The van eases out of Melbourne’s low-rise suburbs as the city’s glass facades shrink behind you and the air begins to lean saltward. By the time the tour arrives at the bright rows of Brighton bathing boxes, the light has thinned to a cool clarity—each painted shed a declared punctuation against Port Phillip Bay. This is a small-group day that trades the clamor of mass-tourism for elbow room: door-to-door pickup, a wildlife sanctuary tucked into bushland, cliff-top views where Bass Strait pushes on the shore, and a sunset ritual when little penguins waddle from sea to sand.