A final flourish

This time next week I will be in France, sick to death of cheese but still eating it, back on terms with Europe and hopefully approaching something like the right time zone. On Friday I would’ve given my right arm to be whizzed there in un flash, such was the vile wind and icy rain plummeting down on Canberra and dumping snow on its hills.

But two days later, spent with sunshine and coffee and wattle and bacon, there’s a slight pang of sadness, brought about by what have become the final rituals of an Australian weekend. Sure there have been chores – washing and last minute shopping, sorting out the car so it can go on holiday, dusting and making lists of lists. And still there is travel planning and bookings to work on. But there have been real gems, like juicy gold nuggets in the dirt of the Nullarbor.

After a finale at work and boozy Indian dinner, a (only slightly) hung-over breakfast of eggs Benedict did the trick. And later, as the weather brightened, an amble through the Botanic Gardens, where the incredible nature was only too aware of the proximity of spring. The return of the wattle a time-honoured portent of a return to Europe.

That evening was spent doing something very Australian, though with inklings of northern hemisphere memories occasionally bursting their way into my head: wrapped up to the hilt watching a game of footy between a team in green and a team in white. If there were pasties here I could’ve pinched myself. Though perhaps the fact they were playing with an oval ball was a reminder of where we were.

And so came a beautiful Sunday that turned ideal for drying my washing and sending me off with the ever-constant mix of north and south. A good solid Aussie flat white avec un macaron and a fair dinkum, warm-hearted Australian. A famous final bush walk through the red dirt of Red Hill, its gums and wattles and rosellas on parade. And an amble back through suburbia with un-Australian blossoms and ginormous hedgerows. Spring and summer and autumn are coming. Winter is a thing of the past.

The home stretch

In but a day or two I mark six years in Australia. It was supposed to be a year, or maybe two. What has kept me here? Certainly not the bogan car sounds, the Olympic coverage, or Harvey Norman shouting at me that they are “the kitchen / coffee / computer / bathroom / bedding / entertainment / cooking / gaming specialists” depending on what weekend it is. The outdoors would be high on the list and the sense of space and air and purity. Six years and still the darting colour of a pair of Crimson Rosellas flitting from tree to tree is sure to bring a smile to my face. The other wildlife is pretty funky too.

The coffee’s tops and the food aint bad. There are friends and familiar faces, though that’s not a uniquely Australian thing and the connections going back further often remain the deepest. It’s still reasonably easy-going, fair-minded and free. And a very comfortable living. Especially here in Canberra where I certainly never expected to spend six years! But it’s rather charming here and I think you end up with incredible fondness with somewhere that you have bedded down in and made home.

It’s a funny concept, home. I call Canberra home, sometimes I still call Australia home, but I think of myself going home in just over a week, to the Greatest of Britain, scene of Olympic wondrousness and heroes. I hope to find not a gloomy post-party hangover, but a strong sense of pride and optimism that the country has just served up two weeks of immaculate greatness. Despite the doomsayers and doubters, we did it and did it good.

Which brings me, in a moment of self-indulgent ranting, to a paragraph about the coverage of the Olympics in Australia. And mostly by that, I mean the free-to-air coverage from Channel Nine. I could go on and on about the adverts and endless ADHD that was the back-and-forth from Aussie to Aussie in event to event. I could comment on the absence of the use of 2012 technology, in coverage that was akin to 1988 era broadcasting. Then there are the hosts, who were clearly better suited to fluffy daytime TV and the new ‘unmissable’ series of Big Brother...more Ulrika Jonsson than Michael Johnson. Probably the only credible sports face – Mark Nicholas, he of ex-Channel Four cricket fame – was lumbered in the daytime highlights slot, seemingly somewhat forced to gush about all the Australian competitors while he kept a sneaky eye on the BBC during the swimming re-runs.

