Go West.

For a long time now I have been convinced that I would one day retire in the South of France. Since stepping off a flight at Aéroport Nice in 2003 on the first of six annual pilgrimages, a love and appreciation for everything about the region has grown unhindered in my heart. In the Côte d’Azur grace meets kitsch, beauty meets brutality, history meets modernity, the Mediterranean meets the Alps, and your wallet meets its hasty death. You don’t really care about the latter, for the heady scents of a French summer, the golden tans of the wine-swilling locals, and the taste of celebrity in the air are all you need to induce a coma of blissful ignorance. Having said all that, the six collective months I have spent in Cannes have been largely under the expense of an employer. From what I hear, living there under your own steam is not all about filet de boeuf overlooking Boulevard de la Croisette. Life there does not revolve around mirror-ceilinged bedrooms and weather-beaten French windows. The days are not endlessly sunny and hot, and the traffic can be excruciating. Particularly if you venture over a pedestrian crossing on foot and forget to give way to speeding Clios and Piaggios.

Cannes’ famous Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, home of the Festival de Cannes, is a glorious display of retro patchwork architecture that draws in hordes of tourists for clichéd red carpet photographs. Ironically, however, the Palais’ basement areas (rarely seen by the general public, but in which numerous events are held) appear tired and in desperate need of repair. In times of high rain and heat it is not uncommon for cascades of leaking water to fall from any given ceiling, and only an unlucky few can claim to have smelled the blocked drains down on Level 01. It could be said that the Palais is a true reflection of the region in which it sits; outwardly impressive, famous, photogenic, and lavish, but inwardly old, exhausted, and verging on spent. As far as my retirement plans go, it is therefore just as well that I recently discovered Denmark.

I’m not talking about the Scandinavian land of butter and bacon – although I can’t deny that does sound like my own personal nirvana – I am talking about Denmark, Western Australia. If you’ve never heard of Denmark before you will hear about it soon. The Lonely Planet, a bible in the eyes of most of the world’s intrepid travellers, is listing the South West of Australia (in the heart of which Denmark sits) as one of the world’s top ten destinations for 2010. Like a lot of small towns in the South West, you stumble into the very centre of Denmark town before you notice where you are. The beautiful winding road that leads into the town takes you on a rollercoaster tour of some amazing coastal regions. Mandalay Beach can’t claim to belong to Denmark, as it’s probably more the property of Walpole, but if you are coming in from the west you will have a chance to stop here. It’s easily overlooked, but is worth a visit. I was lucky enough to be exploring the area in early December before local school holidays, and when I tell you I had a two-kilometre stretch of white sand and blue sea all to myself, I am not kidding. I even managed a brief stint of nude sunbathing, which didn’t help to scare off the formidable flies. Be prepared to put up with them, they are incessant. Some even bite. And they like tender spots.

Pushing on towards Denmark you will come across another extraordinary beach known as Greens Pool. I have been lucky enough to see Mauritius’ world-famous Ile aux Cerfs, apparently one of the greatest beaches in the world. It lacks the subtlety, class, and quietness of Greens Pool. Be sure to take a walk to the left over the big granite outcrop. Follow the sign for Elephant Rocks and you will stumble upon a lagoon surrounded by boulders the size and shape of woolly mammoths. It’s quite breathtaking and virtually impossible to describe in writing. The stone is a bright reddish orange in the right light, and the gentle lapping sea is turquoise. The sand? What else, but the colour of crème brûlée?

Eventually you will come to the sleepy hollow of Denmark itself. My first drive into town came to an abrupt halt when I encountered a road block manned by a smiling orange-vested gentleman. My initial frustration at not being allowed into the town centre abated rapidly at the realisation that the main streets had been cordoned off for the annual Denmark Christmas pageant. What a delightful mix of the bizarre, the old and the young. Each street corner had a peculiar musical performance in full swing. There was a cover band made up entirely of female pensioners who sounded as if they had just taken up rock ‘n’ roll as part of their very own bucket list. There is no stranger site than an elderly lady brandishing drumsticks as if they were knitting needles. Moving on down past the public library and award-wining pie shop (regretfully unaffected by a visit from my stomach) I came to the main junction, on the edge of which was a group of youngsters bashing away at recycled drums, cans, tins, and bottles. Their offering of rap-rock was surprisingly rhythmic and catchy, inducing some very peculiar jigs from several male onlookers who clearly were more used to wielding axes and herding sheep.

I looked around me at the selection of residents (are they Danish or Denmarkers?) and realised this was a land for hippies. Everything was organic and handmade. There were barefooted ladies with strings of flowers in their hair, and hessian sacks for skirts. There were men willingly wearing man bags and puffy shirts. I felt as if I had stumbled into another dimension, where the character of Camden, the coast of KwaZulu-Natal, and the hills of Nyanga had collided to create a microcosmic world of peculiarity that resembled a scene from Philip Pulman’s His Dark Materials trilogy.

