You know when you're a kid and things seemed longer, taller, wider? It was a little like this walking from my old home town of Jan Juc to the world famous surfing mecca of Bells Beach. I grew up about a kilometre from this beach and on the big winter swells I used to leave my window open to here the waves thundering and booming.

The walk takes you along the edge of cliffs that are well fenced these days - mostly. In the old days I used to ride my horse along here, but they'd throw the book at me now if I tried anything like that. There's more people around - a constant stream of people walking their COVID dogs. We nod at each other. It's cold and most of us are rugged up, apart from the occasional jogger. The walk is about 4 kilometres return and is straightforward.

It's onshore on this day so the sea is unkempt, and there's not much swell, or I would have already surfed and wouldn't be walking. The view is as beautiful as ever. Occasionally a carved chair and a lookout is kind to tired walkers and surf checkers.

Along the way you get to see a little how the rich live, or those that bought in the '80's - the large houses along this ocean boulevard look out to sea. Some are old monstrosities - we all hated them when they were built as they seemed to show off. Now we'd kill to own one. Some are renovated, some are modern, some are more country houses.

It's hard not to think of the past along this track. Part of my brain wants to whistle for the dogs - Smudge, my parent's beautiful black and tan kelpie that disappeared (probably stolen) when she was eight, or Port, my small short haired collie. Back in those days it was rare and different to have a dog. No one had heard of a groodle. They cost you 100 bucks on the expensive side and came from inland farms, unlikely to be bred to supplement someone's earnings.

I miss the ghost dogs now. I miss being 18. I miss my parents being young. I miss the coast being a wild and untamed place, untouched by development. I whistle for the ghost dogs and slide a moment into memory.

Eventually the walk takes me past the famous concrete wave sign. It's almost completely surrounded by shrub now - you used to be able to see it from the road. It's been there, I think, since the '70's, though I can't be sure. I can't seem to find any history online about it, which is frustrating. SEO wizards seem to have pushed it into the nether regions of the internet.

Eventually Winki Pop and Bells creep into view. No surfers bob in the mess - it's not the day for it. It's become so crowded these days. Everyone wants to surf. Everyone wants to live on the coast.

I walk right down to the famous Bells toilet block. It's an old block but the painting on it is just gorgeous. I see ghost me and ghost dad and the ghost dogs - I'm pulling on a wetsuit and Dad's shoving ear plugs in before we head out into the ghost water and the lonely ghost waves. He races me up the stairs on the way back. I have to run up the stairs on my own now as Dad gasps for ghostly breath.

I'm not sure I'd walk this route again. It's not as spectacular as I remembered, and it's too busy with people getting in the way of my ghost dogs.

They run up and sniff their hands and wag their tails and are ignored. I feel sad for them. They rush back to me and put their muzzles in my cold hand, make doggy noises and run into the scrub again. Mostly they run behind and ahead of me, out of sight.

With Love,

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