That restorative oyster shed
A kookaburra unexpectedly swoops in on me and my breakfast plate and boldly sits atop my bacon, regarding me —and it—in full feathery splendour. Who’s the real guest here to this fine oyster shed? I have to admit: since my arrival I have wanted to commandeer this incredible space, claim it as my own slice of heaven; but Mr Burra clearly has other plans this morn as he puffs out his creamy feathery chest, fluffing silvery blue wings—which only serves to remind me that it is me, not him, who is the real visitor here. This is his territoire, though it is my bacon he wants—and so begins an unlikely alliance on Lovett Bay. I take my bacon and the royal kingfisher allows me to stay, returns to his perch on canopied high, his proud strong beak all the confirmation I need that he is the king of the bush, after all. He laughs, and I acquiesce, I have to laugh with him.

Lovett Bay is a fine oil painting, a place of reflection where reflections of nature’s ultimate beauty shimmers in its glorious clear waters; the light from dawn to dusk is unforgettable, and it is palpable how close one comes to the abundant nature in this private reserve, something usually reserved only for the lucky few who own prized real estate here. There are no roads, none are needed, only the quiet hum of an occassional water taxi, the splashing sound of fish jumping or a bird bathing itself in its element.
My dog barks, breaking the eternal peace of this place and I realise I forgot the oysters, remembering only the champagne; yet nothing matters here, for the sea calls to me now, tells me things in faint lapping whispers l can decipher if only I will take the time to stop and listen past the dull, monotonous city drone and other life noise that perpetually fills my ears (and from which I long to escape). And escape I have, to this quiet sanctuary, an idyll, a best kept secret that now lives on between Mr Burra and me. He is the resident and I, his guest, and in the instant that this hierarchical order is established the magical pulse is back, returned to my veins and I nod courteously, give thanks to Mr Burra for his gifts of infinite wisdom, the breath of life and kooky laughter which allows my ink to flow again uninterrupted in this heaven.
I climb up rocks to see nature falling down waterfalls; we kayak quietly around secret inlets to Salvation Creek, so aptly named. It doesn’t take long; all my worries fade away and I move at the local pace now, at the pace of sitting creatures and the inhabitants of Ku ring gai chase national park, and they beckon me to be more like them, to be still, sit and admire all the gifts around me. Boats bob gently in the water, rocking like babies to and fro, and there is a calm here like nowhere else, a calm that goes to the soul like a much needed balm against the hurly whirly burly of the world beyond, a calm that says everything is going to be alright. At night I am greeted by a full moon coruscating upon my shores, faithfully lighting the way home, and we sizzle steak on the bbq, much to the chagrin of our hungry animal friends. The cockroach drinks my Barolo, but it doesn’t matter—life is too good here to get upset about anything, even the loss of good wine.
Susan Duncan, local author writes about Salvation Creek and its tourists being “wood ducks” who just come in and throw money; what she doesn’t mention is that occassionally, just occasionally, someone comes along (much like her) in search of a new life, a turning point, new love, or even salvation—and in this acopic and magical place, when all the conditions are right and the stars align, one might just actually find it.
Jen is the perfect host; amiable, companionable, open, attentive, kind and welcoming. Thank you Jen for sharing this special place with us, we are humbled and truly blessed. I lovett here, I truly lovett.