There is a secret throbbing here in the coromandel; a secret beauty that lingers in my mind long after we complete the drive. With it’s vicious twists and turns and it’s winding roads, sometimes I turn my head to look back on the distance we have driven and my heart–my poor afraid-of-heights heart–slams to the roof of my palette and plunges down to the depth of my gut in fear as the back wheels of our car look like they are falling off the cliff.
The coast line is spectacular, and steep and deep and blue. We drove it in the summer sun and the sea winked diamonds back at us. This is what summer looks like, say I to my favourite person in the world– that glance, encapsulated everything I knew of summer days, drifting away.
Oysters here there and everywhere. The last trip we took we ate them fresh off the beach, using an old screwdriver and switch blade provided by one generous Maori couple doing the same. I say we, but really I didn’t eat it. Denn and the prefect did– I live vicariously through my husband’s mouth. (Haha, what a sexy double entendre)
Beautiful. I know why the kiwis come to Coromandel for their holiday too.