Near Death by Chocolate

I’m getting closely acquainted with the State of Victoria at the moment. For the most part it’s grey and cold, landscapes of gently rolling farmland faintly resembling Wiltshire in November. There are some things to admire about country Victoria, one of them being the faint reminiscence with Wiltshire in November. There seem to be more country roads and little towns and farms and tea shops and wineries packed into a relatively small space – a scene as rare in Australia as a sane and progressive approach to dealing with that marauding invasion of scary boat people.

To be honest though, as pleasant as the countryside can be, it is just a tad boring. It lacks that pure loveliness that is Devon countryside, probably the best countryside in the world. Thankfully we know that Australia excels when it comes to coast though, and just a short dribble out of the paddocks leads to that icon of Australian road trips, the so good it’s Great Ocean Road.

One of the great things about the ocean road is the diversity along its route. There is the Surf Coast, which I think is named after the number of like dude shops in Torquay. Yes, that’s right, Torquay. Which is pretty much the start of the road closest to Melbourne. The other end, near Peterborough (yes, that’s right...), is called the Shipwreck Coast, mostly because all the flashes from millions of coach tour cameras distract unscrupulous sailors, causing them to crash into the jagged sandstone rocks. There is a middle bit to the road too, called the Not Really Coast Coast, meandering as it does in nauseous curves through rainforest and farmland.



Clearly though, the best part is the Neil Absolutely Loves Driving Along This Bit Coast, also known as the 50 kilometre ribbon clinging to the edge of Australia between the laid back towns of Lorne and Apollo Bay. Stunningly, this was the scene for the best weather of the trip, beautiful blues of a Saturday morning demanding numerous photo stops and bits of fresh air.





The scenery is so distracting that you need to be reminded that you should be driving on the left in Australia. I think that’s provided for our wrong-sided driving foreign friends, but it’s also there as a call to be brave: take that left part of the road around that narrow corner as you drive westward, sticking as close to the two hundred metre drop down into the ocean as you can. If you get chance, have a look down and spot the sharks waiting! Anyway, as I proved, it’s easier to drive on the right than you imagine it might be!

The reward for the brave driver who makes it to Apollo Bay (and let’s face it, most people do make it), is some lunch in rather nice winter warmth and a chance to amble along the beach and harbour. Soak it all up before those white fluffy clouds grow up and the coast transforms from the sunny surf ridin chillaxville to Van Diemen’s ShipWreckLand and Aquapark...



So this is the part where the Great Ocean Road becomes less great and drastically less oceanic. Basically, a big lump of hill and bush and rock and tangly rainforest gets in the way, and the road makes its way in a circuituous fashion through some of this bush and tangly rainforest. Starting out as a pleasant contrast this landscape gradually gives way to something more barren and bleak and even boring, so much so that when the coast comes back into view again it’s a bit like that childhood trip out to the beach and the excitement of the first sighting of the sea. And what a sighting, as now we are without doubt in a land of shipwrecks and day trips.



Within a short stretch of this coastline, clustered aroudn Port Campbell, are numerous stopping points for views of rocks. Big rocks, with some jagged edges and a few holes in. These are very popular and include the iconic Twelve Apostles which are a bit bigger, sandier and more prevalent than the steps of Bedruthan. They have featured on countless, usually sunnier, images of Australia and consequently are a mecca for big white coaches at 3 in the afternoon. In fact, I daresay there were more people on these coaches in one afternoon than there are ‘boatpeople’ arrivals into Australia in one year. Stop the coaches!



Other popular coach stops include The Grotto, Loch Ard Gorge, London Bridge, and the inventively named Arch. They are indeed quite stunning, the sounds and sights capturing the relentless power of the ocean from lookout to viewpoint. Thankfully they have ample parking, even for the ‘Tours with a Difference’ coach, which clearly doesn’t do much that is different in way of stops. Perhaps they all stand up at the front to do karaoke on it between stops?

My own little Hoon Commodore propelled tour had its unique parts. In fact I feel I can safely assume that no-one else along this strip of road had with them a little stop incorporating a few squares of British Dairy Milk Caramel. Purchased from WHSmith at Heathrow for one whole pound. Far superior to what passes for Australian Cadburys. Perfect fodder for the stop at London Bridge.



