The dogs scamper ahead. This is their first walk for over of a week - and mine. I am surprised that the king protea which was budding is not yet blooming because all the other fynbos is. Masses of purple and pink - heath, erica and broom are beginning to paint the mountainside. Here and there yellow flowers which I have not yet identified punctuate the scene.
The sun has not yet risen, although dawn colours the horizon. It surprises me to learn so late in life that the sun does not rise in the same place every day. Should I have known that it moves along the line of the horizon, heading in a northerly direction now that autumn is approaching?
In the gathering light the drizzle clouds drifting in from the sea become clearer. One obscures the tanker still anchored in the bay, waiting with its minder tug for repairs to be completed. We may get damp today.
The dogs have disappeared up the track. I call and whistle and Tolkien, the pup, comes hurtling down towards me, eyes bright, grinning his happiness, his long pink tongue lolling. A quick lick and he is off again to join Pushkin in sniffing some interesting droppings. This certainly knocks the spots off the car yards of Elsternwick, their previous beat.
The path begins to rise quite steeply, but I press on quickly, trying to iron out the kinks from a 24 hour flight. As the sun rises behind me, it gets quite warm and the cloud which envelopes us all as we reach the top of the track is welcoming, even if it does cause my glasses to mist.
Pushkin is missing again. Normally a lagger, his enforced idleness has rejuvenated him and he has been foraging ahead far and wide. But now it is not clear which path has he taken. The pup and I wait for him to put in an appearance in response to my summons. Up in Echo Valley, the Jesus singers have started early. Maybe they camped there last night and this is their praise for a new day. Pushkin finally shows up at the bottom of the path wondering what is keeping us. I call him up to me, just to show him who is boss. Puffing and panting he finally makes it.
The mist clears and Kalk Bay harbour lies at our feet. Most of the boats are out, so the fishing must be good. Perhaps we can get some fresh fish for lunch. What will Matt and Danni make of this view when they come at Xmas. I mustn't forget to remind them to bring walking shoes.
We head down the hill to breakfast and a swim. How could I have stayed away so long? How long will this euphoria last?
The air is brisk as Pushkin the miniature schnauzer and I tramp through the fallen plane leaves on a moisty May morning. Rump up, nose down, he sniffs every blade of grass with the elation a wine connoisseur trying a new vintage even though this is one of our regular routes.
Around the corner we face the kilometre or so parallel to Nepean Highway where the wind bites more fiercely than anywhere else. Perhaps it is boosted by the continuous stream of cars rushing by, bearing their luckless passengers to their dreary jobs in the city. Pushkin and I have no such worries - our days are our own. We march more quickly now, past the motor dealers who are still in business. This stretch used to be one of the busiest trading areas before the depression. Our mate Peter from Brisbane let a bit of his acquired urbanity slip the first time he saw the stacked cars gleaming in the floodlights. "You're in a big city now, Pete.", chaffed Al his pal from Sydney.
Over the footbridge, with the traffic roaring below. I have only recently managed to make this crossing without sweating palms and staring at the concrete floor of the bridge. It is part of my training so that next time I am in Vancouver I can cross the swaying suspension bridge - maybe! No such problems now, and as I look towards the city, the spires of the buildings are just showing in the morning light.
On we go, the dog and I, through the pleasant squared residential blocks. Lights show here and there and sometimes I catch the whiff of coffee - taking me back to Zurich in the early morning, especially as the weather is cold. The trees are shedding their leaves here too, and the delicate tracery of their baring branches is becoming more visible as the light gets stronger. We came across a possum in one of these tress last year. Hanging down at eye level over the footpath - and stone dead! I often wonder about that - what could have killed it? Why did it's tail not let go of the branch?
As we wait to cross Beach Road, a bus goes by with misted up windows, full of school kids. The advertisement on the side is for the new wide bodied Camry and, as it goes down the road it is fascinating to see how the perspective of the car changes. We hit the beach and the wind is suddenly stronger as we leave the shelter of the tree lined streets. There is always a fair bit of activity down here in the mornings. Joggers, cyclists, walkers, strollers and a lot of very happy dogs. We see a few of our mates, but it is a bit too nippy to stand and chat - we have to keep moving to keep warm.
As we move towards Elwood beach, the path rises slightly and presents one of my favourite panoramas. The gentle curve of the beach is lined with tall pine trees and in the distance behind them the tall city buildings loom, glinting now in the stronger sunlight. The white caps of the waves breaking on the shore are juxtaposed by the white dots of the seagulls huddled on the green field behind the beach. Away off the point the modernistic sculpture of the Westgate bridge winks and blinks with specks of light from the traffic pouring across it into town and a freighter makes it's way through the channel towards the port.
