Beaches and beyond
We all know about the beaches so Naomi Arnold decided to explore the Sunshine Coast hinterland.
One of the best things about visiting Queensland – and there are plenty – is that you’re two hours behind New Zealand. It means you wake up early, which, particularly in Mooloolaba on the Sunshine Coast, is by far the best time of day. It’s bustling, but not frantic; warm but not stinking hot. The waves are glassy bottle-green, peppered with leathery retirees out for their morning constitutional, bodysurfing on to that powdery golden sand before walking up the dunes to sit with a coffee.
But we all know about the beaches on the Sunshine Coast. I was here to explore its hinterland, which rolls back in grey-green swathes from the eastern lip of Australia. My first stop was Amytis Gardens, a boutique accommodation, cooking school, and spa retreat, all set on 6ha in Kiels Mountain. It’s minutes from the M1 heading south to Brisbane and up to the northern beaches, but once off you’re quickly in the thick of deep verandahs and blackened stumps, the sort of countryside you only get on those quiet, dusty roads, bordered with post-and-rail fences, tall grasses, and letterboxes made of rusting milk cans. It’s family-run with warmth and humour by Shirley and Joe Bonser, along with chef Matthew Conroy and beauty therapist Anita Conroy.
Amytis Gardens has several private chalets, each reminiscent of the cottages of southern France – and each softly-lit with sunken spa baths, balconies, king beds, log burners, and striking handpainted glass panels, imported from South America.
I was staying in Summer Berries, which overlooked a steep slope and an airy forest of towering gums. After I settle in, I walk up the drive to Matthew’s Thai cooking school, joining a group of local women taking this class. All work in the food and health industries and they pepper Matt with questions about the ingredients, many of which he grows himself. We discuss fresh galangal and dried shrimp powder and the vagaries of different fish sauces, and make four dishes – tom yum goong, poached chicken and grapefruit salad, pad Thai and green curry. I learn dozens of tips – how best to pound the ingredients for a fresh curry paste, a novel way to squeeze a lime, how to scrape the fine hairs off fresh coriander root, how to section a jewel-like pink grapefruit, and how to ensure the perfect mouth hit of Thai food by targeting every section of the tongue – sweet, salty, sour. Indeed, it’s the best Thai I’ve ever eaten – fresh, complex, and delicious, every mouthful one to savour. Happily, he lets us double the peanuts in the pad Thai, and serves our creations on the patio overlooking the rainwater ozone-filtered swimming pool, with a local semillon sauvignon blanc. It would be tempting, after this, to sleep away the rest of the afternoon under the dusty gums – but there’s more to discover nearby.
On the winding, bush-clad road up to Montville, I learn, quickly, that you should stop as soon as you see a hand-lettered roadside sign glinting in the distance, because it’s probably going to be something you want: fresh pineapples, dragonfruit, bananas, or avocados for $1. Montville itself is the sort of place you take a Sunday family drive for lunch, or enjoy a loved-up couple’s retreat: a mix of country-style gift shops, boutiques, eateries and shops, with a beautiful stone church. Within a few steps, you can buy scented candles, a Bavarian clock, a dreamcatcher, antique jewellery, handblown glass, or bubblegum fudge.
The area is a mix of dinkum farms and modern hippie charm: parked cars are crammed outside a place hosting a biodynamic workshop, but the burly servo owner calls the pay Wave the ‘‘slap ‘n’ go’’ and his petrol pumps use ancient flip numbers to tick off the litres.
Then there’s the view. Past the cafes and the hand-tooled leather stores, an incredible spectacle waits over the cliff edge, a sight that is literally jaw-dropping. You realise, suddenly, that the highway winds along a ridge, and the town is perched on a knife edge. The land falls sharply away, rolling east in a 30km sheet of green farmland, bushy groves and hummocks until hitting the shining high-rises and glinting sea of the coast.
A dramatic cut in the hills leads down to the Baroon Pocket Dam, and a man-made lake puddled on the floor of a valley, its edges shrouded in rainforest. Here is Secrets on the Lake, a gallery, cafe´, and series of luxury treehouse retreats, which indeed appears to be a local secret – owner George Johnston tells me just 1 per cent of their guests are from overseas. The treehouses are popular with local romantics; for $75, they’ll spell out Will You Marry Me? on the bed in rose petals (I Love You is $50).
Like Montville, the restaurant is hopping with family groups out for a weekend lunch. They’re just about to close for a wedding, with a groom and his groomsmen already assembled on the lakeside green below, so George takes me for a quick peek along the bushclad boardwalks for a look at a luxury treehouse, and then I drive back to Montville and down the hill again, to get ready for dinner at Harry’s on Buderim.
