There's a camping area on Smalley's Beach, and a Tourist Park at the eastern end of the Cape. Recalling that Darren The Fuckwit might have mentioned Smalley's as his next destination, we opt for the latter, and we're not disappointed. After a bit of bargaining, we get 2 chalets; one for Chris and I, one for Pete, Claire and the kids. The price is good.
If the price is good; the beach is beyond belief. The few wanderers across it are tiny in the distance; the sand impeccable, the sea and the headland (actually an island, joined to the mainland at low tide by a causeway) in the afternoon sun a delight. The sand is one great expanse of Bubbler crab casts; walking across it, even with bare feet, seems almost sacrilegous. Nearer the low water mark, sand dollars and fragments of coral are scattered. I decide to have a walk around Wedge Island, as it's low tide and I can get across the causeway. The tough scramble over the rocks, the setting sun, and the incoming tide very soon convince me a gentle potter and a timely return are rather more apropos...
Back at the Park, we head over to dinner in the restaurant; it's pretty busy tonight, but we're served soon enough. Grilled Barramundi is excellent, and pretty good value for $20. The Nice Lady at the bar sells us some more VB, since supplies took a bit of a pasting last night at Platypus Bush Camp. God, was that only last night?! There's still no phone reception here, so the chance to check emails is welcome. Nothing at all has occurred in the outside world, but it's still welcome. Wandering back, we bump in to Jim. Jim came from the roughest and most deprived part of Exeter, and left England in the 1960s, with his wife, Pat, to build a life. And what a life, of boats, fishing, living in the desert, and working as the only husband-and-wife team of roofers in Australia. They're now retired, and able to take it a little easy, deservedly so; which is how they come to be at Cape Hillsborough. Jim reminds me very strongly of my father, and is a fantastic storyteller, so we spend a delightful hour swapping tales. While we're talking, something like a miniature bustard wanders past, an outlandish-looking creature; in England, I'd have called it a Stone Curlew - and probably been completely wrong. Wallabies and possum also come past, curiously. It's a strange juxtaposition, watching them go by, and listening to the thunderous Black Cab on the Walkman. What's more, the weather feels like it's changing.
