Sweet and slow

Five days. One son. And a whole lot of relaxation. Novelist Fiona McIntosh learned how to stop doing and start being on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast

I was raised on the other side of the world by loving parents who were poor immigrants. We lived on the Sussex seafront and were below sea level in a dark basement flat that was relentlessly damp.

Holidays were unusual. I remember a rare driving trip to Cornwall where I realised that although I lived on the seafront, I was not a beach gal. The flesh-coloured terry towelling swimming costume that my round and wobbly eight-year-old body was zipped into did me no favours. It accentuated my chubbiness and made me appear naked.

My mother would then match this ghastly ensemble with a rubber swimming hat that she crammed my thick, waist-length hair into, thus distorting my head. I looked like a fat, bare alien.

I am sharing this childhood nightmare so you can understand why I learned not to love the idea of sunny destinations. More than five decades on, I still traditionally avoid the beach. I am a declared creature of winter.

Nevertheless, when the rarest of opportunities arose to have a few days on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast with just one of our sons, I leapt at the chance. The idea of going away with one son and not the other, plus leaving Dad behind, initially felt selfish and somehow potentially damaging. We are a close quartet.

Quite the opposite as it turned out. It became an enlightening, incredibly special time. Just Will and me, with no chores, for five days, was a whole new experience that every parent and child should try. We had meticulously planned our stay at Spicers Tamarind Retreat at Maleny — an hour’s drive north from Brisbane — to be filled with as much activity as possible because my brain fizzes at being unproductive. Stillness is a quality I find elusive.

And yet within a couple of hours of arriving I felt a mind shift steal over me. It was unconscious but it was powerful, and I soon realised I didn’t want to do anything except disconnect, because this peaceful, verdant resort, that sprawls over seven hectares, hugged by forest and set in what feels like a timeless landscape, can do that.

“The subliminal message came through that I wasn’t giving myself enough time to enjoy the good in my life”

Pavilion 11 was so private that once down our driveway and perched on our deck, we had no idea where any other guests were … nor did we care.

In fact, we quickly stopped caring about anything much at all. All the flotsam and jetsam of life that felt so important yesterday was no longer front of mind. Suddenly, his exhausting work for his PhD and Masters, and my edit of the latest novel and the writing of the next, had been quietly parked somewhere in the back of our minds.

No gyms here, hooray. Instead, we woke to glorious sunrises painting our bedrooms pink and gladly set about earning our delicious breakfasts walking the boardwalk loop via lush vegetation or down to Gardners Falls. We decided to cancel everything we’d been plotting and agreed instead to one enriching activity daily that forced us out of our pavilion and potential sloth.

An afternoon was spent in Spa Anise. I swear I fell asleep. I never nap! Jana, my Slovakian masseuse, brought her 20 years of remedial experience to bear and understood that arthritis is an invading army in my body; she made it at once relaxing and rejuvenating. Kay, my manicurist, had a carpet cleaning business but swapped careers to do what she’s always wanted. The passion shone through.

Another day we joined a small group of couples for a class at the Tamarind Cooking School. Joining us was a just-turned 40-year-old, who had booked a weekend alone, away from the madness of her busy life. I had a similar midlife crisis 20 years ago that led me to take a scary left turn off life’s highway, swap heels for comfies and become a novelist. I’d love to ask her if she experienced a similar epiphany.

Side by side, my son and I lost four happy hours learning to make Thai curries with chef Sharon. Brett the gardener discussed the exotic herbs in his veggie patch.

“Pick what you like the smell of and just go for it,” he advised as we sniffed and tasted, delighted by new styles of mint and coriander. Will and I spend lots of time together in the kitchen when he’s home and so tag-teaming felt natural. Even so, there was a moment when I looked over at him pounding the roasted spices with a pestle and mortar and felt my heart fill that we were having such fun in the simple act of cooking.

Another excursion took us to the quaint mountaintop villages of Maleny and Montville that many visitors make a beeline for. The shops selling beard soap, fudge, beads, candles, or hosting a psychic reading were all busy — too busy for us, so we fled back down the hill for a generous picnic on our forest deck instead.

On the way, we found a lookout and a spectacular view of the Glass House Mountains down below, hunkering down like a brooding cluster of 25-million-year-old trolls. It was while staring out at this landscape as dark, drifting castles of thunderclouds gathered above that I drew a full sense of this ancient earth where massive, prehistoric creatures not seen anywhere else in the world once roamed.

It felt timeless and a subliminal message came through that I wasn’t giving myself enough time to enjoy all the good in my life. I was too busy on projects. Be like us, the trolls whispered.

We lingered long over breakfast most mornings. Will and I had forgotten about phones, internet, email, TV. We talked endlessly and laughed a great deal. We read, we even did my guilty pleasure, The Australian’s Circuit Breaker puzzle together and hit ‘genius’ level twice.

