Banana Republic

Canberra to Queensland is a move much desired in winter, gloves and scarves discarded as quickly as the concept of unity and the French football team. Most people, including me, will be happy to get away from Canberra and feel comfortably mild for a bit. The now former Prime Minister may be the only exception to that rule, unceremoniously put out to pasture as quickly as Australia were knocked out of the world cup. Any connection between the two events is purely circumstantial. Possibly.

Arriving in Brisbane last Wednesday it was a tumultuous and tiring twelve hours, watching England creep through, Australia get dumped and the Prime Minister turn into a woman with very bright red hair and a distinctively grating voice. The new PM couldn’t quite make work go away, but she made sure I had some sun, a pretty decent hire car and a weekend to tag on at the end. Go Julia!

Like me, Julia had done a hard day’s work by time I had moved on down from Brisbane to the Gold Coast, where the – er – wintry weather made sure that Surfer’s Paradise was closer to paradise than it probably normally is. Though personally I don’t really equate paradise with high rises mingling with Maccas and Hog’s Breath cafe. But still, pretty nice place to take a stroll on the beach the next morning before an ‘interactive’ buffet breakfast and work.



Leaving paradise to the surfers, my favourite little hire car was again called to action as it whizzed back up to Brisbane, for Friday night drinks and food with old and new friends. There was something almost slightly London-esque about it... I think the drinks in a bustling city pub on a Friday after work reminded me a little of some good times in London town – as well as how lacking Canberra is when it comes to that kind of scene.

The next day, and Brisbane was certainly less than Friday night lively, but managed to conjure up a bit of hustle and bustle to counterbalance the chilled out riverside pacings of tourists and locals alike. I don’t know how to describe Brisbane. It’s a modern city with all the trappings. On face value I don’t love it but I don’t really dislike anything about it either. I can see the appeal of living there, especially in winter when you can still be comfortable in a T-shirt and, if you wanted, shorts. And there are Queenslanders everywhere – which can be both a good and a bad thing. Ambivalent seems to sum it up.



Anyway, whatever Brisbane is, it still provided an opportunity for a walkabout, accompanied just occasionally by the didgeridoo. Taking in three JB HiFis around the city streets, encountering fake beaches and real bridges and big wheels that almost every city in the world now seems to have. Pausing to sup at juice bars and stumbling across random protests and tricksy kids and Nepalese temples and hungry Ibis, striding less than purposefully in a general glaze of weariness. Glad at the end of it to be reacquainted with the car.








With feet aching it was time for the car to put some work in, as we left Brisbane in the evening and trundled along a big dipper of traffic lights towards the motorway and up to the Sunshine Coast. Last time I was here, a few Christmases ago, sunshine was about as rare as a Wayne Rooney goal for England, but thankfully this time the sun was as abundant as clinical German efficiency.

Sunday morning arrived early thanks to a chorus or irritating bird sqwawks, and it was not long into the day when Jason and I cruised on up to Noosa, the oh-so-schmick glamour capital of the Sunshine Coast. Get beyond the so shiny they are slippery pavements and the sense of self-congratulation and what you have is a rather nice seaside town in a fortuitous setting. Nice – but not exquisite – beaches. Lovely – but not dramatic – bushland. Clean – but not sparkling – rivers. Rolling – but not totally awesome dude – surf. Good, solid individual ingredients that, when toasted with warm sunshine, make for a rather fine spread – much like the pizza that I had for lunch!



As I rightly mentioned at the time, strolling along a wooden boardwalk returning from a small sandy cove fringed with palm trees and koala laden Eucalypts, “life is like a hundred times better in shorts and thongs”. Queensland: I love your winters.



Things did cool off as the weekend slowly dwindled towards the end, spits of rain now dotting the windscreen as the little Corolla made its way into the hinterland. A place generally so cosy and quiet and pretty unremarkable that you wouldn’t expect it to have yielded a world champion tennis player alongside the now former Prime Minister and his snivelly backstabbing Treasurer mate. There could be something in the water here, or perhaps the power of the Big Pineapple is enough to inspire future champions and leaders.



Bidding the day and the jagged lumps of the Glass House Mountains goodbye, the Corolla and I breezed one last breeze back to the airport. Shorts were gone, layers were back in fashion and Canberra was waiting, with its tempting combination of late night England screw ups and minus five degree nights and working for a living. Damn reality. Always doing its best to get in the way! The shorts are back in the wardrobe now, waiting for the next time they will get an airing. Perhaps I’ll have to go running to keep warm...

