One of the things on our mind when it came time to plan this trip was the recent flooding in New South Wales.

Will we even be able to get through to Newrybar? What if the roads are shut off? After all, the two major highway routes go through Lismore and Ballina – towns which happened to be submerged only weeks ago.

Then the rain starts up again.

After perfectly sunny weather until North Haven, the climate shifts. We stoically decide to press on. Whilst still at home, we had made plans to catch up with some dear friends who moved to Coffs Harbour at the start of last year. They were crazy enough to invite us to stay the night and we were keen to get a glimpse of their new lives on the coast and have good, old-fashioned face-to-face chats. Then Covid strikes, changing everything.

As we drive by the jetty at Coffs Harbour, it pours. We stop for a toilet break and try to dodge the heavy raindrops, but it’s no use. By the time we return to the car we are drenched – the gutter beside us already a murky stream.

Surprisingly, our fears about the water turn out to be unfounded, as we move further north. The roads are clear, though we can see from the debris still hanging off the fences just how far under some of the towns had been. Flood plains live up to their name, with large expanses of water still sitting silently upon them.

I’ve written about my Aunty and Uncle’s place in the hinterlands between Byron Bay and Bangalow before, but every time I visit, I’m struck anew by the magic of the place. The view stretches to the ocean and the palm trees tower over the house. The lawns are lush and green and the chickens calmly wander about, clucking and exploring.

It is, quite frankly, paradise.

Despite our pale pallor, greetings are enthusiastic when we arrive, with none of the fear that we would have been greeted with elsewhere. Dave suggests I remain in Grandma’s cottage so that I don’t infect anyone, but that notion is quickly waved away. We unpack and the kids reacquaint themselves with the property after a three year gap in visits (except for Harvey, of course, who came up with me last year for Grandma’s funeral).

I’m torn.

Everything in my body is pulling me towards bed, but I don’t want to miss out on this precious time together. I alternate between resting and joining in, caught in a battle between fevers and chills, unable to quite get comfortable. My disappointment at my lack of energy and health is sharp. I want to be one of those people who hardly know they have Covid, not struggle my way through it.

Uncle Mark keeps referring to us as the refugees, given the fact we’ve escaped our totalitarian state for a brief spell, and there’s a lot of sympathy for Dave’s job loss. We exchange stories of the past and share how things have changed for both of us. So much in the past few years has stripped away elements of ourselves and society that we had mistakenly thought were permanent.

Mum and Aunty Louise are a powerful force in the kitchen. They have everything under control and wave away my attempts to help. The first night we enjoy a slow-cooked beef & red wine stew with a delicious pineapple caramel cake for dessert. We catch up with my cousin, Dave (who roars in on his motorbike), and Josh, or my Uncle’s ‘foster son’ as he likes to introduce him, and Eli immediately bonds with him over a shared love of mullets and dreads. Conversations weave in and out of controversial political and medical topics, but there are no disagreements to be had in this crowd.

The time is a blur. Dave takes the kids out on an adventure to Byron Bay and Ballina the next morning, leaving me with strict instructions to rest. He’s still feeling normal, though waiting with a sense of nervous foreboding for those double lines to show. It’s only a matter of time. Both towns are remarkably normal in appearance, despite their recent struggles, but the disappearance of most of the sand at the beaches tells a different story. The water is foamy and discoloured, which fails to stop the kids from jumping in. Two of them will later come down with ear infections.

The next night we have chicken curry and are joined by my cousin Gill and her husband, Reece. They have plans to attend a gallery opening in Byron that night, and drop off their two kids (Archer and Jones) to have a play. It doesn’t take long for them all to get reacquainted. My dad is keen for us all to have a family movie night, watching ‘Love at the Parade’, a film he has been raving about for some time. It isn’t exactly the kids’ first choice, but they tolerate the romantic comedy fairly well, and everyone is well and truly ready for bed when it finishes.

On Saturday, Dave’s suspicions are confirmed. He’s positive now too. Life goes on as normal outside, with dinner plans starting early as Josh prepares his secret pulled pork recipe. The aroma of smoke and caramelised meat permeates the air and we can’t wait for dinner. Health-wise, I’m still in a bit of a haze. Everything feels like more work, even the simple act of talking.

