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.
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.
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.
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