Catching up

If the trip to Europe was fast paced, things haven’t exactly slowed down in Australia... spare time at a premium as the usual numpties do their usual thing at this time of the year, the daylight short and limiting opportunities to come up for air, plus a little matter of football matches at 4:30 in the morning to increase the length of the day. The fact is I’m pining for England, more than I’ve pined for some time... I think it is the time of year here added to my time over there recently. Surely England right now would be pleasantly warm, the excitement of the World Cup abounding and shown at decent times of the day, the spirit of summer alive and well, and fewer general numpties (possibly). I keep looking back to my pictures of Devon and can almost taste that first bite into a cream laden scone.

What can I do about it? Well, it’s my choice to be here so I’ll quit bleating and try and make the most of things. Part of that is getting away, making the most of, okay, cool, but sunny days, something to look forward to other than endless days working for ‘the man’. Planning for future goals and opportunities which may or may not include running over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and a further 7 ½ kms in September. A seed that was planted in my mind in that very city over the last long weekend...

In recapturing the joys and thrills of living in Australia, a good place to start is Coogee and brunch at Globe. Follow this with a meander around various parts of South Head and Watsons Bay, with sunny clear look outs to playful whales in the ocean and views back across the dazzling harbour, and things do seem a lot lot better. It’s even, just occasionally, warm enough for T-shirt wearing, so midwinter isn’t all about morning frosts and cold feet.



Things of course cool off out on the water, but you can cope being on a ferry whizzing over the choppy swell and entering Circular Quay. Opera House to the left of me, Harbour Bridge to the right, here I am stuck in the middle with you. Well, not so much in the middle for long, more to the left for quite a while, having a non Pint when a Pint was wanted beer or two at the Opera Bar. That all sounds very glamorous, la di da the Opera Bar, but it’s really just another one of those easy-going, open and inclusive and oh yes pretty touristy type of outdoor waterfront drinking holes. A place you could easily and contentedly get stuck at for many hours.



Many many hours didn’t pass but the sun disappeared all too quickly. Perhaps when it is a little warmer. Back on the ferry, where now the city was aglow and afar and fish and chips were on the cards, though not at the famous fish and chip centre of Watsons Bay but in the car at Clovelly. Ah, fish and chips at Clovelly. Here come those Devon memories again. Thinking of England still, 4:35 in the morning the next day, and up one minute too late to see one of the few highlights of the Gentlemen of Englishshire versus the Soccerball Proponents of the Unity States of America. Cold hands at that time of the morning here. Not so much in South Africa though, huh, Mr Green?

Suddenly the football was over and things became different, Sydney becoming a launching pad for a little trip up the coast to Port Stephens. One of those many places that has a harbour ‘x times bigger than Sydney Harbour’, offering the quintessential Aussie mix of sweeping sandy beaches, numerous fishing inlets, endearing saddoes singing in parochial pubs, and the cultural highlight being Hogs Breath Cafe.

Sadly most of South East Australia was being bathed in sunshine, but this crinkly little peninsula seemed to be luring the clouds, occasional showers peppering the skyline but just about steering clear of the Tomaree Headland, a Rio-like mini lump of bushland rising from the bays and beaches to look majestically out over them.







If the sun was to make an appearance, a good time for it to emerge was towards the end of the day, offering opportunities for bracing walks in the glorious light, colouring the sands and skies at... oh, what a coincidence... Sunset Beach.





The sun would be back again the next day, but in between, there was time for a soothing beer and some dinner down on the shiny promenade of Nelsons Bay, home of squeaking boats and a very fine ice cream parlour (I can recommended the butterscotch). Oh, and time before sunrise for the bouncy Socceroos to be blitzed by the panzer regiments of an efficient and clinical German side who were clearly determined to reinforce every stereotype in the book (never write off the Germans).

Sunrise from the balcony of the All Seasons Salamander Shores was clearly the best part of the Salamander Shores, a place that was probably all the rage in the 1970s, brimming with moustachioed golfers in pastel sweaters and huge-permed ladies sipping an exotic pina colada. Nowadays, its faded glory passed, the sunrise is its literal shining light, viewed from its charmingly communal private balconies. The birds certainly like it, though I think the drawcard for them is more likely the people munching the complementary in room biscuits and leaving a trail of crumbly residue.



Colourful chicks, the socceroos getting a spanking, sunrises... could the morning get any better? Well, clearly, yes, and so it did when I was greeted like some sort of celebrity – or perhaps the better term is peculiarity – at buffet breakfast. Ah, Mr Staaaaaford. Er yeah, that’s me, now point me in the direction of the bacon swimming in its own fat and the perenially dreadful attempt at sausages.

