Magnetic Forces

It was a chilly, though slightly less perishing start to the day very early one Saturday morning in Canberra. About four hours later, via a couple of jet planes, somewhat balmier conditions greeted me in Townsville, north of the Tropic of Capricorn and therefore worthy of what is establishing itself as an annual winter escape. Queensland may have a posturing premier and a surfeit of banana bogan benders, but it sure does provide agreeable winters.

Townsville itself had very pleasant taxi drivers, an even more pleasant brunch, and a crucial ferry terminal for the short ride across the water to Magnetic Island. Technically this is indeed a tropical island, complete with enough requisite palm trees, coconuts and dazzling waters, of swimming pool and sea. It’s not quite a coral cay of an island or as wildly crazy as the wet tropics further north, but with a temperature around 25C and very tolerable warmth in the sea, I wasn’t going to do any complaining anytime soon.

The island is a very pleasing size, with a little bus service linking the small towns and several good walking trails, and possessing enough shops and places to eat to satisfy for a few days. A lot of it is national park, and home to numerous koalas, and, more than likely, some deadly snakes and spiders and things Australian. Incredibly however the only koala spotted happened to be crossing the road near the ferry jetty in Nelly Bay. Further examination revealed two koalas, mum and inquisitive kid.

With a koala or two captured on film, pressure was off for the remainder of the long weekend and there were none to be seen the next day on an up and down circular walk from Nelly Bay. The walk commenced in tropical suburbia, wooden houses hidden in the lush undergrowth, but soon rose through layers of jungle and open bushland, revealing views north to Horseshoe Bay and then east out to sea. Towards the end of the walk, back down at Alma Bay and Arcadia, suburbia returned, and a welcome iced coffee before the final amble beside the water to Nelly Bay.

Nelly Bay is, I suppose, the main town on the island, though does not differentiate much in size from the other spots to the north and south. Here there are some fancy apartments which greet ferry passengers and provide balconies that you could live on forever. Apart from when a cyclone hits I guess, which it did last year in the form of Yasi. Mostly, the island seems to have escaped relatively unscathed, and life goes on for humans and animals alike.

The northern town of Horseshoe Bay has more of a seaside resort feel and genuine – and quite delightful – little strip beside the beach, complete with fish and chips and ice cream. Further walking trails also start here and take you into more rugged hills and sandy bays. The first – Balding Bay – is an unofficial nudist beach, though mercifully none were spotted, apart from afar, when my pottering around with camera may just have disturbed one wrinkly bum that I somehow didn’t see. The second – Radical Bay – is less nude and no way more radical, providing a more conducive spot for picnic lunch, despite the best efforts of peckish Kookaburras.

Not the only peckish birds, as discovered over lunches and dinners, but also the next morning as, yes, sorry Dad, a couple of rainbow lorikeets took an interest in an apple being eaten on the balcony. Seems to be the only way these things stay still for a couple of seconds. This heralded the final day in the tropics, and just to ensure every spot on the island was paid a visit, Picnic Bay, at the south of the main island road was on the agenda in the morning. Here too it was not at all unpleasant, further palms and sands and a little spot for coffee. Island life was beginning to suit me.

Alas the ferry back to the mainland had to be taken and then straight on to a plane heading south. The small blessing to this though was that I was not heading straight back to cold, windy, icy Canberra, but to the state capital of Queensland. Arriving at Brisbane airport in the evening, residents were still rugged up – scarves and coats apparently necessary with lows of around 10 degrees overnight. Soft was the word that came to mind, but a chilly night of sleep had me too reaching for an extra blanket.

The next few days were not what I would call wintry however, despite several cafes encouraging you to come inside for warming soup and piping hot chocolate. On this visit I felt Brisbane growing on me. The weather definitely helped but I think staying with a friend, rather than in a soulless hotel, in a suburb close to the city and the river and parklands, and having a little dose of the metro, with trains and cafes and people, was something of a tonic. Highlight was a random amble through Roma Street Parklands, where the absence of a real winter meant there was a flourishing cacophony of colour and smells. A wattle tree full to bursting the perfect aroma to accompany the sun on your face and remind you how lucky Australia really is.

