We unloaded the packs and, leaving the fair Nello to guard them while reading her book beneath the small shelter, I drove back down to Tidal River, set the GPS to 0 km, and walked back up the 200m to the saddle along a 3.5km stretch of bitument road. In the valley below, the damage caused by the bushfire in January this year was clearly evident. It wasn't very exciting, but much better than the both of us trudging up with fully loaded packs (see footnote).

The clouds were scudding across the saddle just above us as, at last, we set off on the walk proper - heading westward along the northern face of Mount McAlister. It was more sheltered here, as we followed a well-formed gravel path, that wended its way through fairly open forest, before entering a section burnt by the January fires. We started to climb more steeply up through a scorched landscape of blackened trunks - yet epicormic shoots were sprouting on the trees, grass trees had sent up flowering spikes and a patchy carpet of herbs and ferns was reshooting from the forest floor. Fire is certainly a trigger for a new cycle of life. Climbing steadily, we entered the misty realm of the cloud layer, a gentle mask that softened the scars of the burnt forest, to reach a ridge lined with flag lilies swaying in the freshening breeze. The track took us back into unburnt forest just before Windy Saddle, at 300m the highest point of our day's walk.

From the small clearing on Windy Saddle, we switched to the steep south-facing slope of Mount Ramsay, winding slowly down a narrow wet track through a landscape of mossy rocks, thick ferns and a dense canopy of dripping eucalypts. All around the forest revelled in its dampness. as we passed a series of deep glades, their rocky streambeds lined with tall tree ferns, and found ourselves walking beneath the fresh green lattice of newly unrolled fern fronds.

Finding a flat rock, we stopped for lunch, but the damp vegetation of a temperate forest is home to many creatures and, as I found out later, a leech had joined me for lunch (literally).

The tranquil setting of Sealer's Cove

On reaching the bottom of the ridge, a long meandering boardwalk took us across the boggy fern and tree-covered flats of Sealer's Swamp to cross a new wooden bridge over a tannin-stained creek and emerge dramatically on to the beach. What a spectacular entry to Sealer's Cove, with its long stretch of soft tan sand and calm azure water, lined by steep forested ridges and orange-tinted granite boulders.

A short walk along the beach and wade across the mouth of Sealer's Creek brought us to the campsite, set back into the bracken-carpeted forest. We found a clearing in the dress-circle, looking out to the beach through tall tree trunks, and pitched camp. As we were doing so, the small patch of blue that had appeared above expanded to take over most of the sky.

Farewell to Sealer's Cove and The Cathedral

Leaving the campsite, we climbed slowly westward along the southern edge of Sealer's Cove. Between the trees, the tea-coloured water of the creek was draining the swamp into the azure blue ocean waters - a curious mix of colours. With one last glimpse of The Cathedral, guarding the northern edge of the cove, we turned south to undulate through the drier forest that lined the more exposed eastern slopes of the promontory - to our right the forest, to our left, the ocean and above the sun ... perfect.

View south toward Refuge Cove and Kerstop Peak

Accompanied by the friendly creaking call of gang-gangs or the mournful wail of black cockatoos, the track eventually led us up and over a granite-topped headland with splendid views in both directions, before descending into the lusher, fern-filled hollows and creeks running down to Smith Cove. Here we had the rare experience of crossing paths with a land yabby, a shy creature not usually seen out of its burrow. Cool! .... as Gen Y is prone to say.

Bypassing this inlet, we emerged out of the tall eucalypts onto the golden gravel beach at the northern end of Refuge Cove, before climbing up and around the boulder-strewn section of shoreline that separated it from the main beach of the cove.

It was the perfect spot for a leisurely lunchbreak, watching a big yacht swinging slowly on its anchor beneath the backdrop of lush green slopes - if I owned a yacht, this is the sort of place that I would sail to!

From the saddle, we commenced a long descent into gradually damper and taller forest to reach the peaceful white sand beach of North Waterloo Bay, fringed with yellow daisies and the pink flowers of trigger plants.

Dense understorey in the forest

Crossing the beach at North Waterloo

After traversing the soft white sand, a short sharp climb away from the beach took us above the line of boulders that formed the shore to its south and we sidled our way around the steep slope that separated North Waterloo and Little Waterloo Bays.

