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.