As I disconcertingly approach twenty years in Australia I forget how many times I have been exposed to “the most highly anticipated Ashes series in history.” Only to be either irritated and / or bored senseless within the time it takes to make a dubious TV umpiring decision.
So, here we are again.
It’s funny how Australia (the cricket team) has irked me over the years, causing me to seek solace in Australia (the country). Give it thirty minutes or so among the gum trees and almost all is forgiven Warnie, Gillie, Mitcho, Smithy, Patty, Garry, and usually some guy slapping it about on “dayboo”. Even if the kookaburras knowingly cackle to rub salt in the wound (or sandpaper on the balls).
Meanwhile, the only time I get to wax lyrical about England is here on these pages, when I am focused on sharing the latest updates on pasties from Cornwall and vistas from a coast path. Indeed, there seems to be more English content for AI to regurgitate to the level of an eight-year-old than there is antipodean. Perhaps because England feels so exotic these days, what with its M&S biscuits and quirky place names and increasingly chaotic populist edginess.
Corners of Australia offer sanctuary from much of the nonsense, helped in part by third world internet and mobile blackspots. Purer, halcyonesque days of sandy toes and salty air, of flip flops floating on the incoming tide as whales flap within a deep blue sea. Places where some numpty on Facebook will film a short video montage to the title of ‘It kills me when people come to Australia and miss this pristine secret hideaway.’ If that’s what bloody well kills you then a) wait until you hear about the snakes and b) please, be my guest.
Since those sojourns in England we have been to the south coast of NSW at least three times by my reckoning. Twice in or around Tathra, where whales thrash their way down the Pacific Highway and prawns land upon the plate. There are friends to catch up with and walks through spotted gums to serpentine lagoons. And trips north or south to an array of small, unassuming coastal towns.
Eden made a change, a place I had not walked upon for several years but reassuringly familiar. There have been catastrophic fires and a pandemic and Trump x 2 and still the prospect over Twofold Bay is soothing to the soul. There is a lost paradise about this place, hidden within the rough edges.
Hidden too, the Bundian Way. An ancient 365km pathway from Turemulerrer (Twofold Bay) to the mountain ranges of Targangal (Mount Kosciuszko) that Aboriginal people from Yuin, Ngarigo, Jaitmathang, Bidawal Country have walked for thousands of years. Now rising in consciousness again following an impressive book and the development of an easy, accessible, beautiful couple of kilometres to start.
On the topic of hidden paradises, a golf course next to the sea would tick many boxes, especially for English cricketers busily training. Just north of Merimbula, Tura Beach has one, although the sea often remains hidden behind dunes and tea tree and banksia. These hazards are supplemented by protective plovers and swampy ponds and numerous retirees doddering along with their dogs. I never realised the entirety of Tura Beach was effectively a Goodwin retirement village.
Still, I might qualify soon. And being ‘of an age’, I have been trying to get into the swing of things again. This includes packing my golf clubs in the car and bringing them along for a coastal trip in the hope my darling wife will fancy a break from me and I’ll kill this time by hacking at a little white ball with a metal rod.
In hindsight perhaps I would have been better off with a siesta too. The recovery shots seem to be my forte, but then I get plenty of practice. Why don’t I just pretend I am smacking a low shot under some trees all of the time?
I could try fishing instead. Which takes me now to Mollymook and a tenuous link with Stein and his seafood cookery. Last time here we stayed above his restaurant overlooking the ocean eating noodles in a cup. This time, we stayed down in the Pavillion, eating at the golf club bistro. I guess, barring the noodles, this was a more downmarket affair.
This is possibly the most privileged paragraph ever written but I guess the problem with staying at Bannister’s Pavillion after previously staying at Bannister’s By The Sea is that you had previously stayed at Bannister’s By The Sea. The comedown is like being, say, 1/105 at lunch and then bowled out for 164. I mean the rooftop pool is pretty and that but what is with all the random gurgling and banging and knocking? Not to mention the parade of 5am Ford Rangers commuting back to the eastern suburbs of Sydney on a Monday morning just outside your room.
But, well, happy birthday me. The sun came out and the pool was inviting enough to dip in and we travelled a road well-travelled to get back home with familiar highlights along the way. Like Bendalong Bays and Kangaroo Valleys and Fitzroy Falls and Bundanoon Bakes. Familiarities becoming more familiar than scones and cream and Tesco and paying for air and countryside pubs. They, like test match wins, are the rarities. They the exotic.
