Baby, it's cold outside

For some deranged reason I decided to eat my shorts and depart the land of mangoes for $15 a box and head to the northern hemisphere for a traditional Christmas. By traditional I mean cold and grey, but thankfully scattered with fine food, drink, family and friends to make it all worthwhile (though I think a nice warm beach wouldn‘t go amiss!) The weather in Australia did its best to get me acclimatised, leaving a sunny Canberra into a progressively dreary Southern Highlands and cool and windy Sydney. From here it was fifteen hours of purgatory on a crowded plane to Dubai, for a quick nosey around the tax free burka store before connecting on to seven hours of heaven to Gatwick. At a drizzly Gatwick I spent a couple of hours, enough time to reacquaint myself with the world of chavs and M&S sandwiches before flying to Geneva where I could reacquaint myself with cheese and chocolate!

So that’s the journey condensed into a paragraph - such brevity hardly does it justice - and now I can begin with what could be termed the interesting stuff. OK, Geneva and its French environs sure were chilly, with much snow on the ground from recent falls and with the next day dawning clear and sunny it made sense to drag me to the hills to ram home the upside down nature of this world. It sure was beautiful and not as cold as I first feared, aided by some soup and wine afterwards.

Things went downhill, literally as we descended to Annemasse and the pleasures of Geant Casino or la Casino Geant or Casino de la Geant or whatever, a hypermarket full of hyper French Christmas shoppers with geant noses, not really the place to be when you hit the jetlag wall. Hmm, comforting raclette would make me feel better!

Of course I visited this part of the world in a much warmer, brighter time earlier this year and the contrast was interesting to see, none more so than in the pretty village of Yvoire which was practically deserted on a cool, grey Sunday afternoon.

There has been a far greater change in these parts since the summer, with the arrival of my nephew, Guillaume, recipient of tacky Australiana who is eating more and more by the day… clearly his father’s son!

Further time was spent in France and Switzerland combining walks in the snow, trips to the shops, journeys to the fridge and ipod sudoku at 5am (well, for Dad at least though maybe one day I‘ll get there!) Gradually I was becoming acclimatised with both the weather and time zone and we had a lovely snow walk to Switzerland and back, which sounds exhausting but actually wasn’t too strenuous since it’s just across the road.

If it had been strenuous perhaps there would have been even more space for the sublime Tartiflette which Michel Alroux created for dinner, the proverbial last supper.

***************************************************

The next day took Dad and I once more across the border to a dreary, cheerless Geneva, so cold the Jet d’Eau was switched off and there was little Christmas sparkle (it‘s not a good time for Swiss bankers I guess). Solace was found in Manor, home to the finest Swiss chocolate selection and I stocked up to smuggle goods across the border later in the day. Once Dad had gone I had a painful couple of hours to kill with luggage in tow and it was a relief to board my train to Milan, which ran like clockwork through Switzerland before hitting chaos and disorganisation in Italy. Stereotypes, huh. It was dark, late and wet as I arrived in Milan’s mighty Centrale station, connecting to an underground train to somewhere or other full of beautiful people… well, apart from the man with a mullet perm and tracksuit (and they think they‘re so fashionable). And there I was, via a shopping centre food court pizza, at the home of the Ferraris. Here, a rather dull day suddenly sparkled over a bottle of wine, a shot of whisky and two old timers putting the world to rights and remembering the good old days of the distant 1990s. A genuine holiday highlight.

The next morning, Luca with new son Sam, and baby Neil ventured around the streets of Vignate, a small, quiet town outside of Milan, which luckily had a market to liven the place up and get the Italian Mammas out of the kitchen. The espresso shot was a godsend (ah, good coffee… it won’t last), though it must have affected my senses as I failed at my job of turd-spotting, leading to a pram wheel cleaning frenzy through the fresh puddles. Freshly cleaned, the theme of babies, Christmas and shopping continued as we hit the shopping centre for some lunch (mmm, nice traditional Italian kebab) and a wander round the supermarket which was surprisingly much more orderly than la Casino. With that, the day quickly faded from grey to black and it was too soon that I was back at an airport, the extremely boring and slightly dated looking Linate, for a flight heading back to Great Britain.


