The big fat hairy man is coming

The last few weeks have gone just like an advent calendar, different every day. One day you get a flock of sheep, the next you’re crossing paths with some wise men, and then you get a visit from a jolly fat man. Now we are in the 20-something days, things are getting exciting, with work out of the way and the festivities commencing with food and shorts and coffees and catch ups and just a general great big relieving sigh.

Christmas should be a time for giving, a time for sharing, a time for extra spiders and snakes that could give you a scaring. If Santa does come he’d be best advised to avoid the creepies in the chimney. The thing lying around that looks like an old bike tire will down all seven reindeer in one ho ho ho. Visibility may be reduced by bushfire haze. Best stick to that Northern Hemisphere, where the sleigh is undoubtedly more suited than Eurostar.

For all its otherworldly perversity though, Christmas in Australia has some unique benefits, notably the weather but also some fine fresh food to enjoy, the air-con of the mall making Christmas shopping actually rather appealing, and the longer light evenings in which to gather and sing songs about the weather outside being frightful. It’s not a white Christmas but golden, from the flaming sun to the thirsty earth and, here‘s hoping, the tanned goddesses on Coogee beach.

Like Christmases and end of years everywhere it is a time for reflecting on what has been and what will be but more importantly not worrying about either and just living for the moment. Remembering those we love and loving those we remember and remembering to remember to not remember too much and love the day for the memories it will bring that you will love when you remember them during memory remembrances in the future. It is also about awful use of English language which is supposed to sound meaningful in Christmas cards. And opportunistically linking pictures to some term or word in the text, not that I would do such a thing, I reflected over at the War Memorial the other day.

And if I did, so what, it’s like water off a duck’s back.

And with Christmas cracker quality writing I’d like to grab a cold beer and wish you a wonderful holiday season. After a few days pottering around Canberra and rather enjoying it I’ll be off to Sydney, where the forecast for the big day itself is at best dubious, so no boozy antics getting sunburnt down at Bondi Beach thankfully. There should be brunches, beach bathing, boat trips, bowlers and bushwalks aplenty to look forward to over the next couple of weeks, which may or may not be documented on this very page. For now, farewell, adios, au revoir and a few sausages wrapped in bacon to you all.

Dreaming

It would be fair to say that things have been all a mo go since the last update, and somehow here we are, all smooth skinned and resplendent with Christmas just around the corner. Again, eating Gelatissimo alongside the Christmas decorations in the mall and writing Christmas cards in shorts is still all wrong, but I’m not complaining about the fantastic weather. Just hoping it stays that way come December 18th when work is done and the shorts are permanent.

The sun was out and about in Sydney last week, where I had a couple of days for the love of work, but outside of that thankfully had some morning time to jaunt around the Botanic Gardens and, blissfully touristy, take some time over a flat white perched beside the water at Circular Quay.



Canberra meanwhile has been on its best comfort blanket behaviour, all evening walks and coffee stops and BBQ moments. The hottest November on record hardly conducive to extra facial hair, but compensation aplenty in the extra shorts-wearing capacity it brings







And just in case this hot weather leading up to Christmas seemed too topsy-turvy, a little reminder of Britain was just round the corner, a sign indicating a ‘Terribly British Day’ just around another corner. It ended up being neither British or particularly terrible, just an array of classic cars, of which a larger than average proportion were British. All that there was to do was try out for best Top Gear presenter impression.



And so, just a few more weeks and we will be ready for some prawns on the barbie and a dip in the sea, the quintessential Aussie Christmas. I’m really quite looking forward to it.

You're so hot

Well, I just realised that my last entry was prior to the Melbourne Cup and I am pleased to report I picked the winner and made a profit of $42 from the day. Back then it was still Spring and I was all fresh faced. How things have changed, with hairy moustacheness that has evolved rapidly not really suited to the hot dusty winds and flies sweeping in from the parched inland that has taken hold even more rapidly. Both seem to be culminating in tandem, hair bristling in a week which gave us 39C and a shower pretty much pointless apart from dumping some spots of mud on the black paintwork of the Magna.

Mo and I have also been back to Melbourne since the cup, this time to work and spend most of my winnings consoling myself with a beer. And of course, I’ve been taking advantage of the light and balmy evenings with walks and BBQs and the usual encounters with Redbacks and lakes and lookouts and stuff around Canberra.