Anyway, I have used more than the paragraph of ranting I promised, but just to encapsulate it, this morning, in what has been billed throughout as ‘London Live’, when there were no less than four live medal finals to choose from (including a pulsating final in the diving in which three competitors were separated by 0.15 points going into the final dive), what did we get served up with? Replays (yet again) of rhythmic gymnastics, several advert breaks, news updates of events shown last night, and re-runs of the men’s 4x100 at half hourly intervals. Thank goodness for a bit of tinkering and the chance to watch some BBC streaming, still worth it despite the hopeless Internet speed causing buffering every 10 seconds.

So all this just makes me another whinging Pom I suppose. I get that we are in Australia and I expect to see support and coverage of Australian athletes. In fact, I even cheered for a few and liked the ones that were humble and happy at achieving a place in the Olympics or, even better, a medal. I even forgave Anna Meares because she is a fine, committed athlete. But I will not forgive or forget Channel Nine, and I look forward to not watching new episodes of Big Brother, The Farmer wants a Wife, Underbelly regurgitated again, Desperate Househusbands, Charlie friggin Sheen and all the other pap you have been promoting.     

Very clearly and annoyingly for you I digress. I was talking about Australia and how rather fine it is, despite the best attempts of its broadcasters. Luckily I have not been exposed to Olympic coverage 24/7, and some rather hectic work travel took in a few sights of the beautiful land on my doorstep. Which reminds me – winters in Australia aren’t too bad either. Especially on those days when you can walk along the coast from Coogee to Clovelly in a T-shirt for a nice coffee by the water. And evenings when the sun goes down over a glowing, still-vibrant, ex-Olympic city.

Beyond Sydney work took me down the coast to Shellharbour, just south of Wollongong. I adore the South Coast and I haven’t been there this winter, which is a shame. I seem to have missed a traditional winter day trip taking in the wonderful walk along the sands and stones to Pebbly Beach, tucking into fish and chips at Dolphin Point, and perhaps indulging in a coffee and cake at Mogo before the drive back over the mountain.

I didn’t get chance to do any of that, being somewhat further north, but a brief check of a random beach confirmed the South Coast was still beautiful. And there was a certain rugged tempestuousness, perhaps a teaser for the Atlantic fringed climes I’m heading towards, courtesy of wind and large swell on the drive down from Sydney to Wollongong.

A fitting home-from-home, where the land clings on against the powerful force of the coast. Lacking pasties and with a unique take on Devonshire Teas, but just as captivating and satisfying. And where better to end the journey of year six and to match the rage of my Olympian ranting, than with these brooding, tumultuous seas at the end of the world.

Tamar to Tasman

In the depths of cold and dark that are Canberran winter nights, a warming glow emanates from across the seas. Not so much from the UK – at least not up until this point – but from our fromage scented Gallic cousins. Scenes of summer meadows and mountain valleys, cheery peasants lining Boulanger boulevards, dreams of chateaux et gateaux, a blur of colour and heat wrapping an extra blanket around endless late nights. The Tour de France is almost as taxing for viewers down under as it is for the (non-doping) riders. A feat of endurance which is soon to be repeated with little respite as the Olympics kicks off. This very real tyranny of distance hurting.

Strategic napping has taken on greater prominence, and it was with a start that I was disturbed by a flight attendant asking me to lift my blind for landing as we approached Launceston. A tour of Tasmania, meeting great folk, eating well, celebrating arts and heritage, all taken in with the occasional climb and odd sprint.

Apart from the effects of a big Alpine stage the night before and unrelated back pain, Launceston on Friday 13^th started well. There was free car park money at Cataract Gorge, sunniness and eggs by the Tamar River at Stillwater, and an ambling drive west, along the coast to Wynyard, all bathed in warm winter light.

After spending some time with the locals, talking about what’s important to have a good life, it was time for me to again indulge in something approaching the good life with an ample and very pleasing serve of deep fried fish and chips in the car. Was this the peak of Friday 13^th? Quite possibly, as the darkness encircled, the mists descended, and the animals were crazily and manically dashing across the roads up from the coast all the way to Cradle Mountain. Which is renowned for wombats. Too many wombats, one of which sadly found its way between my car and the tarmac. Is this a requirement for citizenship?

