The Daddy of all trips

Through this blog I occasionally and half-heartedly attempt to convey the spectacle that is life in Australia. I don’t write so much about the crummy bits, focusing as I do on the glowing sunsets, dazzling beaches and hyper fluorescent wildlife. The eternal goal is to translate the real lived experience into nice words and pretty images, but despite the use of florid verbs and fortuitous pictures, it can only be two-dimensional by its nature. To be here, to experience it directly, adds that third dimension of appreciation...the sounds of the dawn chorus, the touch of the fine white sands on weary feet, the smell of wafting coffee around every corner.

And so after five years it was a thrill to be able to share and re-live the joy of discovery that comes with a visit to Australia, through the arrival of Dad for a two week visit. The joy that is waking by the sea, a golden sunrise on a golden beach, darting colours and chirrups filling the skies and a perky flat white or two – this all while I was still in bed! Once I made it out and joined Dad for his first morning, there were further flat whites beside the golden sands of Coogee, followed by a filling breakfast to set us on our way for a sparkling Sydney introduction.

One of the more miraculous things about this first day is how awful the weather had been up until then, but clear blue skies and temperatures nudging the 30s provided perfection. As people from England had done a few hundred years ago, we entered the harbour from South Head, the Watsons Bay to Circular Quay ferry a wonderful way to approach the iconic icons of this city.

So we took in the panorama of the bridge, walked around and about the Opera House, and pottered some more around the Botanic Gardens, not only taking in the views but the ample wildlife. For me, there were flashbacks to my first day ever in Sydney, when I glimpsed the bridge and got tingles on my neck, milled about around those big white prawn shells, and marvelled at the bats and birds and botanic framing opportunities from Mrs Macquarie’s Chair. It was decidedly cooler back then, so no ice cream, which was gleefully taken up on this much warmer occasion. Already several must-sees and must-dos ticked off the list and Dad’s bird count triggered off with abundance.

After the ferry and climb back to the car at Watsons Bay, the bombardment of sights and sounds mellowed somewhat, as we headed, via a close-to-heaving Bondi, out of Sydney and west towards the Blue Mountains. It was a cruisey time of day for a cruisey kind of drive and we made it in good time for gorgeous end of day light overlooking the Jamison Valley. This not even 24 hours in, the contrast from buzzing city to tranquil wilderness, continuing to defy the jetlagged senses.

Day two heralded another early morning fog walk for Dad before I joined him for a Blue Mountains sampler. With obligatory coffee in tow we gazed out at the views from Govett’s Leap near Blackheath, sat with the birds for a little, then headed to Wentworth Falls and a walk above and below the cliff line via the National Pass. The walk is iconic in its own Australian way, bookended with crashing white waterfalls and continually punctuated with expansive views over the mighty gum forests of the folding valleys below. The bottom of Wentworth Falls itself proved a mighty fine setting for a mighty fine sandwich, before a mighty yet not so fine climb up the grand staircase, proof that what goes up must come down, and vice versa.

After such a frenetic start, the pace slackened a little, as did the weather, with a few days in Canberra. The topsy-turvy summer continuing with cool and somewhat grey days, but dry enough to get out into the bush capital. Red Hill reliably provided a surfeit of kangaroos and rosellas and cockatoos, Mount Ainslie proffered its classic view, the Botanic Gardens gave away its charms in dappled sunlight, the lake a refined backdrop for ambles and rambles, and Belconnen Mall produced a new relative in the midst of suburbia.

While Dad was busily making headway with his bird list – including roast chook from Coles – down on a trip to Tidbinbilla I managed to see something for the first time myself: a duck-billed platypus, milling about the long grasses and providing relief from infuriating attempts to photograph fairy wrens and other such disinterested things. Not that a platypus is any easier to capture on camera, being quite lumpy, brown, semi-submerged and fast moving, but something is there in the photo.

We became faster moving ourselves on Friday, as the Magna once more pointed in a north-easterly direction and made the trip up the Hume Highway and back to Sydney. This was done via the Big Merino of course, for what would a trip to Australia be without a stop off at a pointless big thing? The Sydney weekender provided a further chance to take in some of the city sights and sounds, as well as an opportunity for Dad to catch up with long lost people from the past who had made the terminal trip down under.

