toes, and the tips of my dress too, which gets wet because I’m too lazy to take it off, but I still want to play in the water. The beach is wild and immense. But it doesn’t hold me back for long, as the next part of my program is far more exciting: I have a rendez-vous with some koalas. 

I’ve read that you can observe them in their natural environment, on the small (inhabited) island of Raymond Island. To get there, you have to cross a canal on a long, free ferry. The crossing takes approximately two and a half minutes. It’s 5pm, there are four of us on the boat, and except for me, nobody seems to be a tourist.

I start to follow the colored marks of the koala trail. There are few, if any, cars on Raymond Island, only houses and bushes. I walk head in the air, eyes-searching through foliage, all ears. I progressively leave the inhabited neighborhoods for a wilder area. Nothing. Yet, I was almost certain I’d see some, as there are nearly 200 of them living there. I try to temper my frustration and to be reasonable: it’s wild life, it’s just the way it is, you can’t control it, and that’s what makes it so precious.

A rustle of wings, I get surprised by two little parrots of a deep, flamboyant red, their plumage dotted with vibrant blues, yellows, greens. I notice that all around, the air swishes with the chirping of birds of all kind. A lady passes by with her dog on the track, a handful meters away. 

Then at last, I see one. A little koala lazily lying on a branch, at good height. I can’t distinguish him perfectly, but I know he’s here. I look at his little, rounded back, his fur that seems so soft. Well, at least I didn’t came for nothing. I’d have seen one.

While I’m still absorbed in my contemplation, I hear some cracks, a little further on in the bushes. A kangaroo pops in. He leaps out from the thicket, hopping swiftly, not even ten meters from me. I can hardly believe it. I didn’t even know there were kangaroos on this island.
Of course I take my phone out, and while filming, I make my way back to the path where, logically, I should find him. Bingo. There he is, standing on the side. He’s massive, as tall as me. I film and walk around him, not losing sight of him a single second, keeping a respectable distance. I don’t want him to attack me, because I’m clearly no match for him. And, just as I’m holding my breath experiencing this face to face, I hear someone call out to me. The dog lady, saying « Come here! There’s a big koala on the fence! Come come! ».

No. It can’t be. I’ve passed the kangaroo, who has stepped onto the path, to my left. I turn around, and to my right, there is a huge koala, sitting on the fence of a house. I think I’m dreaming. At this very moment, I sincerely believe I’m the luckiest person on earth. And my gratitude is infinite. I get closer. The animal is placid, his movements are slow, heavy. The lady explains that it’s an old male, recognizable by his nose, his chest and his scars. She tells me it’s pretty uncommon to see them like this, they almost never come down.

There’s a ray of sunlight filtering through branches, just on this little corner of garden. I stare at him a long while, blissful and in disbelief. I stay until he decides to leave. All the while, I remain silent, as you do in those sacred moments, the ones that are a little beyond you. 

On the way back from Raymond Island, I caught glimpse of many more perched koalas, a flock of parakeets, black swans sailing on metallic water. I drove along misty meadows decorated with a few lone trees, whose silhouettes moved me. I didn’t know where I was going to sleep, waiting for the moment I’d come upon a spot that I’d consider suitable. Startford won the prize. Its red brick facades, some string lights, lively terraces. I wasn’t asking for more.

I had dinner facing a Tuscan sunset (valley of river and cypress trees turning green to black, round and orange sun in a rectangular sky), I wandered in some streets under the pink sky, then changed places at least four times before settling in for the night. Quite a mess. 

The morning is foggy, for once. I wedge myself into a nook of Badger and Hare, the nice local spot, with a large latte. After that, it’s another long stage to Mornington Peninsula, my last stop before Melbourne. Here, we’re no longer talking pleasant or lovely or charming seaside resort, we’re talking Australia’s St-Tropez, mediterranean vibes and all. But given my previous experiences, I try to temper my expectations.

My final destination is Sorrento, but to get there I pass through a few villages that seem pretty appealing. The roadsides are bustling with families wearing flip-flops, carrying big floaties, parasols and colored beach towels. The decor is set. Without always wanting to compare everything, the atmosphere is a clever blend of Côte d’Azur and Arcachon Basin. There’s worse. 

Big crush for Sorrento, set almost at the tip of the peninsula, between a ocean beach and a bay beach. The village is pretty, clean, offering lovely shops and tempting restaurants. Obviously, this is not the ready-made-salad-and-rice-crackers vibe, but I try my best to fit in. I try out the two beaches, come across three different wedding ceremonies in less than half an hour (one on each beach and one on the terrace of the village’s fancy  restaurant, they’ve definitely got the word out), it’s a little overrated but I can live with it. 

After a good wade in fresh water to compensate for the stifling heat of the outside, I take advantage of the beach shower to discreetly soap up, then make a quick trip back to Woolworths to buy… you know what. This little expedition gets me late for the sunset. Here I am running up the sandy path to the viewpoint above ocean beach (how useful was it to take a shower if I was going to ruin everything by breaking out in a sweat an hour later) but my efforts pay off: I arrive just in time. You can never have enough of this kind of spectacle.

I head back down to dine on the wide wooden platforms overlooking the beach. The diluted colors of the water and the sky fascinate me. It’s my favorite part of the day. It soothes me, fills me up, I take 42 pictures of the same panorama, but each movement of light gives it a new sparkle.

I consider staying on the beach parking lot for the night. By conscience, I drive around the village one last time, long after the night fell, but in the end, I’ll be just as comfortable there. It’s hot as hell in the car, I sleep a little laboriously, but every time I wake up, I hear the rolling of the waves and I see the starry sky through the window, and I tell myself it’s worth all the trouble.

The daylight tickles me at the very moment the horizon begins to take on colors. Some kayakers are getting ready for a dawn session. The first swimmers arrive to enjoy the beach’s natural pool before it gets busy. I’m at the same vantage point as the day before, on my wooden platform, just as transfixed by the landscape in its early-morning garb.

It was a perfect last stop. I conclude my mediterranean sojourn (this time, I validate the comparison) with a visit to Sorrento Social, the café I’d dream of having on my street corner. Then I drive along the coast toward Mount Martha and its colored beach cabins, toward Mornington and its lively high street. It’s time to take on Melbourne.

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