offshoot o f Bateman Bay, and it is singularly satisfying. All day and all night th e surf is omnipresent, sometimes softly lapping the sand, at other s crawling in with its white ripples, to break and seethe up the beach , rolling pebbles and shells with a tinkling music, and now and agai n rolling in with grand boom and roar, to crash on the strand and drag th e gravel back with a mournful scream. A sad emotion-provoking sound on an y shore!
Every tide leaves lines and patches and mounds of shells. Gatherin g shells is one of the great privileges of a fisherman, and I hav e accumulated over five hundred here, of many varieties. Shells have a singular appealing beauty. The search for new and different ones, for a perfect one of a certain kind, or a treasure just rolled up out of th e unknown, grows in its fascination and adds many full moments to life , and pictures that will never fade from memory.
Birds here at Crescent Bay are rather few and far between. Even the se a birds are scarce. Gulls, terns, herons and cormorants frequent th e shores, mostly early in the mornings. In the dark of dawn a trio o f rascally kookaburras visit camp and set up a most raucous laughing , reverberating din in the giant trees, and then, having notified me tha t the break of day is at hand, they depart. They are not friendly here a s were those at Bermagui. There are always ravens to be heard at od d moments of the day. These at Bateman Bay have the most dismal, grievou s note I ever heard birds utter. They would be perfectly felicitous i n Dante's Inferno. It is a hoarse, low, almost wild caw, penetrating , disturbing. You find yourself questioning your right to be happy--tha t calamity is abroad.
The magpies have a wonderful liquid, melodious note, somewhat similar t o the beautiful one of the tui in New Zealand. The thrush sings rarel y along this shore, and his call makes you stop to listen. There are othe r songsters that add to the joy of this camp site, but as I cannot identif y them by their music alone they must go nameless.
Traveling to and fro along this south coast, I have made acquaintanc e with a number of trees, not many varieties, but countless ones o f striking beauty. And it was my good fortune at this camp to pitch my tent s under some of the grandest trees that ever ministered to me in my man y needs of the changing hours of day and night.
They stand upon a sloping bench up from the beach some distance, and the y dominate the scene. They are called spotted red gum trees. I could hav e thought of a better name than that, but it does not detract from thei r stately loveliness. There are about a dozen in number, four of which ar e giants of the bushland, ten feet thick at the base and towering tw o hundred feet aloft. They spread magnificently, huge branches sweeping ou t gnarled and crooked, but always noble with some quality of power and lif e and age. The lacy foliage gives the effect of a green canopy, with th e sun's rays streaking down golden-green, as if through cathedral windows.
But the color of these spotted monarchs intrigues me most. The dark spot s and patches of bark stand out from a pale olive background that varie s its hue according to the weather. In the rain the trunks take on a steel y gray with black designs standing out in relief. At sunset, if there i s gold and red in the west, these eucalyptus trees are indescribabl y beautiful. And on moonlight nights they are incredibly lovely. I hav e stared aloft for long, reveling in what it is they have so prodigally. I h ave watched the Southern Cross through a rift in the leaves. I hav e watched and loved them in the still noonday hour, when not a leaf stirred , and have listened to them and trembled at their mighty threshing roar i n the gale.
Trees must mean a great deal to man. He came down out of them, descendin g from his arboreal life, to walk erect on his feet, in that dim dawn o f his evolution. And ever since, during that five hundred thousand
Every tide leaves lines and patches and mounds of shells. Gatherin g shells is one of the great privileges of a fisherman, and I hav e accumulated over five hundred here, of many varieties. Shells have a singular appealing beauty. The search for new and different ones, for a perfect one of a certain kind, or a treasure just rolled up out of th e unknown, grows in its fascination and adds many full moments to life , and pictures that will never fade from memory.
Birds here at Crescent Bay are rather few and far between. Even the se a birds are scarce. Gulls, terns, herons and cormorants frequent th e shores, mostly early in the mornings. In the dark of dawn a trio o f rascally kookaburras visit camp and set up a most raucous laughing , reverberating din in the giant trees, and then, having notified me tha t the break of day is at hand, they depart. They are not friendly here a s were those at Bermagui. There are always ravens to be heard at od d moments of the day. These at Bateman Bay have the most dismal, grievou s note I ever heard birds utter. They would be perfectly felicitous i n Dante's Inferno. It is a hoarse, low, almost wild caw, penetrating , disturbing. You find yourself questioning your right to be happy--tha t calamity is abroad.
The magpies have a wonderful liquid, melodious note, somewhat similar t o the beautiful one of the tui in New Zealand. The thrush sings rarel y along this shore, and his call makes you stop to listen. There are othe r songsters that add to the joy of this camp site, but as I cannot identif y them by their music alone they must go nameless.
Traveling to and fro along this south coast, I have made acquaintanc e with a number of trees, not many varieties, but countless ones o f striking beauty. And it was my good fortune at this camp to pitch my tent s under some of the grandest trees that ever ministered to me in my man y needs of the changing hours of day and night.
They stand upon a sloping bench up from the beach some distance, and the y dominate the scene. They are called spotted red gum trees. I could hav e thought of a better name than that, but it does not detract from thei r stately loveliness. There are about a dozen in number, four of which ar e giants of the bushland, ten feet thick at the base and towering tw o hundred feet aloft. They spread magnificently, huge branches sweeping ou t gnarled and crooked, but always noble with some quality of power and lif e and age. The lacy foliage gives the effect of a green canopy, with th e sun's rays streaking down golden-green, as if through cathedral windows.
But the color of these spotted monarchs intrigues me most. The dark spot s and patches of bark stand out from a pale olive background that varie s its hue according to the weather. In the rain the trunks take on a steel y gray with black designs standing out in relief. At sunset, if there i s gold and red in the west, these eucalyptus trees are indescribabl y beautiful. And on moonlight nights they are incredibly lovely. I hav e stared aloft for long, reveling in what it is they have so prodigally. I h ave watched the Southern Cross through a rift in the leaves. I hav e watched and loved them in the still noonday hour, when not a leaf stirred , and have listened to them and trembled at their mighty threshing roar i n the gale.
Trees must mean a great deal to man. He came down out of them, descendin g from his arboreal life, to walk erect on his feet, in that dim dawn o f his evolution. And ever since, during that five hundred thousand
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