Drawing back the curtains

Well, thankfully Australia now has a government and what a relief as people were just walking around like zombies not knowing what to do with themselves. The public servants especially were milling around without direction or purpose, though quite amazingly there seems to have been no change evident there. More monumental was the shift in paradigm from Winter to Spring and – finally – the riddance, I hope, of my horrible little cold. So much so, that I felt able – if not willing – to exercise again, clocking up a few metres in preparation for the 9,000 next week. I should be running again this afternoon, but instead find myself writing this blog, putting it off for as long as possible.



With less than two weeks to go until I visit Europe again, part of me is a bit sad to miss out on the warming of the weather, the greening of the trees and the transition to shorts. However, the thought of leaving for a while, scoffing my face on cheese and cream teas and pork pie and lasagne and roast dinner etc etc etc, and then returning straight into shorts and BBQ-land is somewhat appealing. Much more somewhat appealing than running.

So, with my last real free day until the trip, apart from trying to squeeze in a few kilometres of mind-numbing bone-jarring movement, I happily spent a couple of hours down among the blooms of Floriade, Canberra’s very own celebration of spring. So here’s just a few pictures captured in glorious technicolour for you to dwell on. Next week, something less pleasant and serene and beautiful.

Inner City Pressure

As I write this it has been a whole two weeks where Australia has been without a government yet somehow quite amazingly things have functioned and worked and actually been okay. Who would have thought, huh? Personally, life would have been somewhat enlivened by complete anarchy and tribal warfare breaking out between The No Boat Banana Republic and The Smugly Progressive Latte States of Australia. Alas, all we have is a man in a big hat, a few dodgy sums and the odd barrel of pork to work things out.

Back in the real world, dare I say, Spring has been springing, the wattle bursting from the seams, the blossom erupting just over the last week and a jolly Canberra high of 19 degrees causing celebration in the byways of Bruce. As we inch out of winter, it is cruelly letting go with one last shebang, dispersing snotty noses and sore throats across the capital and into my own letterbox. It is widely appreciated that males are severely more prone to this affliction, causing regular moans, cursed mutterings and bitter resentment.

I shouldn’t blame Canberra on this most debilitating of illnesses though. The real culprit is the woman in the GPS in the hire car in Melbourne who clearly didn’t like it when I ignored her pleas to do a u-turn, hacking out a few coughs in between her orders to stop me in my tracks. Yes, Melbourne, capital of the Smugly Progressive Latte States of Australia, so a place I naturally fit in. Though this time I kind of found it annoying. Partly that was to do with driving around the arse end of places. With an annoying GPS woman barking out orders at me. I also missed out on the substantial doses of coffee and cake I was hoping for. Blame it on the Government. Oh, what Government?

Sunday afternoon in Melbourne gave me a pre-work opportunity to enjoy the city as much as I could in my old man grumpy pants mood. I headed to Brighton, predictably a bayside suburb with beach huts but, unlike it’s rather camp English counterpart, possessing something approaching sand. Promenade walking was the order of the day, quite substantial in length in the end, and deserving of a burger in the milk bar on the way back. I like milk bars. They seem very Melbourne. Halfway between a greasy spoon and a grocery store. Selling random assortments of food and, yes, I would hazard a guess, milk. To me they encapsulate the spirit and flavour of fried potato scallops with a good sprinkling of salt.





Driving back into the city was fun as I attempted to navigate my way to a car park so that I could have the privilege of paying extortionate fees for leaving the car there overnight. I think possibly the parking fees were more expensive than the little car, bless it. By now fading and ready for a late afternoon nap, the only way out of this was to hunt out a prime spot for a macchiato and perhaps a little sweet treat. I found it and also found a rather fine sweet treat which I must look out for again, if I can remember its name.

Fuelled up, I decided to go all monochrome in that way you sometimes do in an attempt to be all urban cool like.







In black and white or colour, it was nice to amble for a while without GPS girl as the city turned dark. Down by the Yarra, a montage of photographers appeared to be congregating; there was hardly room to move for tripods. For my part I took very few tripod-less photos, though was given an overwhelmingly excited reaction after agreeing to take a picture for some Asian tourists. Anyone would have thought they had been turned down by hundreds of passers-by already before I relented. Still, it was very cute.

Monday morning dawned in colour though black and white seemed to be more in keeping with the labours of the day. Quite randomly I found myself following in the footsteps of the current, for now, maybe for not much longer, Prime Minister. With half hour to spare in her electorate of Altona I dined at a cafe where Julia and partner had a coffee the day after the election revealed Australia was unsure about redheads. And then strolled along that pier where no doubt Julia muttered a few quiet drawling swear words to Tim. Thank goodness, there was no Leader of the Opposition swanning around on the beach in his togs, spotting pesky terrorist filled boats. That would have made me even more ill!

