Thursday 18th April: a theatrical experience
I awoke to a washing and shopping morning, steering clear of any controversial domestic cleaning. Enjoyed a wander around Sydney where I behaved like a small child thumping the pedestrian buttons on the traffic lights. The sound they make to alert visually impaired people that it’s safe to cross, is just… well… so Sydney and I can’t reproduce it on paper. And of course, I only thumped the buttons when I actually wanted to cross the roads…
Met Matt in Darling Harbour in the afternoon and then joined Alice and their friend John for a drink prior to a Kung Fu night with the Shaolin Monks, at the Gothic, Italian, Art Deco confection that is the listed State Theatre. Its designer had obviously seen Orsanmichele in Florence as an exact replica of Donatello’s St George stands to attention in the entrance to the foyer. Just a thought, the theatre stands on Market Street close to its intersection with George Street… could that have anything to do with the choice of saint?
Excellent evening of sweaty exploits in sumptuous surroundings, signed off with a pizza supper and then bed. I’ve loved my travels, but I feel so at home in Sydney.
Friday 19th April: the Blue Mountains
The day began with another tasty egg-fest breakfast this time not beside the sea, but in a tiny café next to Paddington, one of the more colourful areas of Sydney. In a hired car, we then drove out of town to the Blue Mountains. Not sure what I was expecting, or why I felt so over-awed, but the mountain range is magnificent. At our first stopping spot, a densely tree-clad vista stretched ahead for miles and miles whilst to one side there stood the famous kilometre high (above sea level) peaks, known as the Three Sisters. So closely packed do the trees appear, that it seems impossible for hikers to follow the trails and squeeze a way through. The distant blue wash hanging in the air comes from the haze created by the eucalyptus oil which rises from the trees turning the air blue… in a good way.
Next we parked at Katoomba and walked along a tiny track with red tailed black cockatoos, bush turkeys and assorted other birds for company. Dog-trotted past streams, waterfalls, ferns, mosses, ironwood trees and gums galore; Matt and Alice can yomp at quite a pace. Not wishing to let my son down, uncomplainingly I also yomped along, bringing up the rear, getting red of face and short of wind, pretending that I ‘up hill and down dale’ on a daily basis. My diet was obviously not helping my stamina. I learnt that touching the wood of an ironwood tree is reputed to make you barren; happily three daughters later this old wives tale was disproved by Alice.
Having descended into the Jamison Valley via a series of steep steps, we thankfully phew ascended swiftly courtesy of a ‘scenic rider’ which whooshed us up to the top, in no time at all. You feel as if you’re sitting in a rusty bucket as you’re hauled aloft over a distance of over 300 metres with an incline of 52 degrees; an incline which seemingly translates into the perpendicular. Sadly everything changes and I think that since 2013 the exhilarating ‘rider’ has become more sophisticated without a hint of the characterful rust anywhere. Progress! After that little adrenalin buzz, we made our way back to the car via another spectacular uppy, downy walking route – and I certainly felt the result of all this exercise the next morning! My calf muscles were bleating pitifully.
It was a 100km drive back to Sydney, giving us enough time for a quick wash and brush-up then off to have dinner with John (our theatre-going companion). For his assembled guests, he created a Jamie Oliver inspired meal with plenty of booze. I have a hazy recollection of excellent food, excellent company and finding my bed just a little before daybreak.
Thought for the day: everyone is so welcoming. Sydney is renowned as being a ‘young persons’ city, but in reality the Sydney-siders don’t seem at all age conscious. Here I was having the most wonderful time and realising that I could never say to Matt, “Come Home”. This was home. I have no regrets about smashing the cross-eyed apprehensive piggy bank to investigate his new surroundings: mission accomplished!
