A Kookaburra ate my Chicken!

OK, it’s not quite a dingo stole my baby but it’s true (more of that later)!!

The scene of this crime was the Lower North Coast of NSW, where I was headed for the long Labour Day weekend, a public holiday which couldn’t quite align with my birthday but allowed for a drive further afield. The drive was broken up by Sydney, a mere three hours up a gusty, stormy Hume Highway on Friday night. Sydney was steamy but the storms came rolling in, cooling it down and bringing a grey, damp start to the weekend. Only a fantastic breakfast in Coogee could brighten the mood and it sure did that.

And with that my friend Jill and I whizzed north. Well I say whizzed but it took over an hour to get over the Harbour Bridge and up out of the Northern suburbs of Sydney. The journey seemed to get even longer when we made a detour to Uluru and I decided it was worth the climb. Somehow Uluru seemed to have moved on top of a service station off the Pacific Highway, but hey ho, whatever. And after several hours, we arrived at Pacific Palms, just south of Forster and in an area they call the Great Lakes, famed for lakes and greatness.

An initial exploration was cut short by yet another storm rolling in and so there was little to do but go eat up in Forster. Everyone else seemed to be doing the same however, so while the dinner of fish and chips was pretty good, the on a lap in the Magna in a dark car park was hardly Michelin star.

The next day promised something a bit brighter and it was oh so nice to be able to get up, wander down the hill, stroll along Elizabeth Beach and watch the dolphins milling about beyond the breakers. Follow that with coffee and cake at a very laid back, slightly crazy place nearby and all was pretty chilled. Further stops on the morning tour took in Cape Hawke, where a lookout was hazed in and accompanied by Ronan Keating singing when tomorrow never comes (you had to be there) and a trip down to Seal Rocks, which despite being down a dirt road seemed to be somewhat frenetically filled with smelly backpackers and similar types. Just round the corner, and in Myall Lakes National Park, was Sugarloaf Point and a lighthouse which claims to be the on the second most easterly point in Australia. Second best but first rate views, if somewhat blustery.

It would be an ideal spot for a tearoom but food had to wait until Smiths Lake, where I bought a Chicken burger to snack on down on some picnic tables beside the water. All was going well and I was nearing the peak of the meal… saving the best until last, when down swooped a Kookaburra, snatched it out of my hand and simply left me in mild shock and severe rage. You’re just a glorified shite-hawk!

The Kookaburra incident clearly left me shocked so it was lucky that the sun really started to shine and I was able to spend a couple of hours down on secluded Shelly Beach, though not so secluded as to conceal some chubby lard ass dangling his tackle on his jaunts from a hidden rocky inlet down to the water. We stuck to the more child friendly side of the beach, reading, occasionally strolling along the water and generally being very content. Now this is what I had come here for.

Now I hear you saying, nice beach, but where are these Great Lakes? Well, the main one is a mere stone throw from the coast across a narrow strip of land. Despite being a boaties mecca (judging by the fish jumping you can understand why), it remains pretty serene, especially as the sun disappears behind yet more cloud…

So Australia has great beaches and great lakes. It also apparently has great hogspitality at the Hog’s Breath Café, a chain of meaty places scattered across the country, where it seems any true blue Aussie still calls home. It’s one of those, oh I know, let’s be zany and put an old tricycle on the ceiling and a number plate on that pillar. Nice steak but I honestly don’t see what all the fuss is about, especially when this country (well, the cities at least) has so much going for it food-wise. Still, least it was Kookaburra free!

And so it was Monday, the public holiday and a day to sit in a car, drive 750 kilometres, get cabin fever coupled with sugar rush and sing out loud slightly naff songs from Floorfillers disc two. The weather was grey, then slightly brighter around the inland town of Gloucester before pelting it down around Stroud. Back on the Pacific Highway the traffic built around Hexham and Newcastle and it wasn’t just the place names which were starting to resemble England. Yet somehow, thanks to the sugar and floorfillers, it was an absolute hoot.


Detour number two brought brighter weather and a very scenic if slightly bendy drive along the Hawkesbury River to Wiseman’s Ferry, reached, not at all ironically, by ferry. Here, the sun was out and almost all of Western Sydney were picnicking and despite this it was very pleasant. The power was out and no coffee was available but it was still very pleasant. It would’ve been nice to stay but time was getting on and we threaded our way back down to Windsor and across Western Sydney back to Coogee.

Here, the last rays of sun were filtering their way out to sea (at a pleasingly late 7pm… oh yes, daylight saving) and we finished things off with a Brazilian Barbecue meat fest (still making up for that stolen chicken). That was really it, apart from it wasn’t really it as I still had the three hour drive back to Canberra, across another blustery Hume Highway, fuelled only by intense service station coffee, more shout out loud singing and memories of the great weekend.

