Yesterday I planned to take the dog to the beach, but it was a gorgeous sunny day and still holiday season.
City visitors walk their dogs in a bubble. You know them on our beach because they are afraid to meet eyes. They walk like they might get knifed, like their dog might get bitten, like we might steal their teeny Precious. Like her pedigree might be tainted by the merest whiff of a rustic mongrel. They stake out their territory right by the beach access. They swim in rips. They squeal and smoke and leave their rubbish.
Instead we went to the local creek and swam in the murky brown tea-tree stained water. We stirred up mud that smelled of sulphur. We swam from shore to shore and squidged our toes in the leafy mulch. We didn’t get eaten by sharks, the kookaburras found us hilarious, and the only interruption to our fun was from a couple of bushwalkers who took our photo.
It was blue-bottle free and I have not developed a rash or gastric upset.
The creek. I commend it to you.