We lose the view as we stride on past the breakwater, with the waves surging on to it. They have been breaking onto the path during the night and there are patches of water and seaweed here and there. Pushkin steps around the puddles, but has to be dragged away from the weed. Around the bay we go. What a pity it is that Pushkin has the traffic sense and obedience of an aardvark. He would love to run on the sand, it is permitted now that 30 April has passed, but experience has taught me not to trust the little blighter.
Re-crossing Beach Road, and entering the comparative shelter of the residential area again, we feel warm, unlike the pair of doves huddled on the second storey balcony of the block of flats we pass. They are often there at this time of the year - I must watch out for them in summer. We head up Glenhuntly Road and then across to Glen Eira. There are a lot more people about now, including swarms of school kids larking around as they wait for the bus. This area always fascinates me. The architecture and the people reflect the splendid mix which makes Melbourne such a marvellous place to live.
Here is a block of shops which looks like a fortified Indian city, complete with watchtower: nearby the National Trust house is called Quat Quatta. An old Chinese couple wander by: a small boy with long plaits, dressed in full Hassadic rig, seemingly late for his lessons speeds past, giving Pushkin a wide berth.
We head for home now, Pushkin trotting along on familiar ground, looking forward to his warm Weetbix and an even warmer welcome from the pup, who will be joining us soon now that he is old enough. A hot mug of coffee, a bit of rye bread with cold cuts and cheese and a day ahead to do what I will. It is not all bad being made redundant.
I learned to fish from the hunchbacked gardener employed by my grandfather. He had not always been a hunchback - Grandpa had sepia photographs of himself and his catches over the years. Often in the background was this ram rod straight shining black man who was barely recognisable as old bent Willy. I was one of the third generation in our family he taught the art of fishing - and he went on to give yet another set of kids the basic skills before he died. No one ever knew how old he was - he seemed ageless - but he outlasted my grandpa by thirty years. Grandpa was 82 when he died.
Willy taught us how to bait a hook; where the fish might be - you be the fish he used to say, where would you stay; how to let them taste the bait and when to strike. He taught us patience and a good deal more but I suppose his lasting gift was to encourage us to look around at all the wonders of the world in the quiet times when the fish weren't biting. I am not saying that this made me a greenie or a bushy - I am a city dweller first and foremost and a great believer in creature comforts - but it did make me appreciate the inner tranquillity which comes with fishing.
For me, fishing became something more than catching fish. I thought for many years it was. World records as a concept never held much interest. The idea was to catch more, and bigger fish, than anyone in your party. - - We rarely threw anything back. As one of our crewmen on Kariba (his name was Manzi, which appropriately enough means water) used to say "Fish is fish" and if you didn't eat them there was always someone who would.
I suppose it was on Kariba that I first had some doubts about this process. The triggers was the weekend when we really got amongst the fish. The dam waters had risen following the rainy season, drowning insects by the million and feeding a population explosion of fish. We caught hundreds. They weren't wasted because fish was a commodity in short supply in Zimbabwe at that time and we had freezers on the boat. But I was concerned about this slaughter and spoke to game rangers about the dangers of over fishing. They assured me that we could never do any real damage to the fish population with rod and line. But ....... i couldn't help but wonder if they were right.
It was also on Kariba that the overwhelming glory of the wild really came home to me. The sunrises and sunsets on the Lake are unbelievable and the stars at night can only be described in cliches. Add to this heady mix 200 kilometres of game reserve filled with elephants, buffalo and assorted wild animals and you have a unique experience in the correct meaning of that overworked word. I have always abhorred hunting, so how could I catch fish?, asked my son, Matt after I had shamefully tried to force him to fish when he hated it. Hated the piercing of the wriggling worm, the hook in the fishes' mouths, their flapping in the bottom of the boat as they gasped for oxygenated water.
I cannot say that there was a Pauline conversion in a flash of light, but I knocked back an offer to go for marlin, because to me they equated with some of the magnificent land animals - leopards, lions, cheetahs. I also decided, after a couple of trips to the islands in the Indian Ocean that any kind of deep sea fishing, where a lure is dragged around for hours before a luckless fish succumbs and then is winched aboard on unbreakable line was not for me.
And so I came to fly fishing and catch and release. This seemed to me to overcome all my doubts and to optimise enjoyment. A high level of skill is required to interest any of the skittish fish, which tend to live in habitats of unequalled splendour,. The line used is the lightest possible to give the fish all the advantages and every fish is carefully handled as it is brought in to the rod before being released to swim and fight another day. I gloried in the streams and mountains where the best trout live - it didn't matter if I caught or not, this was real fishing.
But a cloud, no bigger than a man's hand has appeared on my horizon. I cannot get out of my mind the images evoked by a New Zealand guide telling us of a campaign in Germany aimed at stopping even catch and release. It features a man casting a worm to a beautiful bird, hooking it and bringing it in. Although he releases it gently, it flaps away, exhausted and traumatised. Can I go on hooking fish after that?