Standing Up and Moving Forward for some Real Action

Like all the politicians crawling around the country generally being tools, I ventured out of Canberra and spent most of the weekend in the marginal seat of Eden Monaro. It’s the bellweather seat, currently held by Mr Mike Kelly, year round Movember lover and kind of scary looking. It is a fine constituency to look over, encompassing the whites of the Snowy Mountains, the browns of the high farming country, the greens of the coastal valleys and the sapphires of the seas. From the brown of inimitable Nimmatabel the white crust of the Snowies was visible afar but I was heading in the other, much warmer, direction down a thousand metres to the greens and blues of the Sapphire Coast.



After what was a somewhat drawn out process, the car finally decided to come to a halt far south beyond Eden in Ben Boyd National Park. This place is named after some dude called – you guessed it – Ben Boyd, who I think had a bit of money lying around and probably exploited the local population, building a big tower, naming a few landmarks after himself... the usual things bored wealthy philanthropists tend to indulge in. I would have been able to provide a more accurate synopsis if I had bothered to read the information signs, but I didn’t, so far better to be kind of vague and make it up (a talent which has got me this far).

So, bidding Ben’s crazy golf castle goodbye I went off into his national park, broadly following the coast path which extends some thirty odd kilometres towards the Victorian border. With initial vigour it wasn’t too long until I reached the first small bay, a distinctive cluster of red rocks characteristic of this area providing a place to take five and eat my takeaway ham roll purchased earlier at the inimitable Nimmatabel bakery. Not really your classic Aussie beach, the rocks formed by some volcanic glacial subterranean activity or something probably (again, I didn’t read those signs). And also no budgie smuggling in sight. Just me, my inimitable ham roll, and my lovely camera.



Now, after such a pleasant time I was keen for some more, so continued further and further on down this coast path, all the time only catching occasional glimpses of coast as it bashed its way through stunted scrub, swampy heath and patches of taller forest. I was determined to make it to a nice sandy beach and trust me to find the only part of coastline in Australia seemingly devoid of sandy beaches. Eventually I did find one, so far off the beaten track that the only footprints in the sand belonged to me and Skippy.

In truth, it wasn’t a great beach, but I had persevered and now all that was left was a tramp back the way I came, hoping to make it back to the car before the daylight disappeared. Now, my mind was becoming all Bear Grylls like, partly to fill the boredom of the return trip by figuring what I would do if I got lost or stranded. The solution appeared to be rationing of the muesli bar, and nibbling small pieces for as long as possible. Rather marvellously, this got me back to the car with some daylight to spare. And the car started, so no eating the leather of my pants to survive.





It turns out that the daylight did, as it does every day, disappear, but by this time I was just about in Eden, overlooking Twofold Bay as it said its rather impressive farewell.



While gazing out upon the fading horizon I established that I had walked around 16 kilometres or so today. This kind of worried me in that I’m supposed to be running nine kilometres in a month or so. On the other hand it also appeased any feeling of guilt from indulging in fish and chips back in Merimbula that evening.

If Saturday was a high wire adventure in the wilderness, Sunday was a much more civilised and relaxing affair. It commenced in splendid sunshine which only got more splendid as the day wore on. All of a sudden T-shirts and air con was back, albeit temporarily. After a morning stroll about the river mouth, things were perfectly aligned for bacon and eggs beside the water, sun beating down, shades on, sleeves rolled up. This is the much warmer Australia that I prefer to know and love.

In order to keep the serotonin merrily whizzing around my soul, I decided to pop down the road to one of my favourite little hideaways in Australia, Pambula Beach and the luscious bush-backed white sandy sapphire waters of the Pambula River. Just me and the occasional dog walker or fisherman or dog walking fisherman for company. Almost perfect... the only regret being why I didn’t bring any shorts with me, as I sense it would have been very tolerable to bare the knees for the first time in several months.



While a sizeable drive back to Canberra was on the horizon, the natural fix propelled me on regardless, fed by a few sups of Powerade and nibbles of caramel slice as I breezed through the Bega Valley and back up on high ground, merging at Cooma with the stressed out snow bunnies heading back to Sydney. Playing spot the police car lurking in bushes trying to nab speeding snow bunnies, watching police cars nab speeding snow bunnies and watching snow bunnies all aggressive and angry with each other on the fun times of the Monaro Highway made the drive all the more fun.

There was also the delight of pictures of Mike Kelly posted on trees, looking not unlike something placed intentionally for shootin’ practice for the local hicks. And, for political balance, a few signs of his rival, old Gazza Gazard, proclaiming to stop the boats, by which he must mean the streams of illegal immigrants flooding Lake Jindabyne. He may be in control of the place by this time next week, standing up for some real action. In which case Eden Monaro could become a place only for real Australians. So I’m glad I was able to experience it, really really glad. And I’ll definitely be smuggling myself across the border again in future.

