“We’re going to Bonnydoon! We’re going to Bonnydoon! We’re going to Bonnydoon!” That was our driving song a few weekends ago, sung mostly and extremely enthusiastically by Will.
But we weren’t going to Bonnydoon (where even is Bonnydoon?). We were going to Robe. I had never been to Robe before, although the idea of a visit has always been tantalisingly possible because Will’s grandparents own a beach house on some million-dollar property there. The beach house isn’t million-dollar though, it is charming and small and blue and white. It has a bunk room and it is a literal stone’s throw from the soft white sand and stupidly blue water of Guichen Bay. Being there, I could almost remember the freedom of endless childhood summers spent running amok with a brood of freckly nosed, salty skinned kids.