Friday, December 21, 2012

It's the end of the year as we know it


Unbelievably Christmas has crept up on me (how does that happen?) and the year that promised so much is coming to a close. I should have realised Christmas was fast approaching as there has been little in the way of trouser wearing, bush and grassfires have been burning nearby and, according to some sources, the entire lefty crew of the ABC are on holiday for two months along with their Labor party mates. It’s been a good year, slightly overshadowed in the first half by going under the knife, but perked up by visitors from overseas, trips to new places and more than enough good food and company.
A lazy-excuse-for-a-blog-post-by-conducting-a-review-of-the-year wouldn’t be complete without mentioning sport and the absolute culmination of the Great in Britain. From tennis champions and cycling kings, to golden heroes and Ryder Cup trouncings, it’s been incredible to watch from slightly too afar. It feels like 2012 has, in one single year, offset all the pain and sacrifice I have made staying up late, getting up early, not going to sleep, not to mention put to bed the teenage memories of waking up in the middle of the night to satisfy myself with Blowers and Johnners, telling me about the Fremantle Doctor whipping up the tumbling English wickets.
And so, to continue in a totally unoriginal way, here are the Green Bogey awards for 2012:

Best accommodation – Green Patch, NSW, Australia
Okay, so you create your own accommodation, but the $20 tent from anaconda held out in a thunderstorm and meant you could wake up with the lorikeets in a natural paradise of bushland beside fine white sand. Electric barbecues, decent wash facilities and nearby friendly dolphins compensate for dodgy air mattresses and sneaky possums.

Best food – French birthday BBQ and gateaux, Brittany
A highly commended goes to the Pizza Toscana in a small piazza of Siena, the blend of salty cold cuts and four cheeses enough to make you repent for overindulgence in the nearby cathedral. But, in a flagrant conflict of interest, the best meal was a birthday barbecue with my family in a French farmhouse. A range of meats cooked perfectly by – ahem – me, followed by a divine chocolate mousse cake cooked my Madame Pattisier. A delicious symbol of Euro-Australian relations. The icing on the icing on the cake? Sharing it with loved ones.

Best drinking experience – Vignate, Italy
Not much to write here as I can’t quite recall the entire events of the night. There was rain. There was meat. There was British style home brew ale and death metal. There were two friends living far apart but coming together, putting the world to rights, sharing philosophies on ageing and life. The hangover – pizza and witnessing an astonishing Ryder Cup victory for Europe.
Best driving experience – Devon & Cornwall
Not one stretch of road but having a car on many stretches of road in Devon and Cornwall. No more reliance on infrequent trains to Cornish towns. Additional cream tea range and access. The ridiculousness of single lane tracks with ten foot high hedgerows on Dartmoor. If I was to pick one particular driving experience of note, it would be on the North Devon coast between Combe Martin and Lynton. Blessed in rare October sunshine, the drive squeezed through steep hedge lined lanes to high overlooks along the coast and down again among narrow, hidden valleys. Just pray for no oncoming vehicles along the precipitous stretches!
 
Best walk – Vintgar Gorge, Slovenia
Even though it was noted in the guidebooks, a genuine surprise and delight. Illuminating a dreary day that could have drifted into serious cabin fever, the zig zag of wooden walkways clinging to cliffs with the colouring autumnal trees, all hovering over the most incredible blue-green water, was a natural gem.
Best viewpoint – Lake Bled, Slovenia
Sticking in Slovenia I was, like many who have come before, mesmorised by the fairytale scene at Lake Bled. I endeavoured to walk its perimeter, climb above it, revisit its shores several times and take photos every ten metres for a slightly different perspective. Despite extensive views of the lake and mountains from the short but steep climb at Osojnica viewpoint, its hard to beat one of the first photos I took of the place, after a flight from London and short drive from the airport. The church on the island reflected in the water, the castle perched above, mountains distant and a convenient framing of trees. Worth the extortionate parking fees on the only car park at the western end of the lake!
 
Best sunrise / sunset – Flinders Ranges, South Australia
This was not an appearance or disappearance of the sun heralding oranges and purples among dramatic, brooding clouds. In fact, with clear skies, the sun emerged in a rather conventional manner. But the early laser beams of sunrise casting a fiery glow on the ancient, arid landscape had a truly elemental, earthy feel, making you feel somewhat insignificant and humble. Worth an early start in the dark and clamber high above the incredible circle of Wilpena Pound.
 