The next day arose and the bad luck which preceded it was replaced with generally not-too-bad, actually this is better-than-expected type luck. Forecast wet misery held off until far into the day, and Dove Lake was still as glass, clear as a crystal and reflective of the land around. That’s not to say the sun particularly made much of an appearance, hence a tendency towards black and white over colour for at least a little while.

Despite the cloud scraping the jagged summit of Cradle Mountain, a vibrant lushness was still all too apparent. Seemingly tropical looking spikes and fronds interspersed with native pines, sassafras and trusty, gnarly old gums. Button grass and tannin pools occasional enlivened by flashes of parrot. It wasn’t until the final part of the day – higher up at Crater Lake – that the wet misery finally won out, and even this was somehow beautiful.

The descending gloom lingered and continued to be in place for most of Sunday. Slushy snow peppered the coldest surfaces of the car, and it appeared that the whole of this island was shrouded in the most English of drizzly cloaks. Instinct tells you however that, if anywhere, the south east coast will be protected. Is it worth an extra 200 kilometres detour just to get some sunshine? Probably not, but when the place happens to be the Freycinet Peninsula, it’s difficult to argue against it. For this is the sight of iconic Wineglass Bay, viewed after a surprisingly warming and unsurprising steep climb over a landscape more akin to the Kimberley than the far south of the far south of Australia.

Now down south, the remaining days were spent in and around Hobart, with its blustery freshness and maritime air akin to a slightly larger and more Aussie Plymouth. The area around Salamanca a reminder of what pubs could have been in Australia if it wasn’t for the gargantuan spread of gargantuan RSL’s and leagues clubs. Brickwork and wood, warmth and cosiness, and a mood just the right side of dinginess.

More contemporary yet with one eye on the traditional was the simply quite fabulous Museum of Old and New Art (MONA). It’s not your usual museum or gallery and while it could be seen as one man’s mish-mash of curious bits and pieces, it comes together in one engaging, labyrinthine whole. It’s an experience, a journey that begins with a sedate ferry ride up the Derwent, threads through angular passageways and covert crannies, and ends with gourmet foods and drinks in the late setting sun. A real asset to Hobart and Tasmania.

Above all, it’s the natural assets that are never far away in Tasmania, and Hobart itself is perched on the very edge of wilderness. To the west, a seemingly impenetrable wall begins at the edge of its suburbs, Mount Wellington towering 1000 metres above the city. While it might be pleasant enough in town, icy winds blast the summit of its peak, making it difficult to walk straight and hold a camera still enough to take pictures of the extensive views. Exiting the car is like leaving a warm oven and plunging straight into a bowl of liquid nitrogen. More tolerable perhaps, at this time of year, is lower down at Mount Nelson, where an old signal station becomes a cafe, and the fine views are protected by glass windows.

From here you can see across an island or two and yonder the Tasman Peninsula, itself almost an island, prevented only from being such by a thin strip of land at the evocatively named Eaglehawk Neck. This is where I ended up on my last day, a circuitous detour to the airport, first taking in the charming village of Richmond with its old bridge and fine attempt at looking like a small town in England.

From Richmond I headed south towards the peninsula, where the natural charms of its eastern side hit you in quick succession. With an absolutely picture perfect day you could almost see Antarctica. Well, maybe not quite that far, but the coastline was looking stunning at such tourist hotspots – though without very many tourists – as Tessellated Pavement, Tasman Arch and Waterfall Bay.

A fairly gentle coastal walk leads from car parking at Tasman Arch to Waterfall Bay. Here, not much was happening other than cliffs plunging forth into a deep, still horseshoe cove. This was pretty much the furthest south I could go, and it felt like that. Indeed, next stop Antarctica. Incredibly I had covered over 1,000 kilometres on the island from north to south. Not quite as arduous as that bike ride, nor as hot. But winter is not without its charms. Full of ingredients for a good life.

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.