After what the weatherman calls a stinker of a Friday evening, I decided to escape to the hopefully cooler climes of the coast on Saturday where it was, slightly, cooler but still warm enough to test the waters and find that they were actually quite pleasant. It was a typical coast trip really, a spot of relaxation, a bit of walking and a smidgeon of food. Upon hitting the coast I turned north, for leaky Beetroot sandwiches and books at Tabourie Beach, and then onto fair dinkum Aussie surfing boat lifesaving iron men and women competitions at Mollymook Beach, followed by buckets and spades at Narrawallee.



Beyond here a little further north was the highlight of the day, at Conjola Lake. A place of great natural bounty and beauty, not that you would know it, approaching through Guantanamo campground where stubby coolers and eskies litter the shoreline. But the campground has to end somewhere, and where it does, the winding shallow waters of Conjola Lake mesmerise the eyes and draw in the feet as they head out towards the Tasman Sea.



By now the sun was hot and the storm clouds were gathering inland. Time was getting on but gloriously there was still a fair bit of daylight left. Enough time to grab some tucker and sit in the warmth and light one last time before ascending the mountain home.

From fine fillies to old mares

As October drifts into Movember, all eyes and noses and facial hairs are on Melbourne, with the Spring Racing Festival and the old Cup itself on Tuesday bringing out silver suits and chunky pink ties, pointy shoes, eight inch heels and a few clumps of material and wires and other random bits picked from a hoover bag known quite wonderfully as fascinators. The racegoers and Melbourne are one… all spruced up and immaculate, the façade of sophistication wearing off after a few too many bubbles in the sun and revealing itself as it stutters along sqwawking in broken heels. Whatever form it takes, it is life and soul and noise and the hum that goes into humanity, welcome respite from the can be very beautiful and easy to live that goes into Canberra.

So here I was on Friday night after a work trip, very happy to mull around in the sultry night air, soaking up the love of light evenings and not at all surprised that it is 8:45 in the evening and women everywhere are still shopping for shoes. I meanwhile was eating ice cream on the south bank, while a busker seemed to be on a never-ending acoustically dreamy version of the lambada.



The next day was Derby Day, and a hot one for the many fascinators and hats and scruffed up hairy heads seen milling about Flinders Street Station. I suddenly felt very underdressed in my shorts and T-shirt and sandals, and promptly headed to the ‘coast’, the nearby suburb of Williamstown on Port Phillip Bay, which felt a different world from the hubbub of central Melbourne. It had a more easy going feel about it, much more suited to my shorts and T shirt and sandals taking in the first coffee of the day beside the water.

From here I walked on round the headland, the coastline nothing like the surf beaches of the South Coast but just as many jellyfish!



Back in the city, the Derby passed off without much fuss, more people congregated in Federation Square to protest about persecution of Sri Lankans than watching horses on the big screen. I tried to understand the Victorian TAB system to at least try and make it interesting but couldn’t work it out so gave up and went for a cold pint by the river. It was a good call, and at least I got something for my money that way.

With no afternoon storms appearing, and things seriously hotting up, I decided to spend the last few hours of the day down once again by the water at St Kilda. Here, the ragged edges were starting to show, a day of drinking and gambling starting to alter minds and raise vocals, fascinators slightly askew and hooned up youths frisky on heat. And then came the change, the famous weather change, winds turning southerly, clouds rolling in. Back in town and dresses were now too short (well, for half the population at least) and hats needed tethering down. Melbourne, like the thousands of people now spilling out of Flinders Street looking tired and emotional, was a changed city. The lip gloss had worn off, the suited Prince had become a foul mouthed bogan. But the humanity was still humming, in many senses of the word. Let’s do it all again on Tuesday!

Transition?

As I write this on a fine Sunday evening, it feels like we could just be on a crux between winter and summer, with a couple of days of spring in between. I hope I am not being too aspirational, dare I say, optimistic but I can feel it in my bones (which are less chilled than they were a few days ago).

The week started off and spent several days being mostly grey, damp, chilly…not too much of a drama during the working week, pausing sufficiently at times for a brisk walk in the evening light around some of Canberra’s landmarks. Even on Saturday a bright morning gave way to afternoon showers, which totally suited my arrangement of morning chores and afternoon walks!



