Janitales

January doesn’t bring with it the same depressiveness in Australia as it does in the UK, but that’s not to say it isn’t without its flaws. First, you still have to go back to work after Christmas. I would argue it is more frustrating being tucked away in an office staring at a screen on beautiful sunny days than it is to be comforted in a cosy cubicle with hot drinks and heating during bleak Dickensian winters. The fact that most other people are still on holiday is equally unjust. The other thing you have to contend with at this time of year is an annoyingly resurgent Australian cricket team, and with it, the return to sledging and arrogance. The tennis is less annoying, except in cases where Channel 7 decides to cut away to a match featuring some hapless local and you have no other choice because they haven’t figured out how to use their other digital channels except for endless re-runs of Escape to the Country. And the same old adverts between games begin to drive you mad by the quarter finals.

Anyway, these are clearly all first world problems and in reality January has general been genial, though I have felt restricted in my enjoyment of more recent parts of it thanks to some stupid illness or other. This has kept me mostly in and around Canberra, though with torrents of rain and gloom on the coast, that’s probably a good thing. Getting out and about has included enjoying the garden, helpless to watch nature take over before it is tamed as far as it can be, feeling less guilty about its wildness when wild creatures take a liking to it.

‘If only I had the time and resources of the Australian National Botanic Gardens’ I sighed as I walked along one of their always charming pathways, under cooling ferns and aesthetically pleasing eucalypt and flower combinations. Or even the National Arboretum, which seems to be coming along at great speed, though I’m not so fond of its very regimental lines of trees, preferring as I do the wild, rambling landscape of my garden.

Not helping my gardening woes is the precariousness of January’s weather. A few characteristically blistering days have been interspersed with cool changes, brooding clouds and occasional downpours. The plants love it, and I don’t mind it too...it’s generally been dry enough to do stuff and not too hot that all you can do is eat ice cream and watch annoying cricket in the dark with the fans whirling at level 3. This mixture of sun and cloud and general broodiness about the place has enlivened the random evening walks upon Red Hill and thereabouts, a place where even my garden is put in the shade by its wild bushland charms.

As the sun sets from Red Hill Reserve the silhouette of higher ground out west gives the Brindabellas more prominence, resembling a mountainous landscape in which are very Australian-style mountains. Now, along the spectrum of wilderness these are up the top end, more so than Red Hill; indeed more so than my garden. They remain pretty inaccessible, despite their proximity to the national capital, a thought I find rather exciting...a reminder of what a vast and untamed place this remains. There is a road, and it’s a road I’ve never been on before, slightly uncertain of how narrow, winding and rutted the dirt track would be. But with some dry weather behind me, and very little traffic for company, all was well on the way to Mount Franklin, with some stunning views from the ridgeline to the west. There are further roads to follow on this journey.

While it isn’t really true to say all roads lead to the capital, come Australia Day it does take on something resembling prominence. For it is here that formal ceremonies and parties and shambolic protests mix with the ever-enduring sausage sizzles and lamington bake-offs. Australia Day for me was spent in a reasonably patriotic way – watching sport, eating food, wearing thongs. I couldn’t resist mixing a little with the locals, pottering about around some of the national institutions, accidentally coming across Lamington bake-offs and fighter jet fly bys. The sounds of Waltzing Matilda echoing on the breeze from the citizenship ceremony across the lake, latte-supping among Australian hats and rising intonations. And a big bang on which to go out on, obligatory fireworks by the lake.

With Australia Day, the completion of the annoying test series, the culmination of the tennis, you could be forgiven for thinking summer was coming to an end. People will be coming back to work, thinking how depressing it is. But the sun is still setting after eight, BBQs are still entirely acceptable and shorts are still de rigueur du jour. The garden will not be dying off for quite some time. 

Selection Pack

Well, it’s good to have made it into 2012, without any falling in of the sky or earth shattering meteorites eclipsing even London’s New Year pyrotechnics. The first few days of ‘twenty twelve’ have continued as twenty eleven left off, that is to say with copious food, steamy weather and a supposedly resurgent Australian cricket team. The Christmas and New Year break was itself like one of those selection packs I probably devoured along the way – a bit of a twirl, occasionally crunchie and in need of a boost when at times it went all curly wurly, very fattening, but ultimately delicious.