That wasn’t the only chocolate stop, but before that immense ordeal the end of day gloom was about to disappear. Out on the far horizon a sliver of clear sky allowed the last fiery red embers of the sun to penetrate the gloom and mark a dramatic end to a dramatic day. Of course, there were plenty of people to capture the drama, a cast of hundreds, including some who made it at the very last minute and those who glumly missed out altogether (now, that’s a tour with a difference).





With darkness and quite a chill descending, it was time to anchor up for the night, in the small town of Port Campbell. A place that looked pretty deserted and kind of leaning towards banjo strumming and tumbleweed. But looks can be pretty deceptive, and an unassuming, ‘Mediterasian’ inspired restaurant provided a warming and welcoming contrast to the chill outside. The VB battered fish and chips were pleasant enough, but the piece de resistance was the dessert. Simply vanilla ice cream, nuts and chocolate, but chocolate in two ways – the first an intricate mesh of hard dark chocolate rising out of the ice cream, the second a pool of rich, syrupy chocolate sauce quite akin to the old school chocolate sauce Mum used to make in my childhood. It was a chocolate sauce that seemed to never end, getting better with each mouthful, delighting when an unexpected roasted almond or macademia cropped up within its gooey mass. It is making me hungry right now, but at the time I think I was close to exploding!

Sunday morning emerged and I felt a sense of achievement at having survived the night without being sick! It was a murky old day with bits and pieces of drizzle, but at this hour and with this weather a revisit to the Twelve Apostles was this time shared with just a handful of others and hence a wee bit more satisfying. Conjuring up some courage to tackle a light breakfast it was then all about the drive back to Melbourne airport, stopping to get more bits of fresh air and, some hours later at Lorne, a great chicken roll.

Time on this road seems to pass amazingly quickly and, before you know it, you are pushing to make the airport in time to escape. As the rain hardened and the coast faded away in the background, escape seemed to be the best option. I don’t think I did anything too illegal in the push to make Melbourne Airport, certainly nothing deserving ‘the finger’. Effective petrol station fill and tidy up strategies and a little bit of traffic light luck and daring got me dropping my bag at the Qantas counter with a few minutes to spare. I was already told off on my flight down for being a little late, so didn’t want to be marked down as a trouble maker and excluded from any possible future upgrades (please Qantas, on my next flight to the UK – look at all this advertising you are getting!).

And so, in a somewhat frentic and shambolic end, the weekend was over, the sick feeling of too much chocolate replaced by the sick feeling of having to go back to work. Once again, the road and the ocean were great to see, providing a dosage plentiful enough to keep me going in country Victoria. Though for all the scenery and sights and drama, I think I will always remember that dessert on Saturday 17th July 2010 in Port Campbell the most. It nearly finished me off but I conquered it like a true champion. Now though I think I should really get back into those running shoes.

Running like normal

It seems ages since I have written a regular post about a regular weekend in Canberra. Mainly that’s because I haven’t had a regular weekend in said ages. Since returning from Europe, a couple of fabulous weekends away have been interspersed with truly dreadful weekends working and shivering my butt off. Shivering continued this weekend, but blessedly without the work and so it was an opportune time to be pottering, tinkering, ambling and lounging. Not that everything was regular though – the performance of Germany for instance. Plus I ran (more about that later).

So what to do in a wintry weekend in Australia? Trying to be European seems to be the answer, commencing on Friday lunchtime with German inspired pork products and hoppy yeasty brews so wonderfully a million miles away from a XXXX. Then, infused on ale, a part of me became Francophile... something I have, naturally as a Briton, refused to become thus far in my life. I purchased a cookbook of regional French dishes, inspired by the Tour de France. I went to the markets to hunt out some fromage, asking the little Frenchman if he had some Reblochon or similar, a little glint in his eye, that knowing look of someone who has himself feasted on Tartiflette in the mountains. Alas, he didn’t, but pointed me in the direction of an Australian equivalent. Results are to follow this week, but as he said, anyone who asks for Reblochon really only wants Reblochon. I gave a little Gallic-like nod and left with a little warm glow in my heart. And now I am looking at the route of Le Tour, and have decouvert stage 8, a chance to revisit memory lane from Annemasse to the summertime highs of Les Gets and Morzine-Avoriaz. C’est super.