There is jeopardy in revisiting a place of joyous memory. Risk in the raised expectations that many of the same ingredients will result in the same, delectable cake. But a second time around some ingredients are missing and some have additives and there is the chance they won’t combine in quite the same way. Not to mention the unpredictable variable of temperature. Why does it always come back to cake?
Sausage rolls are more the thing in St. Agnes, a stop off point on the migration to The Lizard. Sixteen humans, four cars and a dog, all bound for a holiday park mere miles from the southernmost point of the British mainland. But first, a brief foray on the north coast, for dramatic lines and vibrant hues and curious children. Minecraft takes on a whole old meaning.
We are decamped and scattered across fibro structures near Mullion. On site there is the usual mediocre pub food, a playground festering with past scrapes and tears and an outdoor pool that only seems to open between the hours of 12:87 and 3.574 on the first Tuesday after a blood moon. The staff are largely from the disgruntled set of Camborne Comp, moonlighting between here and Aldi and a quick vape after bingo.
This is all to be expected, all priced in, and I cannot fault our bungalow nor the location nor the amusement arcade with its strangely captivating spell of coins and tokens teetering on a precipice. Armed with buckets of bronze several people drift from one machine to another possessed. Convinced it is just a matter of one more tuppenny bit to score that Tweety Pie Tazo.
Being Britain I have no doubt some people will spend their entire holiday in this square mile. To me a shame, but whatever floats your boat. But there are real boats afloat just down the road. And sandy beaches and rugged cliffs and flowery lanes and pastel villages and scones and tea and beautiful birdsong and fluttery butterflies and ice cream.
And even good coffee. Coverack a case study in discovering whether things will be just as satisfying the second time around. It feels harsh to relegate Coverack to grey morning filler but I think the benign nothingness of the conditions make the place feel even more appealing. Cottage For Sale signs even more alluring.
Things were busier at Roskilly’s, where this time around on top of savoury lunch I made sure to take in the staple produce of ice cream. I made sure Avery made sure of this as well by ordering one of those ludicrous sundaes that comes in a ridiculous glass and is peppered with delicious garnish.
Now, I’ll sound like a right jerk here but I have to say Cornish ice cream has underwhelmed a bit ever since I became addicted to Gelato Messina. Which is a shame when you consider the natural, rain-soaked bounty of this westernmost county. It’s the Jersey cows that make all the difference, rain-soaked or not.
Rain soaking was proving pleasingly elusive as parts of Britain crept towards something like their twentieth alleged ‘heatwave’ of the summer. And the wall-to-wall sunshine was blazing just overhead… the layer of low cloud obstinately stuck to the granite mounds and precipices of The Lizard. A situation ripe for conjuring up that legendary Cornish mizzle.
At first the conditions were an acceptable background to evoke scenes that a used car salesman would describe as atmospheric. The historic quay wedged into Mullion Cove eerily calm, the flat silvery seas vanishing into an unknown horizon. Film noir moods satisfying for as long as it takes to get to the underwhelming chocolate factory up the road.
It’llburnoffsoon, is the oft-thought line which is looking increasingly ludicrous, especially back up on the wild heights of the holiday park over lunch. But there are some scouts out and about on the WhatsApp family chat and there is a picture with blue sky on it. We pile on down to Poldhu, where the sun is tantalising just offshore. An hour later, I’m in shorts eating another so-so ice cream and some people are up to their neck in ocean.
Despite a very slow start, the sun lingers long into the midsummer sky. There is time for a rest and an infuriating wait for dinner, somewhere, anywhere, that will still serve you anything, please. The sun is well and truly up in Mexico by time a burrito bowl lands in front of me. In Cornwall it is now sinking faster than a taco and cold cerveza. Indigestion is just around the corner, as is the boomingly popular KynanceCove.
At around 9:30pm it is relatively serene. Well of course there’s someone waving some ropes and smoking pot in a tribute to the sun gods, but there’s still enough room for everyone to space out on rocky outcrops. With a quiet car park and cast in lingering light, it is phenomenally beautiful to experience, even if the sun sinks beyond the land.