The Cider Shandy award for Chillaxing – Magnetic Island
Despite Campbell Newman, Queensland is best in winter and the further north the better! Maggie provides a perfectly formed chunk of semi-tropical bliss, perfect for, well, not doing too much at all. With koalas on the doorstep, fine food down below, and a bottle shop around the corner, why venture far from a balcony on Nelly Bay and watch the world go by?
Cheesiest cheese eating excuse for fromage – MONA, Hobart, Tasmania
There was no real need to eat cheese, but after a visit of this absolutely fantastic, innovative and thoroughly enjoyable museum, what better to do than indulge in something more traditional? A mix of the best Tasmanian and overseas fromage, local wines, views over the Derwent, and a realisation that some of the best things in Australia come from this small island.
Slight disappointment of the year – National Trust Cream Teas
I have to have a whinge somewhere, so this is it. It may be the slow economy, the Conservative government, the push against obesity, but sadly there appears to have been a standardisation of cream teas in National Trust cafes. Barely enough to cover the scones (which are still very nice), much of the suspense and thrill has gone at the prospect of receiving oversized bowls full of thick yellow cream, home made local jam and endless tea. Potentially, go for the treacle tart instead!
Destination of the year – Murren, Switzerland
I love arriving at somewhere you took a bit of a punt on on the basis of reading a paragraph somewhere in a guide book and finding it is even better than you anticipated. Yes, Switzerland is expensive and full of cliches of mountains and meadows, cows and cuckoo clocks, but I still struggle to find a country that possesses so much stunning scenery. The small, cosy, car-free resort of Murren, perched above the Lauterbrunnen Valley and with views of the massive peaks of Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau, was wonderful. Getting there and getting around was fun. The trip up to the top of Schilthorn, after a dusting of overnight snow, was phenomenal. And the warm, welcoming loft room of Chalet Fontana (a relative bargain) provided the perfect base from which to open the door and walk out into the world.
 
Best blog spin off
2013 promises to be another year of opportunity and reward, although we do have to contend with an Australian election and all the stupidness that will bring. The Green Bogey Down Under will continue to offer a space for some of my pictures and travels. I’ve also decided 2013 is ripe for a spin-off, and have set up another blog for longer ramblings based around travel themes, or just life in general. The goal is to write something based on each letter of the alphabet over 2013...that means 26 things to write about in 365 days, with some awkward letters of the alphabet to spin something on! A bit like getting ZKQUXYVB in words with friends. Luckily I’ve written two letters already – predictably enough A and B – and you can visit (and follow) the blog here: http://gbpilgrim.com.

Wishing you all a rather fine Christmas and even finer 2013
xxx


 

Friday, December 07, 2012

A tale of two cities

Pleasingly summer has hit over the past couple of weeks, albeit with the occasional blip back into winter. So far, touch wood, it seems to be better than the previous few years. Which means everyone is moaning that it’s too hot and is pining for cooler weather like the previous few years... I have found that the one downside of working from home is perhaps the absence of office ice block style air-conditioning but there is a pool twinkling in the corner of my eye.
 
Out of the office I have had the opportunity to make important decisions and change my mind again. This being which is the better city – Sydney or Melbourne? A few weeks back, spending a sizzling Saturday meandering around Melbourne I had settled the decision in my mind, Melbourne it is, mainly due to some indescribable vibe floating around in the hipsterphere. But then, last weekend, the ferny gullies and golden coves of the northern bushlands of Sydney pulled me back.
 
I decided, while fumbling my way through laneways and drinking cooling thick shakes that both Melbourne and Sydney are different creatures, and which one is best depends what you are up for at any particular point in time. To explain in a very misogynistic way (which seems to be the in thing these days), think of Melbourne as a slightly distant, not obviously beautiful, bookish kind of woman, confident and content in herself. She’s not obviously flaunting herself, though has some initial outward attractions, but these quickly fade and you are wondering what all the fuss is about. But something deeper takes hold, and you end up finding her utterly charming, especially when she’s in a sunny mood. By contrast Sydney is the voluptuous slapper putting it all out there for anyone and everyone. She provides instant gratification, accompanied with lots of sweat and congestion. But spend a few days and she begins to grate. Until you turn the corner again and get confronted with more of her raffish beauty.