Though lacking in quality cheese, the Australian winter time provides plentiful sun and deep blue skies, a great time to get rugged up and go for a walk through the bush, definitely a case of getting some fresh air. My Saturday afternoon walk took in some fine bushland up in Tidbinbilla, pacing up and down over crystal clear streams and through the tall gum trees, the mimicking cycle of the lyrebird on a constant loop.



The next morning it was time for some exercise more strenuous, as I somewhat reluctantly embarked on what I guess you would call training. In a moment of insanity I registered to take part in a 9 kilometre run in September (though it says walking is quite possible in parts!) I think the fact that the run takes me across the middle of Sydney Harbour Bridge down into the Botanic Gardens and finishes on the steps of the old Opera House had something to do with it. Only the best for me. Anyway, you can find out more and sponsor me at http://www.gofundraise.com.au/neilioGB

Probably the best thing about the ‘training’ was taking some warm up time to amble around the top of Mount Ainslie and suck in the chilly views. The last week has really gone cold, with frosts pretty much every night and temperatures down to minus four a couple of times. With frost widespread, at least the one benefit of running (and, er, I hasten to add, some briskish walking) is the warmth it brings.



The other major benefit, though I really should not take advantage of this too much, is the additional calories clearly needed to provide energy for such strenuous activity. A nice thing to do this weekend was a spot of Masterchef inspired baking, rolling and chilling pastry, blending butter and icing sugar and eggs and almond meal, throwing in some fruit. And then sharing it with friends and a cup of tea. If that’s more like normality, I could get used to it.

Banana Republic

Canberra to Queensland is a move much desired in winter, gloves and scarves discarded as quickly as the concept of unity and the French football team. Most people, including me, will be happy to get away from Canberra and feel comfortably mild for a bit. The now former Prime Minister may be the only exception to that rule, unceremoniously put out to pasture as quickly as Australia were knocked out of the world cup. Any connection between the two events is purely circumstantial. Possibly.

Arriving in Brisbane last Wednesday it was a tumultuous and tiring twelve hours, watching England creep through, Australia get dumped and the Prime Minister turn into a woman with very bright red hair and a distinctively grating voice. The new PM couldn’t quite make work go away, but she made sure I had some sun, a pretty decent hire car and a weekend to tag on at the end. Go Julia!

Like me, Julia had done a hard day’s work by time I had moved on down from Brisbane to the Gold Coast, where the – er – wintry weather made sure that Surfer’s Paradise was closer to paradise than it probably normally is. Though personally I don’t really equate paradise with high rises mingling with Maccas and Hog’s Breath cafe. But still, pretty nice place to take a stroll on the beach the next morning before an ‘interactive’ buffet breakfast and work.



Leaving paradise to the surfers, my favourite little hire car was again called to action as it whizzed back up to Brisbane, for Friday night drinks and food with old and new friends. There was something almost slightly London-esque about it... I think the drinks in a bustling city pub on a Friday after work reminded me a little of some good times in London town – as well as how lacking Canberra is when it comes to that kind of scene.

The next day, and Brisbane was certainly less than Friday night lively, but managed to conjure up a bit of hustle and bustle to counterbalance the chilled out riverside pacings of tourists and locals alike. I don’t know how to describe Brisbane. It’s a modern city with all the trappings. On face value I don’t love it but I don’t really dislike anything about it either. I can see the appeal of living there, especially in winter when you can still be comfortable in a T-shirt and, if you wanted, shorts. And there are Queenslanders everywhere – which can be both a good and a bad thing. Ambivalent seems to sum it up.



Anyway, whatever Brisbane is, it still provided an opportunity for a walkabout, accompanied just occasionally by the didgeridoo. Taking in three JB HiFis around the city streets, encountering fake beaches and real bridges and big wheels that almost every city in the world now seems to have. Pausing to sup at juice bars and stumbling across random protests and tricksy kids and Nepalese temples and hungry Ibis, striding less than purposefully in a general glaze of weariness. Glad at the end of it to be reacquainted with the car.