Squeaky-fine sand beach at Little Waterloo Bay

The track undulated its way southwards as we picked our way around the boulders and creeks, with the sea up to 90m below us. Finally, we quickly descended the track to reach the white sand of the beach - so fine that it squeaked underfoot. With its tree-sheltered campsite set back behind the dunes, Little Waterloo Bay would be our home for the night.

We had arrived in time to spend the last hours of the day, lazing on the soft white sand and listening to the steady sound of the ocean swells breaking on the shore. As evening approached, thick grey cloud once again rolled in from the west. We had only just finished our dinner when the first few drops of rain began to fall.

Just over the top, we spotted a massive granite outcrop jutting out into the void and an early lunchbreak was declared. It was a chance to sit in the cooling breeze of the ridge-top, looking back over our path from Kerstop Peak to Waterloo Bay and forward to the tree-lined spurs that pointed us to the ever-closer lighthouse, while out to sea the hazy forms of several Bass Strait islands rose from the horizon.

Ranger Phil showed us our accommodation in the old Chief Lighthouse Keeper's Cottage, a beautiful stone and timber building built in 1859 - comfortable beds, big kitchen, soft sofa, gas log fire and hot showers - luxury! It was great to sit out on the verandah, freshly showered, sipping hot coffee and watching the odd big container ship pass by between the offshore islands and the mainland.

The wind had swung around to the south-east and it was good to have it at our back as we climbed steadily from the low neck 200m up to the top of the promontory proper. At the top, the footpath joined up with the Telegraph Track, a wide gravel vehicular access road that headed off through a rolling landscape of mixed heath and fire-regenerating eucalypts.

After a short and easy stroll on the road, we left it again to cut across country and traverse a series of deep wooded gullies that drained southwards into Fenwick Bight. We stopped at the campsite at the last of these, Roaring Meg, for a bite to eat and to muse on the origins of the name - was it because of the sound of the creek in full flow or the sound of the wind in the trees. From the evidence of the south-easterly roaring through the canopy above as it funnelled up the steep gully, the latter seemed most likely.

Climbing up out of Roaring Meg, we reached an open rolling heathland, where the recently cleared and well-worn track followed the line of forlorn disused telegraph poles across a dense low scrubby landscape, dotted with grass trees, flowering herbs and bushes - yet another habitat type on the Prom.

Eventually, with sun and cloud alternating overhead, we rejoined the road to descend the side of Martin's Hill. To our left, views opened out over the broad tea-tree flats that led to Oberon Bay, overlooked by the rocky peak of Mount Oberon itself - our circuit was closing. Near the base of the hill, we stopped for lunch in the tiny stone shelter of Halfway Hut.

From here, the road became more sandy as we pushed out onto the dune system that separated Mount Oberon from the southern ranges of the promontory. The tea-tree heathland had only recently been burnt and stark dead trunks stood out above the thick mat of regenerating bracken and seedling trees. Reachng Telegraph Junction, we turned left to continue through the scarred flat and open landscape of Deer Flats, wandering in silence along the sandy 4WD track that led to Oberon Bay. For the first time on our walk, a creeping monotony began to settle, but this was quickly broken when we entered undisturbed old-growth tea-tree thickets and found ourselves beneath a shady archway of gnarled old tea-trees.

Eventually, the salty estuarine smell signalled our arrival at Oberon Bay and its campsite, with tent sites scattered in the dunes between Fraser's Creek and the ocean. On arrival we were greeted by the resident wombat.

It was a charming spot, which tonight we would share with a group of schoolkids from Melbourne. They were quite pleasant once the fair Nello persuaded them to use less colourful language and at a reduced volume - why do teenage boys need to swear so ¶*@!ing much?

After setting up, we wandered off to check out the broad flat grey-sand beach. Sadly, it was the beach of death, a bloated seal and hundreds of feathered remains of shearwaters lay half buried in the wind-drifted sand. How cruel can nature be - these birds had flown 8000km from Siberia, only to die exhausted here, less than 100km from their breeding grounds on the Bass Strait islands. The cold southerly wind that swept the beach and ruffled the feathers of this ghostly flock of shearwaters, drove us back to our sheltered camp.

Soon we were descending again to cross the soft sands of Little Oberon beach, backed by eroding dunes and tucked away beneath the smooth walls of granite protruding from the small mountain of the same name to its north. From here, we had one last short climb to get around Norman Point and descend slowly towards the broad flat beach of Norman Bay.