Sunday in Seminyak

We are almost at the end of our time in Bali — and, boy, will we miss it. So what better way to spend our last Sunday than on the beach in Seminyak, beginning to learn to surf?

It’s a crazy place, Seminyak.

Inland is grubby, scuzzy, dirty, almost indistinguishable from the concrete package tour hell of Kuta but for the surprising level of bling in the shops. The narrow lanes heave with tourists, traffic chokes the streets, holes gape in the sidewalks…

It feels vile.

Until you hit this incredible long, ocean beach, studded with dazzlingly beautiful restaurants, bars, hotels, and offering up the most wonderful surf.

Now, one of many utterly unexpected benefits of blogging is the genuine friendships that can result.

I’d been following Nikki Curry’s blog — Eastside Curry — since shortly after her family left the States for Vietnam, and we’d emailed a few times.

We’ve overlapped in Bali, and met up several times. Her middle son is Z’s age and shares his initial.

They’ve enjoyed a sleepover and a trip to the waterpark.

Nikki and I have had proper chats that span the gamut from gossip to emotions, and I’m hoping we see more of each other over the years to come.

So when Nikki and Z invited us to come surfing in Seminyak — something neither Z nor I have yet tried — and volunteered her husband to teach us (thanks, Philip!) that was a total no-brainer.

And so we had a classic Seminyak Sunday.

Z and I were, atypically, early, and retired to the luxy daybeds of Ku De Ta for breakfast — eggs florentine for me, a side of smoked salmon for junior, smooth latte for me and the foam for him.

We splashed in the surf. The Curries arrived. We hung out. Chatted. Built sandcastles. Salvaged our belongings safely from a freak wave.

And Mr C painstakingly showed us both the basics of surfing. This revealed both the havoc a couple of months in Ubud has wreaked on my fitness levels and why female surfers often wear T-shirts.

Did either of us stand up?

Well, err, no.

The surf was difficult, apparently, and the skies opened before we’d made it that far. Sending our sodden, sandy, scuzzy crew racing into the hallowed confines of Ku De Ta, there to stick out like the sore thumb of cliché.

Our ride home? More like navigating a creek in full flood than riding a bike.

But it was a lovely Sunday. One that made me realise how very good life is and can be.

And left us both 100% committed to mastering the art of the surf as we head, slowly, east to Papua.