Saturday 20th April: from Blue to Snowy Mountains
Matt and Alice spent the morning flat-hunting and found an ideal place in Birchgrove with an impressive view of Sydney and the harbour. I stayed at the house and pottered prior to our trip to the Snowy Mountains. Having struck lucky and found a flat, there followed a fair amount of scrabbling around to get the paperwork sorted out before putting in their offer. The idea was to deliver the necessary bits and pieces before setting off on our journey. By happy coincidence, the flat was above the estate agent’s office, so having pushed the papers under the door of the (by now) closed office, we sat and admired the external elevation of the flat, which was accessed via a very twisty spiral staircase.
Alice hadn’t seen inside the flat as it was the last viewing of the morning and despondency had set in but she bravely trusted Matt’s judgement and was in favour of applying. As good luck would have it, the current tenant appeared and then proceeded to give them both a guided tour. Matt was surprised that he had misremembered some of the layout and Alice wasn’t overawed by the high ceilings. However, when compared to the competition viewed previously, it received a resounding thumbs-up. So with all done that could be done our attention was drawn to assorted hunger pangs, which were finally sated by plates of baked beans and Marmite. Vegemite has failed to usurp its English counterpart on my family’s palate, which means that each and every time I arrive in Australia I have to stand in line to declare my numerous pots of salty black condiment to a bored-looking customs official.
And then – finally – we were off, heading southwest and into heavy rain. A dramatic five-hour journey ensued with a tiny bit of white-knuckle (mine) aquaplaning. A petrol stop at Goulburn allowed me to add another big ‘thing’ to my Larry the Lobster list. This time it was the Big Merino aka Rambo – wish I had been able to take a photo but at least he (along with all the other whacky big art) appears on several internet sites.
At last we reached Thredbo and what a fabulous spot… even in the pouring rain and pitch dark I knew this was somewhere special. We stayed in a delightful cabin beside the Thredbo River, where my bed was up a steep ladder in the loft whilst my hosts had a pretty double room downstairs. I loved my lofty space from where I could peer over the balcony down into the living area and retrieve mugs of tea or coffee which appeared from time to time at the top of my ladder. It was all so very, very lovely. Alice was determined to cook on our arrival so as soon as she had extricated herself from the car was to be heard biffing and banging away in the kitchen. In less than twenty minutes we were tucking into hot pasta bathed in tuna and tomato sauce – my contribution was to tidy the kitchen afterwards. Just as well I was doing something, as my carb intake was still on the up – you’ll note muffins have given way to pasta…
Climbing back up my ladder to sleep, I was suddenly transported back to childhood when I had read the Heidi books written by Johanna Spyri. I had yearned to live in a wooden hut on the mountain, listening to cow bells gently announcing the whereabouts of their wearers, rather than in suburban Wandsworth listening to the thrum of passing cars. With the predictable unpredictability of my brain digging up something I would have thought long forgotten, I drifted off to sleep dreaming of goats’ cheese, flower-strewn green grass, cow bells and alpine vistas.
Sunday 21st April: on top of the world
Unsurprisingly, I slept soundly in my elevated dream-inducing bed and awoke to be greeted by a grey and cloudy day which could not mar the glorious view of the stream running below our verandah and upon which waddled two plump ducks. Fortified by raisin toast for breakfast we set off for mount Kosciuszko with rations of Kojak lollies and bananas as substitutes for Kendal mint cake.
A chair lift takes you to a point at the beginning of a twelve kilometre walk to the mountain’s summit. This is the area over which Matt and Alice ski in the winter, so it’s always fun to know how many boulders and bumps you are skiing over. The weather was still far from i
deal as cloud and mist were rolling around obscuring the view and a biting wind was blowing. Undeterred, we strode out along a metal walkway, strategically placed to prevent further erosion, with lollies firmly gripped between teeth which otherwise would have started their own chilly chattering. I was very pleased with my New Zealand decision to invest in a pair of thick trousers as they worked well at keeping the lower part of me warm, and they weren’t too long. Warmth to the top half was provided by an extremely attractive beige waterproof jacket bought especially for New Zealand but which, for some reason, had remained unworn. It’s the sort of garment that comes into its own in inclement weather, but if the weather stays fine, you end up wondering why you both bought and brought it.
