The plane trip yesterday from Singapore to Sydney was substandard. The in-house entertainment broke, the food was horrible and I was not a happy Sheila. You usually do better Singapore Airlines!

We arrived in Sydney late afternoon at sunset. As the plane was preparing for touch down, I could see Sydney below me in the sunshine. The harbour was filled with sail boats of all sizes and shapes – flanked by the sail-like Opera House and the Harbour Bridge – sturdy, strong and true. I was tired, swollen and pale. But excited to be back.

It was my turn in the queue to approach the immigration officer.  He welcomed me with a big grin and as he stamped my passport he said, “You have a beaut stay love.” Things were looking up.

My sister in law, Wendy, was there to load us up and drive us an hour south of Sydney to where the Potts clan live, now minus Stan the Man. Dad was always the one to collect us from the airport and I miss him. The Potts family live on the Illawarra peninsula, which spans from Stanwell Park to Bulli, just beyond the Royal National Park. The whole of the Pacific side of Oz is littered with jewels of beaches. But the Illawarra peninsula is particularly spectacular as you have the escarpment on one side and the sea on the other, so that there is only a smattering of houses between. Only so much development can happen, as you are blocked from building west.

So from the airport you pass through the St George region where I grew up in the suburbs, over the George’s River, through the Southern Shire, then you leave the ugly 1960s/70s architecture behind and hit the bush land of the Royal National Park. Finally you turn left towards the sea and at Stanwell Tops you descend dramatically from the top of the escarpment to start the winding drive down the coast to Coledale, midway on the strip.

Shaun and Wendy, my brother and his wife, were visionary and bought land in their early 20s, shortly after they were married, when it was cheap and the area was filled with miners’ cottages. Their mates, Brett and Gillian Davis, shared the plot and together they built two double storey, clapboard houses, with a communal garden, leading to a creek and a boomerang’s throw to the beach. My parents, Stan and Bev, upped sticks and joined them in 1999 and moved a few streets further south.

After a very long journey from London we were finally reunited with everyone. It had been raining and the smell of the eucalyptus was in the damp air.

My children have enjoyed many interludes from urban life in London in this idyllic spot, running wild with their Aussie cousins and the Davis’ children, first in the backyard and then further afield. Startrite shoes and smart clothes gave way to swimmers and bare feet.

The middle cousin Jonah was missing when we arrived. He’d gone in search of a deserted shack up the coast with a mate. They were going to move in for the night, catch fish and grill them on a campfire.

That is the Aussie childhood for you, on the outskirts of ‘development’.  Adventure in spade loads, the sort of stuff Bear Grylls is famous for. That is the sort of freedom that I had growing up in Bexley North and I’ll tell you about that while I’m in Oz. 

Today we will hit the surf and have some good Aussie tucker – grub – food and catch up with the relos.