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“You don’t have squeaky white sand like this in Cornwall, do you?” Sas asked.
I admitted that no, we didn’t, and it was pretty special – but reminded her that she’d only just realised that we had lovely beaches there. I remember remarking truculently to her that most Australians think that there is no such thing as a sandy beach anywhere in the UK.
I recall some years ago being down on the pebbly beach in Brighton, talking to a bunch of Aussies who were full of merriment and asking them what was so funny. They said, “You call this a beach?”
Rick and Sarah (Sas) Stein with their ocean view from Bannisters at Mollymook.Credit:
I remember the first time, 20-odd years ago, when I set foot on Mollymook beach, asking Sas if there were any other beaches with such “squeakiness” in Australia. “Of course,” she said.
Sunrise at Mollymook on the NSW south coast.Credit:
I also remember the deep blue of the sky, the green of the sea and the shocking intensity of the sun. I was told it was something to do with the ozone layer but, as a pathetic white pom, it felt like it was almost angry in its searing intensity.
I soon bought a little pop-up tent to protect myself while reading my books and waiting for my wife to come back from a series of long conversations with the many people she knew on the beach. I knew that her first remark upon her return would be how extraordinary to find the Gales, the Parellis and the Coutts, and me thinking it was not extraordinary at all. They come here every year and the ritual is repeated.
It seemed to sum up everything I’ve come to love about Australia. The enthusiastic brashness of it, the lively chat, the surf, the fact that there are always hundreds of people surfing or swimming, the general euphoria once out in the waves with lots of other people. I once heard a man shout, “I don’t know if anyone is interested but there is a two-metre shark over there!” I may not have been the first out of the water but I was close to it.
In the early days I recall, with my wife and my stepchildren, the daily ritual of taking tents, seats, surfboards, rashies, food and lots of water, not to mention copious amounts of high-factor sun cream. It felt like preparing for a serious hiking expedition.
“The best memories are of north Mollymook around sunset, when Sas’ family amass, with games of cricket and touch football, and beers and champagne to celebrate the end of the day.”Credit:
These days I note everyone has little four-wheeled collapsible trailers and the amazing Cabana sun shelters, which are so simple to erect. I never quite mastered the art of uncoiling my spring-sided tent, and always suffered the embarrassment of never being able to coil them flat back into the tiny bag they came in. It almost felt like a rite of passage to achieve that.
The Cornwall-style fish and chips from Rick Stein’s new restaurant at Coogee beach.Credit: Jack Fenby
Now, with the children grown up, we just bring a small pink parasol and I actually engage in quite a lot of conversation myself.
The best memories, though, are of north Mollymook around sunset, when Sas’ family amass, with games of cricket and touch football, and beers and champagne to celebrate the end of the day.
Quite often we will order flathead and chips from The Fish Shop at Burrill Lake, always wrapped, with a wedge of lemon rather than sprinkled with vinegar – I think possibly the best fish and chips anywhere in Australia.
One night on the beach, maybe after a couple of beers too many, I dropped my phone in the sand. No amount of fumbling around could find it. One of Sas’ friends, Libby Toakley, organised 20 people to stand next to each other, feet together and shuffling through the sand.
It was just the generosity and the feeling of belonging that came over me when it was found.
Rick Stein is a chef, restaurateur, author and TV presenter.
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