22/03/24 Sculptures Beside The Sea: Hallet Cove to Outer Harbor

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Here is a cruise ship in the morning. In two hours time, right about when I want to catch the train to Hallet Cove, thousands of cruise ship passengers will want to catch the same two-carriage train in to Adelaide city. 

Cruise ship in the morning.

Marina in the morning.

Why was I catching a train to Hallet Cove? It had to do with hills and wind and the fact that by riding from Hallet Cove to Outer Harbor rather than the other way around I would get the trifecta of tailwind, downhill, and another night in a comfortable bed. That was more than enough incentive for me to mess up my continuous line of travel by doing one bit backwards, even if I did have to contend with cruisers on the train.

See? It's downhill going this way.

I joined the sea at Brighton, on a day that could not have been more beautiful had it tried.  White beaches curved between gentle headlands, punctuated with quaint wooden jetties. The beachfront was largely empty, the wide expanses of sand claimed only by seagulls and benign waves.

Having ridden the beachfront so many times before, I resisted the temptation to put my head down and ride the wind all the way to Outer Harbor while not taking any notice of what was around me.  No, I pretended I hadn't seen any of this before and I took photos of all the artworks dotted along the beaches, and now I share them with you.  






I had coffee at Brighton and lunch at Henley Beach, finding the delicate balance between the too-hot sun and the too-cold shade.

Not bad at all.

As I made my way up past Grange the wind stirred the water to green and spattered it with white caps. At Largs I walked out the the end of the jetty and discovered that the wind was a lot stronger than I had thought: there were moments of difficulty related to the possibility of losing my hat forever to the sea.

The artworks continued.

I asked him to shove up a bit. He didn't move.

I squeezed in anyway.

Semaphore came and went, the coastal reserve imploring passers-by to stick to the path for fear of the damage their wandering feet could do to the dunes and the habitat of the hooded plover. The marina sang a song of ropes clattering against masts in the rising wind.

I'm home.

Dog was quite blase about my arrival, having obviously decided that I was the person who blew in at night, distributed treats with gay abandon, and disappeared on wheels in the morning and this was alright with him.

Me?  I was just glad to have a washing machine to use. And, of course, that comfortable bed.

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