Continental Drift

Of all the big things in Australia, the biggest pain in the arse is its distance from pretty much anywhere. Eat a dodgy airplane meal and watch a crumby movie and you’re still hovering over the Red Centre. Have a doze and watch some more crumbiness and you may just be passing over Darwin. Repeat ad nauseum and sprinkle with a random glimmering Asian airport, and eventually, eventually, you find yourself in Europe. If that was all rather easy, add in the complex swirlings of ash clouds, red shirted Thais, militant cabin crews and preppy Tory governments to further the potential for absolutely no enjoyment whatsoever. But I made it, and that first pork pie at Heathrow airport was worth it!

Now, of all the small things in Europe, the smallest inconvenience is its distance from pretty much anywhere. Grab a pork pie, listen to a handful of songs and you’re suddenly floating across the French-Swiss border. Take a sip of water and you’re landing in Geneva. Put an extra layer on to cope with the disappointing temperatures and, before you know it, you are back in France, chomping bread and chewing cheese. From big to small, autumn to spring (kind of), new to old, the contrasts all the more dazzling after 30 hours in a dark metal sardine can. As I lurch into Europe, I feel like Guillaume, soaking up the world around me and babbling some nonsense about it (and still doing so now...)

So, on with the show: I had arrived in Annemasse, France, home of every single possible combination of cheese, potatoes and cured pork, most of which I ate in my short visit. Unlike previous visits here though, things were markedly different in the general gloominess and chill of the weather, meaning the usual dazzling peaks and lush sun filled Alpine meadows were off the menu. I had to eat some more to compensate. Cakes especially. Days were additionally filled with plays in the park, entertainment aplenty provided by Guillaume, jaunts through forests and towns and just stuff that is so continental it dazzles anyone who has just landed fresh from the New World.



Saturday brought a trip to the town of Annecy, and the opportunity for the most picture-taking ramblings, situated as it is on a rather splendid lake and surrounded by mostly cloud shrouded mountains. While the mall was more Westfield than Ouestfield, the ooh-la-la-ometer shot up as we wandered into the old town, all coloured houses and shutters, churches and bridges, bikes and cafes, boulangeries and baguettes.







What was nice – as well as the history and culture and architecture and spatterings of touristy shops – was that a normal dose of a French Saturday afternoon at the shops was taking place. Normal (if normal equals generally lean and well dressed) madames et monsieurs et mademoiselles were treating themselves to a new frock or some shoes, or perhaps another handbag. Abnormal people like me (generally suffering from cheese OD and dressed by le Target) were eyeing up more chocolate and cakes again.



Out of the world of shutters and shops the old town gives way to the lake, and as the sun emerges for 30 seconds and temporarily warms the soul, all is rather agreeable. Here, the Frenchies continue to stroll and wander and play in the park and discuss affairs such as when they are going to next go on strike for not getting two glasses of wine at lunch.







I think one thing I noticed in Annecy and elsewhere is the value of the park in European society, more so than I think the electric BBQs and gum trees bring to life down under. A few fountains and trees and flowers is more than that. Perhaps because many more live in old apartment blocks, the park is always bustling and noisy and chatty and filled with the sounds of laughter, of kids going mental, of yoofs being yoofs and runners and cyclists being far too energetic. It is at one a playground, a dining room, a first date, a treadmill, a social club.

Because everyone who is anyone hangs out at the park, we headed into the environs of Geneva on Sunday to saunter through another park, play ball, eat sandwiches and soak up a few moments of sunshine and something approaching warmth. Not too far away, through grand apartment blocks was the Natural History Museum, which, naturally, tells the history of stuffed animals in a museum format. So many stuffed animals, all of which were endlessly stimulating for Guillaume.

Talking of stuffed things, I filled myself up on coffee cake before joining Alain for a whizz up the slopes and hairpins of the Saleve, Geneva’s very own mountain which is happily situated in France. It’s a big hulk of a rock, with some sheer cliff faces dotted with pockets of forest. The top itself is not really the Matterhorn, more a rolling plateau of moorland, providing pleasingly simple walks for many on a Sunday afternoon. Exercise was good, if a bit of a recent novelty. Alas distant views to more spectacular peaks were restricted by the cloud, which was still lingering on until – of course – the day I departed, climbing up alongside the Jura and saying au revoir to the peaks of Mont Blanc as things became blue...

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I didn’t really have any high expectations or must sees for my few days in Spain, which is perhaps why I found it utterly relaxing and enjoyable. The weather played a large part... I was beginning to miss big blue skies and temperatures in the 20s, but El Engerlando delivered in style. It too had its food and culture moments, but it also had siestas and paddles in the sea and sand in the toes. In fact, the beaches were the best I had seen here, thanks in no small part by the relatively small number of Brits and Germans on them and water that seemed a bit clearer and sparklier than in mid August. After les chills et cheese of France, a walk on the sands at Guardamar, reacquainted with my shorts, was an ideal way to transition into Spain.



