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Kilometre: 1,038 It was all penguins, all the time, when we hit Phillip Island. As we lumbered through the roundabout intersections of Cowes, two hours south of Melbourne, all we could talk about was the Penguin Parade the island had become famous for. “I’ve been waiting for this forever,” said Jess, voice pitched high. “More than forever,” said Grace, head bobbing. “Forever plus infinity.” A visitor centre and a small-scale viewing stadium have been constructed to allow thousands of visitors a night to flock, as it were, to see the birds, which breed only in southern Australian waters. It sounds commercial and touristy, and it is, but the alternative is worse. In the past, onlookers unwittingly walked across burrows, breaking down the delicate dune land and killing dozens of penguins in the process. That night, hundreds of us waited 90 minutes for the daylight to fade, listening to an eco-friendly lecture from the staff. We then sat for another 20 minutes before a lone little penguin finally washed up on the beach about 40 metres from us. The crowd buzzed. The penguin stood, shook her head, stood for another five minutes, then waddled into the dunes. No other penguins emerged from the deep. “Okay,” I said to Jess and Grace, slapping my palms against my thighs. “That was spectacular. Let’s hit the road.” They ignored me, though the same pattern was repeated over the course of the next half-hour, sometimes with one penguin, sometimes with five, so that in the end, maybe 30 or 40 of the little gippers had come from the deep. Parade? It was more of a dribble. But that all changed when we made our way back up the boardwalk. A number of penguins must have come ashore elsewhere because there were hundreds waddling up the hills toward their burrows. The boardwalk, with its raised platform and diffuse lighting, was only a few metres from the birds. They shuffled by, stopped, flapped their wings, pointed their beaks at us, then waddled on, oblivious to our adoration. Sure, they’d disobeyed the instructions to march past the viewing stadium, but that was fine by us. Kilometre: 1,072 Koalas are the anti-wombat: cute, cuddly and clearly not designed to disturb anyone’s sleep, especially their own. We finally got to see them up close at the Koala Conservation Centre on Phillip Island on a boardwalk about six metres above ground. This got us close enough to watch them do what they do best, which is sleep for 20 hours a day. Near the end of the boardwalk, Jessica pointed at the rarest of sights: a koala on the move. Its limbs were deliberately reaching from branch to branch, and after a 10-minute trek to move about 1½ metres, it settled down and instantly dozed off, exhausted by its effort. “They move so slow,” said Jessica. “He’s sure in no hurry.” We were in no hurry to move on either. Kilometre: 2,108 After a couple of days in Melbourne, quite possibly the world’s friendliest big city, we returned to Sydney for our flight home. As we walked back to our hotel after dinner, crossing the pedestrian bridge over Darling Harbour, catching the light breeze off the water, Grace stopped. She had a bewildered look on her face, and I thought she was going to ask why we had to go home the next day, that it wasn’t fair, that she wanted to stay. I was ready to agree. “Dad?” “Yes, Grace?” “I know we leave tomorrow, but will we have time for a swim first?” Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