Danielson

Back in Canberra and all is changing rapidly, the bare bones of winter being replenished by green buds and balmy winds. Floriade of course continues apace and continues to attract the interstate visitors, including my friend Jill and my housemate's parents all at the same weekend. It could almost make for a sitcom. Saturday was spent enjoying the outdoors, interupting periods of eating with trips to gardens and hills and flowers aplenty.

The evening threw up a rather delightful surprise, some kind of Japanese festival held down by the lake, where hundreds of candles flicker away as karaoke belts out and sushi rolls go in. Even the ACT's chief minister was here and I got within 5 metres of him... how starstruck! In the absence of Kevin (from the US to the footy), it was the best we could do.

The culture of Canberra continued into the evening with dinner at a Portuguese restaurant. Anyone would think we weren't in Australia, except for the fact that Sunday brought about a pre birthday BBQ in the park, full on Australian style with snags and stubbies, cricket bats and boomerangs, soccerballs and twisties, and not a flower in sight!

And now for something completely different

Australia. Some people say it’s a little like England, only bigger and sunnier. Its cities have touches of Americana, but somehow work in a more charming and intimate way. Its proximity to Asia adds a multitude of flavours, including my favourite Laksa from the lovely girls at Thai Cornar. So, like the coffee, the blend is good. The cream on the top are those uniquely Australia things – its Indigenous culture tied inextricably to the red earth, nature’s bounty rich and rare, the flying Kangaroo and, probably the most unfathomable thing to an outsider, Australian Rules Football, or to those in the know, AFL.

The undisputed capital of AFL is Melbourne, which is where I happened to find myself on the penultimate weekend of the footy season. The temple of footy is the MCG, which also happened to be near the mystery hotel I had booked. It was time for us to get better acquainted.



The ground, ah the ground, a magnificent Coliseum, a huge bowl you could fill with cornflakes a billion times over. It’s also home to cricket of course, but in the ‘winter’ it fills with Melburnians decked out in their team colours to watch a group of hoons in tight vests kick a ball about and have a bit of a scrap.

Tonight was the turn of the Hawks (Hawthorn) versus the Saints (St Kilda) for a place in the Grand Final against the Cats (Geelong). An all-Melbourne duel, bringing out 77,000 of the locals and, barring the odd blotto, a frenzied all-Aussie atmosphere. What followed were four quarters of kicking, running, jumping, bundling each other over and chasing an egg around a field. It’s really not a hard sport to follow but, as much as I wanted to, I just didn’t feel it. Perhaps part of the problem was Hawthorn romping to a comprehensive victory rather than those nail-biting one-pointers that have even been known to keep me on the edge of my seat. But it was an experience, a real fair dinkum she’ll be apples experience and the G was the real star.





Now, back to that mystery hotel I was talking about. It was a mystery because it was one of those ‘don’t find out until you book it’ deals and in the end it turned out just about perfect, a punt between the posts from the MCG and on the eastern edge of the city with the views and all. I was glad to be staying here thinking I could have access to a TV showing the Ryder Cup, only to find it was on terrestrial TV anyway, though Channel Ten decided to stop coverage right at the brink of the end of the day’s matches to bring us the shameless promotional advertising fest that is Video Hits. Still, I couldn’t stand fat amoebas shouting “Boooooooooo” anyway.

Sunday was shaping into a ripper, proving Canberra doesn’t quite have the monopoly on Spring and I duly wandered and fell in love with Melbourne once again. From my pad I sauntered over to Fitzroy Gardens, filled my face on breakfast and coffee and waddled through the flower beds to the ‘Paris End’ of town. Yes, it’s true, they call it the Paris end, I guess courtesy of the many small boutiques, designer stores and snooty women with poodles (OK, that bit’s not true). It’s also where the theatres are and any pretensions of Paris were truly obliterated with the forthcoming show:

(For tickets text flipper boy on noice shayne, noice)

For the more common fellows like me, the place to shop is the Bourke Street Mall and Melbourne Central, a more typical, Aussie myriad of stores and food and smell of coffee. It’s only a mall, but at its heart is a huge conical glass structure along with a giant watch. I later found out the watch plays Waltzing Matilda once an hour and I am gutted I did not linger. I got a watch of my own though, finally, so I can actually get through the focus groups I came here to do knowing just how long they’ve been going.

