

We headed away this weekend, down the coast two hours to Gerroa, a beachside village at the head of Seven Mile Beach noted for how little there is to do there except enjoy the surf and the beach. We rented a beach house with old friends Martin and Drew, and despite some of the wettest weather ever recorded in Sydney last week, were expecting a weekend of sun. In my mind's eye we would be spending our days sunbathing, swimming and lazing about, Sweet Manhattans in one hand, Raoul the Columbian pool boy in the other, and our nights on the deck barbecuing and sipping white wine.
During the 2 hour drive to Gerroa on Friday night we are optimistic - the skies are clear and blue, we watch the sun set and the moon rise. What do those weathermen know anyway? Then ahead, on the freeway, the sky is blackened by the appearance of the sort of dark clouds usually reserved for the apocalypse, rising like volcanic smoke from the horizon. Then the rain begins to fall, and lash and lash... until only the hysterical setting on the windscreen wipers will do. I know this all sounds like a recipe for disaster but think again. As it turned out the house was so gorgeous it mattered not what the weather was doing. Architecturally interesting, the house was constructed as two pavilions, a rear one, home to three bedrooms and two bathrooms, connected to the front pavilion by a deck. The front pavilion was a huge open plan L-shaped kitchen/living/dining room with impossibly comfortable leather couches surrounding a fireplace, an immaculate modern kitchen centred around a large stone island and, best of all, floor-to-ceiling windows offering uninterrupted views along the beach. We had the fire lit all day every day, food cooking, wine open, papers out and there we stayed. Our one excursion was a hastily aborted attempt at a walk on the beach, from where we were sent packing by violent winds and a cold, sobbing two year old. Truly there was nothing better than being trapped in this divine house, safe and warm, while we watched the tempest rage outside from front row seats. Perfect.