In but a day or two I mark six
years in Australia. It was supposed to be a year, or maybe two. What has kept
me here? Certainly not the bogan car sounds, the Olympic coverage, or Harvey
Norman shouting at me that they are “the kitchen / coffee / computer / bathroom
/ bedding / entertainment / cooking / gaming specialists” depending on what
weekend it is. The outdoors would be high on the list and the sense of space
and air and purity. Six years and still the darting colour of a pair of Crimson
Rosellas flitting from tree to tree is sure to bring a smile to my face. The
other wildlife is pretty funky too.
The coffee’s tops and the food
aint bad. There are friends and familiar faces, though that’s not a uniquely
Australian thing and the connections going back further often remain the
deepest. It’s still reasonably easy-going, fair-minded and free. And a very
comfortable living. Especially here in Canberra where I certainly never
expected to spend six years! But it’s rather charming here and I think you end
up with incredible fondness with somewhere that you have bedded down in and
made home.
It’s a funny concept, home. I
call Canberra home, sometimes I still call Australia home, but I think of
myself going home in just over a week, to the Greatest of Britain, scene of
Olympic wondrousness and heroes. I hope to find not a gloomy post-party
hangover, but a strong sense of pride and optimism that the country has just
served up two weeks of immaculate greatness. Despite the doomsayers and
doubters, we did it and did it good.
Which brings me, in a moment of
self-indulgent ranting, to a paragraph about the coverage of the Olympics in
Australia. And mostly by that, I mean the free-to-air coverage from Channel
Nine. I could go on and on about the adverts and endless ADHD that was the
back-and-forth from Aussie to Aussie in event to event. I could comment on the
absence of the use of 2012 technology, in coverage that was akin to 1988 era
broadcasting. Then there are the hosts, who were clearly better suited to fluffy
daytime TV and the new ‘unmissable’ series of Big Brother...more Ulrika Jonsson
than Michael Johnson. Probably the only credible sports face – Mark Nicholas,
he of ex-Channel Four cricket fame – was lumbered in the daytime highlights
slot, seemingly somewhat forced to gush about all the Australian competitors
while he kept a sneaky eye on the BBC during the swimming re-runs.
Anyway, I have used more than the
paragraph of ranting I promised, but just to encapsulate it, this morning, in
what has been billed throughout as ‘London Live’, when there were no less than
four live medal finals to choose from (including a pulsating final in the
diving in which three competitors were separated by 0.15 points going into the
final dive), what did we get served up with? Replays (yet again) of rhythmic
gymnastics, several advert breaks, news updates of events shown last night, and
re-runs of the men’s 4x100 at half hourly intervals. Thank goodness for a bit
of tinkering and the chance to watch some BBC streaming, still worth it despite
the hopeless Internet speed causing buffering every 10 seconds.
So all this just makes me another
whinging Pom I suppose. I get that we are in Australia and I expect to see
support and coverage of Australian athletes. In fact, I even cheered for a few
and liked the ones that were humble and happy at achieving a place in the
Olympics or, even better, a medal. I even forgave Anna Meares because she is a
fine, committed athlete. But I will not forgive or forget Channel Nine, and I
look forward to not watching new episodes of Big Brother, The Farmer wants a
Wife, Underbelly regurgitated again, Desperate Househusbands, Charlie friggin
Sheen and all the other pap you have been promoting.
Very clearly and annoyingly for you I
digress. I was talking about Australia and how rather fine it is, despite the
best attempts of its broadcasters. Luckily I have not been exposed to Olympic
coverage 24/7, and some rather hectic work travel took in a few sights of the
beautiful land on my doorstep. Which reminds me – winters in Australia aren’t
too bad either. Especially on those days when you can walk along the coast from
Coogee to Clovelly in a T-shirt for a nice coffee by the water. And evenings
when the sun goes down over a glowing, still-vibrant, ex-Olympic city.
Beyond Sydney work took me down
the coast to Shellharbour, just south of Wollongong. I adore the South Coast
and I haven’t been there this winter, which is a shame. I seem to have missed a
traditional winter day trip taking in the wonderful walk along the sands and
stones to Pebbly Beach, tucking into fish and chips at Dolphin Point, and
perhaps indulging in a coffee and cake at Mogo before the drive back over the
mountain.
I didn’t get chance to do any of
that, being somewhat further north, but a brief check of a random beach
confirmed the South Coast was still beautiful. And there was a certain rugged
tempestuousness, perhaps a teaser for the Atlantic fringed climes I’m heading
towards, courtesy of wind and large swell on the drive down from Sydney to Wollongong.
A fitting home-from-home, where the land clings on
against the powerful force of the coast. Lacking pasties and with a unique take
on Devonshire Teas, but just as captivating and satisfying. And where better to
end the journey of year six and to match the rage of my Olympian ranting, than
with these brooding, tumultuous seas at the end of the world.
After a finale at work and boozy
Indian dinner, a (only slightly) hung-over breakfast of eggs Benedict did the
trick. And later, as the weather brightened, an amble through the Botanic
Gardens, where the incredible nature was only too aware of the proximity of
spring. The return of the wattle a time-honoured portent of a return to Europe.
And so came a beautiful Sunday
that turned ideal for drying my washing and sending me off with the
ever-constant mix of north and south. A good solid Aussie flat white avec un macaron
and a fair dinkum, warm-hearted Australian. A famous final bush walk through the red dirt of
Red Hill, its gums and wattles and rosellas on parade. And an amble back
through suburbia with un-Australian blossoms and ginormous hedgerows. Spring
and summer and autumn are coming. Winter is a thing of the past.