Fast forward twelve hours to a stunning mizzle-free Thursday in early July and the fluoro-vested National Trust parking assistants are out in full force. Roger, head to Annabelle in a north-north westerly bearing and turn 270 degrees to line up next to the brambles with a clearance of 425 millimetres to starboard sir. Are you a member? Jolly good.
To be fair, if there is a need for National Trust parking attendants (I suspect the job is actually advertised as ‘Access & Experience Facilitator’) it is here. You can only imagine the carnage and open warfare in their absence. Like the emmets of local infamy, a procession of all sorts march downward from their cars, laden with striped bags, snorkels, blankets and buckets and spades. It is one endless conga line of flip flops, but the epic landscape consumes them fairly well. The tide is – thank the moon gods – out.
What follows is a wonderful couple of hours delving into sandy inlets and timidly inching feet into fresh waters while many others frolic unencumbered in the deep sea. For relaxation there is a trip to the café and a laze on a raised ribbon of sand. But relaxation can only be fleeting, niggled away by the inevitable turning of the tide.
You start to notice the changes slowly – a submerged rock here, disappearing seaweed there – but all the while you are wondering when it is best to leave. Once that small pool starts to link up again with the ocean, ankle deep. Others linger and incredulously a line of tourist ants continue to rock hop down to the shrinking bay. Destined to become as congested as the Northern Line at eight in the morning.
You may well think Insta-friendly Caribbean waters and Marbella vibes are as good as it gets but, for me, peak Lizard satisfaction was a more understated affair. It was a simple walk down a lane to HouselBay in late afternoon sun. A Cornish summer’s day in which life was burgeoning and bountiful, much of it packed into the high hedgerows leading down to a placid, inviting sea. Timeless – and like the time before – producing a longing to linger longer. To happily comeback again.
There can’t be any more secret hideaways only the locals knowabout left. Someone calling themselves something like Travel_Insider100 has no doubt filmed a 10x speed video and overlayed it with circa 1998 fonts and shared it with their 22.8K followers who are all stunned at the location you would never believe is actually England and have since endeavoured to wild camp / swim / block the narrow lanes as soon as possible. Thus crumbles the likes of Pedn Vounder.
Now, if I had any influence whatsoever you would have known about the following secret hideaways more than fifteen years ago because they are places I go back to time and time again, usually to eat the same things, walk the same walks, take the same pictures, and espouse the same waffle. But you can’t blame me for any sudden influx of drones or sugar hit superficiality with a jingly soundtrack. I mean, you’d have to read my stuff for a start.
So off we go, again…
I believe I saw Kingsand and Cawsand recently pronounced as twin fishing villages like going back in time but without the crowds. Now in my earliest memories, there have always been some crowds, just not the crowds of St. Ives or Padstow. Unless it’s a stormy February, the ferry is always busy, the shorefront simmering away, the narrow lanes dotted with people gawping into tiny porthole windows. But there does linger a peaceful charm, even with Plymouth being just around the corner.
A newer and arguably welcome development is a spot of half decent waterfront dining / snacking / drinking just as you scramble ashore from the ferry. There is an ice cream van also conveniently adjacent. In between eating savoury and sweet you can wander the lanes, bumble with the bees, cram into a tiny deli to suss out the local cheese, and just semi-seriously enquire as to the price of that vacant cottage. The ice cream is at least within reach.
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You’ll never believe what I have seen two or three times in the last few weeks. Someone has had a camera with them and had the ingenuity to discover one of the best half day walks on the South West Coast Path. It goes between Looe and Polperro, and, like many, I have discovered it before. It’s lovely and reasonably convenient and, yes, you can check out the top ten landmarks of Shipton Abbott if you wish. But for me the highlight is saving for a home deposit by skipping the car park fee at Polperro. There you go, a free travel hack.
Save your pennies instead for a Sarah’s pasty or two in Looe, only enjoyed on edge as murderous-eyed seagulls encircle. This provides more than enough nourishment for the undulations all the way to TallandBay, where you can stock up again on cakes or ice cream or simply refresh with a cup of tea. Tea and tranquility the antidote to salty seagull frenzy.
I thought it was a short hop, skip and jump from here to Polperro but I underestimated the climbing which turns into a bit of a wheezy slog all the way up to a memorial cross. But it is the Polperro Parish memorial cross so that is something to commemorate, despite the village still out of sight.