Annoyingly a far nicer breakfast would have been ingested at Fingal Bay. The Magna knew it (it’s a bloody good car) when it stopped in a car park next to the smell of scrambled eggs and fresh coffee. Still, good Magna, there was room for a coffee to take along the beautiful sweep of sand, protection from the torrential rain that seemed set to ruin everything and somehow miraculously never materialised.

The northern sweep of the beach narrows into a short neck across to an island, but the tide was up and there was no way, in this weather, in this temperature, that I was even going to contemplate it. But not many people seemed to have ventured up this way and, despite the coastal development and seaside towns and villages and silly little sights and attractions like avocado farms and Hogs Breath Cafe, the world around at that moment seemed pure and untouched. Public servants a million miles away.



If this sand was virginal, the sand stretching out of sight from Anna Bay was more ‘Britney Spears’ virginal. Huge expanses of beach and dune have created a mammoth playground for boys and toys, big wheeled trucks and trains of camels. In these surrounds I was quite surprised not to uncover a shiny gold gay robot and a midget in a dustbin on wheels bickering as they inched along the mammoth dunes. Aunt Beru’s moisture farm (yet another one of those pesky attractions) could be just round the corner...

But no, it seems the best they could do was some mini concrete blocks crafted as hobbit pyramids, or hobbamids as they are known. Hobbits are well catered for in these holiday destinations you know (see Bellingen for instance).

And like Frodo Baggins burning his ring in a big vat of molten lava, it was almost the end of this little journey, heading back into the sunshine of what was a very pleasant looking day in Sydney. Grabbing a quick bird roll in Coogee via Berowra to set me on my way back homeward to the shire. Only the shire is a land of green hills, buxom, er, midgets, and flagons in The Green Dragon. Not too unlike Canberra, though I’m not so sure Hobbiton has a ridiculous army of bureaucrats looking to bend budgets and fix figures in what is quite possibly a scandalous spending spree on the taxpayer.

And speaking of a waste of money, I write this final chapter in a haze of tiredness following a 4:30am start to watch England do very little at all. Other than look like a bunch of muntweazels. The tiredness may explain my rather rambly ending and drifts off into science fiction fantasy, where a long time ago someone far far away made up a word called muntweazel and implanted it into my head for use at some random juncture. I think I have caught up, now I clearly ought to catch up on some sleep.

Tea and sympathy

As I write this I am going through that sentimental stage of jetlag infused fondness for times past and people afar, going through the whole questioning my existence and purpose and situation as I lie awake at four in the morning. It is much fun, but at least I can take solace that I have been through it several times before and I know, like the sleepless nights, things perk up and the sheer goldenness of Australia begins to filter through the haze. For now though, it’s getting through the day with tea and sympathy and the odd square of chocolate which returned the 12,000 miles with me (which for the record is: a UK Cadbury Dairy Milk and Caramel bar and two Double Deckers, a Lindt Almond Praline feast, a chocolate orange truffle bar from France, a Swiss milk chocolate and coffee bar, and another bar of degustation dark 74% chocolate kindly donated to the cause from France).

Another comfort is the fact that I have been fortunate enough to be able to go back to the UK and Europe quite a few times during my stint down under, and will be fortunate enough to do so again in the future. What makes these trips so special? Well, mainly the people of course, which I have to say as some of you are avid readers... but it is true. That’s why I try to pack in as many visits and catch ups as possible in such a short timeframe, no matter how brief. It leaves me tired, but a happy tired. Then there is that kind of familiarity and attachment I have in my genes and the comfort and joy which comes with this - some food types of course. Plymouth City Centre. The BBC. Plus I think the UK has some stunning beauty, diverse landscapes and urban spaces. And the weather is good (luck has mostly shone on me in that regard). If you don’t believe me read on...

Three Lions and no shirts

Where better to start than the capital, London? Well, many places probably (see Devon and Cornwall for instance) but this is where I started and it was a short but sweet visit. Having lived here for five years, there is once again that familiarity but also a sense of the exotic: you revisit the same things and old places but there is that little change here and there. Finchley and that cute looking tapas bar on the corner of Long Lane. Parliament, but with a new bunch of oiks in charge. The Evening Standard still littering the tube but now free of charge (and, finally, now worth every penny).

My 24 hours in London commenced with more familiarity, catching the Northern Line again to Finchley again for a dinner of paprika chicken again with Melita and Geoff again. I could eat that meal again and again. Next morning, it was Australia revisited, as the sun emerged and temperatures warmed for a trip into the city with Caroline, a friend of a friend who I first met in a distant backwater called Sydney, Australia. Perusing the rather fine produce at Borough Market was followed by a half pint of warm beer in some historic pub, reminding me how I miss both warm beer and proper boozers, plus drinking at 11:30 in the morning. Then there was a catch up with Sadia and Susie, ex work colleagues and current friends and fellow despairers of all things work...very cathartic. And then time for a rest in the star studded surrounds of Primrose Hill, where the temperatures topping twenty degrees brought out the bikinis.