I noted we were engaged in the sort of chat that only two people alone for a protracted period can get to … the stuff about life, hopes, dreams. It’s the emotional content most people normally keep to themselves but in this sun-kissed, enduring environment, it felt safe to share and explore.

Spicers has a ‘hatted’ restaurant, The Tamarind, where head chef Dan Jarrett creates exquisite Asian food that’s Thai at its heart — the signature whole crispy fried fish was sensational.

Ty, our maître d’, looked not long out of school but has travelled widely and returned to his hometown to work at Spicers. His chilli martini was exceptional.

The space next door for breakfast opened up into the surrounding hinterland and a babbling brook traced its way around most of it. Home now, I miss the toasted banana bread and coconut yoghurt made daily that kicked off everyone’s breakfast.

Lazy days lead to a preoccupation with food. And one of our dinner expeditions was to the much talked about Thai restaurant Spirit House at Yandina, also boasting a chef’s hat. It was an 80-minute return drive in the dark. Was it worth it? Yes!

Jungle-style pathways lit by fairy lights and flaming torches led us to an oasis. The restaurant sprawls around a pond, with the eating areas gently lit to create a Zen-like mood.

Chill-out music coos gently and even the waiters speak softly. We ordered the braised beef short rib with green curry sauce and various side dishes. Oh my gosh — too scrumptious! Dessert of chocolate coconut marquise sent us into the stratosphere and we floated back to our pavilion.

The spectacular Blackall Range offers an abundance of food, which I love because I’m a cook. There’s a leaning towards the fresh, the organic, less meat, more fish and more vegetables, most of it sourced locally.

The coffee grounds generated each day at Spicers (I had to buy some — the roast was delicious) are sent to a local farmer who uses them to grow the tasty oyster mushrooms that the resort cooks with daily. Perfect synergy.

We took a transfer to a sister property outside Montville called Spicers Clovelly Estate, whose Long Apron restaurant is more aware of itself with food that’s showier yet no less superb. The appetiser gift of deep-fried translucent sweet potato skins, the tiny pre-dessert treat of lavender parfait sandwiched in the thinnest gingerbread possible, was food poetry … and the mushroom consomme that primed our tastebuds was so good that if those few tasters were all I’d had, I would feel I’d glimpsed heaven’s cafeteria.

Our final adventure, The Laguna Ride at Noosa, was a last-minute notion of whimsy but the two-hour horse ride along Noosa North Shore turned out to be the experience I’ll carry with me.

Our hosts were the extremely funny owner Patrick and his super talented, horse-whispering mate, Bob.

When my gelding was led to me, I remarked gratefully that he looked mild.

“Chainsaw? Yes, you’ll love him,” Patrick agreed, straight-faced.

After he’d taught me how to turn, stop and start the horse and prevent him from bending down and grazing, I asked about how they work out which horse suits which rider.

“Chainsaw is his nickname,” he winked and I laughed, realising he had been teasing. “But I knew immediately when you arrived he was for you.”

“How do you know, though? You don’t weigh or vet us.”

“It’s not so hard,” Patrick replied. “For example, we tend to put very heavy people on a horse called Larry,” he said.

Bob looked over his shoulder. Everyone was ready.

“Okay, Fiona,” Patrick said. “Just give Larry a gentle nudge and we’ll be off onto the beach.”

The Noosa breeze whipped away the words “you bastard” as Patrick grinned and took off.

That’s how the morning unfolded. Constant laughter with Patrick, who despite his joviality was brilliantly in control of his four guests and their mounts; with gentle encouragement and horsey advice from Bob.

Let me sum it up by saying this ride felt spiritual, like an awakening about the joy of pursuing simple pleasures. We watched a marriage proposal unfold and, from our horses, we cheered and congratulated the couple. We passed families playing together, kite flying, making sandcastles, eating picnics. We said hello to people strolling and cars allowed on the beach halted to watch us pass, everyone waving … more to the point, everyone on that beach was smiling. We were all enjoying the moment.

No technology, no special effects, no pretensions. Nature and us. There was a heartbeat of pure euphoria when I guided Larry over the shoreline. We rode the horses up to their necks into the ocean to where the surf broke. As the waves foamed around us and I heard Will laugh with similar pleasure, I felt a giddy moment; it was the realisation that I need to slow life down so I can experience it at its most simple — exquisite food, nature, stillness, quiet and pausing often to enjoy it with those that I love. And as I write this, I can still taste the memory of the salt on my lips during that ride. Sun, sand, wind, sea — all those elements I thought I should avoid from 50 years ago and yet they are now inspiring me.

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Produced in association with Tourism and Events Queensland, The Storyteller Series shines a spotlight on the state as never seen before. Next month, columnist and author Nikki Gemmell explores resurgent Toowoomba.

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