Like all the politicians crawling around the country generally being tools, I ventured out of Canberra and spent most of the weekend in the marginal seat of Eden Monaro. It’s the bellweather seat, currently held by Mr Mike Kelly, year round Movember lover and kind of scary looking. It is a fine constituency to look over, encompassing the whites of the Snowy Mountains, the browns of the high farming country, the greens of the coastal valleys and the sapphires of the seas. From the brown of inimitable Nimmatabel the white crust of the Snowies was visible afar but I was heading in the other, much warmer, direction down a thousand metres to the greens and blues of the Sapphire Coast.
After what was a somewhat drawn out process, the car finally decided to come to a halt far south beyond Eden in Ben Boyd National Park. This place is named after some dude called – you guessed it – Ben Boyd, who I think had a bit of money lying around and probably exploited the local population, building a big tower, naming a few landmarks after himself... the usual things bored wealthy philanthropists tend to indulge in. I would have been able to provide a more accurate synopsis if I had bothered to read the information signs, but I didn’t, so far better to be kind of vague and make it up (a talent which has got me this far).
So, bidding Ben’s crazy golf castle goodbye I went off into his national park, broadly following the coast path which extends some thirty odd kilometres towards the Victorian border.
With initial vigour it wasn’t too long until I reached the first small bay, a distinctive cluster of red rocks characteristic of this area providing a place to take five and eat my takeaway ham roll purchased earlier at the inimitable Nimmatabel bakery. Not really your classic Aussie beach, the rocks formed by some volcanic glacial subterranean activity or something probably (again, I didn’t read those signs). And also no budgie smuggling in sight. Just me, my inimitable ham roll, and my lovely camera.
Now, after such a pleasant time I was keen for some more, so continued further and further on down this coast path, all the time only catching occasional glimpses of coast as it bashed its way through stunted scrub, swampy heath and patches of taller forest. I was determined to make it to a nice sandy beach and trust me to find the only part of coastline in Australia seemingly devoid of sandy beaches. Eventually I did find one, so far off the beaten track that the only footprints in the sand belonged to me and Skippy.
In truth, it wasn’t a great beach, but I had persevered and now all that was left was a tramp back the way I came, hoping to make it back to the car before the daylight disappeared. Now, my mind was becoming all Bear Grylls like, partly to fill the boredom of the return trip by figuring what I would do if I got lost or stranded. The solution appeared to be rationing of the muesli bar, and nibbling small pieces for as long as possible. Rather marvellously, this got me back to the car with some daylight to spare. And the car started, so no eating the leather of my pants to survive.
It turns out that the daylight did, as it does every day, disappear, but by this time I was just about in Eden, overlooking Twofold Bay as it said its rather impressive farewell.
While gazing out upon the fading horizon I established that I had walked around 16 kilometres or so today. This kind of worried me in that I’m supposed to be running nine kilometres in a month or so. On the other hand it also appeased any feeling of guilt from indulging in fish and chips back in Merimbula that evening.
If Saturday was a high wire adventure in the wilderness, Sunday was a much more civilised and relaxing affair. It commenced in splendid sunshine which only got more splendid as the day wore on. All of a sudden T-shirts and air con was back, albeit temporarily. After a morning stroll about the river mouth, things were perfectly aligned for bacon and eggs beside the water, sun beating down, shades on, sleeves rolled up. This is the much warmer Australia that I prefer to know and love.
In order to keep the serotonin merrily whizzing around my soul, I decided to pop down the road to one of my favourite little hideaways in Australia, Pambula Beach and the luscious bush-backed white sandy sapphire waters of the Pambula River. Just me and the occasional dog walker or fisherman or dog walking fisherman for company. Almost perfect... the only regret being why I didn’t bring any shorts with me, as I sense it would have been very tolerable to bare the knees for the first time in several months.
While a sizeable drive back to Canberra was on the horizon, the natural fix propelled me on regardless, fed by a few sups of Powerade and nibbles of caramel slice as I breezed through the Bega Valley and back up on high ground, merging at Cooma with the stressed out snow bunnies heading back to Sydney. Playing spot the police car lurking in bushes trying to nab speeding snow bunnies, watching police cars nab speeding snow bunnies and watching snow bunnies all aggressive and angry with each other on the fun times of the Monaro Highway made the drive all the more fun.
