Every two years, we walk down to Melanesia Beach on the Great Ocean Road. It has to be perfect weather - not too hot, and not too wet, as the track would be impassable and impossible. The walk down is magnificent, boasting extraordinary views along a semi shaded track of gums and ferns and scrub. Some years we spot echidnas, and the bush resounds with bird life. I've been walking down this particular access track since 1990 when my best mate's Dad dragged us down the track. Sometimes it breaks well there and the old school surfers would traipse down to find the big waves.

As we only walk it every few years, we forget the beach track is left at the clearing, and accidentally continue down toward a house that sits majestically on the hillside. There's kids on dirt bikes and a couple on chairs admiring the view over breakfast. She stands, irritated. 'Is this your place?' Jamie asks. 'Does the track go down there?' he gestures, toward the cliffs.

'No, you're on private land!' she says, grimacing. She's clearly annoyed at our trespass. 'Did you see the gate with the sign? YOu're not meant to be here. This is private property.'

'Oh,' I say, hardly concealing my own irritation. It was an honest mistake, and there is a lot of land here, and tracks. I have been coming down this way for decades, after all. 'Sorry, I thought the track went past here?'

'NO.' She says, firmer now. 'All this is owned'. She sweeps her hand over the entire headland. Jamie keeps talking, saying oh, is the track that way then, past the other house'. Finally she admits it's not her place, and that she's visiting friends. She doesn't know the way to the beach, and think the council hasn't mown the track because of COVID. HOw can it be private property access to the beach if the council mows it, I want to say, but don't. I'm irritated at 'property owners' who have more right to the beach than we do - that's Australian right of access for you, unlike England. We try to ignore our feelings of resentment and double back to find the right track.

There, we find a group of men with chainsaws and a quad bike (it's impossible to get cars down - the track is very narrow and steep and crosses a gully where there is a bridge) and Jamie shakes the guys hand. He lives up in the next house. He asks where we've come from, and we say. 'Well careful, we haven't mown down there, watch for snakes' he says. There's no mention of private access, or perhaps he just likes the cut of our jib and knows that it's reasonable to allow people right to the beach. The other way in is around ten or more kilometres - this way is three and a half. MOst people wouldn't even find this access, unless you knew it - it's not labelled on the map or signed on the road, and the carpark is just the road entrance which dog legs off the Great Ocean Road.

We're relieved, but slightly unnerved - we've never encountered any on the track before let alone the possibility we wouldn't be allowed down. We try not to talk about The Woman - she has infuriated us with her entitlement and rudeness and we don't want her to spoil the rest of the day. We've had people come down our driveway lost and have never been as rude. I think about who owns land and what land is for, and how no one asked the original inhabitants if they were trespassing or not.

On the beach I experiment (badly) with photography, trying to figure out how to use the NDR filter to get soft waves spilling over the rocks. I"m bitten by march flies and can't get the light right. Jamie whittles something out of a piece of driftwood. We took the lightweight stove and made tea, and eat goat's cheese, tomatoes, cucumber and chilli cornichons on crackers.

We walked right up the beach this time, avoiding the left where a beautiful old whaler's hut picturesquely stands. It's quieter here - some five people are up the other end, a vertible crowd. I have come here for the silence and the desolation - it's one of the few beaches I know where you'll rarely find a soul, except people trekking the Great Ocean Road walk and even this stretch is not as commonly walked.

And then, the Anti Mountain.

This is the kind of upwards trek you do after the downward - because when there's a mountain of sorts, you usually climb up it, before scaling down, not the other way. It's a 3000 metre rise over 3 kilometres (we check when we get home) and I"m grateful Jamie insisted on bringing the trekking poles. Some parts of the track are 'very fucking' steep, others are 'pretty steep' and some are 'I don't know if I can make it' steep. But I breath, and count my seconds - when I'm doing well, I count to forty, and when I'm not, I instead count steps - ten, fifteen, twenty - then find shade and sip water and rest.

One needs to use your brain on the anti mountain as much as your fitness. Lucky I have more brain, as my fitness bars are blinking red. My thighs are burning and you bet they'll be sore tomorrow. But we'll do it again in a few years time, no doubht. It's that special. That is, unless we're chased off for trespassing.

When we get up to the road, we walk past a guy who's unloading a lot of wood from a ute. He stops to chat. HE's not bothered by our presence, but I guess by asking where we came from and where we were headed, he's making sure. Turns out we grew up in the same town. He tells us about him and his mates diving down on the beach and picking abalone and lobsters. Nice for some. He laughs at our 'walk'. 'Oh, just a short stroll then?' he says. Because of course, it's anything but.

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With Love,

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