Bondi exerts a strange gravitational force on the city of Sydney, disproportionate to its 1.2 sq km crescent of sand. It’s a brand name. It’s a dream. It’s a pilgrimage. It’s a church. It’s the gym. It’s a community. It’s a gateway. It’s a baptism. For international tourists coming in, it’s the name they know, where they take off their shoes, walk down to the water and take their first swim in Australian waters.

And how about that swim? After the discomfort of a long-haul flight, to take your weary body down to Bondi and jump into the glistening surf, then dry out in the sun while drinking a flat white is to have arrived in Australia not just physically, but also spiritually.

There are better beaches in Sydney, but none have the charisma of Bondi, the whole “Take me, I’m yours!” swagger.

Part of its alchemy is that the beach never looks, or even feels, the same. It’s constantly changing depending on the light, the tides, the seasons, the weather.

Golden hour is my favourite time down at Bondi, when the sun hits Ben Buckler Point and the cliffs briefly glow a deep buttery yellow. To be in the water then, up the north side, becoming part of the golden hour tableau is to........

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