It began last year in Sydney, symbolically at South Head, the entrance to a city in a wonderful yet slightly self-satisfied holiday nirvana. At this point it was surprisingly quiet, the blanketing cloud subduing smells of sunscreen and wafting prawn smoke, the fish and chips possibly reheated due to low customer volume at Watson’s Bay. Further down the coast in Bellevue Hill where I was house and cat-sitting, the next few days were spent trying to appease Ricky Ponting and find a suitable ham to cook. Neither was easy, Ponting typically aloof and full of swagger, miaowing in the early hours and only coming round with the juicy full toss of catnip infused treats. Meanwhile, the ham quest proved impossible, despite the likes of Nigella and Gordon showing us how it is done on the ABC every night. It just seems all the hams for purchase are pre-cooked here, one of the more subtle distinction between the British and Aussie Christmas. Nonetheless, pre-cooked purchased ham turned out to be almost as delicious and similarly never-ending, turning up in sandwiches all the time.

After one dreary pre-big day morning, the weather dried out just a little to allow a little jaunt on the harbour while here, the affluent enclave that is Rose Bay being just down the road from Ponting Palace, and suitably equipped with a ferry stop. Somehow I managed to turn left rather than right, away from the ferry terminal, missing the 3pm ferry by seconds, but left with an hour to potter about alongside million dollar views and properties with accompanying price tags. It also gave me an opportunity to suss out the local ham options to no avail.

So in the end it was the 4pm ferry which propelled me alongside more million dollar pads and bays, the cool wind in the hair all the way to Circular Quay, where the Opera House was still standing and the big bridge thing was still working and all was well with the world, albeit again surprisingly subdued. And after a small potter around I headed up the road to Martin Place, from where I took an almost empty train back to Bondi Junction. Here, another fruitless meat search was consoled by probably the best food court laksa you will ever have the opportunity to enjoy.

In need of a bit of a boost, Christmas Eve provided a great day as summer came back and was set to stay around for a while, perfect timing and perfect opportunity to head to the beach. Despite my iPhone almost melting on the sands, a few hours at Nielson Park were amply enjoyed – stunning views and foreshore walking interspersed with beach lazing, water cooling and music listening (until aforementioned iPhone melting). And the party was back in town, beautiful people and their annoying whiney children back in force. I think there was even the mirage like glow of BBQ fumes in the air.

If the day was as sweet as a Cadbury’s caramel, the evening turned into a finger of fudge that was just enough to give the kids a nightmare. As the sun faded on an evening walk to Bondi Beach and back, all was well as I headed up to Bellevue Hill. A cold beer just minutes away, cooling fluid to the sausage rolls and cheesy marmites to be baked in the oven. Only I locked myself out, Ricky Ponting nowhere on hand to save me, the mosquitoes taking every advantage of the situation and my salvation coming at a cost of $180 thanks to a locksmith who looked every part the dodgy burglar. And as the last, somewhat belated cheesy marmite emerged out of the painfully slow oven, the clock ticked over to Christmas Day.

All I got for Christmas was the two front teeth of a hungry mosquito, plus a slightly amusing-in-hindsight tale for the Christmas dinner table. Well, this is not all true, it wasn’t that amusing, plus I had more presents (thanks to those who were so kind) and, apart from increasing itchiness, a rather lovely day. Morning coffee and shortbread on Coogee beach, endless picnic food under a shady tree as the weather shined, and lazy end of day BBQ and salads. Washed down with a little fizzy grape juice and capped by a Guinness World Record sized cheesecake to take me into the evening. Who says Santa Claus isn’t real, for thus sat a fat man in a red top with a couple of days of growth around the chin.

I can’t really remember too much about Boxing Day, other than that more food was involved. More ham, more chocolate, more of that cheesecake, and more cheese of the non-cake variety. Plus more re-organising, re-jigging and re-loading of various bags and coolers and implements in and out of the car, preparation for the next bar of goodness in the holiday selection pack.

