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...
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...
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