Fluffy, friendly wallabies with fluttering long lashes. They move awkwardly, tentatively on the ground when they're not jumping. They grab my hand to get better access to the little pellets I am feeding them, they crowd me, they let me pet them ever so gently. I speak to them like people speak to babies. It is the most startling, joyful experience. Later on they can be seen laying on the ground on their side or sitting with their back against a tree trunk in shapes that bemusingly mimic humans.
We see so many beautiful beaches, I lose count of them and forget their names. The memory sticks, though: the force of the waves, the crashing sound, water pulling away, sucked back in, fresh droplets pulling up sand and mixing into a frothy whirlpool that takes the colours of aquamarine and milk chocolate. We watch the surfers riding the waves, falling off their boards and wading back in. Such is life here by the beaches, the two constants: just as surely as the waves will come in and gnaw at the coast to then pull back out, so will the surfers go in day in day out only to come back in. They're not trying to get anywhere and that's what makes it so transfixing.
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