Bali Hai: Sunshine and Shadows

We owe it all to Cliff and Zoe. It’s a great story that truly shows how some people go out of their way to help others.

I first knew Matt Miller from Air NZ—he was senior to me, and we flew together many times in my early days with the airline. After I left Air NZ, I lost touch with everyone. That was, until one day, Cliff and Zoe came to visit us.

As always, Cliff, with his dry wit, said, “I have an offer you can’t refuse.”

I laughed and thought, where have I heard that before? Oh, yes—when he offered me that Italian restaurant in Weyba Rd, Noosaville. What a lemon that was!

Anyway, I listened. The deal was this: Matt Miller had purchased the management rights to Bali Hai, along with the apartment. He and his wife had run the place for nearly a year when their daughter fell seriously ill in New Zealand. They wanted to be with her. At the time, Cliff and Zoe still owned Scoffers Inn, so they proposed a straight swap with Matt and his wife—giving them Scoffers Inn in exchange for Bali Hai—so they could free themselves to be with their daughter. And that’s precisely what happened.

Then, knowing I was at a loose end, Cliff offered Bali Hai to me. The arrangement was simple: we would move in, run the place, build credibility, and then try to secure financing to buy it outright from Cliff and Zoe.

And that’s precisely what we did. Within a year, it was officially ours—mortgaged, of course—but none of it would have been possible without the generosity of Cliff and Zoe.

At the time, it felt like winning the lottery to have a two-bedroom apartment and a business in Noosa. Noosa Heads, the final resort on the Sunshine Coast where the river meets the ocean, has beautiful beaches and, when the winds are just right, great surfing conditions. On the north shore, ferries provide access for four-wheel drives to Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the Southern Hemisphere. The area is also surrounded by national parks with scenic walkways leading to other stunning beaches like Alexandria Bay—a well-known nudist beach—and Sunshine Beach.

During my time there, I did most of my jogging and training through the national parks. I was one of the first runners to participate in the inaugural Noosa marathon—back then, there were only eight of us!

Being on-site managers during holiday periods was intense. We greeted guests, ensured they were comfortable during their stay, and cleaned up after they left, ready for the next holidaymakers. In those early days, there were defined seasons, with Christmas and Easter being the busiest times. In the winter, many of the apartment owners from the southern states would come to enjoy the warmer Queensland weather.

This seasonal flow gave us a bit of respite, as the owners took care of their units. Our payment structure as on-site managers included a monthly wage from the body corporate, a percentage of the holiday lets, and cleaning fees charged to the owners after each rental. There were 12 apartments in total—six in each tower. We lived in one, and the property developer lived in the penthouse of the left tower, leaving 10 apartments available for holiday rentals.

After a while, I realised it was too much for Sheila to handle all the cleaning on her own. I managed to convince Anna, Cliff, and Zoe’s daughter, to work alongside her. It was challenging, though—Sheila wouldn't speak to the guests or even answer the phone if I was busy.

I couldn't dedicate all my time to cleaning, as I had responsibilities in the office, handling the business side of the management rights. We were audited two to three times a year, so everything had to be in order. It was a lot to manage, but we found a way to make it work.

Around this time, I also became friends with the local bank manager from Metway Bank. He was a keen mountain biker, and we often trained together. Naturally, we both quizzed each other about our professions. After several weeks of conversations and negotiations, he became the key to helping me secure finance. At last, Bali Hai was officially ours—well, partly. The bank had a big say in it, but Cliff and Zoe got their money, and we were all happy. Or so I thought…

It was a good life. As I mentioned before, there were definite seasons—times when we were incredibly busy, followed by periods when Noosa became, very, quiet. The Sunshine Coast Airport hadn’t been built yet, so the only way to reach Noosa was by road. The Bruce Highway was the main route, and at the time, the Sunshine Coast Motorway was still under construction.

The body corporate wage, combined with the income we made during the busy periods, provided a comfortable living, and the lifestyle was very pleasant. Cliff and Zoe had built a new home just a few blocks away, and we often enjoyed great coffee mornings together.

Cliff and I also had a regular tradition—we would go out to do the lotto together. Over time, we became a familiar pair at the local newsagent. With our shared sense of humour, we always managed to brighten the day of the shop owner, who would frequently say that seeing us come in made his day.

As time went on, Sheila seemed to withdraw more into herself. It became increasingly difficult for me to say the right thing or to encourage her to go out and enjoy the company of others beyond just the two of us. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't spark her interest in taking a holiday. Perhaps the workload was too much for her, or maybe there was something else weighing on her that I didn’t fully understand.