Sydney is better on the eyes, Melbourne better on the ears. For this, one is blessed with geography, the other with design. Melbourne’s grid like CBD lends it that slightly American air, and I see wanky developers are latching on to that with superior apartment living in ‘Westside’ and ‘Upper Downtown South Bank’ type names (I guess the ‘Paris End’ is less trendy these days). It has an undeniable humming backing track perforated by tram tracks and bells. It feels like a city.
 
Sydney feels more like an attempt to create individual patches of idyllic beach and bushland living sporadically and reluctantly meshed together to form a city. It’s stunning geography is also its biggest challenge, its beautiful bays and gullies both dividing and obstructing. It’s endless westlessness an entirely different world. However it has beaches – and not St Kilda like beaches – but sweeping ocean sands like Maroubra, harbourside glitz like Shark Bay, and unnamed, unreachable coves of Middle Harbour and the Hawkesbury. These are rejuvenating when the grotty humidity builds, despite the mass eastward migration that occurs on such days.

 
Does it matter which is best? Well, frankly, no. Both should be pretty proud of themselves, though not in that back-slapping self-satisfied way which leads to complacency. Essentially they are modern, dynamic and, importantly, have plenty of good coffee and fine food. But then so does Adelaide. And Canberra, which itself should be celebrated for what it is, rather than denigrated for what it isn’t as it turns 100. A maturing, warm, slightly quirky woman, in whose company you feel entirely comfortable. Separation is tough.
 

Monday, November 19, 2012

The coast with the most (rain)



Despite its proximity it has been some time since I have been to the South Coast of NSW. Actually, I guess it wasn’t that proximate for a couple of months when I was in Europe. And I think it may have been March but I like the vagueness of ‘some time’ which is like saying to someone who is expecting something (usually work-related) that it will be with them ‘shortly’. Wriggle room.
Taking a little while to drive down into and under the clouds to Tuross Heads, this trip involved a few days of diverse weather and sporadic friendliness from locals. But any trip that includes two barbecues, two times fish n chips beside water, two rounds of golf by the sea is fine by me. Come rain, hail, thunder, wind or shine.
Golfing was rather fortuitous, not so much in the balls launched towards cliff top greens and plummeting down to the raging waters below, but the relative lack of water coming from the sky. And what a fine place to play Narooma Golf Club is, rekindling a desire to do a bit of swinging more often. Helped by the solitary birdie, the muscle memory of linksland chip and runs, and the whale tails flapping out in the ocean. All reaffirming a vision of early retirement in Narooma.

The driving was pretty good, but then I got in the car. Apparently Brisbane was suffering from super storms that they had insufficient warning about even though I knew about the likelihood of them two days earlier, despite clearly not living in Brisbane. But then how many Newmanites even know of the Bureau of Meteorology or watch that rascally left wing national broadcaster? Anyway, this all leads me to tell you that the road between Narooma and Moruya also had such storms, though with less fanfare and blame apportioning for acts of nature. Tuross itself having a burst of hail that I was hoping would allow me to claim some insurance money on the car.
It didn’t and the birds survived and the sun came back, briefly. Late end of day sun that provides vivid colour and contrast on the beach, golden against a stormy sea sky and furious foam capped water. Oops, did I leave my camera on black and white? Well, sometimes yes. It must have been the influence of two subtitled French movies while letting the rain pass that did it to me.

 
But I’m never anything but indecisive, possibly sometimes, if you like. And so, if you don’t mind, I did actually capture in colour on beach canvas some of the shadows and illuminations from the fast disappearing sun. A sun that went out not in a whimper but akin to the flames that simultaneously charred more burgers and onions on the BBQ. Which I was too busy getting full on instead of photographing a sunset. The question is which do I do more, eat burgers or photograph sunsets? This time, burgers won.

And so with more sun in between rain, winds whipping up the coast, blasting sand onto intrepid beach walkers such as myself, it was time to leave. I’ll come back some time, perhaps, if I can be decisive enough, but not sure when. Until then, let the burgers reign and the rain burger off.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Back to Green


Just to ensure the Green Bogey Down Under does not become a misnomer let’s talk about Australia. It’s spring in Australia right now and how utterly fabulous. The streets no longer a scene from Bergman, whose bleakness of winter has been replaced by a bright Teletubbie land of yet-to-be-tarnished greens and exploding blooms. It helps that I live in probably the most manicured garden suburb of probably the most manicured garden city in Australia, but it’s been a pleasure to walk to the shops, often for a coffee.

