Raining on the parade

Time to put a stop to all this continental nonsense and get back to Blighty, where, apart from a few ‘celebrities’ engaging in a spot of Cha Cha Cha, men are real men and women are usually binge drinking while watching X Factor Xtra X on ITV6+1. There are always mixed senses coming home, at first taking in things from a distance, dare I say, quite critically at times, but then falling back in love with some of the titbits and bigtits and wotsits of British life. I love, for instance, how the BA air hostess thanked me for showing my boarding card by telling me “that’s smashing”. I wish I remembered to use phrases like that more in Australia. Less lovely, but still very typical, was the very British farce at Heathrow Terminal 5, the terminal built to increase capacity, but one which seems devoid of spare aerobridges or any bridges whatsoever, leaving us on the tarmac with jolly irate Captain Roger Swingley-Buxombottom giving them a right old talking to.

I still have a sense of belonging here, it just takes a while to resurrect itself. Much like my passport, battered and bruised from seven years of junkets, which failed to scan and for a time got a little part of my head thinking ‘ uh-oh, cavity search’!! Like my bankcards, which on the first few goes, failed to give me any British Pounds Sterling. Like my oyster card, which required a top up, only to be made effectively null and void thanks to an absence of Piccadilly Line trains. But, as with the British battlers before me, I eventually made it and arrived in London Paddington Station for the umpteenth time, set to see how the capital was coping with financial meltdown, substandard coffee and a government of Etonian prefects led by a somewhat smug head boy.



Not much had changed with the weather. Greyness gave way to drizzle which gave way to a downpour which gave way to me buying a rather fetching umbrella emblazoned with ‘I Love London’. I hope to think the thousands of other people trudging around the capital saw the same sense of irony as me (they probably did, being British and all). Mercifully, the British boozer with warm ale was alive and well, prospering as things get more miserable than ever. With the rain teeming down and squelchy trainers, the best bet was to dive into any of the hundreds of proper pubs or other. In such times, a pint of warm ale is far superior to a frigid schooner of undistinguishable pissy liquid. Alas, offsetting this one cultural highlight was the continued bombardment of lame chains and their crappy coffees. An apparent innovation (a ‘flat white’ now available in some places) let down by the, er, taste and complexion... so pretty much everything you want in a coffee. Still, regardless of fluid highs or lows, it was nice to be inside, sharing them with old friends.

Not every one of those friends was as old as me however, as I struck another birthday on my second day in London. Like me, the day was bright and sunny and rather pleasant, spreading a warm glow over all around. I’m sure Caroline, who showed me around the sights of Hertfordshire, was dazzled by my radiance! It was, for a birthday, a rather nice day in fact, getting a dose of olde England at St Albans and Hertford. There was even a proper(ish) cream tea involved... proper cream but not much of it and a setting to die for, or more likely, die in.





From quintessential Englishness to North London Turkish, with a lurverly dinner with pals in the evening, despite the birthday candle and lights off dessert... one of those things which you hate at the time (“I don’t want the attention or fuss”) but secretly love (“gimme attention and fuss now, it’s my birthday!”).



Now feeling incredibly old, it was a battle to rise the next morning and get on the Northern Line once again for the cheery and breezy jaunt through the ground to Waterloo. It seems historically inappropriate that Waterloo station should include a Delice de France, but then I’m forgetting this is one of those chains likely emanating from somewhere such as Burnley rather than Bordeaux. Or Basingstoke, which was where I was off to next.

Down in Rainingstoke the weather was doing its best to confine activity to eating, napping, trips to Morrisons with Dad and avoidance of Strictly; alas there was a clear slot on the Saturday and perfect opportunity for southern England gorgeousness (minus zillions of roundabouts on the way).

Corfe is a lot like Corfu, in so much that it shares the first four letters. Other than that, it is a quaint, slightly twee Dorset village strategically situated in a gap in the rolling ridge of the Purbeck Hills. Here Land Rovers, tweed jackets and big green wellies concealing twin bore shooting sticks seem – unlike in most places – not out of place. In past times, buxom wenches would likely be serving you flagons of ale from the nearby castle, but today the castle is just a ruin (with no buxom wenches). I say just a ruin, but in comparison to other ruins, say, for instance, Peter Andre’s music career, it is up there with the best of them.

For a start, the setting is pretty much exquisite. Whoever built this castle knew a prime piece of real estate if ever they saw one: expansive views across the fields to subjugate the peasants and marauding invaders, protection atop a heavily banked hill (or in real estate parlance “superlative private setting ideal for flinging hot tar and dead animals at the French”), pub down the road (quite possibly with buxom wenches)...







Unlike some other ruins, much of the castle is still intact, meaning you don’t have to be the most imaginative genius to picture the scene a thousand years back. So this is the kitchen diner, here is the outhouse...oh look mummy, here’s the torture chamber. Splendidly, once you have paid the man in the tweed jacket and green wellies, you are quite welcome to wander around the ruins at your own pace, from room to room, crumbly old brick to crumbly old brick.



