I arrived at Grassy Head for three nights with Lizzie and Glen who recently bought their own rural patch of paradise just near Grassy Head, a tiny beach side town about 10 minutes out of Macksville. My favourite memories are: the shifting sands sweeping along the beach in a three dimensional optional illusion, eating sausages at a sausage sizzle on the beach, jamming with Lizzie - two guitars, two girls and a goon sack (my first ever goon experience and it's true what Lizzie says, goons go a long way), $1 bets on the Keno at the Scott's Head RSL (Keno for those unintiated is the RSL's version Lottery), hearing the worst band I'd ever heard in my life - really -with two old dudes singing completely out of tune but keeping their rock and roll dream alive (they had the best ever equipment, stacks of Marshall Amps and a fuck off Pearl drum kit) as three kids danced on the dancefloor, bird watching in the early morning light from the Lizzie's van where I slept, walks by the river, Lizzie's excitement at her 1000 new housemates (a worm farm), sunsets over the water, watching families play happy campers, artful mosaics, watching re-runs of Seinfield and swimming in the cool bright blue beautiful ocean. The dream was slightly shattered for Lizzie and Glenn when they found out their real estate agent had been less than forthcoming about the fact their neighbours were sub dividing the block across the road and building two houses when suddenly the sound of chain saws roared into life, shattering their peaceful rural stillness. Can you ever trust a real estate agent? Discuss.
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