Bombora (Hamilton Island)

Welcome to day three my dear reader. All the photos in this post were taken yesterday in the intermittent afternoon sun. It gave old Hammo an opportunity to show herself off a bit.

Looking down the hill at the marina

The pattern was set yesterday and we are adhering to it, at least for today. The Stone Curlews returned around dawn to serenade us. Oh, you don't know what a Stone Curlew sounds like my inquiring reader? Click here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qi1GX_VRaM0 I'm sure that will rectify the deficit in your knowledge of this Australian bird.

There was rain overnight, but today is proving the best to date. We had our breakfast in our room watching the fast moving clouds, occasional shower and the build up of people on the beach. 

Easter, it would appear, is not the time to travel to Hamilton Island. The weather is not ideal, well at least at this time, and it is very, very crowded. Perhaps the confluence of Easter and the Queensland school holidays has facilitated this, but all I know is that every restaurant we have tried to book has had nothing available. Or if they did it was at 8:30pm or later. As I am sure you realise my dedicated reader, I am turning 60 later this year and 8:30pm is my bed time - far too late to be entertaining dinner. Anyway eating that late will give you nightmares. We did have two restaurants organised for dinner, the Beach Club on our first night and Bommie tonight. (Hence today's title, Bombora by The Atlantics, a classic surf song from the '60s). Both were booked from Sydney two weeks ago. I'm supposed to be on a relaxing holiday - who thinks about booking dinner two weeks in advance?

When the tide goes out, it really goes out.

But I digress. Breakfast was lovely. We then continued in relaxation mode on the verandah - reading. Time for some activity. We walked the beach, thankfully the tide was at mid-point so there was plenty of sand. The crowds seemed a little smaller than yesterday, either that or the hordes of marauding, noisy children were amusing themselves with activities away from the beach. A wander into town supported the theory the children were not around. If it was the Pied Piper, I would happily pay the fee.

After calculating the wardrobe requirements for the remainder of our time, it became apparent I would be one shirt shy if we jagged a lunch or dinner reservation at the Golf Club or the like. Resort casual means a collar. Why not go all the way and insist on a tie as well. The fashion police are alive and well. A shopping expedition was incorporated into our morning walk and I am now the owner of a new Oakley shirt.

Glad I bought my reef shoes

Back at the resort, it's time to read on the verandah and contemplate the most serious problem for the day. What time to open the champagne? We have dinner at 6:30 tonight so the bubbles need to be moved forward.

Lunch is champagne and a charcuterie plate on the verandah, listening to the waves, background noise from the beach and rustling palms fronds as they sway in the breeze. If I close my eyes and ignore the sound of the palms I am transported back to my teenage years lying on Elouera or North Wollongong Beach being lulled to sleep by the waves, drowsing in and out of consciousness, thinking about life changing issues, like girls and sex and when I'll go and get some chips and a can of Passiona, the sun baking me brown. The only thing missing is the smell of coconut oil and the crackle of the loud speaker playing Crocodile Rock by Elton John. Ah the good old days. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have been sitting in the shade under the kiosk verandah, covered with a towel avoiding the skin cancers I have cultivated so carefully over my lifetime.

The charcuterie plate was delightful; prosciutto, salami, grilled zucchini, eggplant, pickled onions, greens, sour dough and sun dried tomato relish. The champagne of course, was the highlight. The rain came and left again. The sun has returned and the tide is still slowly ebbing away. Perhaps time for a siesta before the next round of activity.

Skippy having an afternoon feed

Siesta time was interrupted by tonight's favoured restaurant calling to confirm our booking. Our 6:30 reservation is now 7:15 and ... you are aware, it is the degustation sir? ... yes, that's fine ... and of course we have a dress code: no thongs, no beach wear and no singlets ... of course, do you mind if I go commando? ... and one more thing sir, purred the British accent, only people carrying Queensland passports or photographs of Joh Bjelke-Petersen or Clive Palmer are welcome. Long live the the right wing and white shoe brigade! I'm not really sure why I'm dining here, it really doesn't suit me. The last restaurant to question me about a dress code missed out on my dollars. Yes, I do have a jacket and no I'm not wearing to suit you (see what I did there?) - that was Dallas, Texas. The dining post-mortem will be posted tomorrow.

Until then.

It was so then, still not sure about the high rise.