Ditto

It’s been on my mind a lot, weighing me down like a Tesco bag full of pork pies. Exactly how can I make this blog different when I’m doing the same things for the third year in a row? Year 1 and it’s all new like, Year 2 and there’s a bit of a different take, an alternative angle and now Year 3 here we are. What’s to say I’m not recycling photos from last year and I’m actually holed up in a grimey flat in East Croydon? The best solution I can come up with is to post the photos upside down, least that way some of you will get a taste of being down under.

Not that there’s anything bad with a bit of repetition when it’s all so warm and fuzzy like a Canberra Spring. I say Spring, but the giddy heights of 26 degrees on Saturday exceeded even my wildest shorts-wearing dreams. So, to make the most of the day, I got out and about and captured more of the same old things… wattle and gums at the Botanic Gardens, Canberra’s annual Floriade flower fest frenzy, aggressive birds and their chicks (not the Union Street type), and a scoop or two of Gelatissimo all wrapped up in warm northerly winds. Somebody’s gotta do it.

Snow puns intended

Well, here I am again, the Green Bogey Down Under and looking forward to another year of marvelling at all the marvellous things in this marvellous country. The transition from jetlagged zombie to cork-hatted drongo has advanced well, and it has been nice to re-familiarise myself with some of my favourite things down under. Australian Idol is back on the TV and the wattle is full to bursting, a sure sign of summer on the way and I have to say I cannot wait to be wearing shorts and sizzling snags before long.

It’s not all sun sun sun though and some of you will be flabbergasted to find out that they have a white thing called snow in this sun-baked country. They even have a sport called skiing and snowboarding, though even the least snooty Frenchman would admit it is nothing in comparison to les Alpes! But just over two hours in my marvellous car took me to a weekend in the snow with a bunch of Aussies, all wrapped up and ready for the perishing lows of -3C. We took over a great B&B off the Alpine Way, with a roaring log fire the backdrop to lots of cheese and wine and chocolate… it could almost be Switzerland!

So, closely guarding my wallet the next day, I headed to Perisher Blue, the largest ski resort in Australia apparently and unsurprisingly busy on a sunny Saturday. To ski or not to ski that is the question. A question I quickly answered given the quite exorbitant cost of lift passes and associated paraphernalia. I was happy with the novelty factor of snow in Australia and, after a good winter, there was quite substantial depth to it. It wasn’t just snowmen and snowball fights though, as they thoughtfully provide a Snow Tube, the simplest explanation of which is hurtling down a slippery slope with a big rubber ring around your butt (or if you are extra daring like me, lying on your front head first)! It was good, wholesome fun and, yeah, a little thrilling… I just wish the runs were maybe a little longer and I also wish I didn’t look such a clown in my hastily scrambled together “ski-wear”.



For the more sedate winter tourists like us, another fine thing to do is to take one of the chairlifts, have a scrummy jacket potato (but no Bedruthan) at the mid-station and then zoom up to the top taking in the expansive views. Sure, it’s do Aguille Du Midi – and with it no sign of altitude drunkness – but it’s as good as you’ll get down under.

The après ski action back in the valley took in the world’s snappiest Schnapps tasting assistant, perfecting her German attitude to a tee. And then it was a wonderful dinner back at the lodge, more cheese, wine and possibly the longest game of trivial pursuit ever. The Australian edition that is, in which I was tested with the ingredients of Anzac biscuits and the whereabouts of the famous Jacaranda festival (Grafton apparently). So much still to learn.

With that in mind, my journey back took a small detour to the fabled Snowy River. I say fabled because that’s how you usually see or hear it described. Say Snowy River to any true blue Ocker and the tears will well up in the eye and they will rush home to bake some Lamingtons. It’s one of those things I don’t really understand and never will, but a stop at the small town of Dalgety – which is another one of those places which nearly became the nation’s capital (and has never looked back since) – took me to its fabled edge.



There is also a fabled Maccers in Cooma which is almost as popular with Aussies it seems, and for some reason I have been in there far too many times over the course of the last couple of years. This time a customary frozen coke to keep me fuelled along the Monaro Highway, leaving the snow and winter behind and heading full steam into spring…

Spain, Plane, Going Insane and Wall of Shame

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

Last seen being plagued by the end of the mosquito season (which was Sunday just gone apparently), the expat Gollum lookalike took refuge in a Pepsi can.