***********************************

Heathrow Terminal 5 is pretty swanky, though not so much more than many other airports across the world. Signs of leaving this swish world for the 150 year old London Underground were evident with the broken escalator and followed up with a 10 minute wait followed by a trawl to central London and out again. It was on this mind-numbing two hour trip that I realised the novelty of this all had worn off. I remember coming back to England after a year in Australia and was captivated by the tube, like some foreign goon who had been in a world of down under suburbia for too long. This time, however, I was like most underground users and couldn’t wait to get to my final destination, my old stomping ground of Finchley, north London. Maybe it was the four countries in two days but I was keen to put my head down for a good old British slumber.

The next day dawned a now familiar grey and my one and only day in London was filled with food and snot, kicking off in the M25 countryside thanks to breakfast with Caroline. I didn’t even bother to order coffee but even the tea was disappointing. At this stage by the way I was also feeling lousy, the effects of climate change, sleep deprivation and lack of sun catching up on me and my ear, which was feeling blocked well before breakfast. The best cure would’ve been bed and some 1:40 Neighbours action but I took the not so hygienic Piccadilly Line into town, popping into Superdrug (yay, a British shop!) and a pub with some old work pals for a pie and pint. It helped (Guinness is medicinal) and propelled me briefly to Oxford Street where I didn’t see any sign of the downturn, followed by a walk along Hampstead Heath to hang around outside a girl‘s school… where my friend Miss Devine teaches of course! We met and walked to the tube, getting off at Finchley Central to purchase a reduced price dinner from Tesco (yay, a British shop!) to wile away the evening.

************************************

And so the baby tour resumed the next morning on the boiling hot express to Preston where I was met by Jenn, Ollie and their new gorgeous girlie, Hayden. We grabbed a guilty McDonalds and soaked up the rain upon Lytham High Street before an evening of comfy pants and British TV. The next day I morphed into Gordon Ramsay, cutting up celery and creating cheese and pickled onions on cocktail sticks - I was so F*!@#*% proud, they went down a treat at the Christmas party that Jenn and Ollie had put on, along with several cans of Carling. It was the first time that things actually felt really Christmassy, I mean what with no sun at all and darkness by 4pm, the Christmas lights were a treat and nothing says Christmas more than a lump of cheese and a pickled onion on a stick!

Feeling suitably festive, the tots tour 2008 was at an end, the final legs taking me to Manchester Airport where I endured a dreadful and overpriced Chicken Balti (did I expect any less?) and from where a little plane propelled me south and west, further south and west, to the south west and home in time for Christmas.

Seagull Island (formerly known as Cockatoo)

This weekend presented me with the unique opportunity to camp on Sydney Harbour, well on a small piece of rock on Sydney Harbour – Cockatoo Island as featured on Sydney Weekender and now no longer particularly unique. Despite a few flaws such as an unworkable ferry timetable, it had a lot going for it… prime waterfront real estate, the opportunity to get up close and personal with aggressive birds, the freedom to wander through derelict buildings and of course, some nice views of old Sydney town.

It would be nice if Cockatoo Island actually had some cockatoos, whose screech would have presented light relief from the constant whine of seagulls who seem to have taken a liking to this place. Did you know, seagulls do not need sleep? Plus they are very ugly when young, which probably explains why they go about annoying everyone, shitting on rocks and pinching pasties when they grow up.

The only respite from the gulls was a massive thunderstorm which rolled in just around teatime and pushed the tent to its limits. Fortunately the tent held and the BBQ area was undercover, meaning plenty of people had gathered half cut on beer and wine to burn some sausages and eat tomato sauce as the rain pelted down. It was a true Aussie communal camping experience, young and old joined together in the common ideology of a few shrimp and some cheap plonk.


The next morning brought a return to something resembling a summer, being official the last day of spring and of course the last day of Movember. Now back on the mainland I treated my hairy friend to one last day of freedom, filling it up with brunch and cake and beer, taking it for a walk (including past a nudie beach) around Watsons Bay and trying not to scratch it too much.



And then, finally it was December 1st, time to let it go but not before the trip back to Canberra. Usually this is a fairly boring three hour cruise down the motorway but today, fuelled by yet more food and coffee at Coogee, I took a more scenic route down the coast and across the Southern Highlands. The first stop was the very lovely Royal National Park, the second oldest in the world so they say and just Australia in a box – dense bushland, sandstone canyons, surf beaches and – yes – cockatoos and no seagulls!