Sunday morning was bright enough too, and encouraged me enough to head down to Tidbinbilla, which itself has undergone some transition. Most notably, an entrance fee, which seems to be funding signs for a few name changes from colonial Australian to Aboriginal and the odd new picnic bench. It seems as though they are putting in the effort though, and the money is going to some good uses, including a couple of new walks which seem to be on the map that haven’t been there before. The Cascade Walk took me to a little fern covered cascade and the Lyrebird Walk didn’t lead me to any Lyrebirds… the liars. It did find me stalking an echidna though, playing who dares wins to see which of us gives up first: me waiting for it to unfurl from safety or it waiting for me to sod off back to the car park. I was generally victorious and after finally getting a decent snap or too sodded off back to the car park.



My little victory had made me all heady and I went to celebrate with a coffee at Lanyon Homestead. It was an average coffee but the best thing about it was being able to sit outside in the sun without a jumper or coat! From then on, the day seems to have got better and better, seemingly symbolic of the week ahead. Such good news heralds only one way to celebrate. Finally.

Whale of a time

Since returning to Australia I have been itching for some nice weather and a trip to the coast. Eggs Benedict and coffee in the warm sun overlooking the crystal curls of surf… there’s nothing quite like it. My last time here was back in June, down on the South Coast at Narooma. I was reminded how much I liked it down there, so headed back on Saturday morning, nice weather not quite here yet, but dry, reasonably warm and classic South Coast.

My first port of call was the village of Bodalla, just for a brief stop at the Big Cheese which I had inexplicably bypassed before. I don’t know if it is indicative of the fate of big things during these hard economic times, but the cheese was somewhat dilapidated, with associated gift shop long derelict and forgotten. Maybe there’s a dream job for me there… reinvigorate the Big Cheese complex. Hmm, something to mull over at the beach.

The beach I stopped at first was around Potato Point, a place I couldn’t help saying several times in an Irish accent… I was Louis Walsh with tourettes. It was, well, a fine beach to walk along, backed by bush and pounded by quite a big swell, the seas churning up jellyfish and surfers in equal measure.





Things were going well… my leftover homemade pizza made for a nice lunch on the clifftops, the sun was coming out and I was going all spontaneous like, veering off the Princes Highway onto a dirt road for a drive with windows down, smelling the – not roses – but lemon myrtle, and happy to be back on random dirt tracks down under!



Following my arduous drive, it was eventually quite pleasing to get back onto tarmac and trundle into Tilba for a gorgeous coffee, keeping me going for the final few kilometres to Narooma. I like Narooma, it’s not too small or slightly creepy like some of those other out-of-the-way towns on the coast. Beaches on one side and the rather fine Wagonga inlet on the other. Excellent fish and chips. And whales – more of that later.

As it was, with the wondrous miracle of daylight savings, I still had a couple of hours before it became dark to enjoy Narooma. This gave me time to suss out a few lookouts, take photos at the ever photogenic ‘Australia Rock’, and chill out by the rivermouth where a seal or two were chilling out too.



Hmm, even after all that it was still light (I told you it was a miracle), so I moved on down over the golf course to one of the beaches. I’d been in this spot before, not three months ago but three years ago, sat on a rock as a pod of dolphins rode the surf. While history didn’t quite repeat itself, I still sat on that same rock and soaked up the remaining rays of sun.



The next morning I stayed around Narooma and its northerly neighbour, Kianga. It was a morning of more walking along boardwalks and beside shorelines, simply perfect in its perfect simplicity. While not a walk in the guide books, my route following the northern side of Wagonga inlet, turning up along three sweeps of sand and culminating in Anton’s in Kianga. This was the spot for Eggs Benedict and coffee, and the main aim of the walk all along. Though not the greatest examples of either I have ever had, you could forgive them the food purely for the ambience and view through sunnies on the front deck.

And so there I was walking back in the direction of the car, very satisfied with all that had passed over the weekend, only for all that to be capped by a distinct pounding of water and white spray caused by only one possible thing. Cue clutching for binoculars, camera zooms extended to 18 times and – finally – sightings of a whale and its calf on their migration southward. I don’t think anything in nature can compare to the sight of a huge mega-tonne creature launching its bulk skyward, flipping mid-air before pounding like a bomb into the water. But enough of Vanessa Feltz (is she still on TV? Is she still amply proportioned?? Please substitute with the current in vogue fat person joke, probably someone on X factor or something…)



What a way to go. Suddenly my car was looking small and fragile, my pale body inadequate. But it’s what I got, and it’s gotta get me over that mountain, back to that little capital, with its lake, and, quite possibly, in one or two little corners, some little fishies.