It’s hard not to be lured by that great big bridge and the nearby shiny white protuberance amongst the blue waters, and we headed to North Sydney on Saturday to take in some alternative angles around Milsons Point and Kirribilli. Here, the rainbow lorikeets continued to taunt within the general leafiness, the coffee and company was good and the sun was out for a little while once again.

From here we made it across the bridge as the rumbles of thunder rolled in from the west, and we got part way up George Street before the heavens opened for a little while. An hour or two later, and it was summer once more as pure blue skies dazzled on the water and bathed the city skyline from Darling Harbour. A perfect spot for some souvenir shopping and another catch up with long lost and new friends.

Sunday – and one week into the trip – seemed to herald an identical scene to the week before, with sunny skies again dazzling the waterfront down at Circular Quay. Here, a bus missed by Jill was happily turned into our advantage with extra time for coffee and banana bread by the water. Once gathered, we embarked on the ferry ride over to Taronga for walk number 3. It’s not such a bad start to a walk, ploughing across the water from Circular Quay to the north side, and once the walking starts things don’t get any worse. Classic views from Bradley’s Head are followed by lush forests and tranquil coves, with ensuing bright beaches and panoramic headlands capping the walk off as it makes its way to Balmoral.

And while Balmoral was a trifle busy, and eateries could be a trifle less expensive please, it’s not a bad destination following six and a half kilometres on foot. One of the many perks is its bus back to Taronga, from which the ferry made it through increasingly darkening skies. And at Circular Quay, eating ice cream in the rain seemed wrong, but this probably just increased its tastiness.

While Sydney is a magical city when the sun shines and all is well, its surrounding landscapes really provide the icing on the cake. Monday morning found us crawling gradually out of the southern suburbs and almost immediately into the wild at Royal National Park. Still being close to Sydney there remains a civilised feel at Audley, with coffee and manicured lawns an attraction for humans and birds alike. Here too are canoes for hire, and the opportunity to go up Kangaroo Creek with a paddle.

Like the creek, the road from here meanders its way on as the Grand Pacific Drive, the tarmac spitting you out of lush forests and into towering headlands overlooking the ocean. As I was reminded by Charles Darwin, via Stephen Fry, the Pacific is a very badly named ocean, its white caps evident the length of south east Australia and causing nervous Englishmen to dip only in its most subdued inlets and bays. But it provides drama on a grand scale along a small stretch of this road, a worthy taste of sea saltiness justifying the road’s name before it dissipates into the Wollongong burbs.

The escarpment alongside the coast presents a formidable barrier into the inland, though one which is penetrated by a number of similarly arduous climbing roads. They are rather beautiful detours, though as a driver you are limited in how much you can appreciate it as the next precipitous hairpin approaches. We took one of the main ones – the Illawarra highway – though even this narrows to almost a single lane in one spot and the constant warnings to ‘beware of trucks in road’ is hardly reassuring. The reward atop is the little town of Robertson and beyond an old faithful pocket of classic Australian bush – Fitzroy Falls and the Yarrunga Valley.

I’ve been here countless times since it’s doable as a day trip from Canberra and forms a scenic route to the coast. For Dad, this was his first and I’m sure he’d like to come back here as many times as I have. Despite inclement weather with occasional rumbles of thunder, the sights, smells and sounds were all there, the pounding falls no match for the rain, the bush alive with animals and a pure freshness in the air. Alas the weather was a little too much to prolong the stop, but the hot chocolate afterwards was reasonable consolation.

Back on towards the coast – after a twisty descent, ascent and further descent via Kangaroo Valley – the weather was more placid, pleasing given we had our homes to erect at Green Patch campground in Booderee National Park. This was home for the next two nights and though the dwelling was far from deluxe, the garden was exquisite: situated in shady bushland with the roos and parrots and possums, a white sandy beach just a short amble from the canvas and electric barbecues.

It was a great place to wake up, even after a restless night...the ever rejuvenating feel of sand in the toes, the sounds of gently lapping clear water punctuated by shrieking parrots and laughing kookaburras. The warm sun rising through clouds, gently blinding so that you have no option just to close your eyes and soak it up.

