Casey’s Beach is the closest to civilisation of all the beaches I’ve visited. Above it and alongside it is the coast road between Batemans Bay and Moruya, which replaces the usual dunes and backdrop of trees, houses close and cars scooting along about their afternoon business.
There are people about on this narrow strip of beach: a woman appearing from around the rocks with a folding chair slung over her shoulders: a woman on the grassy verge near the car park and picnic tables reading; a man bobbing about in the gentle waves; the boot of a car up revealing neat buckets of seaweed heading for somebody’s garden; people pulling in briefly to eat lunch-with-a-view. And me, bending to take off my shoes before I walk gingerly down the wooden steps onto unexpectedly coarse sand.
Out to sea are a number of rocky islets, one with a cap of trees, backgrounded by the low hills behind Batemans Bay.
I’m more interested in the up-close rocks at the northern end where the coast road swerves along the edge of what seems from below a precarious edge.
It’s there I find rock patterns, and what would be geological clues if only I could decode them.
A sea-worn log lies in my path as I return to the car, with that delicate lacework only the sea can create.
I end my beach stroll with a startling confrontation when I whip into the public loo to address that need that bedevils all geriatric walkers.