 
It’s funny that I’ve come back to Australia and have been revelling in elements actually so foreign: the introduced non-native Wisteria, the deciduous elms and oaks, the remnants of Cadbury’s chocolate from Heathrow. But Canberra is nothing if not a fusion of worlds, and a short walk through its leafiness invariably brings you into the bush, that land of long golden grasses, gnarly white gums, and multicoloured birds. A dusty sky one (wonderfully daylight savings timed) evening lending itself to a mood of bush ballads, red dirt, and what lies beyond.
And, keeping on the native side, there are always the Botanic Gardens to treasure. After coffee, Red Hill, re-acquaintance with my car (which was actually quite odd at first), this was next on my list, really to orientate myself with what it means to be October in the southern hemisphere.

Away from Canberra, what does spring look like in Sydney? Well, certainly not as sedate, the first sign of warm sun sending flocks to parade semi-naked on its beaches, to cram its outdoor tables and generally drive aimlessly round its streets in oversize cars. Thankfully a small Barina and its anxious driver can navigate such hazards and drop me in Newtown for a special night of food, friends and frothy beer.
Crowds were out in force along the Eastern Suburbs Coastal Exhibition Treadmill, or the Coogee to Bondi walk as its otherwise known. Still, there are always pleasant things to look at, in all directions. This time some added extras, courtesy of Sculpture by the Sea, or I don’t really understand by the sand, as it is also otherwise known.

 

More abstract piles were on the cards the next day, courtesy of a brief visit to the new improved Museum of Contemporary Art. Not a bad way to while away a morning, especially as it is positioned at A1 down on Circular Quay, the cafe on the fourth floor bedecked with cakes and views and worthy of a future visit without having had a heavy breakfast beforehand. And then...wait for it...yes it had to happen...sadly...work. I know, can you believe it? I can’t, and the shock sent me in a cold sweat to a small room to eat beans on toast for dinner.

Things were a little better the next day, with no work as such on the cards, just the labours of eating a bowlful of laksa for lunch and a cruise back on the highway to Canberra, where the holiday officially now comes to an end. Still, the working at home thing is not so bad, what with the coffee around the corner and the leafiness in between. And there’s something to be said for getting back to some kind of regularity, as much as you can, when there are distractions abounding. But then, that’s Australia for you.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Trois in one


As a couple of months frivolously gallivanting around Europe neared an end, the farewells started to stack up and, eventually, Australia loomed large. The final ten days or so felt good but also slightly odd, like part of a protracted journey home with a familiar repeat of adieus. Food opportunities gleefully grasped each time like a last supper, final washing and shopping chores done, the last episode of Pointless consumed. And then change, again.
The first goodbye was to the continent, and a wonderful few weeks sampling a little bit of Europe and its food. A final stop in France provided the rich chocolate ganache on the decadent three layered cake. Two beautiful, warm days being a figurative golf widow, first ambling the vines  on the Swiss border, and then an Alpine goodbye in Chamonix.

Chamonix perhaps provided a fitting farewell to The Alps, whose peaks and valleys I had encountered throughout; the backdrop to the fairytale at Bled, the recipient of thrilling fresh snow in Switzerland, the accompaniment to many a scenic train trip. And today, the biggie, Mont Blanc, out in the clear and saying look at me (with sunglasses to protect your eyes). Regardless of fatigue, these mountains always draw you upwards, this being the case again as I walked from the golf course to the town via an elevated forest path, toilet pine fresh in the crystal clear air.

In Chamonix there finally came a point where I relented. I could spend a few hours taking a pricey cable car halfway up a mountain, walking along a no doubt magnificent rocky balcony of a trail, taking pictures of glaciers and crags, and wearing myself out once more. Or I could sit in the sun and have a three course lunch, then potter around the shops and buy cakes. The lunch was suitably cheesy and the cake, shared and eaten back in Annemasse that evening, was as predictably delicious as ever.

Sadly my final day in France was blighted by weather, though this abated enough for a family stroll in the afternoon, the scene decidedly autumnal and with a foreboding sense of what was to come for this part of the world. Grey clouds and low mists, slippery leaves and a distinct chill to the air, perfect for winter foods involving melted cheeses. Cue dinner and, as this was France, one final piece of gateaux before departing for the airport the next morning.

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I’ve had better travel days than Monday 8th October. There was a sign things wouldn’t quite go to plan when the quiche in Manor was 60 Swiss Francs more than I had left on me and there were no alternative giant pretzels to be found anywhere. This was the precursor to a two hour flight delay, and arrival to Bristol weather that is best described as abysmally atrocious. Thirty six pounds given to First Great Western for a jaunt to Plymouth standing up part of the way (compare this to the 19 Euro fast train to Florence, or the £17.50 Milan-Geneva bargain), and there I was, finally, back in Plymouth. But it was great to be back.
Plymouth’s weather mirrored Bristol’s over the next three days (so much so that the picture of Plymouth shown here was actually taken on the Saturday morning, a few days later...but it fits better here, because I am writing about Plymouth you see). So I stocked up on food and books, spent some time visiting relatives, watched Pointless with enthusiasm, endured Eastenders with less enthusiasm, and probably wrote a blog entry in between napping.
Thank God for Friday, where at least the low cloudy drizzle was replaced by sunshine and heavy showers. Mercifully, most of these showers occurred while I was driving, all the way up to North Devon and a world I could not remember as I was too young last time I was anywhere near here. So while torrents of water accompanied me down the road to Woolacombe, once on the beach things were bright and breezy and rather wonderful to behold.

From Woolacombe I cut across to Combe Martin and then took a punt on a road that headed steeply and narrowly uphill, the type of road where you don’t open windows because you will be smothered by hedgerows. This quite miraculously squeezed us out on the Exmoor coast and quite dramatic views of this part of the world, all the way across to Wales.

The roads never really got any wider, with the tranquil Heddon Valley emerging after a hair-raising descent on wet leaves. Here, the sun was now shining, the water of the fast flowing river cloaked in the last vestiges of summer, carving through the steeply sided hills and out into the Bristol Channel. Of course, being in a valley meant going up again, gradually squeezing the car towards Lynton, the highlight being a reverse uphill manoeuvre perched on the edge high above the sea to let an oncoming car pass. Memorable stuff!
And then, you come out of the undergrowth and into the remarkable Valley of Rocks, where the bronzed bracken conceals wild goats and the highs of Exmoor engage in a dalliance with the sea.

 
Such high drama needs a little sedition, and not too far away was Arlington Court. Famously regarded (well, recommended by my brother at least) for its cream tea, this really was the culmination of a Devon day. In truth, the cream tea must have changed, because it was unremarkable and sadly now National Trust standardised. But any cream tea is paradise.  

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If paucity of cream was a problem one day, scarcity of sweet and sour wasn’t the next. This was the last meal in Plymouth, before a train to Basingstoke. What better way to mark an impending return to Australia than Chinese all you can eat buffet?! A very British Chinese with Australia Asian influences. And, like most of the trip before, an absolute feast.

And so Devon was as annoyingly idyllic as a blue sky with white fluffy clouds, the train meandering through its countryside and me attempting to recover from MSG before Hampshire. I did, just about, and then embarked on a chicken kebab for dinner, which was absolutely delicious and entirely memorable itself. Thankfully I do manage to walk off a fair bit of this tucker, and the next day provided perfect blue skies for a celebration of autumn at the elegant and evocative gardens at Stourhead.


Telling my body and my senses that it was autumn, that winter is coming, is a sure way to confuse the hell out of it when it returns to Australia. The next day – my final day – and there were sure signs that it was time to return. Not because it was bad – in fact, the opposite – but if I stayed any longer I would need to buy a proper winter coat. Bracing winds accompanied the sunshine at the coast, down around Lymington and the New Forest, for a walk out to Hurst Castle. A very English seaside landscape, full of colour and pebbles and bobbly boats and seniors going for walks...


 [lol ;-) etc)]
Maybe it was the Olympics, or some kind of counter-reaction to having an Aussie passport, but I felt a stronger affinity to Britain on this trip. You know, it’s not a bad place really. I liked having a car to get around a little of it, and I enjoyed its cheapness at the supermarket, and it didn’t actually rain too much, but I think I was just a little blessed there. I suppose the people are alright too, especially those who looked after me, made sure I didn’t go hungry (as if!), and shared some fun moments. To overuse an overused cliché of 2012, gold medal standard.