Far, far out

It really was quite fortuitous that Governor Phillip, a few other white cronies and a couple of ships full of bread stealers arrived on these shores at the end of January. Over 200 years later their arrival (or invasion) provides us with a public holiday in the midst of summer, yet another opportunity for BBQ breakfasts, picnics in the park, flag waving and face paints, beer drinking and singing about sheep shearing and swag dancing. The build up to Australia Day itself encapsulated the full range of this land down under where women glow and men plunder, beginning in the less than salubrious but fair dinkum dinky di true blue heartland of the outer west of Sydney and Rooty Hill RSL. This was all work related and not at all eventful enough to feature on this blog, all I’ll say is that I survived and got out of there to escape to the ever appealing escapee’s paradise of the Blue Mountains an hour west, where for once the Three Sisters were out and soaking up the late evening sun.

Further west the Blue Mountains descend into the pastoral heartland of the central West, which some of those people 200 or so years ago thought might just be China. Expecting some Yung Chow Fried Rice and over-extravagant opening ceremonies, they must have been a trifle disappointed to stumble upon Lithgow. Myself, well, I avoided Lithgow by heading down a darkening, narrowing, winding road full of unknown drops and possum eyes to Jenolan Caves, driving through a small section of the caves to a sprawl of mock tudor accommodation buildings which somehow didn’t look out of place at all.

The next day gave me an opportunity to explore some of the area including the caves themselves, which were of course mightily interesting, in parts dazzling, in others dark and cramped, but everywhere a pleasingly cooling 15 degrees Celsius.



The area provided just as many delights above ground, and the wildlife sightings were regular and diverse… wallabies, all kinds of lizard, Superb Lyrebirds, echidnas and, apparently, snakes.

There were also flies, damn flies, nowhere more so on the edge of Kanangra Walls looking down into yet more staggering wilderness of the Greater Blue Mountains World Heritage region. Just me and the flies for company.


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From the very edge of wilderness to the heart of the city in a couple of hours, I once more crossed the mountains and descended into the outer suburbs of Sydney, progressively passing smallholdings with orchards and apple pie shops, cricket greens, suburban malls, confusing road intersections and almost in sight of the old coat hanger itself before pausing at Crows Nest to complete the final (for now) stop on the delayed Baby Tour from Geneva. This time it was little Charlotte’s chance to feed and get grumpy about the sweltering heat whilst I was fed and moaned about the sweltering heat.

Heat which disappeared dramatically in one of those famous and slightly odd ‘changes’, where within the space of ten minutes the wind blows in from the south and suddenly you are made to look stupid in those shorts and thin layer of cotton as you’re sitting watching a free concert on the Domain. This is our city in summer so say the signs.

By now it was only Sunday and it feels like I have been through a tonne of stuff already and it’s not even good ol’ Straya day yet. Australia Day Eve took in some typically Australian sights, travelling under Sydney harbour to join the road to the Northern Beaches, which in England would be Scarborough but in Australia equals Summer Bay. The first stop was at Collaroy and an almost perfect spot for a coffee.

Glimpses of beach and backwater passed all the way to Palm Beach which, with Barrenjoey Head rising up from the Hawkesbury signals the end of this stretch of suburban Sydney. A different suburban Sydney to Rooty Hill and Mount Druitt and more commonly associated with Alf Stewart and that flaming galah. One of the best things about this spot, apart from being a mecca for Australia soap fanatics, is the other side, that is the alternative to sandy ocean beaches and Summer Bay surf club that is Pittwater and the Hawkesbury, all very accessible by ferry. Most of the houses around here have a jetty in their back yard but at Ettalong Beach there is a little more to see and do, nice food to eat and cheap birthday cards to buy. The proximity of Australia Day was clearly evident in the number of cricket sets on the beach and BBQs smouldering on the grass.



And so, full up on a combination of seafood, steak, ribs and a few chips the night before, the big day had finally arrived. The time to don the southern cross, arm yourself with an inflatable kangaroo and become a supporter of an increasingly mediocre cricket team. Australia Day 2009.
While there were a few inflatable kangaroos and flags on show, a significant proportion of people out on this Australian Day were from overseas and I daresay a few of them, like me, were wearing a tacky tourist top that said ‘Australia’ on it. Mine gets rolled out once a year. Previous Australia Days for me had been spent in Canberra and at the beach, so it was good to taste what Sydney had to offer. There sure was a lot going on and a very happy vibe amongst the streets, along the water and beside the park.

