Muttonbird Island

Dear Olive,

Almost every morning, my Dad takes the walk up muttonbird island. It's a steep, tiny hill of an island connected to the mainland by a breakwall and it's become somewhat of a tradition for him (as it was for my Mum), and a few of his mates. They meet down there at 6.45 sharp and set off (if you're not on time, you'd better be prepared to run). And if you're visiting Dad, you’re hard pressed to get out of climbing muttonbird too. Pre-grandchildren, Dad used to run up and down the hall, clapping his hands to get everyone in the house up - thank goodness he had the good sense to put that to bed (ha!) since the appearance of all the babes. But he still does his best (with a far more sensible knock on the bedroom door) to get everyone to join him. Sleepless newborns, swollen glands, torrential rain, hangovers, only having packed thongs. None are considered passable excuses to get out of the morning walk, or so we've all discovered over the years. So, despite the rain, and the cold, and the wild seas; off we set. It’s always worth it when you get there, though, the views and the clifftops, the fresh sea air and the sense of utter peace, are really very special. Strangely enough (and even though I’m not sure I really believe in an afterlife), the top of muttonbird is the only place I’ve ever really thought I’ve felt the presence of my Mum. Just the once. The sun came through the clouds and I felt her arms around me. 
And although I would love to show you the views, on this time we didn't make it up. Halfway along the breakwall, the weather turned, and so did we; directly back to the cafe. Such a shame. Our consolation prize was one of the biggest, fullest, glowing-est rainbows I've ever seen.