There are more crazy structures down at Federation Square. I cannot really describe what it is, I’m not sure if I like it or not, but it’s quite magnetic. I think it typifies Melbourne and, as such, it was full of AFL related going-ons in the lead up to next weekend’s Grand Final (which, if you have been paying attention brings the Cats up against the Hawks. How that one would play out in nature I’m not too sure).

And so, like the footy season, the end is nearly here. The sun sets on another weekend, but sets nice it does over the Yarra.



Hopefully in the morning Channel Ten can keep going and Boooooooo can bugger off and find out exactly where Eyouroop is on a map. If not, I might have to turn to the AFL. Go the Hawks!

Ditto

It’s been on my mind a lot, weighing me down like a Tesco bag full of pork pies. Exactly how can I make this blog different when I’m doing the same things for the third year in a row? Year 1 and it’s all new like, Year 2 and there’s a bit of a different take, an alternative angle and now Year 3 here we are. What’s to say I’m not recycling photos from last year and I’m actually holed up in a grimey flat in East Croydon? The best solution I can come up with is to post the photos upside down, least that way some of you will get a taste of being down under.

Not that there’s anything bad with a bit of repetition when it’s all so warm and fuzzy like a Canberra Spring. I say Spring, but the giddy heights of 26 degrees on Saturday exceeded even my wildest shorts-wearing dreams. So, to make the most of the day, I got out and about and captured more of the same old things… wattle and gums at the Botanic Gardens, Canberra’s annual Floriade flower fest frenzy, aggressive birds and their chicks (not the Union Street type), and a scoop or two of Gelatissimo all wrapped up in warm northerly winds. Somebody’s gotta do it.

Snow puns intended

Well, here I am again, the Green Bogey Down Under and looking forward to another year of marvelling at all the marvellous things in this marvellous country. The transition from jetlagged zombie to cork-hatted drongo has advanced well, and it has been nice to re-familiarise myself with some of my favourite things down under. Australian Idol is back on the TV and the wattle is full to bursting, a sure sign of summer on the way and I have to say I cannot wait to be wearing shorts and sizzling snags before long.

It’s not all sun sun sun though and some of you will be flabbergasted to find out that they have a white thing called snow in this sun-baked country. They even have a sport called skiing and snowboarding, though even the least snooty Frenchman would admit it is nothing in comparison to les Alpes! But just over two hours in my marvellous car took me to a weekend in the snow with a bunch of Aussies, all wrapped up and ready for the perishing lows of -3C. We took over a great B&B off the Alpine Way, with a roaring log fire the backdrop to lots of cheese and wine and chocolate… it could almost be Switzerland!

So, closely guarding my wallet the next day, I headed to Perisher Blue, the largest ski resort in Australia apparently and unsurprisingly busy on a sunny Saturday. To ski or not to ski that is the question. A question I quickly answered given the quite exorbitant cost of lift passes and associated paraphernalia. I was happy with the novelty factor of snow in Australia and, after a good winter, there was quite substantial depth to it. It wasn’t just snowmen and snowball fights though, as they thoughtfully provide a Snow Tube, the simplest explanation of which is hurtling down a slippery slope with a big rubber ring around your butt (or if you are extra daring like me, lying on your front head first)! It was good, wholesome fun and, yeah, a little thrilling… I just wish the runs were maybe a little longer and I also wish I didn’t look such a clown in my hastily scrambled together “ski-wear”.



For the more sedate winter tourists like us, another fine thing to do is to take one of the chairlifts, have a scrummy jacket potato (but no Bedruthan) at the mid-station and then zoom up to the top taking in the expansive views. Sure, it’s do Aguille Du Midi – and with it no sign of altitude drunkness – but it’s as good as you’ll get down under.

The après ski action back in the valley took in the world’s snappiest Schnapps tasting assistant, perfecting her German attitude to a tee. And then it was a wonderful dinner back at the lodge, more cheese, wine and possibly the longest game of trivial pursuit ever. The Australian edition that is, in which I was tested with the ingredients of Anzac biscuits and the whereabouts of the famous Jacaranda festival (Grafton apparently). So much still to learn.

With that in mind, my journey back took a small detour to the fabled Snowy River. I say fabled because that’s how you usually see or hear it described. Say Snowy River to any true blue Ocker and the tears will well up in the eye and they will rush home to bake some Lamingtons. It’s one of those things I don’t really understand and never will, but a stop at the small town of Dalgety – which is another one of those places which nearly became the nation’s capital (and has never looked back since) – took me to its fabled edge.



There is also a fabled Maccers in Cooma which is almost as popular with Aussies it seems, and for some reason I have been in there far too many times over the course of the last couple of years. This time a customary frozen coke to keep me fuelled along the Monaro Highway, leaving the snow and winter behind and heading full steam into spring…