So, yes it was cold and blowy but the conditions created a magical, mystical experience. Clouds scurried and whirled across the sky, parting every once in a while to reveal tantalising distant glimpses of the Snowy Mountains – a bit Philip Pullman and his Dark Materials trilogy… you really did feel there was another world behind that slit in the clouds. At some point the walkway vanished and we were meandering by babbling brooks, small ponds, lichens and mosses all of which had created their own small worlds within this dramatic, boulder-strewn lunar landscape. But it was very, very windy especially so when crossing gullies down which the wind whistled so hard that it invited you to stop and play… arms outstretched, legs splayed seeing if the wind would tip you from your feet and send you airborne over the scraggy terrain. It didn’t, but it seemed only a puff away from success.
Onwards and upwards we climbed until the summit was reached where, Alice, glancing skywards proclaimed, in the words of her granny, that there was “enough blue to make a pair of pants for a sailor”. Only for those tailors swift enough with the cutting shears as the blue kept rapidly disappearing and reappearing until it finally vanished for good. Still, the blowy sense of achievement at having reached our destination was rewarded with an ice-cold solid banana. Alice is a whizz at producing some necessary and appreciated nourishment just at the right sugar-ebbing moment.
Having arrived at the top and grinned, or blue-faced grimaced, through the necessary moment-capturing photo-shoot, down we headed to the point where the wind whistles with maximum gusto from all directions and there, also hanging on for dear life, were two handily placed portaloos: how civilised! If someone had taken the trouble to cart them up there, the least I could do was to utilise the facilities. Soap, mirror and all mod cons plus a feeling that I had stepped into Dr Who’s Tardis…with the wind howling under the door and gently rocking the bright blue cabin perhaps a bit of time-travel was imminent? I’m not sure that I’ve ever stumbled across strategically placed portaloos during country-side rambles in England, or if I have, I’ve never had the nerve to use them. Here it just seems natural to find them ‘out of the blue’.
Continuing the descent, we reached the top of the chairlift and faced decision time – to take the easy (if wobbly) aerial route or the energetic land-hike down to the valley? No decision really. The downward trek, unlike the ascent, followed a vague path which wove backwards and forwards under the chairlift. “Did you fall off?” a pair of dangling boots seemed to ask.
Slithering southwards, I was convinced I was about to slip in an unladylike fashion on the long wet grass, which had now replaced the boulders. Deciding to save face (or bottom), I adopted a weird crab-like motion and successfully, if not attractively, mastered the descent in a reasonably independent fashion. There was only one “help me” moment when my feet argued about which way to go, so I ended up with one foot pointing at three o’clock and its partner at nine o’clock whilst my body tipped forward in a favoured noon position. A helping hand sorted me out. All this drama did not detract our attention from the intoxicating whiffs which assailed our nostrils: tea tree, we thought. Plus we were kicking up lots of animal spore of assorted shapes and sizes: wombats and brumbies – the feral horses, descendents of an earlier pioneering chapter in Australia’s history. The more I learn about this country, the more there is to learn… a cliché perhaps, but an honest one.
Back in Thredbo, refreshed by lunch of a soft drink and peanut bar, we pottered around the shops and generally drifted close to the House of Ullr waiting for the bar to open. At last, a much-needed beer and a challenging game of darts. The barman had been in the valley since 1987, drawn by the skiing. He spoke of the spring flowers which few people saw as no one travelled in the period leading up to Christmas. (Journal note: perhaps an option with husband in tow one year…) Alice, a self-proclaimed darts novice proved to be an ace at circles… or was it cricket…either way it was a dart variant that I have now forgotten how to play. And she was very good. Matt won at 501.
Our noisy laughter attracted Stephen, a local, who joined us for a game and upon the production of his personal set of tungsten darts, our laughter subsided: this was business. Having spent the first half of 501 throwing darts anywhere and everywhere, except onto the board, managed to finish swiftly and niftily behind Matt throwing a double two and a one with two darts. Why, if I can do that, am I usually dart-throwing rubbish? We won! And Stephen wasn’t the match we feared he might be. Warmed by the convivial beer and darts we wandered off in search of a bottle shop which just happened to be in a bar with a pool table. Unable to resist, Matt and Alice played with the help of two small boys who lodged themselves firmly at the sides of the table, if not under the armpits of the players, giving helpful hints and keeping their fingers crossed during difficult shots.