A reward for such an arduous start to the day was some camp stove cooked bacon and egg sarnies, along with a nice cuppa. That kept us ticking over nicely until the chance of a flat white in the town of Huskisson presented itself and was grasped with glee. Fuel for an amble along part of the White Sands Walk, which is exactly as it says on the tin. The bonus of dolphins was an added extra thrown in to what turned out to be an exemplary morning.

The afternoon couldn’t match this level as the variable weather continued, the Minnamurra rainforest – surprisingly for a rainforest – shrouded in incessant rain, but the takeaway sandwich sat in the car made up for that, as did the ice cream that followed in Kiama. Of course, you can’t come to Kiama without seeing the blowhole which was reliably blowing in a fairly underwhelming way. It never fails to draw the visitors though however underwhelming it might blow – or suck.

The trip back to Jervis Bay was now bathed in warm sunshine and a brief stop at Seven Mile Beach confirmed that it should be warm enough to sit on the beach back at Green Patch and venture into the water. It was a close call, as things had cooled down a little by then, but the water was acceptable and the setting even more acceptable for Dad and I to make it into the ocean.

The last day down on the coast was really quite special, as the weather fined up nicely and it provided that heady mix of walks, beach lazes, sandwiches, coffee, and ice cream. It started once more with a wake up at Green Patch, Dad off for his bird walk, me to the beach, but even I could not resist doing a bit of birding. Taking pictures of lorikeets continued to infuriate us both, but I think we just about got there in the end.

With a stop for coffee at the relaxed beachside of Mollymook, I was glad we were able to make it to Depot Beach in Murramarang National Park. Here I could share what has become one of my favourite walks, being just a couple of hours drive from Canberra, along the diverse and pristine shoreline to Pebbly Beach. It’s one of those walks you never tire of...the stunning, vibrant colours, the intriguing rock platforms and pebble coves, the crashing waves and towering spotted gum forests. At sandy Pebbly Beach there was chance for another welcome takeaway sandwich, before the equally satisfying return walk along the shore.

With such fine weather now gracing us with its presence it felt premature to head back to Canberra and we refreshed with ice cream at Mogo before one final piece of bliss on Broulee Beach. My very first trip out of Canberra was here, where I first discovered this wondrous stretch of coastline. I was much younger and less grey then, so probably didn’t have a beach nap like I did today. I’m sure Dad, without a beach nap, felt some of that same joy I had on first visiting this place.

And so, while that wasn’t quite the end of the visit it was just about the end of the trip. A couple of days remained in Canberra for some attempts at fishing, visits to Parliament House and the War Memorial, and final forays into the bush for a gang gang. Dad even got to experience one of our big storms, which decided to show itself just as I was about to cook up a barbecue feast on his last night. But my British we shall not be moved instincts kicked in, so as lightning forked around me and torrents of rain thundered onto the roof of the car awning, the meats charred and the veggies smoked and a feast was had by those who braved it.

To prove the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree Dad spent his last morning in Australia in the same way I often do before a trip back to Europe. A final walk around a reverberant Red Hill, offering up a final roll call of Aussie classics: bouncing roos, dashing rosellas, cockie cries and magpie melodies. A sit in a sun filled cafe table for a flat white and a spot to eat, a celebration of the cafe culture that is so prevalent and so pleasing in Australia. A final opportunity for a dose of warmth and Vitamin D before the big trek to the north.

It’s a trek that starts at the modest surroundings of the Jolimont bus station, where I bid Dad farewell onto the boring bus trip to Sydney airport. I can empathise with the transition to the cold he is going to face, the flat end of holiday mood, and the realisation that you will not get a good coffee in a long time. But I’d say think of the pork pies, and the BBC and, of course, the other loved ones you return to. And now, perhaps for someone at least, my words and pictures will be slightly less two dimensional. The memories of rainbow dashes in the sky, azure waves lapping white sands, and pristine waters plummeting down, coupled with the real life experiences of dodgy parking in the Magna, ridiculously proportioned coins in the pocket, and a feel good vibrancy around every cafe-filled corner will stay for a long, long time. Probably about as long as it takes to get a fairy wren to stand still.

