I write about nuclear security, technology, systems thinking and the cool things I build along the way.
Mitchell Hewes Read more about why
We traded the wind and the broken jetties for the stillness of the valley. Ending the journey here, among the ancient vines and stone cottages, feels like a soft landing after the rugged coast. The air is warmer, the light is golden, and the only crashing waves are those stirred willingly in a glass of Shiraz.
The wind hits different here on the Fleurieu. It whips across the gulf, bending the scrub and battering the coastline. The last time I stood on this coast 30 years ago, these jetties still reached out into the water. Returning now, they have been reclaimed by the sea, reduced to skeletal pylons by the relentless waves.
The silence of the Coorong and the flow of the Murray River both die here. At this strange, significant convergence, the Southern Ocean at the end of the world finally swallows the fresh water that brings bounty to the interior and the endless shore of the Coorong.
Turning the wheel away from the coast, we headed inland. The salt spray was replaced by the dusty greens of Langhorne Creek, a landscape of river red gums amongst the vineyards. But this was just a quiet pause before the final push towards the end of the Coorong.
Leaving the vertical drama of the cliffs behind, the world suddenly flattened out. There is raw isolation here. The Coorong is a stretch of South Australia that refuses to be tamed. Nearly 200km of scrub and saltwater lagoons separating the highway from the ocean, creating a landscape that feels infinite and untouched. It’s just the wind, the birds, and the endless road ahead.
We arrived at the limestone edge where the continent crumbles into the Southern Ocean. Standing before the (less-than) 12 Apostles, the separation between land and ocean feels absolute. A hard-boiled wonderland of jagged cliffs meeting quiet solitude at the end of the world among lost shadows and relentless tides.