The warmth continued into a balmy evening taking in some pasta and a beer outside Euston station, scene of Northerners escaping the heat by heading north, a pilgrimage which I gatecrashed. From the capital to the glamour capital – Blackpool – in a few hours. Here for more intensive catch ups and g’days and celebrations of two of my bestest friends who I lived with in that town down south called London. The sun sparkled, so did the happy couple and Blackpool won the play offs. If only Holloway had stayed at Argyle. Who says it is grim up north? Next time, I’ll stay longer.

It's coming 'ome, it's coming 'ome...

So far then, 72 hours in the UK and you’re probably thinking what all the fuss is about. A bunch of whistle stop trips and visits and hardly any accompanying photos as well! So much to read with so few pictures. It’s OK, don’t worry, for the whistle stopping has maximised available time in the jewel of England and the heart and soul of it all. Still home I think. I am probably biased, but Devon and Cornwall form probably the most idyllic blend of gorgeousness in the world. OK, maybe not so much on a dreary day in February, but on warm days in May tell me a better place to be. Plus when there is Mum’s roast pork to greet you, how can you be anywhere else?

The first full day in Devon was scrumptious, the weather blue and warm and begging for a trip to Noss Mayo, just a short jaunt from Plymouth on an empty bus across narrow lanes and down steep winding inclines to the cosy villages of Newton and Noss. The walk from here is well trodden but worth repeating, just for the diversity of country and coast, flora and fauna, and a special reward at the end.

So, equipped surprisingly in shorts and hat and smothered in sunscreen it was up the country lane I marched, out to the Warren and its blend of sheep and horse and flowery field and gorse falling down towards the calm blue seas.

A pretty nice setting for a spot of lunch, thanks to a pre-purchased Tesco lunch deal and the extra bonus of some strawberries. I toyed with the idea of a little nap in the sunshine but knew there was still plenty to see, plus needed to ensure time for that end reward before the bus back. Continuing on around the corner to the Yealm estuary, things begin to change from the coastal gorse to bluebells and rhododendrons and verdant woodland, fringing the sparkling waters of the river and creek.



And while not a strenuous walk at all, you should treat yourself to that reward regardless, because it means you end up sat relaxing in the sunshine with legs dangling over the water drinking a pint of Cider in the Ship Inn. Here, my absence from England became all too evident, as I felt slightly tipsy afterwards, unaccustomed as I am to pints of Cider in the afternoon sun!

If I didn’t get to do anything else in Devon then I still would have been happy, but of course, me being me, and English weather being so splendid, there was still plenty more to pack in to four days. If Monday was chillaxing, Tuesday was more frenetic, but peppered with plenty of highlights of a different kind. There was food and people, and the combination of food and people. A walk around Plymouth punctuated by frapuccino and a pasty. A trip out to Aunty Pat’s for tea and chocolate cake. And then the mother of all barbecues for Bethany’s 8th birthday! This was, of course, cooked by yours truly, and I don’t think I have ever done so much food. But at least it meant I was too busy to be roped into trampoline mayhem and musical statues! And I got to cook up and then eat proper good English sausages. They are just not the same in Australia.





Wednesday cooled off and clouded over a bit, providing some time for a bit of a rest in the morning prior to leftover BBQ lunch with the family and pets. The weather brightened up a little in the afternoon and so this presented an opportunity for some serious activity up on Dartmoor. Serious cream tea activity that is. Because I was, like, so hungry having been starved so far on this trip. A bowl of cream for three at Badger’s Holt is some sight. The setting lush and tranquil. The result a clogged artery, queasiness and extreme pleasure.



The cream tea was literally tea, and it wasn’t until the next day that I really started to eat again. We headed across the border into Cornwall, and I was pleased to have got to spend my last day having a ball on a sandy beach on the beautiful north coast at Holywell Bay. There was ice cream, ball games, sand dunes, river crossings, feet in the sand and, briefly, pretty chilly water. I think I even caught the sun a little! Good times.





Sausage and egg pie and cheesy marmites completed the fourth and final day in the south west, a fattening pastry filled end to a fattening, gorgeous time in the most wonderful place in the world. Soon it will have another little pair of feet to cherish and I look forward to returning soon and, wherever I may be, again and again and again.