Further south brings several lookouts which offer views of the Illawarra escarpment, which is basically where the tablelands plunge into the sea, with a few towns – notably Wollongong the largest – wedged in between. Nowhere is this more evident than at the Sea Cliff Bridge, a looping section of the road perched on stilts above the water.

As you near Wollongong things gradually become more built up, from easy going coastal towns to car lots, McDonalds and confusing motorway intersections, so confusing that I missed a turning for one of my intended destinations (a scenic lookout point of course). Nonetheless I climbed up through the twisting bitumen of Macquarie Pass and back into a more familiar world of the Southern Highlands, giving the big potato (aka turd) at Robertson a miss but stopping once again at Fitzroy Falls for a late afternoon bushwalk.

The trip from here was fairly standard and I rubbed my mo now and again to stave off the boredom. It wasn’t too long though that I entered the Australian Capital Territory, just in time for a spot of dinner and then, in the comfort of my own home, that fateful shave. Hoo-bloody-ray!

Snowmo

Climate change, pah! It was with some irony that I was hanging out three pairs of shorts on the washing line this Saturday as cold southerly winds blew in, bringing showers and snow on the hills. Australian summer, meh! To be fair, it’s been pretty nice, right up until this weekend which was more like a gloomy few days in Plymouth, but at least I have my hairy mo to keep me warm. Interesting exciting activities have been thin on the ground, though I did manage to make tiramisu and get out for a few hours on Sunday in between the showers.



Earlier in the week, an evening stroll around Red Hill was the order of the end of the day. Always so serene, if you ignore the echo of cars pounding the asphalt along Hindmarsh Drive down below that is. Even then, it was a bit cloudy and cool, but it did provide one of those famous Canberra red skies.

Being indoors, grumbling about the weather typically means I end up eating lots of nice food as consolation, including my delicious tiramisu. By Sunday afternoon though I was keen to walk it off, even just a little bit, so headed to the north side of town and a slightly soggy Goorooyaroo just for the silly sounding name which means “Go roo, you are a roo” (hmm, perhaps).

Hopefully the weather will pick up (it is bound to given I’ll be stuck at work) but then I wouldn’t be surprised if an active upper level trough returns just in time for a downpour on Sydney Harbour where I will be camping next Saturday night (not actually on the harbour but on an island). All I can do is rub my mo for good luck You can too, by visiting http://canberramos.blogspot.com/ and stroking the screen!

On top of old Mokey

On the outside, the mo certainly adds on a few years but also inwardly the hairy roots seem to be infiltrating my brain and making ‘old people things’ seem increasingly appealing. Saturday was a case in point… waking up early (like an old person), reading the papers (yep, like so old), pottering about Fyshwick fresh food markets (ancient) and then adding more plants to the garden (hello, retired!). Like a more senior member of our society I also want a bloody good whinge and say how lame Fyshwick fresh food markets are… never, ever can I find any ingredient that is slightly off the beaten track, it’s just like a supermarket only divided into little shops selling the same old stuff!

Reinvigorated with fresh food, it was with youthful vigour that I set out from Canberra on Sunday morning to the top of Australia, with two mates in tow (both younger than me…)

It was a stunningly beautifully clear day and the drive zoomed by as we arrived at Charlottes Pass. From here, you can take a reasonably dramatic 9km walk to the top of Mount Kosciusko , 2228 metres above the shark infested sea level (and then back again). For Australia , this is as Alpine as it gets and whilst Kosciusko itself is a rounded lump, there are a few rocky peaks and glacial patches of snow to draw comparisons with other mountainous parts of the world.









It’s also the source of the fabled Snowy River, a sight to bring tears to the eye of a wifebeater wearing VB swilling V8 loving bogan (not that I’m far off courtesy of my truck driver mo and Brumbies cap).

My appearance was enough to scare the life out of the woman (wo)manning the park entrance hut upon leaving, though she recovered enough to collect the belated entrance fee (it turns out there’s an extra fee for Kosciusko National Park because it’s so special). And I fitted in just perfectly at Cooma RSL for a spot of counter meal heaven, a place where I was also delighted to be able to collect all $6.90 of my Melbourne Cup winnings… and then swiftly spent it on the obligatory stop for ice cream and drink at McDonalds. From highs to sugar lows, fittingly cruising back to Canberra on the Mo-naro Highway, achy legs and bed.