I shouldn’t get carried away with Denmark, because it would be a crime to forget about the simply stunning Pemberton, the historical Albany, the ghostly and downright Australian Gnowangerup, and the delectable Margaret River. The latter is made for surfers and wine lovers. The two might strike you as being at completely different ends of the cultural spectrum, but you’d be surprised just how serious both camps are about their hobbies, and just how often they cross over. For a look at a classic and charming surfing town right off the pages of a Tim Winton book, pop into Gracetown. In Pemberton you will see some of the truly great forest areas of the world. Karri trees stretching as high as the eye can see seem to be taking over the road in some parts. Years ago, before helicopters and satellites, karris were used as fire lookouts. You can still climb some today. I have jumped four times into the gorge below Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, and once out of a plane in Pinjarra, but the most sweat I have ever had on my palms was at 70 metres above the ground at the top of the Bicentennial Tree. The platform you reach at the top is surrounded by a wire cage and has solid wooden planks on which you can stroll around and take in the panoramic view, but it’s the climb up there that gets the breath shortening. It’s a testament to the nature of the South West that all they have in the way of safety is a simple sign at the bottom warning you of the dangers of climbing. There is no supervision, there is no safety cable, there is no emergency phone, or catching net. There is just a spiral of sturdy pegs from the ground up, with flimsy wire mesh around the outside. It’s great! And particularly fun when you are 40 metres up and there is a group of excitable, shrieking girls making their way down. I gave way to the descending party by standing on the outer edge of a peg resting against the mesh. This is what activities are like before tourist numbers increase and the predictable safety measures fall into place. The South West is, as yet, virtually untouched by commercialism. There are no massive hotel chains and resorts. There are no theme parks, no major airports. There’s barely even a phone signal.

Pause for a moment here and consider the size of Australia. Many people around the world can only dream of visiting. Most of those who manage to venture ‘down under’ invariably end up going east, resulting in holiday photo albums of opera houses, trams, surfing lessons, and cuddly koalas. It’s not that visitors don’t want to go west; it’s just that nobody wants to miss the east. And when you consider Western Australia is five times the size of Texas, not to mention a four or five hour flight from the east coast, you realise that most travellers end up having to make a choice: Sydney, or Yallingup? I’m not suggesting Western Australia is undiscovered, but I am suggesting it is unfamiliar, and bloody enormous. This translates to it being largely uncrowded and unspoiled by crowds of camera-happy tourists.

Bunbury, Western Australia’s second city after Perth, was listed in 2007 as the country’s fastest growing town. With a new and pristine freeway leading directly to it from Perth (meaning you can skirt round the surprisingly overrated Mandurah), it is easily accessible. Two hours in a car and you are suddenly trundling down Ocean Drive overlooking Back Beach, the home of the Bunbury Surf Lifesaving Club. Don’t let their name or presence scare you, for much of the time during summer the sea is inviting, calm, and free of the throng of tourists that blight Perth’s Scarborough and Cottesloe beaches. If you have worked up an appetite, why not resolve the crisis by tucking into a big breakfast at Café 140 at the Southern end of the charming and dainty Victoria Street. If you’re in the area during the winter months, do not pass go without indulging in the seafood chowder at Nicola’s, a friendly Italian restaurant using the best of local produce. Wild dolphins (not on the menu) visit Bunbury daily at the Koombana Bay Dolphin Discovery Centre, where you can wade in up to your knees to greet them. Bunbury is a great way to start a journey to the South West, and despite being close to Perth the slightly lower average temperature is often welcome during summer.

Head on down the coast towards Busselton, where you can walk along the longest wooden jetty in the southern hemisphere. At 143 years old be careful where you step! Be sure to push on down to Bunker Bay and Cape Naturaliste, for a quite exquisite display of limestone cliffs, crystal-clear rock pools, and vivid blue seas. Venture further southeast and you will come across Ngilgi Cave, one of many such remarkable features in the region. Choirs have recorded songs in its depths. On a more serious note, the cave is an integral and interesting part of local Aboriginal culture and history. The quaint surfing town of Yallingup is not far from the cave and means ‘place of love’ in the local Aboriginal dialect.

The South West of Australia is just that; a place of love, and a place to love. It might not be for everyone, but give it a chance and it won’t take long for its subtle, unassuming lines and curves, its mild caressing breeze, its sultry ocean movements, and its pure beaches to sweep you off your feet and have you coming back for more. If I am honest, and I had to choose between a Western Australian beachside picnic of seafood and wine, or lunch at Saint Paul de Vence’s La Colombe d’Or, I know which I’d prefer to be doing every weekend, and which I could only afford to do once a year. I guess that's why I live here now. Western Australia’s South West region is a very well kept secret. Please don’t spread the word.