Ballarsplat

The last few weeks have seen me accumulating some valuable frequent flyer points and testing out a series of hire cars, all leading me to the Victorian town of Ballarat. You’re expecting me now to go on and talk about Ballarat, with a few photos and smart arsed remarks. Well, yes, I will get to that but let me tell you first about the three hire cars. The Holden was disappointing, just so bound to Australian hoonage that most of its features were destined to be mostly useless. The Ford was marginally better, though for some reason the indicator switch was on the wrong side of the steering wheel. It also had an engine which sounded – but yet wasn’t – like a diesel transit van circa 1982, and the suspension comfort of a ride down the raging Colorado River. The winner are the Japanese again, with the Toyota Camry that was a pleasure to drive and, with it, Thrifty win the golden handbrake over Hertz and Budget.

Now, the Ballarat part, and where better to start than leaving Ballarat. I know every kink in the road between Ballarat and Melbourne airport, so last week I decided to vary it up and head back in the Camry in a higgledy-piggledy route, taking in random bush towns, fine country fare, hanging rocks and airport clad suburban drivel. The first stop, Trentham provided a small taster of a typical small town surrounded by the bush, one of those places you would not want to be when a hot northerly blows in. Today was nothing of the sort though, and the wintry murk and moisture helped to surprise me at some nearby falls, which were far more impressive than I had anticipated.



I was now heading into ‘Spa Country’ which basically means there are a lot of hot springs around and, with it, country lodges and mind, body and soul retreats. Thankfully it also means good food, and the town of Daylesford is becoming renowned for fresh local produce and a hotspot for failed Masterchef contestants to ply their trade. Daylesford certainly had an air of refinement about it, and was one of the few places where the sun was hanging out, providing some Springtime warmth in the air. After a walk about the streets and gardens, the dilemma was where to eat...I had high expectations of Daylesford and didn’t want my only meal there to be a let down. A menu with pork sausages – a relative rarity in Australia – was the clear winner and, though I’ve had better (thinking summertime English BBQ earlier this year), it was a very nice lunch stop to send me on my way.

From here things were pretty unremarkable, as the cloud regathered and I reached the Macedon Ranges, just to the north of Melbourne. A supposed highlight is Hanging Rock, a cluster of rocks hanging around and made famous by a painting and then a film, thus justifying an entry fee of $10. You can walk round the rocks and up to the top, which I did, to view the uninspiring murk shrouding the hills I was about to drive on through.

It would have been a nice drive, without doubt a Sunday day trip, taking a bit of a walk through the forest, checking out the antique shoppes and being appalled at the use of the term Devonshire Tea to signify some fluffy fake cream out of a can. But I was well and truly over it by then, the greyness of the skies permeating into the Camry and making me want to be back in Canberra (yes, Canberra!). The steep descent down the hill marked the descent into outer suburban blandness, through countless school zones at school turfing out time, correlating with an increasing frequency of McDonalds signs. The planes getting lower are a welcome indication that the end is near and that dreamy vision of – yes – Canberra is all the closer.

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So back again to Ballarat. I felt much more local on my third visit. I knew that Power FM was the only station to play contemporary popular music that you could find on the radio. I knew that I had to take the second roundabout at Sebastapol, and on that roundabout, I knew that the Ballarat Bakery had a rather fine Peppermint Slice. I knew that the sun never shines in winter. And that the lake is not so much a lake, but more a reedy swamp. An inspiring place to attempt to run early on a Friday morning.



By my last day in Ballarat I knew what it was about, and with familiarity comes a certain fondness. Only a little mind you. Like the way you can be fond of fondant fancies but wouldn’t want to eat them all the time because you’d become bloated and sick. Being my last day, I wanted to go out with a bang, and was pleased to finally have the opportunity to visit Ballarat’s premier attraction, Sovereign Hill. This is a recreation of Ballarat during the Gold Rush, complete with muddy streets and people acting a bit strangely in costume and character. The sun was even out in the 1850s, so they managed to recreate the feeling of brightness and warmth it gives by cleverly making it appear.

I think I was quite possibly the only person who was not part of a school party or Chinese tour group. Obviously Ballarat in the 1850s was a prime location for school trips and Chinese tour stagecoaches. It was also popular with Cornish miners, who, according to the re-creations on show, spoke with severely impaired accents and reinvented the Cornish Pasty into a mushy blend of mincey veg covered in puff pastry. I am pleased to say though that the Cornish did come across the ‘Welcome Nugget’, the second biggest lump of gold ever found. When discovered there were cries of alright me loverrr heard for miles around.

I kind of liked my time at Sovereign Hill.... for all its twee theme park trappings, it seemed to provide some escapism, from work, from the year 2010, from the most boring and uninspiring election campaign ever known to humankind. And they’ve put in a lot of effort with this place, the scale and size, and dedication of those peculiar people hanging around dressed up and pretending to be a doctor from the 1850s. And you can’t knock a bit of effort (for that would be unaustralian and get me deported by whichever government moves forward backwards). I feel $41 is a bit much, especially when they are literally sitting on a gold mine, but hopefully a lot of that will go back into the local community of Ballarat 2010, and the people there with a heart of gold.