Janitales

January doesn’t bring with it the same depressiveness in Australia as it does in the UK, but that’s not to say it isn’t without its flaws. First, you still have to go back to work after Christmas. I would argue it is more frustrating being tucked away in an office staring at a screen on beautiful sunny days than it is to be comforted in a cosy cubicle with hot drinks and heating during bleak Dickensian winters. The fact that most other people are still on holiday is equally unjust. The other thing you have to contend with at this time of year is an annoyingly resurgent Australian cricket team, and with it, the return to sledging and arrogance. The tennis is less annoying, except in cases where Channel 7 decides to cut away to a match featuring some hapless local and you have no other choice because they haven’t figured out how to use their other digital channels except for endless re-runs of Escape to the Country. And the same old adverts between games begin to drive you mad by the quarter finals.

Anyway, these are clearly all first world problems and in reality January has general been genial, though I have felt restricted in my enjoyment of more recent parts of it thanks to some stupid illness or other. This has kept me mostly in and around Canberra, though with torrents of rain and gloom on the coast, that’s probably a good thing. Getting out and about has included enjoying the garden, helpless to watch nature take over before it is tamed as far as it can be, feeling less guilty about its wildness when wild creatures take a liking to it.

‘If only I had the time and resources of the Australian National Botanic Gardens’ I sighed as I walked along one of their always charming pathways, under cooling ferns and aesthetically pleasing eucalypt and flower combinations. Or even the National Arboretum, which seems to be coming along at great speed, though I’m not so fond of its very regimental lines of trees, preferring as I do the wild, rambling landscape of my garden.

Not helping my gardening woes is the precariousness of January’s weather. A few characteristically blistering days have been interspersed with cool changes, brooding clouds and occasional downpours. The plants love it, and I don’t mind it too...it’s generally been dry enough to do stuff and not too hot that all you can do is eat ice cream and watch annoying cricket in the dark with the fans whirling at level 3. This mixture of sun and cloud and general broodiness about the place has enlivened the random evening walks upon Red Hill and thereabouts, a place where even my garden is put in the shade by its wild bushland charms.

As the sun sets from Red Hill Reserve the silhouette of higher ground out west gives the Brindabellas more prominence, resembling a mountainous landscape in which are very Australian-style mountains. Now, along the spectrum of wilderness these are up the top end, more so than Red Hill; indeed more so than my garden. They remain pretty inaccessible, despite their proximity to the national capital, a thought I find rather exciting...a reminder of what a vast and untamed place this remains. There is a road, and it’s a road I’ve never been on before, slightly uncertain of how narrow, winding and rutted the dirt track would be. But with some dry weather behind me, and very little traffic for company, all was well on the way to Mount Franklin, with some stunning views from the ridgeline to the west. There are further roads to follow on this journey.

While it isn’t really true to say all roads lead to the capital, come Australia Day it does take on something resembling prominence. For it is here that formal ceremonies and parties and shambolic protests mix with the ever-enduring sausage sizzles and lamington bake-offs. Australia Day for me was spent in a reasonably patriotic way – watching sport, eating food, wearing thongs. I couldn’t resist mixing a little with the locals, pottering about around some of the national institutions, accidentally coming across Lamington bake-offs and fighter jet fly bys. The sounds of Waltzing Matilda echoing on the breeze from the citizenship ceremony across the lake, latte-supping among Australian hats and rising intonations. And a big bang on which to go out on, obligatory fireworks by the lake.

With Australia Day, the completion of the annoying test series, the culmination of the tennis, you could be forgiven for thinking summer was coming to an end. People will be coming back to work, thinking how depressing it is. But the sun is still setting after eight, BBQs are still entirely acceptable and shorts are still de rigueur du jour. The garden will not be dying off for quite some time. 

Selection Pack

Well, it’s good to have made it into 2012, without any falling in of the sky or earth shattering meteorites eclipsing even London’s New Year pyrotechnics. The first few days of ‘twenty twelve’ have continued as twenty eleven left off, that is to say with copious food, steamy weather and a supposedly resurgent Australian cricket team. The Christmas and New Year break was itself like one of those selection packs I probably devoured along the way – a bit of a twirl, occasionally crunchie and in need of a boost when at times it went all curly wurly, very fattening, but ultimately delicious.