We lived in a beautiful apartment with stunning views across Laguna Bay and were earning a fair living. I made sure we attended Sunday Mass and feast days, but despite all this, Sheila seemed unhappy and reluctant to socialise. Some weekends were particularly busy, especially on the bright, sunny winter days when we had a full house. The steady flow of guests was great for business, helping to keep the cash flow healthy. Occasionally, visitors would ask, “Are you on the market to sell?” My usual response was a firm “No.” But some people wouldn’t take that for an answer. They would urge me to think about it, name a price, and let them know—often following up persistently.

This happened so many times that, eventually, I knew there would come a moment when it caught me at a low point—when I was feeling worn down, or perhaps when that familiar shadow of doubt, the ‘black dog,’ was lurking. And sure enough, one day, in a moment of frustration or uncertainty, I threw out a ridiculous price… and to my surprise, it was accepted.

We had planned carefully: Munich to Bologna by train, then onward to Bari with our bikes, and from there to explore southern Italy. But plans rarely survive contact with reality.
The trouble began in Bologna. We rolled our bikes off the German train easily, but when we tried to board the Italian railway southward, we hit a brick wall — bicycles were not allowed on their trains. The first available cargo train to Bari wasn’t for another five days. We didn’t have the time, nor the patience, to sit around waiting.
It was early May, and Bologna was alive with traffic, heat, and the sharp edges of a bustling city. Carolyn and I stood outside the station, unsure what to do. The thought crept in: maybe we should just ride out of the city and begin our adventure from there.
So, with my best attempt at conversational Italian, I stopped a policewoman who had just finished directing traffic. I asked — more than once, in different ways — how to cycle out of Bologna. She listened patiently, then finally raised an eyebrow and said, in perfect English: “Do you speak English?”
So much for my Italian lessons back in Noosa.
She explained that regardless of which direction we rode, we’d have to go through the mountains. In early May, the passes would be far too dangerous for us, especially weighed down with gear. That was that.
In the end, we came up with a mad solution: we arranged to have our bikes shipped by cargo train to Genoa, due to arrive in just 48 hours. When they arrived, we set off — not south, as we’d planned, but west.
And that was how we ended up riding from Genoa along the Italian and French Riviera's, winding through sparkling coastal roads into Provence. For just over three weeks, we rode under Mediterranean skies, our carefully laid plans forgotten, our days unfolding one pedal stroke at a time. The road gave us seaside cafés, cobbled villages, and long stretches where the horizon was nothing but blue.
But travel is never only sunshine. By the time we reached Nice, the weather turned. The skies closed in, and the rain lingered — four heavy days of it. Cycling in that was impossible.
Fortunately, I had bought us rail passes. With a shrug and a smile, we packed up the bikes and boarded a train. For those wet days, we traded coastlines for culture: Florence, with its Renaissance splendour; Rome, eternal and chaotic. Cities we hadn’t intended to see opened themselves to us in ways we could never have scripted.
When the skies cleared, we returned to our bicycles as if nothing had changed — though of course, something had. We carried a little of Florence and Rome with us into the days that followed, a reminder that sometimes the best journeys are the ones we never meant to take.
Closing Reflection
Looking back, that ride taught me something I hadn’t expected to learn from a bicycle: that detours aren’t failures, they’re often the real journey. The Riviera, Florence, Rome — none of it was planned, yet it all became part of our story. Life, I’ve come to see, rarely unfolds the way we expect, but if you’re willing to keep pedalling — and sometimes let the train carry you — the road has a way of giving you exactly what you need.

Palm Grove — Another Leap
 Everything Is for Sale 

Selling Bali Hai meant I suddenly had time on my hands. That has never suited me particularly well.
Around that time, an advertisement appeared in the local paper. A business had been passed in at auction and was now open to offers. The business was Palm Grove Restaurant in Peregian Beach.
It caught my attention immediately. I had sold Bali Hai. I was cashed up. I needed something to do. Why not at least have a look?
The restaurant was situated on David Low Way, directly opposite the road leading down to the ocean. It occupied a generous block with parking space for around twenty cars. A bullnose roof covered a wide decked verandah that wrapped around the front of the building, framed by mature gardens.
The entrance was impressive. A broad timber deck with steps rising from the car park led to double doors. Inside, to the left, was an office and storeroom that also served as a wine cellar. Further along were male and female toilets, and against the clinker brick wall stood a beautiful aquarium.
To the right of the entrance sat a full-sized grand piano beside a small dance floor. The dining room was expansive, with seating for over one hundred patrons. At the far end stood a substantial cocktail bar, crafted from what appeared to be Fijian kauri, complete with matching stools and additional seating for perhaps thirty more guests.
Beyond that, to the right, was a fully equipped pizzeria with its own front entrance for takeaways. To the left, doors opened into a courtyard garden — mature trees and climbing plants draped over a white archway. It was the sort of setting made for wedding photographs.
Just before the bar area was the entrance to a fully equipped commercial kitchen and preparation area, complete with industrial washing facilities and rear access for deliveries. Everything was there — tablecloths, china, silverware, glassware, even a cellar stocked with wine. You could walk in and begin trading immediately.

