An old joke in New South Wales, my uptight home state, is that Queensland is “a thousand kilometres to the north and fifty years in the past.”
Well, it’s 1059 kilometres to Noosa, where I’m currently holidaying with my lovely wife for our 30th wedding anniversary, and I’ve yet to detect any kind of temporal anomaly.
Which means Queensland has caught up, AND their beaches are better.
This is our second stay at the Sofitel Noosa Pacific Resort, and we hope to make it an annual pilgrimage.
That way my wife can buy her entire summer wardrobe on Hastings Street, while I eat my way from east to west, i.e. fresh oysters with champagne mignonette and a drizzle of lemon at Noosa Beach House yesterday, FTW.
But why travel 1059 kilometres? Because Sydney’s famous beaches are full of preening wankers, is why. The moment your foot hits the sand at Manly or Bondi, you’re photobombing some pouty influencer.
If we did retire to Noosa, I’d have to grow gills and webbed-feet for all the time I’d spend in the water.
But I’m also wary of what marine biologists euphemistically call shark-human interactions, as in “the shark interacted with the swimmer, and only a mangled snorkel was recovered”.
Thus, my fear of Carcharodon carcharias means Noosa will remain our favourite holiday beach destination. We’ll retire in Sydney.
Besides, I love watching my wife get swabbed for explosives-residue at the airport. Happens every trip. She must look like a terrorist, because there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation…