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.
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.
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