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The sights of the M4 West improve only marginally as the road rises into the plateau of the Blue Mountains. Crossing the range, through traffic jams and construction, it’s hard to believe that just a stone’s throw north and south of you stand plunging cliff lines and endless canyons of eucalyptus. Today it was hard to believe even atop one of the cliff lines, the low cloud kissing the ground and filtering its ghostly blankness down into the Grose Valley. Still, the ham roll consumed at this stop was one of the better ones.

Thankfully, and predictably if you are nerdy enough to understand prevailing weather patterns, clouds parted on the western side of the mountains and things had turned idyllic by the time the car entered the Wolgan Valley. Approaching this valley was something of a delight, seemingly hidden as it is, spreading out and glowing before you as the road peaks and winds its way through a narrow gap in the escarpment. And thankfully it still has that ‘lost world’ air, off the beaten track and open only to rich sheiks (in the seven star Emirates resort) or cheap bums (camping in Wollemi National Park).

No prizes for guessing where I stayed, but I can’t honestly think how paying $2,000 per night would match the experience of camping on a beautiful meadow, surrounded by sunlit sandstone cliffs and wombat infested bushland. Plus you get that back to nature fulfilment, where man becomes forager, and collecting firewood is the aim on a late afternoon amble along a tinkling river.

While the firewood collection was paltry compared to the efforts of the nearby bogan tent – who appeared to be deforesting Wollemi National Park – it was sufficient just for the thrill of lighting a fire, toasting some bread and being mesmerised by flame. Plus there was more ham and cheese and other leftovers to comfortably make this a seven star dining experience.

I guess there may have been one or two times when the resort looked the better option – a fitful night of sleep disturbed by the bogan fire and wombat grass-munching somewhere beside the ear. And a morning shower wouldn’t have been turned down (neither would a spa or massage or cocktail by the pool actually). But a breakfast of another ham sandwich and cheesy marmites did the trick, with the mild weather perfect for bushwalking without gathering too much more in the way of bad odour.

The walk followed, for the most part, an old rail line that was used to transport oil slate from this area some hundred years ago. It’s amazing the lengths that were gone to in order to get this rail line through the sandstone and connected to the outside world. But I guess not much is different a hundred years later, as mile upon mile of new railway line is laid in the Kimberley to transport rocky treasures to the ports and overseas to China. The great benefit of a rail line is that a hundred years later it provides a reasonably flat walk, and the bonus of a long tunnel now colonised by glow-worms.

Back out into the light, and the sun had expanded its way over the Blue Mountains and down to Sydney for the drive back. This time, no low cloud to conceal the Grose Valley, there to stare down into abuzz with a fresh coffee and celebrate the joy of surviving a night without running water, lighting fire, conquering river crossings and generally sounding more adventurous than you actually were.

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The final bars from our sweet holiday selection come via Canberra, where New Year events were amiable and pleasant, with hassle-free fireworks and friendly drinks. The first day of 2012 finally brought about the first roast dinner of the Christmas holiday season; ironically it was also the warmest day so far, a 33 degree roasting for chook and the trimmings. However I don’t think it will ever be too hot to enjoy Christmas pudding with huge dollops of not-quite-Cornish but Tasmanian clotted cream.

Gargantuan food requires gargantuan exercise to offset the dastardly deeds of kilojoules and fat, and a gargantuan setting can be supplied a few hours south of Canberra in the Snowy Mountains. What better way to start 2012 than from the top of Australia, safe in the knowledge that literally the year is all downhill from here! Okay, so the chairlift from Thredbo took out a great deal of the ascent and descent, but a 13km round trip to Mount Kosciusko was rewarding in every sense. Rocky crags and crystal streams, alpine flowers and leftover chicken sandwiches, cooling relief at altitude from the rising temperatures below.

But while this may be the physical peak of this land, a high point to start the year, I’m possessed of that hope and optimism that comes with a new year ahead. It helps that it’s accompanied by summer, by light, sun-filled days and BBQs and leftover Christmas chocolates. Promises of more trips and travels are just around the corner, pathways are there to be trodden, opportunities to be grasped, landscapes to be photographed and experiences to be written. A delicious array of treats to continue to tuck into.