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There are a few days of my Europe break unaccounted for. I have vague recollections of time in swimming pools, races to the next lamppost, siestas on the couch. I can hazily see a strangely fantastic steak and kidney pie in a Spanish pub. Ooh, there goes Mum’s lasagne. Beaches, but not as I know them. And then greyness, cold, Jedi powered airport toilet flushes, wedged between kids in a magnificent flying machine and transportation to a parallel universe in the southern hemisphere.

So there we are, it’s all over. There were sights, so many sights, from lush Cornish coves to monstrous mountains. Gorgeous, but just sights, there for a photo to remind me of where I’ve been, to post on the blog and put together some sort of coherent witty story. Beautiful places but, simply on their own, not the things I want to keep in my head and cherish forever. They are a background, a stage for better things: races to the next lamppost, baguettes on hillsides, Batman impressions, coffee by the harbour, a round of warm beers, battles in the pool, long lazy barbecue evenings, red-eye trips to the airport, a chat in the gardens. It’s all about you people!

As I said goodbye to the folks in Spain I was finishing one of my summer holiday reads, Into the Wild, about Christopher McCandless, a twenty-something who gave up society and wandered into the Alaskan wilderness never to return. I think for me, and indeed most of us, there is at least a small, primeval appeal about what he did. We all dream of the next grand mountain or twenty mile stretch of white sand, looking for that high of pure, unadulterated nature and thrill of new horizons. Sadly, this almost obsessive pursuit cost McCandless his life. The poignant thing about this is that shortly before he perished, he seemed to actually realise the real beauty of life is not the earth but its people. One of his final diary entries read: “HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED”.

I don’t wholeheartedly agree with his revelation – we’ve all been happy with a bit of me time, right? I sure have had some great times and craved that independence. But then I go share them via this blog, with a friend, chat about it on a Monday morning in work. Maybe I’d rather say the good times are good and the better times are the good times shared. Maybe even there’s a bigger smile on my face when the checkout girl at Coles jokes about the man talking to himself (okay this wasn’t offensive… he was on the phone) than when I stumble upon a beautiful beach and have it all to myself.

Why am I bothering to write this and get all deep on you? Well, mainly because I read these words in Alicante airport, after goodbyes which seem to get harder and harder each time. And I was reminded that it didn’t really matter if I saw mighty mountains or curvaceous coves. Because they were just a backdrop, for the people*.

So as a mark of respect I decided to try and find some of the least flattering pictures of everyone, including me! If you have made it this far and not given up on this post already, thank you so much for among other things hospitality, nourishment, transport, patience, cheese, being irritating and wonderful at the same time, but most of all, just being you. And there will always be a big welcome for you down under!

* this doesn’t mean next time you can just lock me up and feed me gruel when I come to stay – I still wanna go places OK?!

The most beautiful place in the world!

My huge yeti sized carbon footprint continued with a flight from Manchester to Plymouth and it was pleasing to see a tractor on the runway (seriously) as I arrived late on a Sunday night. Ah home, eternally home. After my blessed first week in England when they had their summer, it was more like autumn for five days in the Westcountry with Dad but somehow we managed to get lucky, see, do and eat pretty much everything we wanted to. Much of this was a nostalgia fest for both of us. I am very grateful to have grown up in a free, prosperous society but to grow up in a free, prosperous society which happens to be in the most beautiful of regions is truly a bonus. Clotted cream coloured spectacles? Maybe, but I’ve been to cities that never close down and I’ll still call the Westcountry home.

The nostalgia was instant first thing Monday as Dad and I made the pilgrimage to Wrangaton Golf Club to attempt to play golf. Wrangie was looking truly awesome in the low cloud and spots of rain, soft as a sponge, green as a bogey. There were a few memorable shots but for the most part we hacked round, spurred on by memories and a good lunch in the clubhouse.