I describe it in such detail because you cannot appreciate the scale and potential of the place without seeing it in your mind. And I had always harboured a desire to run a fully fledged restaurant and bar.
At auction it had been passed in at $500,000 and had sat unsold for about six weeks. I only became aware of it through the weekly local paper. 
On impulse — though perhaps not entirely — I submitted an offer of $250,000.
Negotiations went back and forth for several days. Eventually, we settled somewhere between those two figures — but considerably closer to mine than theirs.
And then the realisation struck me.
What have I done?
Once again, I had placed myself into another business.
The premises, though impressive, were dated. The décor belonged firmly to the seventies and would need bringing into line with the present day. Modernising it would require capital, energy, and vision.
but I had never been one to shy away from a challenge.
I approached Anna — Cliff and Zoe’s daughter — and asked if she would help me get the restaurant ready for the summer season. It was already late November, so time was short.
Together we stripped the place back. We removed everything that felt dated or unnecessary and organised a large garage sale in the car park. Tables, chairs, bric-a-brac — anything that didn’t fit the new vision went. It felt cleansing, like wiping a slate clean.

Around that time Carolyn and Alex arrived from Germany. I suggested that if they would run the garage sale, they could keep the proceeds. They happily agreed.
After a few more days, another idea formed. Alex was a chef, and Carolyn had strong experience managing restaurants. It seemed logical. I offered them the opportunity to run the restaurant.
However, they came back with so many conditions and rules that I quietly let the idea drop. It was not going to work.
So I pressed on.
I changed the name and registered it as Cheers — The Italian Restaurant. I found a couple of local chefs and a kitchen assistant. A young fellow came on board to run the bar, and a young lady took charge of the pizzeria.
We opened in the second week of December.
The place looked fantastic — crisp white tablecloths, polished silverware, gleaming glassware, and colourful pots of flowers placed throughout the dining room. There was an air of expectation.
Trade built steadily as the holiday season gathered pace. To add atmosphere, I booked Doc Span and his blues band to play every Sunday throughout the holidays. They were excellent, and the restaurant buzzed with energy.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the holidaymakers left.
Only then did I truly understand why the restaurant had been passed in at auction. It was deeply seasonal. Once the peak period ended, business dropped away sharply.
I kept Doc Span on for one Sunday a month, but attendance gradually thinned. The pizzeria generated some income, but not nearly enough to sustain the operation at the level I had envisioned.
After several months, I began to feel the weight of it. It simply wasn’t working.
By then Anna had moved on. She had been a tremendous help, and I remain deeply grateful to her. I could not have prepared the restaurant without her energy and loyalty.

As time passed, I retained the young man who managed the bar and the young woman running the pizzeria. I later discovered they were seeing each other, which gave me an idea.
I offered them the entire business to run as they wished, on the condition that they pay me a fixed weekly rent.
To my relief, they accepted enthusiastically.
I engaged a solicitor to draw up a proper agreement, with terms that suited us all. Once the documents were signed, they took over day-to-day operations, and I stepped back — receiving a steady weekly rent.
For the first time in months, the pressure lifted.
Everyone, it seemed, was satisfied.
This arrangement carried on for several months. Then, quite unexpectedly, I received a phone call from a real estate agent asking if I was the owner of Cheers Restaurant.
I was cautious. At that time, there were plenty of scams circulating on the Sunshine Coast, and I had no intention of being caught out. I answered carefully and did not confirm too much. Instead, I asked him to call me back at a specific day and time. Before that call, I checked who he was and satisfied myself that he was legitimate.
True to his word, he rang again.
He asked if the restaurant was for sale — and, if so, how much.
That caught me off guard. The Coast was still very quiet, and I had not actively considered selling. My reply was half serious, half tongue-in-cheek:
“Everything on the Sunshine Coast is for sale.”
However, I made it clear that price would not be discussed over the phone. He said he would get back to me.
A few days later he called again, requesting a meeting at the restaurant with himself and his client. I contacted my tenants and asked if I could have the use of the premises for a couple of hours. That suited them well, as they were closing for a few days during the winter lull.
We met as arranged. The agent introduced his client — a gentleman from Gympie, a pub developer with interests on the Sunshine Coast.
After several hours of negotiation, we reached an agreement.
They would pay the price I wanted — but not until March of the following year. In the meantime, they would take over the business and pay me a negotiated monthly sum, effectively interest, until the balance was settled in full the following March.
It was an unusual arrangement, but it suited us both.
I took the proposal to my solicitor, who crossed the T’s and dotted the I’s, ensuring everything was properly documented and secure.
And so, once again, something that had begun almost on impulse came to a measured and satisfactory conclusion.
I can say now — it truly did happen.

 

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