Clouds in the valley...

Not far from the more popular camping havens of Nelson Bay and Myall Lakes lie the postcard perfect beach town of Seal Rocks, in the mid coast of New South Wales, and 275 km north of Sydney. Having camped at Myall Lakes the night before, we couldn't help bring ourselves to this beautiful gem of a place. Named apparently after a family of seals that perhaps lived here, Seal Rocks today is devoid of these furry critters, leaving the beach to practically yourself. The long expanse of the Lighthouse Beach The Seal Rocks beach or the Boat Beach as the locals call it, is a crescent shaped beach in gold that easily steals your heart from miles afar, when you realize quite easily why this place was included in your to-do list in the first place. Sitting on a low hill with well trimmed grass carpets, overlooking this crescent shaped beauty, I had practically had one of my best Sunday morning coffees ever! But before I could actually get down on those sands and hug the turquoi...

Unstoppable Force was very happy. He was, well, unstoppable. He won in every match and was literally undisputed. There was none who could beat him. Life was going great, until one day he heard renewed murmurs of an age old legend – Immovable Object. People started saying that if there ever was a match, the legendary Immovable Object would definitely win! This started bothering Unstoppable Force. His impression as the undisputed champion was at stake and he needed to prove to the world that he was the greatest. So Unstoppable Force packed his bags and began his journey to seek out Immovable Object and show the world the true champion he was. But alas, is quest was difficult. He moved on for days and days but never found immovable Object. He roamed all around the world but in vain. Much to his chagrin, everywhere he went, Unstoppable Force heard rumours that people had seen Immovable Object but he could never trace him. Slowly, he lost the vigour and enthusiasm of his journey an...

The next destination for the day was Culburra Beach – a sleepy yet rejuvenating hamlet, south east of Nowra, and just north of the Jervis Bay National Park. It is a quintessential watery paradise – to its north lies the Crookhaven River, to its south is Lake Woollumboola while its east is wrapped by the magnificent Pacific dotted with myriad sun and sea laden sandy stretches happily justifying the name of the place (Curbulla is aboriginal for sand) We first headed to the  Culburra Beach Mote l located at the heart of the town. I met Gail who runs the place along with her husband Grant – Gail was a very cheery lady who happily talked to me about her hometown. In my opinion, this is one of the best parts of travelling – catching up with the local folks and hearing them talk with pride about their world, its unknown history and those hidden nooks and bejewelled corners that are well hidden from the Lonely Planets and the Tripadvisors of the world. Gail and Grant had bo...

They say, if you really want to understand something – anything, a person, a place, or even an environment, you need to give it time. Time to observe, understand, introspect and then finally decide whether to love or hate the same. Without which, any judgement  becomes a flurry of an observation. I would say the same deeply of any traveler’s tales. He needs to spend some real time to feel the wind on the hill, hear the call of its denizens in the bush lands and smell the sea-breeze as the waves lash and crash on the isolation of the cliffs of chalk. If it is a good experience, he needs to live and relive it so much that his heart aches on his departure. Otherwise what’s the difference between the armchair traveler who flips through his glossy monthly magazine and the hasty traveler who just has megabytes of memories on his Nikon, but himself is bereft of any emotional attachment to the place he has been to? Sadly, when we are travelling, time becomes a luxury. It is such an i...

You wake me in the midst of a sultry day (For though awake, slumbering was I) Brooding dark and pensive grey, You bring back memories, a little sigh With passing days, isn’t it strange? That it’s older times that stir the heart- How familiar you seem, not much a change, The very same end, the very same start And it feels not bad, to be very true - To walk once more in your rains again, Wet, draggled, without a clue, To feel that memory once called pain Now just a part of yesterday, There is no more an overwhelm - And for a change, I feel glad today In stranger lands, something’s the same For my earth has strengthened bit by bit, Matters not the rains that pour, The path, with man-made lamps are lit My dreams need shelter not any more…

Mumbai: If you have exhausted your options for sightseeing in this bustling metropolis, or, if you are in dire need of some solitude-seeking, soul-searching serenity, the bucolic coastline of Maharasthra – the third largest state in India – is a fantastic option. Maharashtra is sadly overshadowed by the beaches of its much smaller cousin Goa, with loads of tourists and weekend trippers heading off to this southern paradise, while skipping the equally beautiful and at times, even more peaceful seashore havens of Maharashtra. However, with over 700 km of palm fringed coastline on the Arabian seas, Maha has a lot to offer. While beaches like Alibaug, Kashid, Harihareshwar and Ganapatipule list among the all-time popular ones, there are myriads of hidden gems that are a sheer delight to discover and drop by. Having criss crossed this state over the last many years, I personally prefer the beaches south of Mumbai to its northern counterparts, most of which are defined by incredibly lon...

The Seasons are for the world, my friend - For the sun, the snow and showers; But spring is for the homecoming To the innocence of the flowers The beauty of spring is best reminded by flowers. The weather becomes pleasantly mild balanced beautifully between the shivering cold and the sweaty sun. That summer is at the doorstep and the mercury will rise sharply further often catalyses me to become ' outsdoorsy' . Last weekend was no exception – we chose a small village nestled below the Blue Mountains called Rydal. Once known as the Solitary Creek, it was renamed after its counterpart in the British Isles where Wordsworth romanticised his words in the later stages of his life. As if in apt recognition of one of his most popular poems of the Romantic Age, this tiny hamlet ushers spring with a Daffodil Festival.  The villagers lovingly plant large swathes of their gardens and pathway flanks with myriads of daffodils. Who could pass down this opportunity to gaze upo...