(*still no Australia)

The signs of spring and summer were more evident here, exemplified by a walk in a park, where everything seemed to be in the process of procreation (well, except for the people... unless there were some of these in the bushes). Peacocks were making total cocks of themselves to try and impress some bird or other, ducks were telling their newborn chicks to quack off and red squirrels were in hiding as they were obviously making out in some tree hollow.





After the walk, Mum was getting busy too, but mercifully just in the kitchen to make me lasagne. Followed by apple crumble and – oh yes – Rodda’s Cornish Clotted Cream. Smiley face. Large tummy.

Over the next couple of days time was filled with more wanderings in the sun, using enough energy up to warrant a siesta before indulging in more food and drink. We predictably got slightly lost on our way to the inland town of Orihuela, but once there discovered the weekly market was on and almost everyone – shock horror – was Spanish! Leaving the Spanish to their market, we just ambled around a few of the streets, from alleyway to church, across squares and circles, and successfully navigated to and from the car park in the centre of town.





The next day we made our way to the beach, bypassing Alicante on the desolate but immaculate toll road that seems to be used by about 30 cars a year, worth every single worthless Euro in my book. The beach in question was at Villajoyosa and was in itself a beach worthy of being called a beach – again, surprisingly clear and pleasantly warm enough for a paddle in the water. Sadly, a fair bit of work was taking place nearby, likely some form of economic stimulus and jobs creation given it seemed mostly pointless. However, peace was restored with the inevitable onset of siesta time.

Noise pre-siesta time was also abundant in the streets backing away up the hill from the beach, but this was the noise of Spain at lunchtime – kids playing in the street, cockerels clucking along cobblestones, unemployed men fiddling with motorbikes, old ladies sitting and watching the world – and conspicuous strangers – go by. I felt somewhat intrusive, though I’m sure come August I wouldn’t be the only Brit meandering through the narrow laneways paved with people’s smalls hanging out to dry and the smells of sizzling chorizo.








And that, as they say, was that. Apart from yet more food and a bit of relaxation, the endurance that is watching British soaps, and the joys of warm fuzzy features from the South West on the BBC Spotlight News (yes, this is Spain). It’s great to be able to go continental on these trips back home, just for something of a different flavour and tone. Enough of Johnny Foreigner though, time to hit up the United Coalition Kingdom of Dave’s Britain and Northerners in Iceland.

Very-Lovely, Always (Green): 2010

This time next week I will be on the other side of the world, though much rests in the hands of sporadic ash clouds and any closed border to nasty foreigner policies of Davey C and the Cleggmeister. Before I go overseas, alas for just a brief visit (unless, rather fortuitously the ash cloud re-emerges when I am over there), it is important to me to get a double shot of Australianness. Australia may not have a wonderfully quirky electoral system or the miracle that is Cornish Clotted Cream, but boy does it have some very big plusses. The South Coast in May, for instance, where blue skies beam down on yellow sands and green forests, all very shortsable but with reduced risk of red skin.



Most of the South Coast is pretty darn fine, so it doesn’t matter too much which road you take off the Princes Highway. While Canberra suffers from its lack of waterfront joie de vivre, the South Coast provides salvation, this beach – Depot Beach – being two hours from my door. Two hours – pretty much the same as some bogan from Western Sydney would take to crawl through dreary suburbs to reach an overcrowded beach with expensive parking. Eat my shorts Sydney!! (and I was wearing shorts).

So, what happened at the beach... well, I walked along it, and then along some more, and then across some rocks and through a pebbly bit. All the time making remarks like ‘oh how lovely’ and and ‘what a great day’ and rather self-congratulatory on my decision to head to the coast. That tired me a little, so I sat down for a while on some nice grass at Pebbly Beach, ate some leftover pizza, and continued through the mighty spotted gums and ferns. This led me to another little beach, which was also oh so lovely, where I shared views with the Rosellas and generally felt rather good. And then I walked back again, via another brief stop to get some bare feet in toes and test the water (not too bad, wasn’t running out shrieking like a girl anyway).











It doesn’t sound much, but it took a fair few hours, what with all the ambling and taking pictures, the stops for little rests here and there, the clambering over pebbles and through grains of sand. Plus I think it was about 12kms or so! Distance enough to justify fish and chips? Why, of course. Not only is it important to dose myself up on Australia before I leave it for a little while, but my stomach needs to prepare for what Mum will do to it! Luckily, just a little back down the road, Batemans Bay provides the required measures of fish, chips and dusky calm waterside views. Thank you Australia, see you again soon xxx

Well good walks

It’s been a couple of weeks since the golden circle, which I revisited this weekend to find slightly less golden but equally as amiable. It’s a good idea to get the walks in, at least some recompsense for the lack of weekday sunlight on the face and counteracting some of the recent excess of food. A potentially fatal combination of visitors and events over the last week have probably knocked a couple of years off my life, bringing wonderful excesses of chocolate, coconut cream, hollandaise sauce, steak, pork, beef, blue cheese topped burgers, bacon, chips, coffee, calamari, sushi and sandwiches. The irony that all this was topped off with a discussion group on eating fruit and vegetables.