With feet aching it was time for the car to put some work in, as we left Brisbane in the evening and trundled along a big dipper of traffic lights towards the motorway and up to the Sunshine Coast. Last time I was here, a few Christmases ago, sunshine was about as rare as a Wayne Rooney goal for England, but thankfully this time the sun was as abundant as clinical German efficiency.

Sunday morning arrived early thanks to a chorus or irritating bird sqwawks, and it was not long into the day when Jason and I cruised on up to Noosa, the oh-so-schmick glamour capital of the Sunshine Coast. Get beyond the so shiny they are slippery pavements and the sense of self-congratulation and what you have is a rather nice seaside town in a fortuitous setting. Nice – but not exquisite – beaches. Lovely – but not dramatic – bushland. Clean – but not sparkling – rivers. Rolling – but not totally awesome dude – surf. Good, solid individual ingredients that, when toasted with warm sunshine, make for a rather fine spread – much like the pizza that I had for lunch!



As I rightly mentioned at the time, strolling along a wooden boardwalk returning from a small sandy cove fringed with palm trees and koala laden Eucalypts, “life is like a hundred times better in shorts and thongs”. Queensland: I love your winters.



Things did cool off as the weekend slowly dwindled towards the end, spits of rain now dotting the windscreen as the little Corolla made its way into the hinterland. A place generally so cosy and quiet and pretty unremarkable that you wouldn’t expect it to have yielded a world champion tennis player alongside the now former Prime Minister and his snivelly backstabbing Treasurer mate. There could be something in the water here, or perhaps the power of the Big Pineapple is enough to inspire future champions and leaders.



Bidding the day and the jagged lumps of the Glass House Mountains goodbye, the Corolla and I breezed one last breeze back to the airport. Shorts were gone, layers were back in fashion and Canberra was waiting, with its tempting combination of late night England screw ups and minus five degree nights and working for a living. Damn reality. Always doing its best to get in the way! The shorts are back in the wardrobe now, waiting for the next time they will get an airing. Perhaps I’ll have to go running to keep warm...

Catching up

If the trip to Europe was fast paced, things haven’t exactly slowed down in Australia... spare time at a premium as the usual numpties do their usual thing at this time of the year, the daylight short and limiting opportunities to come up for air, plus a little matter of football matches at 4:30 in the morning to increase the length of the day. The fact is I’m pining for England, more than I’ve pined for some time... I think it is the time of year here added to my time over there recently. Surely England right now would be pleasantly warm, the excitement of the World Cup abounding and shown at decent times of the day, the spirit of summer alive and well, and fewer general numpties (possibly). I keep looking back to my pictures of Devon and can almost taste that first bite into a cream laden scone.

What can I do about it? Well, it’s my choice to be here so I’ll quit bleating and try and make the most of things. Part of that is getting away, making the most of, okay, cool, but sunny days, something to look forward to other than endless days working for ‘the man’. Planning for future goals and opportunities which may or may not include running over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and a further 7 ½ kms in September. A seed that was planted in my mind in that very city over the last long weekend...

In recapturing the joys and thrills of living in Australia, a good place to start is Coogee and brunch at Globe. Follow this with a meander around various parts of South Head and Watsons Bay, with sunny clear look outs to playful whales in the ocean and views back across the dazzling harbour, and things do seem a lot lot better. It’s even, just occasionally, warm enough for T-shirt wearing, so midwinter isn’t all about morning frosts and cold feet.



Things of course cool off out on the water, but you can cope being on a ferry whizzing over the choppy swell and entering Circular Quay. Opera House to the left of me, Harbour Bridge to the right, here I am stuck in the middle with you. Well, not so much in the middle for long, more to the left for quite a while, having a non Pint when a Pint was wanted beer or two at the Opera Bar. That all sounds very glamorous, la di da the Opera Bar, but it’s really just another one of those easy-going, open and inclusive and oh yes pretty touristy type of outdoor waterfront drinking holes. A place you could easily and contentedly get stuck at for many hours.



