The home stretch

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.