Luckily at this point I don’t think I’ll qualify for the Biggest Loser, though there is still a trip to Europe to come which may add weight to that possibility. For now, rotundness is kept at bay by activity, and wallking up mountains may have helped. OK, it was Anzac Day weekend so there were a few Anzac biccies, but these were a simple reward for tramping oop ill and oover dale in quite bracing temperatures on the rooftop of Australia.



With my housemate Alex and Rear Admiral Davis in tow, the first walk was a rather simple affair, a warm up to acclimatise and get used to the terrain. A walk through boggy alpine moss and snow gums, up to some granite boulders looking out over the Thredbo Valley. A chance to suss out the landscape, scope the business environment and plan for tomorrow and beyond. With darkness falling, there was little more walking to be done and so we retired to our digs in Jindabyne, complete with beer and steak and an episode of Underbelly, and a 24 hour service station that shut at 9.

After overnight rain, the next day brought with it stunning blue skies and crisp clear air. The aforementioned overnight rain had been overnight snow at the highest levels, with a few residual bits and pieces in evidence at Charlottes Pass and dotted in shady pockets of the Main Range. The wet stuff had also heighted the level of the Snowy River, a slight complication given the walk we were on required a certain river to be crossed. Icy water on bare feet not so good. Sense of adventure excellent.

The Snowy River represented the lowest point of this particular jaunt, the track rising quite steadily for a few kilometres, offering views across the very un-Australian landscape, no beaches or warmth or majestic white gum trees in sight, just a barren, stretch of buttongrass and marsh and gentle mountain ridges. A place for intrepid explorers and mighty mountain men and people just masquerading as intrepid and mighty.



At Blue Lake food was on the menu once more, nothing fancy this time, but a ham sandwich just as welcome. And one of the more scenic locations for lunch, though if this was in the land of civilisation, the patio heaters would be expunging greenhouse gases very regularly and there would be some nice warming coffee to nourish the soul. But a beanie and some cold water from an icy metal bottle would have to do instead.

Now many of history’s most momentous occasions have been shaped by paper scissors rock. It was around during the French Revolution when Jean-Luc Chamborissinimentilly tried to steal some fromage from Pierre Petit-Beurre. Winston Churchill always went for scissors, but that was okay because Hitler always thrust his arm out to reveal paper. The Berlin wall crumbled under the rock fisted fury of the Hoff. And so it was, thanks to some timely scissor intervention that three intrepid walkers pushed on up into the blue sky towards the summit of Mount Carruthers.

Just a few tens of metres lower than the highest point in Australia (which itself was further along the sweeping ridge of the Main Range), good ol’scissors delivered us some spectacular views across the characterstic blue ridged wilderness of the high country, the landscape dipping and folding continuously into the horizon. Magic.





It really was all downhill from that, the return walk more like a pleasant afternoon amble, the conversation flowing and the sun and sense of achievement warming. Good times, the three of us like a distorted vision of Clarkson, May and Hammond without wheels and slightly less ludicrous hair. Time for ideas to flow and blue sky to permeate all, time to get back to the Snowy River and cross it without getting the feet wet, time to climb back up that awfully steep ending to the car park and watch as time passed from day to night on the drive back to Canberra. And time for takeaway to see us through to the end.

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This weekend has brought with it walks considerably less dramatic, well suited to a mood of quiet relaxation and healthier eating. A simple Saturday morning stroll from home to the markets in Fyshwick, through the hood of Narrabundah, was surprisingly endearing. The knowledge that I was stocking up on veggies and not using a car to do so gave me that initial inflated sense of worth, but it was eclipsed by the simplest suburbanity of people raking up scrunchy fallen leaves into huge piles, dogs and their walkers stopping to have a chat with me, kids on bikes scrambling across front yards and half hearted footy playing in the oval. Narrabundah has its rough edges... ramschackle fibro homes, sofas and veranda combos, utes and more utes, but it is the sense of community which trumps it over the more refined, stale, public servant crammed apartment land of nearby burbs.

Sunday morning’s stroll was not so much a walk amongst nature or the leafy suburbs, rather a walk back in time, and slightly on the weird side. It’s that time of the year where a small village in NSW celebrates the extraordinariness of the humble pumpkin, bringer of scones and soup and pumpkin pie. Country music plays over fields of sheep and straw, a bucking bronco is available for party hire, quilting displays adorn the church and in the village hall, everyone’s favourite grandmothers beaver away in a frentic melee of tea making and washing up. Simply charming.

And so we come to the last walk of the varied tour, a simple late Sunday amble down beside the lake, a final chance to soak up the weekend and yet more flaming galahs and flaming trees. I think all this walking is making me hungry again...