While One Of Us Is Working.

I think I'll change the name of this blog to WhileOneOfUsIsWorking.

Every Tuesday I knuckle straight down to the grind while Roger lolls around waiting to see if he works or not, and so far the not seems to outnumber the works. This week was particularly bad because I worked for four days instead of two, Roger didn't work at all, and of course the sun shone brightly while I was working so he left me and the tired old dog at home and set off to do some beach walking. "I won't send pictures," he said. "You'll just feel bad if I do that."

"Send pictures to your heart's content," I replied. "It will legitimise all the complaining that I intend to do."

 

Aldinga Beach with the reef visible at low tide.  Here be leafy seadragons and other assorted wonders, should you be suitably wet-suited and able to brave the cold water for long enough.

So there I was, working in my cold little office with an inspiring view of the colourbond fence while over the course of the next few days Roger lollygagged his way up the coastline, stopping only for coffees and to exclaim over the beautiful weather.

He sent me photos from Sellick's Beach:

"Look, a rock arch!"

"This is where the beach ends and the cliffs of the Fleurieu begin".

 and Silver Sands:

It's a pebble beach!

Watch out for cars.

Cars not allowed past this point.

By the time he got to Port Willunga the poor soul was exhausted and had to have a coffee to recuperate.

Remains of the old jetty, Port Willunga,

and the ruins of the harbour-master's house.

The next day the sun shone again and off he went with nary a thought as to me and the tired old dog locked up together in the cold house, one of us working her fingers to the bone and the other one lying in the sun and snoring loudly.

Maslin Beach was interesting.  It would have no doubt been even more interesting in Summertime.

"You'll have to come walk this bit with me.  I feel creepy walking by myself."

 

The cliffs along Maslin Beach were worth the risk of coming across a free bather in the wild.

He kept me informed of progress, lest I should have to come and rescue him from having too much of a good time.  Or a broken ankle, whichever should come first.

"It's slow going between Maslin Beach and Moana."

"Traversing the mighty Peddler Creek.  Moana tantalisingly close.  Wish me luck."

"Survived my wilderness trek.  Resupplying in Moana before the treacherous return."

 The beach, he informed me, was alive:

"Oh dear," he groaned, as he shuffled down the hallway to the shower on Thursday night.  "My legs are sore.  The day was so beautiful that I wore shorts, and my legs got sandblasted by the wind blowing along the beach! And it was such hard work rock-hopping around the headland between Maslin Beach and Moana! I'll welcome the rest tomorrow when it's cold and raining."

Oh the poor thing. 

I had no sympathy for him 

Not a bit.

The dog did not care.