resort

We wake after eight. The wind rattles the windows and rain puddles in the car park. We peer from our second-storey window at families wheeling their luggage from three multi-towered resorts around Warrnambool’s Lady Bay to their four-wheel drives. Middle-aged women with badges on their ballooning bosoms cross from their overnight lodgings to the conference centre.

“I reckon they’re healthcare workers,” I tell to my good woman.

The weather forestalls our hoped-for bike ride along the foreshore, so we loll about on our acre of bed, massaging each other’s feet. We sully all the pristine white towels because we don’t have to launder them. My good woman’s yogurt and raspberry breakfast freezes overnight in the tiny fridge. I eat Weeties with yesterday’s blackberries. God bless the eleven o’clock checkout.

I ferry our small bags to the car while my good woman rounds up her toiletries. Knots of healthcare conferees jam the foyer, stuffing themselves with morning tea. I disturb one as she ladles clotted cream onto a discus-sized scone and ask about the conference theme. “Breast-feeding,” she informs.

I envision breast versus bottle contingents. “Will there be blood-letting,” I ask hopefully. “Scuffles, scone-throwing?” She has no humour; a terse no.

My good woman sees no point to a conference about breast-feeding. Perhaps it’s about technique, not whether or not it’s a good thing, I offer as we roll out of the car park.

At Allansford we jostle our way around Cheeseworld’s cheese room, then bump our way on lumpy bitumen to Timboon. The boutique shopping in this tiny town surprises my good woman. I buy her a cloche hat, though she doesn’t wear hats. The shop lady tells us we are a cute couple. I am beyond response.

We meander and rollercoaster our way along deserted back roads for the next two hours, past dairy farms and pasture seed businesses, through Simpson and Carlisle River to Colac, picking more blackberries along the way.

Colac on a mid-Saturday afternoon fails to inspire in every way. Dingy smelly arcades run off the main street which seems to be the exclusive province of grubby obese young women. Paint-flaking showrooms line the desultory entrance and exit to the town along the highway. The Lebanese café looks good but the food disappoints.

We bypass Geelong on the new peripheral. The traffic thickens as we approach Melbourne’s sprawl. The underground thrum of the Burnley Tunnel fills me with a dull dread. At about six we are in my good woman’s drive and our small but wonderful adventure is over.

Rock on.