Highlights included a race of Sydney ferries, which was delayed and won by a ferry with a big yellow duck and the classic car parade which was obviously put on for the inner hoon in all of us. The only thing unAustralian was the weather, which though warm was grey and at times even drizzly in the English style. Don’t forget your roots.

And so, as the rain worsened it was back on the road to advance through Australia at a fair speed to the very centre of this world, the capital itself, listening to the Australian artists playlist and greeted by fireworks over Parliament House. Back home, to water the plants, wash my clothes and tie me kangaroo down.

Oh, hello

The rise from the post-Christmas holiday lull has been as rapid as that of the thermometer… new iPods, meaty BBQs, lovingly made coffee all trumped hands down by the simple fact that it is summer. With the heat topping 38C in the week I was itching to get to the coast and made my way down there for the day on Sunday. It was a pretty standard trip to the south coast of New South Wales, where things are so blessed you just simply point your car in an easterly direction and you are guaranteed some vivid sea, sandy sand and bushy bush.

The first such place was Myrtle Beach, reached by avoiding lizards down a dirt track in Murramarang National Park, providing the first sand in toes and feet in water experience of 2009. Back on the highway, random road trip playlist 1 on shuffle and a great bit of road underneath the wheels, I headed further North to Burrill Lake, seemingly populated by bogans on holiday but happily home to a fine fish and chip shop with an equally fine spot to eat it by the water at Dolphin Point. All that was left was a lazy laze about on the beach for the afternoon, and a quick dip in the pleasant water at Tabourie Beach.

With long daylight hours and Clyde Mountain behind me, time was ample to detour slightly on the way home to Monga National Park, home to a bush landscape of ferns and towering trees which is pretty much typical along the coastal ranges of eastern Australia. So typical I’m sure I had been here before, nonetheless it made for a nice half way stop on the drive back to Canberra. Sure, I’ve had the coffee, the laksa, the shorts wearing, the kangaroo spotting but I feel only now that my feet have got wet do I feel properly back

Land of Hope and Glory

Now that I have been back in Australia for a week it is once again hard to imagine the perishing cold numbing the tips of toes, freshening winds blowing away the Christmas cobwebs and buffeting me along the majestic panorama of Plymouth Hoe. In the last week I have been doing everything to seek some cold, escaping the 37C heat, pulling down the blinds, drinking frozen cokes and generally getting better after the long haul back down under. I have caught up on laksa and mangoes and coffee and all of those things, reacquainted myself with the plants, wandered around Coles and strut the streets in shorts and thongs. It feels like I should be on holiday.

The new year, of course, heralds fresh ideas, inspiration, goals, confusion, uncertainty… things to aim for but not quite sure what they are. It kicked off in one of my favourite places I’ll be all year, 67 Beacon Park Road, with a melee of party food, silly string, fizzled out fireworks and Big Ben bongs.




New Year’s Day indicated a good culinary year ahead, commencing with Crackly Roast Pork, those roast spuds and other peripheral bits and pieces of lesser importance. It was my last meal and finally had me beat. Mum had succeeded! The next day it was time to say adios to Plymouth yet again and begin the slow journey home via Basingstoke and the very best of classical southern England. This included a cruise around the lanes of Hampshire and Berkshire, stumbling on that most prized of road signs – a lookout – high upon the mud splattered hump of Beacon Hill.

Britain is magnificent. I knew this already and was pleased to catch up with a program called Britain’s Best View in my last few days in the country. It really is amazing how much diversity of landscape and culture there is in a few thousand square miles. They call Australia the lucky country but I tell you, despite all the moans and groans, the congestion, the chavs, the credit crunch, people in Britain, though they might not know it, are pretty fortunate folk. Anyway, one of the places on Britain’s Best View was the Seven Sisters, a spot where the beautiful chalkland of the South Downs plunges into the English Channel. A spot I had never been to. Until my very last day, a last day so fantastic it had my British blood pumping through my veins, Elgar tinkling in my head and cholesterol coursing through my arteries.

It was a strikingly clear day, cold of course, but perfect for a walk around the area, along the watery bends of The Meanders to a pebbly beach trickling into the sea.