There was also the delight of pictures of Mike Kelly posted on trees, looking not unlike something placed intentionally for shootin’ practice for the local hicks. And, for political balance, a few signs of his rival, old Gazza Gazard, proclaiming to stop the boats, by which he must mean the streams of illegal immigrants flooding Lake Jindabyne. He may be in control of the place by this time next week, standing up for some real action. In which case Eden Monaro could become a place only for real Australians. So I’m glad I was able to experience it, really really glad. And I’ll definitely be smuggling myself across the border again in future.
After what was a somewhat drawn out process, the car finally decided to come to a halt far south beyond Eden in Ben Boyd National Park. This place is named after some dude called – you guessed it – Ben Boyd, who I think had a bit of money lying around and probably exploited the local population, building a big tower, naming a few landmarks after himself... the usual things bored wealthy philanthropists tend to indulge in. I would have been able to provide a more accurate synopsis if I had bothered to read the information signs, but I didn’t, so far better to be kind of vague and make it up (a talent which has got me this far).So, bidding Ben’s crazy golf castle goodbye I went off into his national park, broadly following the coast path which extends some thirty odd kilometres towards the Victorian border.
With initial vigour it wasn’t too long until I reached the first small bay, a distinctive cluster of red rocks characteristic of this area providing a place to take five and eat my takeaway ham roll purchased earlier at the inimitable Nimmatabel bakery. Not really your classic Aussie beach, the rocks formed by some volcanic glacial subterranean activity or something probably (again, I didn’t read those signs). And also no budgie smuggling in sight. Just me, my inimitable ham roll, and my lovely camera.
Now, after such a pleasant time I was keen for some more, so continued further and further on down this coast path, all the time only catching occasional glimpses of coast as it bashed its way through stunted scrub, swampy heath and patches of taller forest. I was determined to make it to a nice sandy beach and trust me to find the only part of coastline in Australia seemingly devoid of sandy beaches. Eventually I did find one, so far off the beaten track that the only footprints in the sand belonged to me and Skippy.In truth, it wasn’t a great beach, but I had persevered and now all that was left was a tramp back the way I came, hoping to make it back to the car before the daylight disappeared. Now, my mind was becoming all Bear Grylls like, partly to fill the boredom of the return trip by figuring what I would do if I got lost or stranded. The solution appeared to be rationing of the muesli bar, and nibbling small pieces for as long as possible. Rather marvellously, this got me back to the car with some daylight to spare. And the car started, so no eating the leather of my pants to survive.
It turns out that the daylight did, as it does every day, disappear, but by this time I was just about in Eden, overlooking Twofold Bay as it said its rather impressive farewell.
While gazing out upon the fading horizon I established that I had walked around 16 kilometres or so today. This kind of worried me in that I’m supposed to be running nine kilometres in a month or so. On the other hand it also appeased any feeling of guilt from indulging in fish and chips back in Merimbula that evening.
If Saturday was a high wire adventure in the wilderness, Sunday was a much more civilised and relaxing affair. It commenced in splendid sunshine which only got more splendid as the day wore on. All of a sudden T-shirts and air con was back, albeit temporarily. After a morning stroll about the river mouth, things were perfectly aligned for bacon and eggs beside the water, sun beating down, shades on, sleeves rolled up. This is the much warmer Australia that I prefer to know and love.
In order to keep the serotonin merrily whizzing around my soul, I decided to pop down the road to one of my favourite little hideaways in Australia, Pambula Beach and the luscious bush-backed white sandy sapphire waters of the Pambula River. Just me and the occasional dog walker or fisherman or dog walking fisherman for company. Almost perfect... the only regret being why I didn’t bring any shorts with me, as I sense it would have been very tolerable to bare the knees for the first time in several months.
While a sizeable drive back to Canberra was on the horizon, the natural fix propelled me on regardless, fed by a few sups of Powerade and nibbles of caramel slice as I breezed through the Bega Valley and back up on high ground, merging at Cooma with the stressed out snow bunnies heading back to Sydney. Playing spot the police car lurking in bushes trying to nab speeding snow bunnies, watching police cars nab speeding snow bunnies and watching snow bunnies all aggressive and angry with each other on the fun times of the Monaro Highway made the drive all the more fun.
There was also the delight of pictures of Mike Kelly posted on trees, looking not unlike something placed intentionally for shootin’ practice for the local hicks. And, for political balance, a few signs of his rival, old Gazza Gazard, proclaiming to stop the boats, by which he must mean the streams of illegal immigrants flooding Lake Jindabyne. He may be in control of the place by this time next week, standing up for some real action. In which case Eden Monaro could become a place only for real Australians. So I’m glad I was able to experience it, really really glad. And I’ll definitely be smuggling myself across the border again in future.
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