For some reason, a round at Wrangaton often seems to produce something of a hangover, tiredness, achiness and a throbbing head. In this context, it was a challenge to wander the aisles of mega Tesco for goodies but we picked up some dinner and other bits and pieces. In a way maybe we shouldn’t as we ended up sitting at Cap’n Jaspers that evening with no room for a Jasperizer or Half a Yard.

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The next day held promise of sunshine and some showers so we headed to North Cornwall to bathe in the sunshine and avoid most of the showers. First up was Boscastle, seemingly restored since huge floods a few years back and a fine place to walk along the harbour and out to the headlands. Breathe it in, these are special moments.




Now, back in Boscastle, the sun began to shine and it was perfect to sit down by the harbour and have a drink. The cream tea was tempting me but we decided to stick to a coffee, what with other treats pending later in the day. How is it a small café in a very small village in an area of England so tucked away you have to squeeze through narrow lanes to get there serves a far better coffee than anywhere else in the land, including those stupid chains and expensive haunts in London town? It was even better than some poor examples I have had in Australia, praise indeed.

But you don’t come here for coffee, you come here for pasties by the sea in Tintagel, something which is incredibly hard to beat. Follow this up with a fudge crumble and you’re onto a winner.



This part of the world isn’t all hidden and tucked away, evidenced by the packed car park at Port Isaac, better known by many as home to Doc Martin. Surprisingly, the town remains quaintly beautiful and doesn’t seem to overly cash in on its links to a TV show – it remains at heart a typical Cornish fishing village, with narrow lanes leading down to a small harbour. However, you did find yourself thinking “Ooh, I wonder if Doc Martin will stomp down that alley in a minute” now and again.



In the evening it was good to return to the ‘Oe where the national firework championships were taking place. Excellent for getting in touch with the inner Janner and watching three great displays over Plymouth Sound. Who needs a harbour bridge?!

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If you said to me on Wednesday morning I’d be supping a pint of Cider sat in the sun beside the water I would have had you sectioned. The rain and wind swept through Plymouth city centre all morning and looked unlikely to abate as we set off to Noss Mayo in south Devon. Noss Mayo though seems to have its own little climate control switch which is set on idyllic. The wind remained for the bracing coastal part of the walk but had eased sufficiently for T-shirt and cold drink in The Ship Inn, an unexpected bonus.



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More holes in the cloud on Thursday and a trip to Dartmoor where I still got wet crossing a brook. Dad took me on a walk of great variety including gurgling streams, forest, high moorland, Celtic ruins, squidgy bogs and no path at all! Such exertion made me hungry and so it was more than time for a PROPER Devon Cream Tea!!




This is what you need Australia. Until this point you will forever remain a second class country, lol!

Cream teas and rolling hills go hand in hand, like Sonny and Cher, that politician and the Cheeky Girl and Marmite and toast. The rolling hill fix came courtesy of the views from Houndtor – surprisingly somewhere I do not recall visiting previously. Half of glorious Devon was on view from here, looking majestic in the afternoon sunshine.

Looking back at that huge bowl of cream you may be surprised to hear that we dined out in the evening at the good ol’ Britannia with Cheryl and Steve. You may be surprised. If you don’t know me very well that is.

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With all major things ticked off, fudge packed and fairy costumes in the suitcase, it was time to leisurely head to Exeter Airport on Friday, taking a route via the South Hams which nostalgia told me wasn’t so long, winding and clogged with traffic like one of my arteries after that cream tea. We stopped for coffee (normal service resumed) at Slapton and a walk on the beach. A pebbly beach, no doubt to the delight of my colonial friends.

Up the road, Totnes is a pretty little place, though not one you want to spend 40 minutes getting through when you have a lunch appointment and a flight to catch. Such is the hazard of being from a beautiful part of the world, all grockled out as it was on a sunny Friday. In the end we made lunch for about 30 minutes, savouring as much as possible the bargain carvery in Torquay.

My last few minutes in the south west were something of a blur as we raced to the airport so I could get on my plane to Spain. Thankfully I have had many more minutes in this part of the world and I hope many more are still to come my way in the future. Australia home? Nah, not quite yet me loverrrrrr. Home is where the heart is.