The impending doom of the carbon tax may or may not change that; possibly more likely to shake things up here will be Can-do Campbell, the premier of this state who has to do things because he said he can. Like clearing koala habitats for more sprawling suburbs. And cutting arts funding. So it was great to see a koala or two up on Maggie, and equally great to wander around GOMA to both marvel and puzzle over several pieces of modern art.  

 

 

Less cultured was my final night in this warmer land, a night out in the pubs of Bris Vegas, a more traditional and archetypal Queensland. Complete with heavy-handedness and strict entry rules that I’m sure old Can-do would be happy about. A junta of self-important security guards and fashion police. But a fun time despite this, leaving a heavy head to return south. Winter is coming.  

The longest day

Well well well, suddenly it is June, and officially here it is the start of winter. This traditionally heralds the beginning of numerous Facebook updates from the UK proclaiming the apparently boiling weather, pictures of flimsy tesco burgers on flimsy tesco barbecues and, more enviously, bank holidays, the onset of sporting blockbusters, and strawberries with very proper clotted cream. Not that food is a problem here – I rather like wintriness and its spell of warming slow cooked meats, red wines and nourishing Asian soups. The dreariest of Sundays is consoled with the roast pork slowly cooking in the oven, the French cheese in the fridge, the red wine sat beside me, and an idea of poached pear and caramel sauce nurturing in my brain for dessert.

Today is winter, but what of May? Extraordinarily beautiful, as the sunny, clear, and mostly mild days spread their lustre over a gradually fading, coat-wrapping Canberra. Flat whites the perfect accompaniment to lakeside ambles and precursor to rosy-cheeked hilltop climbs.

What else happened in May? Nothing out of the ordinary in Australian politics – same old whining despite how good we have it, a budget offering more handouts to working or possibly not working families, a circus of hate and vitriol and self-interest. So calamitous I ventured to Question Time one day, brightened only by the speaker telling off the sniffiest member of the opposition that there was no need to shout, in a very Mum-like way (yes, there are microphones the member for Sturt).

Masterchef number 4 has started, and struggling to differentiate itself from previous seasons, complete with tired clichés and far too much weeping going on far too early in the series. If they’re not whining about how their life is nothing without cooking, they are too busy being incredible arrogant and obnoxious and – in their eyes – the best thing since sliced bread. Or slow baked sliced walnut and date bread with ricotta and maple syrup.

Someone cut my neck open in May. I guess that was a pretty big deal. It happened in Sydney and despite the scary and dramatic undertones of Today Tonight, it was not a result of unending bikie wars, which will no doubt be turned into a TV series with lovable scoundrels and busty groupies (Oh, hang on, channel Ten have already done that). In fact it was a Hurthle cell neoplasm attached to the upper right thyroid, results pending. Without going into too much detail, all I can say is deep gratitude to my carers at Royal North Shore hospital, and those not at Royal North Shore Hospital but willing to drive me almost against their will to and from Royal North Shore Hospital and care for me afterwards.

Thankfully it wasn’t all Hurthle cell neoplasms and nil by mouth while up in Sydney. A few sunny days beforehand provided ideal opportunity for gentle strolls, ferry rides, and food and drink catch ups. It was of course a vital pre-procedure exercise, not only good for the mental health, but necessary indulgence prior to fasting. The highlight was following a pre-admission clinic at North Shore, and the loan of a slightly beat up Barina and sunny afternoon to spur me on to Manly.

Not a bad winter afternoon – clear, pleasant, sedate and orderly, a contrast to the more frenetic, sweaty, bogan-esque summer weekends at the beach. No queues for fish and chips, which I had under the shade of a Norfolk Pine tree. Little congestion on the walk to sun-filled Shelly Beach, which proffered a flat white from its kiosk. And low demand for ice cream, which I lapped up in the beautiful late afternoon light on the prom. Not quite my last supper – that was prosciutto wrapped eye fillet with field mushroom and béarnaise, followed by raspberry crème brulee – but an exquisite couple of hours in which to eat.

And there we go it comes back to food again. I ate food in May and I’m still eating food in June. That is pretty much the summary of this blog post. I suspect I may well eat food in July too – keep reading to find out.