It began last year in Sydney, symbolically at South Head, the entrance to a city in a wonderful yet slightly self-satisfied holiday nirvana. At this point it was surprisingly quiet, the blanketing cloud subduing smells of sunscreen and wafting prawn smoke, the fish and chips possibly reheated due to low customer volume at Watson’s Bay. Further down the coast in Bellevue Hill where I was house and cat-sitting, the next few days were spent trying to appease Ricky Ponting and find a suitable ham to cook. Neither was easy, Ponting typically aloof and full of swagger, miaowing in the early hours and only coming round with the juicy full toss of catnip infused treats. Meanwhile, the ham quest proved impossible, despite the likes of Nigella and Gordon showing us how it is done on the ABC every night. It just seems all the hams for purchase are pre-cooked here, one of the more subtle distinction between the British and Aussie Christmas. Nonetheless, pre-cooked purchased ham turned out to be almost as delicious and similarly never-ending, turning up in sandwiches all the time.

After one dreary pre-big day morning, the weather dried out just a little to allow a little jaunt on the harbour while here, the affluent enclave that is Rose Bay being just down the road from Ponting Palace, and suitably equipped with a ferry stop. Somehow I managed to turn left rather than right, away from the ferry terminal, missing the 3pm ferry by seconds, but left with an hour to potter about alongside million dollar views and properties with accompanying price tags. It also gave me an opportunity to suss out the local ham options to no avail.

So in the end it was the 4pm ferry which propelled me alongside more million dollar pads and bays, the cool wind in the hair all the way to Circular Quay, where the Opera House was still standing and the big bridge thing was still working and all was well with the world, albeit again surprisingly subdued. And after a small potter around I headed up the road to Martin Place, from where I took an almost empty train back to Bondi Junction. Here, another fruitless meat search was consoled by probably the best food court laksa you will ever have the opportunity to enjoy.

In need of a bit of a boost, Christmas Eve provided a great day as summer came back and was set to stay around for a while, perfect timing and perfect opportunity to head to the beach. Despite my iPhone almost melting on the sands, a few hours at Nielson Park were amply enjoyed – stunning views and foreshore walking interspersed with beach lazing, water cooling and music listening (until aforementioned iPhone melting). And the party was back in town, beautiful people and their annoying whiney children back in force. I think there was even the mirage like glow of BBQ fumes in the air.

If the day was as sweet as a Cadbury’s caramel, the evening turned into a finger of fudge that was just enough to give the kids a nightmare. As the sun faded on an evening walk to Bondi Beach and back, all was well as I headed up to Bellevue Hill. A cold beer just minutes away, cooling fluid to the sausage rolls and cheesy marmites to be baked in the oven. Only I locked myself out, Ricky Ponting nowhere on hand to save me, the mosquitoes taking every advantage of the situation and my salvation coming at a cost of $180 thanks to a locksmith who looked every part the dodgy burglar. And as the last, somewhat belated cheesy marmite emerged out of the painfully slow oven, the clock ticked over to Christmas Day.

All I got for Christmas was the two front teeth of a hungry mosquito, plus a slightly amusing-in-hindsight tale for the Christmas dinner table. Well, this is not all true, it wasn’t that amusing, plus I had more presents (thanks to those who were so kind) and, apart from increasing itchiness, a rather lovely day. Morning coffee and shortbread on Coogee beach, endless picnic food under a shady tree as the weather shined, and lazy end of day BBQ and salads. Washed down with a little fizzy grape juice and capped by a Guinness World Record sized cheesecake to take me into the evening. Who says Santa Claus isn’t real, for thus sat a fat man in a red top with a couple of days of growth around the chin.

I can’t really remember too much about Boxing Day, other than that more food was involved. More ham, more chocolate, more of that cheesecake, and more cheese of the non-cake variety. Plus more re-organising, re-jigging and re-loading of various bags and coolers and implements in and out of the car, preparation for the next bar of goodness in the holiday selection pack.

