Cosy Corner sits quiet at the edge of the world, where the boulders wear their rust-red lichen like old armour left out in the weather.

The rocks rise in hulking shapes, scarred and sun-battered, keeping their own counsel as the tide moves around them.

They say the place was named for the fires once lit along this shore. Signals, warnings, stories and corroboree. All bright burning. Larapuna. Deep south.

Now it is catamarans that speckle the bay, drifting in from every corner of the globe, their travellers stunned into silence by the colour of the water.

That impossible turquoise, clear enough to show the translucent bones of tiny schooling fish as they dance like lightning along the sea floor.

Seabirds wheel and cry above the cove, wobbling as they hover, challenging the wind, sometimes appearing to tightrope walk an invisible line.

And the white sand holds it all together, this otherworldly secluded corner, down, way down, Binalong way.