Many many hours didn’t pass but the sun disappeared all too quickly. Perhaps when it is a little warmer. Back on the ferry, where now the city was aglow and afar and fish and chips were on the cards, though not at the famous fish and chip centre of Watsons Bay but in the car at Clovelly. Ah, fish and chips at Clovelly. Here come those Devon memories again. Thinking of England still, 4:35 in the morning the next day, and up one minute too late to see one of the few highlights of the Gentlemen of Englishshire versus the Soccerball Proponents of the Unity States of America. Cold hands at that time of the morning here. Not so much in South Africa though, huh, Mr Green?

Suddenly the football was over and things became different, Sydney becoming a launching pad for a little trip up the coast to Port Stephens. One of those many places that has a harbour ‘x times bigger than Sydney Harbour’, offering the quintessential Aussie mix of sweeping sandy beaches, numerous fishing inlets, endearing saddoes singing in parochial pubs, and the cultural highlight being Hogs Breath Cafe.

Sadly most of South East Australia was being bathed in sunshine, but this crinkly little peninsula seemed to be luring the clouds, occasional showers peppering the skyline but just about steering clear of the Tomaree Headland, a Rio-like mini lump of bushland rising from the bays and beaches to look majestically out over them.







If the sun was to make an appearance, a good time for it to emerge was towards the end of the day, offering opportunities for bracing walks in the glorious light, colouring the sands and skies at... oh, what a coincidence... Sunset Beach.





The sun would be back again the next day, but in between, there was time for a soothing beer and some dinner down on the shiny promenade of Nelsons Bay, home of squeaking boats and a very fine ice cream parlour (I can recommended the butterscotch). Oh, and time before sunrise for the bouncy Socceroos to be blitzed by the panzer regiments of an efficient and clinical German side who were clearly determined to reinforce every stereotype in the book (never write off the Germans).

Sunrise from the balcony of the All Seasons Salamander Shores was clearly the best part of the Salamander Shores, a place that was probably all the rage in the 1970s, brimming with moustachioed golfers in pastel sweaters and huge-permed ladies sipping an exotic pina colada. Nowadays, its faded glory passed, the sunrise is its literal shining light, viewed from its charmingly communal private balconies. The birds certainly like it, though I think the drawcard for them is more likely the people munching the complementary in room biscuits and leaving a trail of crumbly residue.



Colourful chicks, the socceroos getting a spanking, sunrises... could the morning get any better? Well, clearly, yes, and so it did when I was greeted like some sort of celebrity – or perhaps the better term is peculiarity – at buffet breakfast. Ah, Mr Staaaaaford. Er yeah, that’s me, now point me in the direction of the bacon swimming in its own fat and the perenially dreadful attempt at sausages.

Annoyingly a far nicer breakfast would have been ingested at Fingal Bay. The Magna knew it (it’s a bloody good car) when it stopped in a car park next to the smell of scrambled eggs and fresh coffee. Still, good Magna, there was room for a coffee to take along the beautiful sweep of sand, protection from the torrential rain that seemed set to ruin everything and somehow miraculously never materialised.

The northern sweep of the beach narrows into a short neck across to an island, but the tide was up and there was no way, in this weather, in this temperature, that I was even going to contemplate it. But not many people seemed to have ventured up this way and, despite the coastal development and seaside towns and villages and silly little sights and attractions like avocado farms and Hogs Breath Cafe, the world around at that moment seemed pure and untouched. Public servants a million miles away.



If this sand was virginal, the sand stretching out of sight from Anna Bay was more ‘Britney Spears’ virginal. Huge expanses of beach and dune have created a mammoth playground for boys and toys, big wheeled trucks and trains of camels. In these surrounds I was quite surprised not to uncover a shiny gold gay robot and a midget in a dustbin on wheels bickering as they inched along the mammoth dunes. Aunt Beru’s moisture farm (yet another one of those pesky attractions) could be just round the corner...

But no, it seems the best they could do was some mini concrete blocks crafted as hobbit pyramids, or hobbamids as they are known. Hobbits are well catered for in these holiday destinations you know (see Bellingen for instance).