Game over, a small panic followed when my son realised that his jacket, complete with keys, money, etc., was nowhere to be found. Retracing our steps led us back to the Ullr bar where the barman, looking at his watch, said, “Well, what took you so long?” as he handed over said jacket, with precious contents all present and correct. Matt does have a history of absent-mindedly ‘forgetting’ things… although I’m still not certain as to the fate of his brand new cricket bat which went awol some eighteen years previously. Back at the cabin, we tucked into macaroni cheese, with bacon for the carnivores, and spinach salad. Star Wars took care of the rest of a truly special day.
A further word here about the proliferation of roadside bon mots, designed to act as public service notices ensuring a safe and healthy population. My growing collection now includes: ‘Stop, revive, survive’; ‘We like our lizards frilled not grilled’; ‘The drain is only for the rain’ (what else?) and ‘Dozy drivers die’ along with its 1950s schoolboy variant ‘Be Alert… Australia needs lerts!’ But Thredbo’s contribution wins for puzzlement as it only makes sense when you know what it means (a bit like the drain message) ‘when in the snow – the bin’s the go’, which refers to the use of personal butt bins for those nasty fag ends. Previously, when the ski season closed and the snows melted, the mountainside was littered with unappealing, soggy butts. Fascinating!
After all that exercise, it was back to our cabin for a mellow evening with a shared bottle of Australia’s finest. Returning to a domestic routine is not going to be easy…
Monday 22nd April: hydro-electricity of my school days and Canberra
The day dawned rather brighter than Sunday, but we decided that as yesterday’s walk had been perfect we wouldn’t try to outdo its excellence with another and so, fortified by Danish and coffee, we set off for the Snowy Mountains Hydro Electric scheme and then Canberra. Once again, beautiful scenery – the Scottish Highlands with kangaroo warning signs. We arrived at the information centre and then watched a seventeen minute film about the scheme’s conception and construction. My memories from school geography were sketchy. I had forgotten how large and numerous were the dams and also that during my school days, the site was still under construction – the work having commenced in 1950 was not completed until 1974. According to the publicity film it still copes well, however, the local press in Adelaide had described the friction between the farmers and the townies over the release of water: farms do well whilst the
towns have to rely on the Murray River for their water and with falling levels they are facing dire shortages.
A trip out to one of the dams would have been great but as it needed a half day to fully gain from the experience, we had to opt out. Again, where are my photos? Sometimes I seem to have got so carried away admiring the scenery that I forgot to take any snaps and on other occasions I snapped away only to spend the evening wondering why I had been so repetitive and unimaginative in framing my shots. Oh well, I still seem to be on a long camera-learning curve.
Back in the car and onwards to Canberra… which came as a pleasant surprise. What had I been expecting? Admittedly it was a sunny day with the city’s renowned trees adding a splash of colour in their autumnal garb. As expected there were many native eucalypts and river oaks, but unexpectedly there were deciduous trees from England, Roman cypress and probably specimens from other countries too. This wasn’t a random approach to greening a created urban environment, careful planning had obviously gone into the planting schemes. Carriageways were separated by avenues of trees and shady arches were created from gracefully touching boughs. Damon had spoken of the ‘tumbleweed’ affect but the city seemed busy enough in a tiny bit Witches of Eastwick way: it was unnaturally pristine.
The grass roof of the Parliament building gave the impression that we had just stepped onto the set of Teletubbies. We managed a tour of Parliament House which as a building was modern and airy and as an institution, surprisingly interesting with the electorate sitting above the elected people’s representatives – to remind the representatives of their duties and obligations towards those who voted them in, and who similarly have the power to vote them out. Lunch in the sun followed and then homeward bound via wooded hills and green valleys.
Travels with George Page 12