Before I commence a familiar tale involving a spot of bushwalking, beach action, breakfast and betting I just wanted to acknowledge a momentous occasion following a new arrival on the world stage. Offering hope, inspiration and nappy changes you can believe in, bienvenue
Guillaume Alban Stafford (well I presume Stafford but then things are different in French), my brand new nephew and future recipient of world’s worst Aussie souvenirs. Congratulations to all involved.
There have been other arrivals this week, not least the first black hairs above my lip, and before you go any further I urge you to check out a
far superior blog where you can sponsor me and help improve men’s health around the world.
Now, where was I? Well, cultivating stubbliness up in the Blue Mountains and Sydney, that’s where. It was a long long weekend courtesy of Melbourne Cup Day or, more technically correct, Community and Family Day on Tuesday, so I took advantage to complete a double whammy of bush and beach. Being all adventurous and that, the plan was to trek down into the valley and camp overnight before returning
the next day but a few things put paid to that including a landslide, crappy Australian weather and a desire for a warm,
wog* welcome in western Sydney.
Still, Jason and I (for I was hearing the same old stories from Jason yet again as he is cramming in the sights before moving to Perth), managed to avoid the worst of the weather and walked down into the Grand Canyon… which typifies Australian overstatement in being less grand and canyon-ish and more meandering and gorge-y. Like most Australian things though it was still rather wonderful, all that rocky lushness, yabbie creeks and a captivating untamed beauty packaged in a five kilometre ribbon of slippery steps and overlooks.
With the weather closing in, the decision was made to leave the mountains and head back down to sea level A last stop at Echo Point, more to soak in the ironic rather than iconic views, preceded a gradual descent to the Merrylands of western Sydney, a world away from the wilderness and almost as far from the glamour of inner Sydney, but home to a good wog welcome, a hot shower, a warm bed and an even warmer bean soup.
So back in Sydney, the weather was less drizzly but still a bit dreary on Sunday as we tackled the vagaries of public transport and made it into the city and on to Manly. As ferry rides to Manly go, sure, it could have been a bit warmer and sunnier, but there is still something terribly relaxing about the whole affair and we toyed with the rather appealing idea of this being your daily commute.
I was, of course, looking very manly in Manly, what with the hairy growth on my face increasing by the minute. Fish and chips were walked off (partially) by a walk around to the lovely cove of Shelley beach (so named because it is made up of shells, duh) before cruising on back to Circular Quay.
The next day found me again beside the seaside and a much more Bondi Rescue-esque day down in Coogee, where I was working from ‘home’, or at my mate Jill’s place (which is just at the top of that road in the picture). This was the rather appealing version of working from home, where I did what I needed to get done, popped out to get a coffee and sat on the beach in the warm sun with considerably more beautiful people than me. Hmm, Manly or Coogee? I don’t know. What I do know is I always seem to eat well in Coogee, with fantastic afternoon cake and coffee filling the gap until spare ribs for dinner.
And so it came to Tuesday, Melbourne Cup Day, the day the country stops for a few horses galloping along a patch of grass for three minutes and gets trashed. A day when you can eat a sumptuous breakfast, read the form guide and place a $12 combination bet on some horses just because you like the sound of their names. I picked out Nom De Jeu (French links), Bauer (as in Jack Bauer) and Mad Rush (last minute rush, didn’t know who else to pick). To take my mind off this high stakes world, Jill and I walked from Coogee down to the next beach along the coast, Maroubra.
The beach here was windswept and sparse and really quite impressive, a much more raw, unrefined temple of surfcraft in comparison to the rest of the Eastern suburbs.
The sea air was not only encouraging advanced mo growth, it was also pretty tiring stuff and the rest of the day was spent lazing around, having a doze and generally waiting for the big race. Frankly, I had no idea what was going on and it wasn’t until about five minutes after the finish that I found out one of my donkeys, Bauer, had come second, literally beaten by the length of my mo. My partial success (OK, so overall I made a loss), was a fine way to end a fine few days, and off we rode into the sunset, through the Campbelltown traffic and back to Canberra seven bucks richer… kind of. It’s loose change you can believe in.
* I am not a racist. This term is used colloquially, mostly by wogs, in Australia to generally describe someone of continental European descent. Wog boys are like fully sick and love to hoon it up.
Being indoors, grumbling about the weather typically means I end up eating lots of nice food as consolation, including my delicious tiramisu. By Sunday afternoon though I was keen to walk it off, even just a little bit, so headed to the north side of town and a slightly soggy Goorooyaroo just for the silly sounding name which means “Go roo, you are a roo” (hmm, perhaps).