And like Frodo Baggins burning his ring in a big vat of molten lava, it was almost the end of this little journey, heading back into the sunshine of what was a very pleasant looking day in Sydney. Grabbing a quick bird roll in Coogee via Berowra to set me on my way back homeward to the shire. Only the shire is a land of green hills, buxom, er, midgets, and flagons in The Green Dragon. Not too unlike Canberra, though I’m not so sure Hobbiton has a ridiculous army of bureaucrats looking to bend budgets and fix figures in what is quite possibly a scandalous spending spree on the taxpayer.

And speaking of a waste of money, I write this final chapter in a haze of tiredness following a 4:30am start to watch England do very little at all. Other than look like a bunch of muntweazels. The tiredness may explain my rather rambly ending and drifts off into science fiction fantasy, where a long time ago someone far far away made up a word called muntweazel and implanted it into my head for use at some random juncture. I think I have caught up, now I clearly ought to catch up on some sleep.

Tea and sympathy

As I write this I am going through that sentimental stage of jetlag infused fondness for times past and people afar, going through the whole questioning my existence and purpose and situation as I lie awake at four in the morning. It is much fun, but at least I can take solace that I have been through it several times before and I know, like the sleepless nights, things perk up and the sheer goldenness of Australia begins to filter through the haze. For now though, it’s getting through the day with tea and sympathy and the odd square of chocolate which returned the 12,000 miles with me (which for the record is: a UK Cadbury Dairy Milk and Caramel bar and two Double Deckers, a Lindt Almond Praline feast, a chocolate orange truffle bar from France, a Swiss milk chocolate and coffee bar, and another bar of degustation dark 74% chocolate kindly donated to the cause from France).

Another comfort is the fact that I have been fortunate enough to be able to go back to the UK and Europe quite a few times during my stint down under, and will be fortunate enough to do so again in the future. What makes these trips so special? Well, mainly the people of course, which I have to say as some of you are avid readers... but it is true. That’s why I try to pack in as many visits and catch ups as possible in such a short timeframe, no matter how brief. It leaves me tired, but a happy tired. Then there is that kind of familiarity and attachment I have in my genes and the comfort and joy which comes with this - some food types of course. Plymouth City Centre. The BBC. Plus I think the UK has some stunning beauty, diverse landscapes and urban spaces. And the weather is good (luck has mostly shone on me in that regard). If you don’t believe me read on...

Three Lions and no shirts

Where better to start than the capital, London? Well, many places probably (see Devon and Cornwall for instance) but this is where I started and it was a short but sweet visit. Having lived here for five years, there is once again that familiarity but also a sense of the exotic: you revisit the same things and old places but there is that little change here and there. Finchley and that cute looking tapas bar on the corner of Long Lane. Parliament, but with a new bunch of oiks in charge. The Evening Standard still littering the tube but now free of charge (and, finally, now worth every penny).

My 24 hours in London commenced with more familiarity, catching the Northern Line again to Finchley again for a dinner of paprika chicken again with Melita and Geoff again. I could eat that meal again and again. Next morning, it was Australia revisited, as the sun emerged and temperatures warmed for a trip into the city with Caroline, a friend of a friend who I first met in a distant backwater called Sydney, Australia. Perusing the rather fine produce at Borough Market was followed by a half pint of warm beer in some historic pub, reminding me how I miss both warm beer and proper boozers, plus drinking at 11:30 in the morning. Then there was a catch up with Sadia and Susie, ex work colleagues and current friends and fellow despairers of all things work...very cathartic. And then time for a rest in the star studded surrounds of Primrose Hill, where the temperatures topping twenty degrees brought out the bikinis.



The warmth continued into a balmy evening taking in some pasta and a beer outside Euston station, scene of Northerners escaping the heat by heading north, a pilgrimage which I gatecrashed. From the capital to the glamour capital – Blackpool – in a few hours. Here for more intensive catch ups and g’days and celebrations of two of my bestest friends who I lived with in that town down south called London. The sun sparkled, so did the happy couple and Blackpool won the play offs. If only Holloway had stayed at Argyle. Who says it is grim up north? Next time, I’ll stay longer.