By Carol Goddard

I had a most wonderful day recently. A real, feel-good day.

Nothing particularly special happened, nothing momentous or life-changing, or, as my dad used to say, "nothing to write home about." But in hindsight, a series of small observations and one brief encounter made it a day to remember.

The day began like any other.

Charles Avenue in Minnamurra was throbbing with cars at 8:30 a.m., as though the entire world was jostling for a parking space. And yes, I got one! Amidst the chaos of the first morning back to school, I noticed bursts of happiness, big smiles, excited toing and froing.

Little kindy kids, who may eventually grow into their oversized uniforms, walked hand in hand with Mum and Dad into the school grounds. Tiny figures teetered under the weight of school bags almost as big as themselves. A few tears, lots of hugs.

Teachers welcomed, calmed, and wrangled, all at once, as teachers do, with dedication and love. Meanwhile, mums, dads, and grandparents captured the moment, snapping photos by the Minnamurra Public School sign before waving their little ones off for the day.

That was me. Doing the Nanna thing. And it felt good.

As did my next stop. Well, not really a stop, more of an indulgence.

There’s nothing I love more than a dip in my beloved Kiama Rock Pool. I say "dip" because, while I can swim, I wouldn’t call myself a swimmer. I don’t do laps. I’m more of a frolicker. I love the crispness of the water, the salt on my skin, the pure joy of just floating about. I can frolic for ages, until I get a bit pruney. Or until I hear the ‘Call of the Caffeine’.

So, out of the pool I go. A quick dry-off, then a stroll around Kiama Harbour on my way to coffee and a few hours at Main Beach.

That’s when I see him, a gentleman ahead of me, pushing a walking frame. His tanned legs suggest he gets out and about often, but his gait tells me he’s quite elderly.

As I pass, I say, "Good morning."

He looks surprised, then pleased. On impulse, I stop. We chat. I compliment him on his vigour, then instantly regret it, hoping I haven’t sounded patronising. But he just smiles and tells me his name and where he lives (let’s call him Fred, not his real name, and yes, he’s a local).

Fred walks an hour every day, around the Kiama Showgrounds, then the Harbour. Then he rests. After all, he’s 91!

I respond with sheer admiration. We talk more, about his late wife, whom he greatly misses, about the beauty of Kiama, and about life itself. "Life is what you make it," he says.

And with that, we part ways.

I hope I meet Fred again.

A chance encounter, and simple, beautiful moments, like back-to-school day, have enriched me.