This shot was taken while on the Hermitage Foreshore Walk, a scenic coastal track known for its unobstructed views of Sydney and its grand multi million dollar estates.
Sing, O Muse, of the Walk of Hermitage fair, Where joggers puff proudly and tourists despair, Where beaches appear, then vanish from sight, Like shy little ghosts who fear the daylight.
There strode bold walkers, sun screened and brave, Past mansions so vast even Poseidon would rave. For the Lords of Vaucluse, with their shimmering pools, Built palaces grand… then complained about footpath rules.
At Queens Beach the tide, a mischievous sprite, Would steal all the sand in the dead of the night. Picnickers wept as their blankets were swallowed, While seagulls declared, “Your snacks shall be followed.”
Then rose Strickland House, ancient and proud, A manor so British it brewed its own cloud. Baz Luhrmann himself, with theatrical grace, Declared, “Yes, this shall be Australia’s face.”
But the crabs were the guardians — tiny yet bold, With sideways ambition and hearts made of gold. They scuttled in legions across the boardwalk, Causing hikers to leap with interpretive shock.
And lo, Milk Beach appeared, small jewel of the bay, Named for a reason lost ages away. Some say a milk boat once drifted ashore, Others claim lactose lore, but none truly are sure.
At last Hermit Point, where the picnic tables stand, Silent historians of this whimsical land. They’ve witnessed romances, breakups, and fights, And seagulls committing unspeakable bites.
So hail this great walk, where legends are spun, Where Sydney’s elite meet the everyday sun. Where nature and nonsense forever entwine — A foreshore of folly, both humble and divine.