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The sights of the M4 West improve only marginally as the road rises into the plateau of the Blue Mountains. Crossing the range, through traffic jams and construction, it’s hard to believe that just a stone’s throw north and south of you stand plunging cliff lines and endless canyons of eucalyptus. Today it was hard to believe even atop one of the cliff lines, the low cloud kissing the ground and filtering its ghostly blankness down into the Grose Valley. Still, the ham roll consumed at this stop was one of the better ones.

Thankfully, and predictably if you are nerdy enough to understand prevailing weather patterns, clouds parted on the western side of the mountains and things had turned idyllic by the time the car entered the Wolgan Valley. Approaching this valley was something of a delight, seemingly hidden as it is, spreading out and glowing before you as the road peaks and winds its way through a narrow gap in the escarpment. And thankfully it still has that ‘lost world’ air, off the beaten track and open only to rich sheiks (in the seven star Emirates resort) or cheap bums (camping in Wollemi National Park).

No prizes for guessing where I stayed, but I can’t honestly think how paying $2,000 per night would match the experience of camping on a beautiful meadow, surrounded by sunlit sandstone cliffs and wombat infested bushland. Plus you get that back to nature fulfilment, where man becomes forager, and collecting firewood is the aim on a late afternoon amble along a tinkling river.

While the firewood collection was paltry compared to the efforts of the nearby bogan tent – who appeared to be deforesting Wollemi National Park – it was sufficient just for the thrill of lighting a fire, toasting some bread and being mesmerised by flame. Plus there was more ham and cheese and other leftovers to comfortably make this a seven star dining experience.

I guess there may have been one or two times when the resort looked the better option – a fitful night of sleep disturbed by the bogan fire and wombat grass-munching somewhere beside the ear. And a morning shower wouldn’t have been turned down (neither would a spa or massage or cocktail by the pool actually). But a breakfast of another ham sandwich and cheesy marmites did the trick, with the mild weather perfect for bushwalking without gathering too much more in the way of bad odour.

The walk followed, for the most part, an old rail line that was used to transport oil slate from this area some hundred years ago. It’s amazing the lengths that were gone to in order to get this rail line through the sandstone and connected to the outside world. But I guess not much is different a hundred years later, as mile upon mile of new railway line is laid in the Kimberley to transport rocky treasures to the ports and overseas to China. The great benefit of a rail line is that a hundred years later it provides a reasonably flat walk, and the bonus of a long tunnel now colonised by glow-worms.

Back out into the light, and the sun had expanded its way over the Blue Mountains and down to Sydney for the drive back. This time, no low cloud to conceal the Grose Valley, there to stare down into abuzz with a fresh coffee and celebrate the joy of surviving a night without running water, lighting fire, conquering river crossings and generally sounding more adventurous than you actually were.

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The final bars from our sweet holiday selection come via Canberra, where New Year events were amiable and pleasant, with hassle-free fireworks and friendly drinks. The first day of 2012 finally brought about the first roast dinner of the Christmas holiday season; ironically it was also the warmest day so far, a 33 degree roasting for chook and the trimmings. However I don’t think it will ever be too hot to enjoy Christmas pudding with huge dollops of not-quite-Cornish but Tasmanian clotted cream.

Gargantuan food requires gargantuan exercise to offset the dastardly deeds of kilojoules and fat, and a gargantuan setting can be supplied a few hours south of Canberra in the Snowy Mountains. What better way to start 2012 than from the top of Australia, safe in the knowledge that literally the year is all downhill from here! Okay, so the chairlift from Thredbo took out a great deal of the ascent and descent, but a 13km round trip to Mount Kosciusko was rewarding in every sense. Rocky crags and crystal streams, alpine flowers and leftover chicken sandwiches, cooling relief at altitude from the rising temperatures below.

But while this may be the physical peak of this land, a high point to start the year, I’m possessed of that hope and optimism that comes with a new year ahead. It helps that it’s accompanied by summer, by light, sun-filled days and BBQs and leftover Christmas chocolates. Promises of more trips and travels are just around the corner, pathways are there to be trodden, opportunities to be grasped, landscapes to be photographed and experiences to be written. A delicious array of treats to continue to tuck into.