Harry’s is another stunner. The fine-dining restaurant is a 120-year-old homestead, tucked into rain forest in the middle of Buderim Forest Park. I sit in the warm, thick air on the open verandah as insects chirp in the bush, a wall of green beyond the wooden railings. They played Lorde, service was swift and attentive, and I chose crispyskinned salmon with mussels, soba noodles, avocado, wasabi, and miso – a tough decision from a menu also featuring grilled spatchcock, eye fillet, cured duck breast, five-spiced calamari, Mooloolaba king prawns and Fraser Island spanner crab ceviche.
On the way back to Amytis Gardens – and a bubble spa bath with the bright moon hanging between the gums – the lights of the bustling Coast glowed bluish white against the heavy grey cloud.
So close, yet so far away.
The next day I head back to the coast for something more adventurous. Caloundra, an hour north of Brisbane, is known as Australia’s Tidiest Town, and is famous for its family-friendly vibe. It’s also home to the long, smooth waterways of the Pumicestone Channel, sheltered from the coast by the sentinel Bribie Island, a national park. It makes the area great for water activities of all kinds.
Ken Jeffreys runs Caloundra Jet Ski from the Golden Beach boat ramp, and it’s one of Caloundra’s most-popular activities. He has an impeccable five-star rating and runs a variety of tours in and around the beautiful passage. There’s the hour-long Bribie Blast, which I’m about to do, the Glass House Twister, which travels through a narrow mangrove channel for views of those stunning Glass House Mountains.
It delves right into the ‘‘Green Zone’’, a diverse series of marine channels, home to birds migrating from Alaska, Siberia, and China, as well as turtles, dugongs and dolphins. Then there’s the epic half-day adventure tour, three and a half hours with stops in towns for coffee and platters.
We go through a short safety briefing; Ken is entertaining and the perfect mix of fun and seriousness, and extremely concerned that you have a fun time out on the water. New Zealanders, he says, are much more adventurous than Aussies – you need a licence to ride solo in Australia, and there are several regulations we have to meet before we can take off down the smooth waters. We learn to turn a figure-8 and obey a variety of hand signals, and then it’s time to zip away.
I’ve never ridden a jetski before and it feels incredibly unstable, particularly on the turns, but with Ken urging ‘‘Speed is your friend!’’ I begin to trust I’m not going to get chucked off, and after 10 minutes begin to enjoy it wholeheartedly. Jetskis, powered, obviously, by jets of water, lose control the slower you go, so Ken’s ‘‘Ride it like you stole it and you can’t go wrong’’ is the perfect advice.
As we power through the passage Ken takes us in wide sweeping turns across wakes, and tests our skills with some more complicated moves. It’s a thrilling way to spend a morning on the water, and best enjoyed outside of the heat of summer and the tourist crush of school holidays.
Afterward, I head into Caloundra to check out the markets. Every Sunday from 8am to 1pm they close off Bulcock St and pack it with more than 200 stalls, offering an eclectic array: jewellery, scented candles, hula hoops, homewares, dreamcatchers, massages, fortune tellers, shells, and an eclectic mix of food – Tibetan, German sausage, Dutch pancakes, and dumplings. The market is packed, and well-shaded from the sun, but back on the streets the tar is hot and the car seats burning for my drive north to Coolum and my first-ever surf lesson.
Coolum is the quintessential Aussie surf town, busy with tanned teenagers and families mooching about the shops and playing on the beach. I meet Chris Kendall of Coolum Surfing School on the edge of the main Coolum carpark, where he keeps a trailer full of surfboards and gear.
A former competitive surfer and longtime local, he’s another one with a TripAdvisor stacked full of five-star ratings, and has a shop not far away with a thriving community attached; during our lesson he nods hello to most of the beach, and chats with several lurking youngsters about some of the finer points of surfing while I’m struggling with my wetsuit.
We walk down the sand while he points out spots in the surf, explaining what’s happening under the churning surface and drawing me a few pictures in the sand, pointing out the breakers, the currents hauling water back out, the way the sandbar shifts, and where the best spots are for us to try out. Then it’s time to hoist myself on to a board and brave the waves. My goal, as it is for most beginners, is simply to stand up and not embarrass myself in front of a beach stacked with people. I managed the first – just – but not the latter.
I’d only surfed a couple of times when I was a teenager, so am a raw beginner, and I quickly discover I am dangerously lacking in flexibility, strength, agility, balance, fitness, and courage. Luckily Chris is a man of infinite patience, and quickly assesses where I’m at, adjusting what he’s teaching to suit. After half an hour or so, he helps me feel how surfing is meant to be by simply hanging on to the back of my board and giving me a push – like a dad with his kid on their first bike, poor guy.
I do manage to get my legs under me, though not quite in the way Chris instructs, and I even stand up and coast along the whitewash for a few metres. Just managing that is exhilarating – but any semblance of control is agonisingly far away. After 90 minutes I am exhausted. On one of my final rides I plunge off the board into the shallows, yet again, and surface, spluttering, to see a couple of mocking tweens pulling their boards out of my way. Time to call it a day and focus on something I’m really good at: Dinner.