Leaving Corfe Castle, it’s not like you are exactly thrust straight back into 2010. Sure, there is some traffic around, people with iPods and news of more savage spending cuts, but the village of Corfe itself seems to hark back to the good old days, when the British were all stiff upper lipped, eating tripe and onions and catching steam trains to the big smoke. A land of hope, a land of glory, a land of Thomas the Tank Engine narrated by Ringo Starr before it got all high tech on us. Down at Corfe station, Dad, Sonia and I were like the wooden figures boarding the train to Swanage as Ringo told us in his Liverpudlian drawl of another busy Saturday down at the station where John and Paul were yet again getting all the attention the talented b*stards youse...



There were no dramatic incidents requiring the intervention of the fat controller on the journey to Swanage, itself a town harking back to glory days of seaside holidays, deckchairs and saucy postcards with Mr Whippy. However, there was an air of refinement about the place, a nice light and tranquil setting spilling down from the chalk hills along Poole Bay. A very British beach with a modest pier, arcade machines, and, oh yeah, fish and chips.

Fish and chips: the litmus test (or, on Purbeck, perhaps the isthmus test) of whether I am British or Australian... the contest you have all been waiting for... which fish and chips are better? Well, friends, Britain wins chips quite comprehensively, there’s no way a pile of salty fries can compete with chunky lard fuelled potato with malt vinegar and salt you add yourself. With the fish, it’s closer. Freshness and quality is generally good in Australia. Quantity better in Britain. And, since I am fast becoming a fat b*stard, Britain therefore wins. Hurrah, I am still British, and pledge my support to England in the forthcoming Ashes clashes!

And with that, via some very British rain on Sunday, I am once again patriotically leaving these shores for the continent.

C'est Cheese

A few months ago, around the time of the World Cup Final, I was staying up late cocooned in my sleeping bag on a couch in a cold Canberra house watching the northern summer whizz by in front of me, climbing its way up a mountain in a yellow jersey. From 12,000 miles away I could almost smell the cheese. For once, I was envious of the French. Like a superlative Aussie coffee it didn’t last too long, but it was enough to get me motivated to head back to the future and entangled with the past, Euro 2010 Part 2 was on.

That summer had well and truly faded come the end of September, a grey and rainy day looming as I woke in Annemasse for the start of le tour de fromage. The picturesque, verdant Jura Mountains were still picturesque and verdant, but slightly less fun in a raincoat. It was a day for sitting indoors and smoking a diamond encrusted pipe, which most of the residents of Saint Claude were seemingly doing, if the presence of France’s very own Big Things are anything to go by.





Following the route of the fitter tour up to Les Rousses, the fatter tour found a little highlight among the hammering rain, a rather excellent aged Comte, a local Tomme De Rousses and a little nibble of the nearby town of Morbier. Avec baguette, picnic in the car French style.

Sunday was more of a sun day, especially in the morning as that magical transition from France to Switzerland took place faster than a Roma being chucked out of the country. Cross the chocolate marked line guarded by a cuckoo clock and the sun appears brighter, the birds chirpier and the pocket knives more adaptable to various occasions. The little town of Hermance lacks the truly high Alpine scenery but is, in most other ways, Swiss chocolate box.





I think chocolate more than likely featured for Sunday lunch, certainly in the petites gateaux I sampled, bringing on the impending likelihood of an afternoon snooze. This was tempered, though not in the same way chocolate can be tempered, by a delightful jaunt out to the Vallee Verte and the green waters of Lac du Vallon. All of the Alpine flavours were here in one handy compact pocket of water...snow capped mountains, shady forests, the moos and dings of cows, a remote church and the acquisition of muddy shoes.





After more munching on bread and cheese to pass away the evening, the next day dawned again bright and promising, and, being on my own, I braved the foreigners and navigation of the transport system to make my way through Geneva and on to the pretty Swiss lakeside town of Nyon. The town is dominated by a gleaming white chateau, but beyond this a compact old town contains satisfying cliché after cliché of shuttered terraces, hanging baskets, water fountains, clock towers and Foux Du Fafa.









Down beside the lake, things were rather blissy with warming sunshine and peaceful waters accompanying the latest combination of crusty bread, cheese and a few healthy leaves. C’est la vie.



Now, are there any other Swiss clichés I am yet to mention? How about little red mountain trains, trundling their way alongside grassy meadows and flourishing broad leafed forests, peppering green leaves across the neutral wooden chalets of clinical bankers eating fondue with an army knife at 2:32:16 pm exactly? That was the train up to Saint-Cergue, perched someway above Lake Geneva on the Swiss side of the Jura range. Like most towns around this way, it seemed to close between 1 and 3pm, exactly the time when you fancy popping into the Boulanger Patisserie for one of those scrumptious looking goodies. Not that it was much more lively after 3pm, as I rejoined the little red train scattered with old people and headed back down the hill into the throbbing, pulsing heart of Nyon.