Reece and my dad whisk the kids away to the park for a bit, giving me a chance to rest. My head pounds with the pressure and often feels as if it will explode if I don’t constantly relieve the pressure in my sinuses. I try to pace myself while also minimally helping out with the bountiful array of desserts Aunty Louise quietly works away on during the day – brownies, lemon meringue pie, sour cream apple cake. When we all sit down to share the feast, there are murmurs of appreciation everywhere. My cousin Dave’s girlfriend, Blaize, joins us that evening and it is so lovely to finally meet her. That evening Dave and Eli join the crew at the main house for boardgames. I can hear the shouts of laughter from the cottage.

Watching the cousins play brings a smile to my face. They set up a card game (‘Exploding Kittens’) and manage the rules and taking turns quite well. Then there’s an impromptu dance party in the living room at Grandma’s cottage, with Archer calling out song choices (some of which end up becoming Harvey’s new favourites). The interactions remind me of my own childhood experience here, although these guys aren’t quite old enough for the famed midnight snacks my cousins and I used to stealthily enjoy.

The boys (including Josh and my Dad) start up a tradition of playing footy before dinner. The next night they are joined by my cousin, Jordan, who drops in after his job in Mullumbimby. There’s plenty of good-natured shoving and wrestling to get the ball. Our boys can’t get enough.

The next morning the migraines start for Dave and Mum has gone down as well. I’m still not back to full health, which makes parenting excruciating. After a few combative interactions with the older two boys, I’m all but done for the day. A Camp Rock DVD babysits them until Dad appears and offers to take them to the beach with Uncle Mark. I’m not quite sure why I end up deciding to come. Partially the fact that I’ve been stuck inside for days on end now, but also the chance for some real vitamin D. We take the winding road to Lennox Head.

Driftwood is piled on the sand and the waves crash angrily against the rocks, but the kids all disappear and explore the rock pools and leap into the ocean. I sit on the beach and let the wind whip around me, enjoying the change of scene for a bit. My Aunty has packed us a bountiful lunch and I’m surprised at how hungry I am all of a sudden. Maybe my appetite is returning? Ivy cries all the way home – her ear throbbing with pain. She and Harvey put themselves to bed that afternoon, sleeping deeply for hours. That evening I help Aunty Louise make pizzas. Dave is unable to get out of bed.

The rest of the trip goes by in a blur. The food is incredible – spaghetti bolognese and a succulent roasted lamb with the best roast (homegrown) pumpkin any of us have ever tasted. There is dessert every night and fresh ginger from the garden to make herbal teas whenever we desire. I’ve lost my sense of smell now, and lament the lack when I stare down at the garlic roast potatoes and hear everyone else exclaim at the delicious aroma. Thankfully (most of) my sense of taste remains. There’s the biggest collection of DVDs the kids have ever seen and they delight in choosing a film to bring back to the cottage each day.

All thoughts of heading further north are quashed by the reality of our now-reduced capacity. We’ll be lucky enough to be able to get to our booked accommodation in Armidale, let alone attempt a longer adventure. Our hopes that this trip would become a mountain top experience ushering in waves of clarity about our future directions have been replaced by just one desire: to get home. We solemnly bid farewell to my Uncle and Aunty, and thank them profusely for their hospitality. My poor Aunty is now battling the familiar waves of exhaustion and it’s hard not to feel a sense of guilt for passing on our germs.

It’s difficult when the picture you have unconsciously conjured up in your mind doesn’t match the cold, hard facts. I wanted to relax and enjoy our time together, not feel as if I was fighting through a heavy blanket just to stay upright. I wished that I could participate in conversations and ask insightful questions, help out in the kitchen and play board games until late into the night.

And yet, while the disappointment is sharp and keen, when we turn our thoughts to what isolation would have looked like in any other setting or time, we realise how lucky we are. To be able to share the experience with close family, be taken care of and loved, to have access to a bountiful garden of fresh fruit and an array of natural remedies to bolster our immune systems, for the kids to have acres to explore and kind volunteers to take them on outings, to have somewhere to stay without cost in the stunning hinterlands near the most famous towns in Australia: we are under no illusions.

Our cup overflows.