Another day, and another morning walk, feeling deeply proud of myself for the discipline. But before I break my arm patting myself on the back, I need to be reminded it’s only 2 days in a row. It does feel like we’ve been here for a week already, despite it being only a few full days. But 2 out of 3 days walking is still a great strike rate, 

Starting the day with a beautiful sunrise – there is no better way to wake up. Alongside knowing you’ve already worked off a couple of “special coffees” before breakfast is deeply satisfying. Today was no exception. 
​I found myself power-walking through the quiet lanes, greeted by the occasional rooster, more side eyes from the dogs, and one enthusiastic local who actually called out, “Wah, so healthy!”, which felt like a small trophy ceremony in thongs. The soundtrack of the morning came courtesy of two men perched on a wooden platform hovering above the water, playing beach club tunes that seemed to echo across the water. Their music, somewhere between ‘I still want to be out from last night’ and ‘let’s start our day’ made this morning routine a pleasant one.. It was as if Bali had decided to throw a tiny concert just for us early risers.

Matthew’s up by the time I get back, looking suspiciously alert for someone who slept through a village-wide concert. We decide to head out for breakfast, armed with plans to soon live stream my daughter’s basketball game back home, because nothing says “holiday multitasking” like sambal and sports commentary. First stop: laundry. Our go-to guy greets us with his usual grin and efficient nod, and it suddenly hits me, we’ve been handing him our sweaty clothes for years and still don’t know his name. Odds are it’s Wayan, Ketut, or Made (pronounced Mah-dei, for the uninitiated). I’m determined to solve the mystery this trip – I’ll get back to you. It feels like the least I can do for someone who’s seen more of our underwear than most close friends.
Breakfast is a lot louder than we anticipated, courtesy of a very vivacious group sitting nearby (or I should say 1 person in the group). He arrived before his voice did, commandeering the airspace with tales of L.A. this and Hollywood that. Within five minutes, we knew which studio had the best tram, how much he paid for the VIP pass (more than my flight, I’m guessing), and that he once locked eyes with an actor from CSI: New Orleans “from a distance, but it was mutual.” The rest of the table practiced synchronised nodding while he relived every velvet-roped moment, pausing only to sip his juice like a man weary from mingling with the stars. Oxygen was tight, but his ego had room to stretch.
Our favourite visitor to the restaurant this morning was yet another local dog, trotting in like he’d made a reservation. He played the cute card hard, tail wags, soulful eyes, a strategic lean toward my bacon, but got nothing from me. Undeterred, he pivoted to Matthew, launching a surprise leg lick that nearly made him drop his omlette. We never saw the waiter, but the dog? He made rounds like staff.

On our way back to the villa, as tip off time is near, we stop in at a local bakery that serves only croissants and cheesecake of all kinds. We chatted with a family of four, but mostly the 4 year old Daisy who had curls for days. She was waiting on her smoothie while we attempted a covert cheesecake order under the radar of her watchful parents, who had declared it “too early” for her. We don’t play by the same rules.
It’s wild, in the best possible way, that we can be halfway across the globe, sipping tropical smoothies, and still cheer her on in real time like we’re courtside. Technology really pulled a magic trick, folding distance and time into nothing but a Wi-Fi connection.
Boston’s uni debut with Team UON kicked off in Adelaide, and thanks to RADelaide’s rogue 30-minute time zone quirk, we did a bit of mental gymnastics to tune into the live stream from afar. The commentary was on point, but let’s be honest, nothing beats watching your daughter captain her team with such poise and purpose. Her confidence was contagious, even catching the commentator’s eye: “Boston is very important for UON in this game,” he said, and I couldn’t help but think, mate, Boston is important in every game. Spoken like a true mum, of course. Despite the loss, it was clear she soaked up every second of the match. Though come tomorrow, her legs might lodge a formal complaint, she spent more time sprinting the court than sitting on the bench.

It’s only lunchtime now, and as our stomachs tell us it’s time to head out. We’d booked into a greek restaurant called Santorini. Santorini delivered the kind of lunch that makes you briefly consider becoming Greek—or at least adopting their diet. The food was spectacular, starting with the humble pita bread that somehow tasted like it had a family recipe and a purpose. We tore into it with the enthusiasm of people who had “only meant to get something light,” dipping it into our chilli feta so good it could’ve been bottled and sold as self-care. Meanwhile, Matthew spent most of the meal giving suspicious glances to the napkins, which weren’t flimsy… just spectacularly, comically tiny. Think “dignified postage stamp.” They seemed better suited to wiping tears of joy than handling the generous feast before us. 

The traffic home was somewhat intimidating, as the bicycle lane (and I use this term loosely) was taken over by traffic courtesy of some roadworks, so we were glad to arrive back at the villa for relaxing dip. 
Music blaring like we were the stars of a Mediterranean rom-com, sun unapologetically showing off, and there we were—blissed out and bobbing in the pool like human sea cucumbers. I stayed on in the pool longer than Matthew, savouring my glamorous mermaid fantasy, and decided it was time for the shot: me emerging from the depths like a sun-kissed goddess. What happened instead? Well I’ll let you be the judge (evidence below), but I think you’ll agree I now have photographic proof that I am not the heir to my daughters’ Instagram thrones.

While I continue to contemplate my photographic career (it didn’t take that long TBH), it was time for some beauty treatments. I arrived for a massage and leg wax—half self-care, half social experiment. The massage was blissful, but then came the wax: heated not in a sleek machine, but in a charming little pot perched over flickering tea lights, like something out of a campfire craft corner. Temperature control? Optional, apparently. One rogue drop landed with the enthusiasm of lava and I nearly levitated off the table. The therapist, bless her, just smiled and waved the spatula like a magic wand, and on we went.
The evening’s activity? An Olympic-level scroll-a-thon to pick something to watch – so long we considered just watching the trailers and calling it a night. Eventually, something decent made the cut a doco series and a Guy Ritchie movie, just in time for Thai takeaway to arrive piping hot.