It was not without a tinge of sadness that we pulled out of Broome. Our seven nights there just seemed to drift by so quickly and we were settling into something of a routine. Perhaps it was because we had enjoyed Broome so much that we only managed to make it 123 km south before pulling up stumps on that driving caper. We hung a right off the Great Northern Highway for a quick jaunt on the dirt road into Barn Hill Station.

At night you can see the lights of Broome in the distance, but that’s about as much of Broome as you get at Barn Hill. Check-in is a little tin shed, the toilets and showers are roofless and if you want hot water it’s best to get in well before dusk. Yet for all that we are perched upon the edge of a little cliff 50 metres from the beach with water views out across the Indian Ocean and up the coastline. And it’s not just any view. The rocks are highly irregular, layers of brightly colored sandstone capped with iron coloured conglomerate and all weathered together into the most fascinating shapes. The beach is yellow, more like the east coast than in Broome, but the water is still a lovely blue.

Barn Hill has sent me into to spasms of photographic bewilderment. An affliction only tempered by strolling the beach snapping random photos for as long as conceivably possible in between building magnificent sand castles and fortresses against the incoming tide with Amy and Oliver (aka ‘Monsieur le Bear’ – we are reading Paddington stories at the moment and in one of them Paddington, known to Monsieur duPont as Monsieur le Bear rides in the Tour de France and I liked the sound of it so much decided that it would suit Oliver. I had to seek Oliver’s permission though as he is quite particular about acceptable nicknames. Fair enough.). The hours between three thirty and five present priceless lighting. If only I actually knew what I was doing with a camera or had a DSLR to play with.

PS Emma has started her home made. Yes Sarah she really has.