Lippy Nippy Stumpy Bumpy Sandy Candy Horsey Horsey

Before I commence a familiar tale involving a spot of bushwalking, beach action, breakfast and betting I just wanted to acknowledge a momentous occasion following a new arrival on the world stage. Offering hope, inspiration and nappy changes you can believe in, bienvenue Guillaume Alban Stafford (well I presume Stafford but then things are different in French), my brand new nephew and future recipient of world’s worst Aussie souvenirs. Congratulations to all involved.

There have been other arrivals this week, not least the first black hairs above my lip, and before you go any further I urge you to check out a far superior blog where you can sponsor me and help improve men’s health around the world.

Now, where was I? Well, cultivating stubbliness up in the Blue Mountains and Sydney, that’s where. It was a long long weekend courtesy of Melbourne Cup Day or, more technically correct, Community and Family Day on Tuesday, so I took advantage to complete a double whammy of bush and beach. Being all adventurous and that, the plan was to trek down into the valley and camp overnight before returning the next day but a few things put paid to that including a landslide, crappy Australian weather and a desire for a warm, wog* welcome in western Sydney.

Still, Jason and I (for I was hearing the same old stories from Jason yet again as he is cramming in the sights before moving to Perth), managed to avoid the worst of the weather and walked down into the Grand Canyon… which typifies Australian overstatement in being less grand and canyon-ish and more meandering and gorge-y. Like most Australian things though it was still rather wonderful, all that rocky lushness, yabbie creeks and a captivating untamed beauty packaged in a five kilometre ribbon of slippery steps and overlooks.




With the weather closing in, the decision was made to leave the mountains and head back down to sea level A last stop at Echo Point, more to soak in the ironic rather than iconic views, preceded a gradual descent to the Merrylands of western Sydney, a world away from the wilderness and almost as far from the glamour of inner Sydney, but home to a good wog welcome, a hot shower, a warm bed and an even warmer bean soup.

So back in Sydney, the weather was less drizzly but still a bit dreary on Sunday as we tackled the vagaries of public transport and made it into the city and on to Manly. As ferry rides to Manly go, sure, it could have been a bit warmer and sunnier, but there is still something terribly relaxing about the whole affair and we toyed with the rather appealing idea of this being your daily commute. I was, of course, looking very manly in Manly, what with the hairy growth on my face increasing by the minute. Fish and chips were walked off (partially) by a walk around to the lovely cove of Shelley beach (so named because it is made up of shells, duh) before cruising on back to Circular Quay.

The next day found me again beside the seaside and a much more Bondi Rescue-esque day down in Coogee, where I was working from ‘home’, or at my mate Jill’s place (which is just at the top of that road in the picture). This was the rather appealing version of working from home, where I did what I needed to get done, popped out to get a coffee and sat on the beach in the warm sun with considerably more beautiful people than me. Hmm, Manly or Coogee? I don’t know. What I do know is I always seem to eat well in Coogee, with fantastic afternoon cake and coffee filling the gap until spare ribs for dinner.

And so it came to Tuesday, Melbourne Cup Day, the day the country stops for a few horses galloping along a patch of grass for three minutes and gets trashed. A day when you can eat a sumptuous breakfast, read the form guide and place a $12 combination bet on some horses just because you like the sound of their names. I picked out Nom De Jeu (French links), Bauer (as in Jack Bauer) and Mad Rush (last minute rush, didn’t know who else to pick). To take my mind off this high stakes world, Jill and I walked from Coogee down to the next beach along the coast, Maroubra. The beach here was windswept and sparse and really quite impressive, a much more raw, unrefined temple of surfcraft in comparison to the rest of the Eastern suburbs.



The sea air was not only encouraging advanced mo growth, it was also pretty tiring stuff and the rest of the day was spent lazing around, having a doze and generally waiting for the big race. Frankly, I had no idea what was going on and it wasn’t until about five minutes after the finish that I found out one of my donkeys, Bauer, had come second, literally beaten by the length of my mo. My partial success (OK, so overall I made a loss), was a fine way to end a fine few days, and off we rode into the sunset, through the Campbelltown traffic and back to Canberra seven bucks richer… kind of. It’s loose change you can believe in.


* I am not a racist. This term is used colloquially, mostly by wogs, in Australia to generally describe someone of continental European descent. Wog boys are like fully sick and love to hoon it up.