MY FAVOURITE PLACE by Gloria Moress

It’s the island. I suppose they are typically romantic places, but Phillip Island isn’t that type of island. It’s well and truly anchored to the mainland by a massive bridge constructed of concrete and steel, and in no danger of drifting into the mists like the legendary Avalon, another favourite place of mine. I don’t remember my first visit, I just remember always going there, it always being there, like home. And in fact it was a second home, for my grandparents had a holiday house there from the time my mother was a girl.

We knew we were almost there when we reached the last hill before the road turned east to follow the coast. The hill was so high and steep that all one could see beyond it was the sky, and as we crested it, I was convinced the car would go sailing out over the ocean with the gulls. The first thing one saw over the hill was the edge of the world, where deep blue gave to pale blue, and there was really nothing beyond, on and on, till you reached ice.

The island was a treasure box filled with all my beloved things. Low rolling hills that were always green, dotted with sheep and fat red cattle, gelati parlours, windswept surf beaches, pony rides in the summer, the best newsagents in Australia and of course, my grandparents.

I spent my childhood scrambling over rocks, under tea trees, over dunes. Poking into rock pools and throwing stones at quick, clever toadies. Collecting pussy willows and cowrie shells, looking into burrows to be looked back at by a fairy penguin, waiting for dinner. The wind so wild and cold our eyes and noses ran and fingers were pink and numb. My very thoughts seemed to be blown out of my head, half formed, my only remaining conviction: that I was happy.

To my grandparent’s house, over a hundred years old, clung the chill damp of very old stone. Everything smelled different in that still air. Onion smelled sweeter, hot water cleaner, gravy more delicious than anywhere else. Coming back from our beach walk with Grandpa, my sister and I would be ushered into the lounge to watch TV, out from under Nanna’s feet in the kitchen, and an endless parade of lollies, biscuits, chocolates and nuts, all in little bowls, would keep us quiet till dinner.

We snuggled into our cosy beds at night with Nanna, who told us the story of The Princess and the Golden Ball. We never tired of hearing it, but Nanna must have tired of telling it, for she made our much younger cousin a tape recording of the story. Despite promising each other we’d wake up for a midnight feast a la Enid Blyton’s stories, my sister and I never failed to sleep through the night. Unsurprising, for we had exhausted ourselves playing in a land of wonder and possibility, and we planned to do it all again tomorrow.

Gloria Moress ©