From here, a living, breathing, illustration of clockwork. Across to platform 1 and straight onto a train to Geneva. Exit Cornavin station and hop immediately aboard Tram 16 to Amondelier. Walk down to Eaux Vives, with a little bit of running (okay, we’re heading into French territory now remember) and aboard the train to Annemasse. More good luck than clockwork in what can be an annoyingly truncated journey. I even had time and skill to direct someone to Eaux Vives station, thanks to some dodgy pronunciation and memories of Monsieur Simpson and Toutes Directions, the French textbook littered with references to Gerard Depardieu and Johnny Hallyday. With my odour of cheese and persistently annoying neutrality, I was almost a local.

And of course, feeling now local it was now almost time to move on, the final day in France taking me across to Switzerland once again for further walks in the countryside. Weather-wise this was the best day of the stay, the afternoon comfortable for T-shirts and the sunglasses I bought at Sydney airport put to good use. The mountains were still cloudy, but they were around, popping out for a few glimpses as the daylight shifted around to the west. The birds were still chirping, the grapes bulging, the Swiss somewhat smugly revelling in their opulence (just where do they get all their money from?!) and no doubt sticking two absolutely minted fingers up to France just down the road.







Rather scandalously, I forgot to take my passport into Switzerland, and could have been stranded at border control re-entering France. However, it seems the muddy track and set of bushes signifying the border were unmanned today. Border security on strike? Receiving an early pension? Deported for looking a bit unFrench or taller than Monsieur President? C’est possible. Anyway, I was safe and able to salute a few bits of the French Alps for one last time before heading back to Annemasse.



With the sunshine persisting there was time left to regard le conversation de la parc, Guillaume climbing, sliding, waving at planes and trains and buses, providing pistachio shell presents to grateful uncles. Me, slightly envious of being a bit too old to slide away and climb and run round in random circles.



Et voila, France and, more so this time, Switzerland. A little degustation. Unlike the immense last supper of tartiflette de Neil. Jeez it’s good, as the little French man in Fyshwick markets would say, “if you want Reblochon, you really want Reblochon”. Arteries clogged, time to head over to the land of clotted cream, lardy cakes, pork pies and bacon butties. Welcome home.

Running out of time

It’s sobering to think that in one small block of raclette, all the hard work and exercise I have done over the last week will be obliterated. It’s almost enough to tempt me to pack my trainers. Have I got the running bug? Well, frankly, no, but there were just a few moments on Sunday just gone, as I shuffled along the streets of the Emerald City, where I felt as high as a kite (probably oxygen deprivation but what the heck, it felt good!)

Saturday was warm up day, warmed up by an early morning drive to Sydney, arriving for a healthy brunch of, er, healthy sourdough topped with muscle making spinach and prosciutto and asparagus and poached eggs and hollandaise sauce. Followed by a healthy walk with much healthier people along the coastline from Coogee to Bronte. Healthy sized waves whipped up by a swell, making it a swell time for cliff huggers and intrepid surfers. Warm and sunny and not unlike summer, is there really anywhere better than Sydney on such a day?





The warm up warmed up further in the evening, as I made it under that famous old glitzy harbour and popped out in the north shore for carb-loading dinner and one or two carb-loaded beers with dear friends. Inspirational bedtime stories sending me off to the land of Olympian dreams.

The next morning, Sunday, and reality hit as I clamped safety pins and C52157 to my top. Slightly nervous, hydrated but dry mouthed, energy preserved thanks to a kindly drop off beside the harbour bridge. A melee of lycra and hats and ipod leads assembled for what seemed like ages, tucked towards the back of 20,000 people and finally, at about 9:40 on a warming spring day, movement.



Mercifully it wasn’t long until the movement had moved itself onto the old coat hanger itself. Striding along in lane 3, looking up at the flags perched high atop, a sudden re-acquaintance with a tingling feeling I felt some 10 years before on catching my first glimpse of this very bridge. Down (oh joy, down) the Cahill Expressway, running alongside Circular Quay, the joy tempered by the turn onto the gentle but long climb of Macquarie Street. Time for a walk and some fluorescent blue liquid. The slowest kilometre of them all.

But then, the comeback kid strikes again! A prolonged stretch along to the sublimely gorgeous Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, but no sitting down here; merely a pit stop to rid myself of that blue juice. A sense of the end now not far, propelling my legs ever quicker, the reserve in the bank being cashed, the people now lining the streets and, turning the corner, the Opera House welcoming me to the finish line. No matter how much you may dislike running, just try keeping a huge grin off your face and a tingle out of your spine.

Somewhat infuriatingly but also rather quite miraculously, a time of 60 minutes and 7 seconds went against my name. Clearly that training and preparation had worked pretty well. I’m not sure if it was the hollandaise sauce or the beers or perhaps the inspirational story of the Gingerbread Man, but I was pretty chuffed with that. A worthy celebration of beers and sandwiches and chilled out Eastern suburb happiness followed and I really started to sense the commencement of holiday heaven. Just a few blips to go over, a few bumps in the road, and we’ll be on the final straight.