We’re in Cleveland; it’s just past 8pm and we’re a few metres from the waters edge. The black liquid laps against the quiet moonlit shore as a large metallic bridge is lowered, and the cars all drive down the concrete toward the sea, then up onto the car ferry waiting to take them to North Stradbroke Island.

Almost a peninsular jutting into the Pacific ocean (were it not for the narrow capillaries of water seperating the south and a dozen islands from mainland Australia) North Stradbroke Island is a sand island. In fact, knowing that its composition is founded on sand is just the beginning of what makes it remarkable. Comparisons with the famous Fraser Island are understandable, as latter is the only sand island in the world bigger than it.

“Straddie”, as it is locally known, is an idyllic, rustic retreat just a short ferry ride from outer Brisbane. Our ferry, the Minjerribah (a local aboriginal word for the island), is essentially a large barge that carries around 40 cars with a retractable ramp at either end; in a manner that was reminiscent of the countless film and game adaptations of D-Day (especially in the grey, choppy waters and overcast morning of the return journey). The ramp came down finally, and we were in Dunwich!

We were staying in a spacious villa kindly offered by the very same lady who’s accomodation we were already enjoying back in Brisbane (having now moved to the vicinity of Grange), located a short drive away in the 3-street locality of Flinders Beach. We would be here for a little over two days, so on the first morning we wasted little time before a short walk to the beach itself. The scene that met us was the classically deserted paradise; an occasion I decided to celebrate by building an enormous sand fortress. Before I could finish carving out the highway and outlying farmstead, we realised time was getting on and returned to the apartment.

You see, there was a Surf Competition on at Point Lookout that day. Yet that was the extent of what we knew; when it started, what part it would be in etc was a complete unknown. Two Irish girls, who were also staying at the villa until the following morning, had intended to watch it too. But we’d seen no sign of them, until the appeared shortly after our return and claimed that they’d completely overslept it due possibly to the influence of some degree of alcohol.

In any case, we headed to Point Lookout to see what we might find. As we wandered the Gorge Walk (currently inaccessible in several places due to works, mind), we came across the south-facing cliff that looked out over the beach where the competition took place. The view was, needless to say, spectacular. I know nothing about surfing, but that seemed pretty impressive too.

Later we drove to Amity Point with the intention of grabbing something for dinner. Looking out of the wing mirror, I saw what appeared to be one of the motherships from Independence Day bursting through the quickly overcasting cloud; but it turned out just to be the weather. As a lover of storms, I greatly enjoyed watching the blackest cloud I had seen since my days in China billow across the horizon behind us.

We just missed the rain, pulling in at the Sea Shells restaurant at Amity. They were equipped for this sort of thing, so we merrily sat in comfort outside; protected by a storm screen, listening to Nature bawl her heart out all around. Perusing the specials, I took a curious eye to the ‘seafood lasagne’ and decided to give it a go. It reminded me a little of fish pie; but, as I’m not really a fan of fish pie, I can only surmise that it tasted a great deal better.

We returned to the apartment and the rest of the evening was spent with wine, beer, good company and the Lion King.

Not literally. There was a DVD in the cupboard.