Further along the coast was Beachy Head, scarily fragile chalk cliffs plummeting down to the water, scene of setting suns and final goodbyes to iconic England.

As Dad and I rode off in the sunset, my thoughts turned to the journey ahead, the 17001 kilometres to Sydney, most of it cooped up in a metal can, a world away, where things would be warm and the time would be upside down and family would be missing. I needed a comforting hot drink to see me through. We chose a good spot, Birling Gap and home to those Seven Sisters. Goodnight England.



And then the darkness formed, rising again some 24 hours later in another vibrant world which is endearingly lucky.

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OK, so now the credits if you like. Thank you to everyone who put me up and kept me entertained. Thank you to the beautiful babies who didn’t spew up on me… come and visit Uncle Neil in Australia in 20 years if he’s still here! Thank you to the farmer and the butcher and the grocer and, most of all, Mum for feeding me like a lord. Thank you to Dad for your superlative driving skills on that last day. And thanks to Britain for being so great, see ya next time xxx.

Christmas by the coast

While it’s not quite shrimps on the beach, the coast was never far away this Christmas, some thirty degrees cooler but still as splendid. My time down in Plymouth was mostly spent eating but included a few forays on public transport to the sights of Devon and Cornwall. Prior to Christmas Day it seemed the whole country was shrouded in cloud with an easterly chill, the impeding closure of Woollies adding to the general doom and gloom, the novelty of a winter quickly disintegrating into a Dickensian bleakness. The gloom was slightly less doomy, brightened by the charming narrow streets of Polperro on the south coast of Cornwall, where I meandered and rambled from cobble to coast path to cream tea.

And so Christmas Eve was upon us and, after a visit to Aunty Pat’s, it was time to pop into town for one last look in the shops to make sure I had everything possible, including topping up on any missing food groups Mum had not already bought in copious quantity. Tagging along was Bethany meaning a visit to Toys R Us was included in the itinerary and exposure to the shameless money-grabbing cult of High School Musical. We’re in this together…

Christmas Day arrived and I think I had been a fairly good boy, receiving a few nice pressies to try and squish in my suitcase but, more importantly, receiving a warming, sumptuous Christmas feast with the family and more than making up for last year’s vegetarian Christmas dinner!



Following was a mass doze and hour upon hour of stupid soaps on TV… I think there were two dead bodies, a few punch ups and several flakes of snow in soapland but best of all was Peggy Mitchell expressing surprise that Christmas dinner didn’t turn out to be a “nice, relaxing time with the fairmly”. Honestly Peggy, even I, extradited in Australia know as early as July that your Christmas dinner is never going to be a simple, normal occasion.

On boxing day I kept up with tradition by eating more food and going up Argyle with sweets in the coat pocket for the soccer ball demonstration, in which the Argyles of Plymouth beat the old town of the South Hamptons by two points to love. The football triggered an epiphany in the skies as the clouds disappeared and were replaced with clear cold blues for the next few days, and I took advantage of this with a trip to Newquay to walk off some of the lard along the coast.

With the scarf, gloves and hat combo, the walk was quite warming along the cliff tops to Porth and then back again to the Headland for an early sunset. It’s quite a pleasant place in winter, devoid as it is of stag party chavs and holidaying hoons, more a place for a good stroll with the fairmly.



The next day took in more coastal landscapes as well as country cottages and cosy pubs, meeting me old mucker Georgina who I spent some time with in the early days of Canberra life. First up was Cockington for thatched cottages and log fires, and, importantly, the basis for Canberra’s number one tourist attraction, Cockington Green. The real thing was just like the model village and I felt just like one of the little wooden men coated in paint, trudging to the pub for a heavy lunch. Back in the real world, the cobwebs were well a truly blown away at a perishing cold Berry Head.

I have to say it was rather nice to get out, get some fresh air, but the cold really was off-putting, my time in Australia making me less hardened to easterly gales and freezing fog patches as I used to be. While Canberra has its frosts and winters it just doesn’t seem as cold as here… maybe it is the day upon day of near darkness and knowledge that there are at least three more months of this! Part of me feels jealous of those celebrating the festivities down under but there is something about a cold Christmas which feels right and, importantly, accentuates the warm, comforting, homely food, drink and good times with the fairmly, as I’m sure Peggy Mitchell knows.