Definitely The Last Days of Summer.

Despite being mentally a long way from the sea, McLaren Vale was really quite close to the coast. In fact, if I walked the dog up the hill behind the house and turned my back to the vineyards, I could see the the flat silver sea out beyond the beaches of Moana and Maslin. In the early morning the sea was dull and dark with the last dregs of the night; in the late evening it glittered gold and pink as the sun said goodbye.

This year summer took a while to get off the starting blocks but compensated by graciously extending itself past March and into the early days of April. "We should have a picnic at the beach," declared Roger. "These are the last warm days before winter."  Those of you who read this blog regularly will know that he declares the Last Days of Summer on a regular basis every year, and he has been proclaiming thus for the last three weeks at least.

I didn't think to take a picture of the far-away sea: here instead is moonset over vineyards.

 We took the dog with us to the beach, thereby ensuring that he would morph from white and fluffy to grey and dreadlocked, condemning us to dog-washing and brushing when we got home. He didn't seem to care.

How quickly can a white dog turn grey?  Very quickly, as it turns out.

 

We did this two days in a row, first at Maslin Beach where we ate our camembert and crackers at a lookout high above the sea. South lay the long stretch of Maslin Beach, sailboats tucked into the protection of Blanche Point's sharp white and red cliffs for the night. To the north lay Ochre Point at the end of the long beach, a few families frolicking in the lazy waves while the sun sank slowly toward the end of the day.

The same optical illusion that gives us ghost ships delivered a flat sun for minutes after the sun had set.

 

The following day we picnicked at Moana Beach, which divided itself neatly along the lines of vehicular access: to the south a parking lot of those who couldn't (or couldn't be bothered to) walk down to/along the beach. Remember the numpties from when I camped here? This is where they came to churn up the sand while they compensated for their lack of... social skills,  and annoyed the more responsible beach drivers in the process.

 

 

To the north lay the pedestrian end of the beach; dogs, children, lovers, all soaking up the sun. Three young women stood in the shallows, chatting animatedly. A young man on a paddle board paddled past. If they noticed him they gave no sign. He paddled back, executing complex paddleboard moves. They continued chatting. He put down his paddle and completed a yoga routine on his board. The young women remained firmly engrossed in their conversation and the paddle boarder, after paddling in a few disconsolate circles as close to them as social convention allowed, finally got the message and went on his way. Whatever they were talking about kept them there, at the edge of the sea, all the while we ate our picnic and watched the sun set. They were still there when we left to take our dirty dog home.

 

No-one is looking at you.

Good night.