Aireys Inlet, Great Ocean Road, Victoria

The contrast is absolute.

Today we walk through a fecund eucalypt forest in the Otway National Park. It’s a sharp, winding 500-metre climb through grand, goal post straight gums, dotted with occasional grey bulges that sporadically stretch a rear leg and scratch behind a furry ear. They are koalas, still electrifying to witness in the wild.

We walk in silence towards a lake that is nestled in the green. The hush is partly due to the possibility of spying another of Australia’s rare treasures, the platypus that is rumoured to call the water of Lake Elizabeth home, but it is something else as well. There has been some sort of wordless agreement struck as we entered the thick foliage, a sombre contract of mute respect. The boys, normally with some intrinsic requirement to fill the void with unreliable cricket facts or bodily functions, are also gloriously wordless. Some behavioural expectation has been transmitted and we have all received.

Above and below us on the track, the sticks and plants emit sounds of movement, raspy scratching’s as tiny birds flit and scurry after invisible quarry. They hop and buzz from one spot to another, tilting their heads and ruffling their tiny feathers, hearts fluttering in their ceaseless, energetic industry. All the while, the great gums soar above us, reaching like a child trying to reach the top shelf in a cupboard.

We settle on a bench that is sunk into the hillside, overlooking the lake. We see no platypus, but several ducks idly float on the surface, the gentle breeze warmed by the sun that is high, but not hot, wraps itself around our faces. The burr of nature continues around and we are all, for a moment, something that is rare, and thus, precious. We are content.

We have climbed from the Great Ocean Road, that famous thin band that grasps the edge of the country, grimly holding onto the precipitous mountainside, but at any moment looking like it may tumble into the swirling Southern Ocean that ceaselessly hammers below.

The road climbs and falls, and twists like a giant black snake baking on the earth. Along it ride the cars, motorcycles, buses and vans filled with the excited babble of the millions who visit yearly. They stop at the small roadside turn-offs, cars angled to fit around the great coaches, and tumble out. Poses are struck, buttons are tapped, and they return to the commanding beast that sits in the heat, engine bubbling. A cool rush of air-conditioned wind washes over you as you pass the open door.

At the Twelve Apostles, the most famous landmark of the road, it feels like a busy market square. The apostles, now only numbering seven (or eight if you count a rocky stump left behind by the last to tumble into the water), still provide a grand backdrop. The thin headland along which you walk is lined with hundreds trying to find the perfect shot. Ironically, the ultimate photograph appears to be one without any other people in it, as if the photographers are somehow experiencing the breathtaking scene by themselves, in isolation. At one point as I am absorbing the vista, I am gently tapped on the shoulder and asked to move out of the way by a small Chinese woman. She is courteous, but determined. She gets the shot.

Of course, by being here, we are part of this. And of course, I have done the same crawling over landmarks overseas, part of the horde. And despite the swarming numbers, the sight of the jagged pillars standing in the punishing ocean is still impressive. However, in time when I think back to this part of the journey, it will be that small wooden bench perched above the olive, rippled lake and that wonderful sense of being that will fill my mind.