A Day on the Mornington Peninsula: Our Golden Years Adventure

At 68, I’ve learned that the best days are the ones you don’t overplan. So when my husband, Ron, suggested a day trip to the Mornington Peninsula from our home in Point Cook last Sunday, I was all in. Just the two of us, a full tank of petrol, and our trusty stainless steel lunch box packed with a simple spread. It was one of those days that reminded me why, after 45 years together, we’re still each other’s favorite adventure buddy.

We set out early, around 8 a.m., to beat the weekend traffic. The drive from Point Cook to the Peninsula is a comfortable hour and a half, winding through the West Gate Freeway and onto the M11. Ron had his old jazz playlist humming through the speakers—Miles Davis, mostly, which always puts him in a good mood. I watched the suburbs give way to open fields, the autumn light soft on the horizon. There’s something about a road trip, even a short one, that makes you feel young again.

Our first stop was the Arthurs Seat Eagle, that lovely chairlift that takes you up to the highest point on the Peninsula. Ron’s knees aren’t what they used to be, and I’m no fan of steep hikes these days, so the chairlift was perfect. We climbed aboard, the seats swaying gently as we rose above the treetops. The view was stunning—Port Phillip Bay sparkling to one side, the rolling green of the Peninsula to the other. Ron reached for my hand, his calloused fingers warm against mine, and we just sat there, grinning like kids. “Not bad for a couple of old fogies,” he said, and I swatted his arm, laughing.

At the top, we wandered the lookout paths, taking our time. There’s a peace up there, with the sea breeze and the distant hum of waves. We snapped a few photos—not for Instagram, but for the grandkids, who love seeing their “Pop and Nan” out and about. By 11:30, our stomachs were rumbling, so we found a bench with a view and unpacked our lunch.

I’d filled our stainless steel lunch box that morning with care: two egg salad sandwiches on rye, olives, and some carrot sticks. Nothing fancy, but it hit the spot. The box kept everything fresh, even after the car ride, and I liked how easy it was to open—no fiddling with tricky latches for these arthritic hands. We ate slowly, savoring the food and the view.

Next, we drove to the Peninsula Hot Springs, a place we’d heard about from our daughter but never visited. It’s a bit of a splurge, but we figured we deserved it. The thermal pools were heaven—warm, mineral-rich water that eased the ache in my lower back and had Ron sighing like he’d found nirvana. We floated in the main pool, then tried the hilltop pool with its panoramic views. There were younger folks around, but plenty of people our age too, all of us soaking up the calm. Ron, ever the chatterbox, struck up a conversation with a couple from Geelong about their caravan travels, and soon we were swapping stories like old friends. I just leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the warmth work its magic.

By mid-afternoon, we were ready for something lighter, so we headed to Sorrento, the charming seaside village that feels like a step back in time. We parked near the main street and strolled along the shops, popping into a little bookstore where Ron found a used copy of a Patrick O’Brian novel he loves. I treated myself to a flat white at a café, while Ron had his usual tea, and we shared a scone—because why not? The beach was calling, so we walked down to the shore, shoes off, toes in the cool sand. The water was too chilly for wading, but we watched kids build sandcastles and seagulls wheel overhead. Ron slipped his arm around my waist, and for a moment, it felt like we were back on our honeymoon, stealing a weekend by the sea.

Our last stop was a spur-of-the-moment one: a lavender farm we spotted on the way back toward the highway. Tucked off the main road, it was a small place, rows of purple stretching under the fading sun. The owner, a kind woman about our age, let us wander and even clipped a few sprigs for us to take home. The scent was heavenly, and I tucked the lavender into our lunch box alongside the empty containers, knowing it’d make the car smell divine. Ron teased me about turning into a “flower lady,” but he was smiling that crinkly-eyed smile I’ve loved forever.

As the sun dipped low, we turned the car toward Point Cook, the jazz still playing, the windows cracked to let in the evening air. My body was tired, but my heart was full. The Peninsula gave us just what we needed: beauty, calm, and time to be us—no rush, no fuss. When we got home, I rinsed out the lunch box, its sturdy steel gleaming under the kitchen light. It’s a simple thing, but it did its job, keeping our meal safe so we could focus on the day.

At our age, you learn to cherish these moments—the little trips, the shared laughs, the quiet thrill of a day well spent. If you’re thinking about a getaway, the Mornington Peninsula is a gem. And if you need a reliable way to pack your lunch, our stainless steel lunch box from FOOD TIE is a keeper. It’s been with us through countless outings, and I reckon it’s got plenty more to go.

Here’s to more days like this,
Margaret