Walking along the coast path you’d have no idea Polperro is even nearby, such is the abrupt cleft in which the ocean creeps. It is only as you are almost upon it that an entire Cornish model village reveals itself in a glare of whitewashed cottage and kaleidoscope of bunting. The soundtrack is all gull and diesel trawler, the smells seaweedy pilchard with the odd waft of tidal mud. Lobster pots are as ubiquitous as postcards. Lanes are there for getting lost.
As we pottered about gradually inching towards the top of town and a bus stop, it was pleasing to see that some evil genius had propped open the toilets with a container of kerosene. No 60p fee today, times two. Maybe this is the best budget-saving half day adventure in Cornwall after all? Just make sure you use the toilets, free or not, because it sure is a long two pound bus ride back to Plymouth.
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Bus wankers. But check this out. People in 2025 actually being friendly and talking with one another on a bus! How quaint in white lettering with a black background. This amazing experience can happen on the 35 from Ham Green to Plymouth City Centre, where every stop is bustling with old dears and yet another hopeful pram. An old geezer in a flat cap is the latest addition, greeting the blue rinse set with a healthy morning ladies in dulcet Janner tones and a twinkle in his eye.
It almost seems a shame to pick up a car, but also not a shame at all because this is offering the chance to revisit places virtually out of reach of public transport. In cool late afternoon sunshine we head to the north coast of Cornwall, where I am keen to nudge speed limits in a quest for lush green pastures and sparkling blue sea and dream-like cake. Is Boscastle Farm Shop the best place for refreshments on the South West Coast Path?
The happiness of life at this point in time is amplified by free parking after 4pm and a walk out to the headlands of Boscastle Harbour. It is a tad blustery and the waves are reasonably wavy, a state of affairs garnishing the dramatic beauty of what may or may not be Dragonstone. Dark slabs of rock at angles forged in the earth’s furnace mighty enough to stand up to the swelling, pulsating ocean. Cosplay Targaryens blissfully absent.
So another travel hack is to arrive at places like this late in the day, but not so late that the farm shop has closed. Tintagel is equally as quiet, the town sleepy with an air of desperation, the headlands peaceful with an air of salt and ozone. It’s late enough for the castle to be closed and free entry to a little part of it, the mainland part of it. Good value if you are walking the coast path penniless, fabricating encounters and manipulating illness to write a book or something.
It turns out all the characters are down at Trebarwith Strand, seemingly gathering for some kind of birthday or Friday night supper in the encroaching gloam. Bodies adorn and litter the rocks and I can only imagine slow shutter speed sunset seekers tut-tutting and rolling their eyes. The beach is disappearing as quickly as the light and even quicker than any remote hope of a majestic sky.
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Hey, have you heard of this crazy type of rain? The locals call it mizzle and you should definitely not check it out. Despite looking innocuous it soaks you to the bone and lures you towards cliff edges. There is a sea down there somewhere but you can hardly hear it because this incredible precipitation phenomenon also absorbs sound. Wow, living my best life.
Yet for its very damp bleariness there is cocoon-like comfort associated with a walk in the mizzle. From far-reaching vistas the focus shifts to the immediate and mundane; your breath and your footsteps, the infinite shades of long grass below, the teardrop of water coagulating upon the tip of a leaf. The outline of a shady Hotel Camelot and a cat on a wall. It’s not clearing, so bugger it let’s go and get a hot drink.
If Tintagel was a little downbeat the evening before, early morning was positively ghostly. There is probably a tall tale of the spectre of a headless knight roaming the streets here seeking plastic swords and a genuine pasty. Today they are reincarnate in the bus load of German tourists that have found themselves in a branch of The Cornish Bakery, ordering pasties and bitter black coffee at ten in the morning. I feel both delighted and deflated at the realisation that their lasting impression of an iconic delicacy will be that thing there.
I just hope their cream tea experience proves more impressive. Mine certainly does. It’s a scene almost worth filming and sharing a smartarse clip where you break open the scones and zoom in on the jam and slather the cream all over a camera lens and then stroll beside the sunny cottages decorated with bright flowers hand in hand. But I don’t want to influence you or, frankly, encourage you. It is all mine to remember. Or mostly mine, for there is nothing finer than seeing your new wife embrace this experience with gusto. Totally under the influence.
I don’t often shout very loud. or make much of a fuss. Or do anything whatsoever to bring too much attention to myself. Hence my throat and lungs were aghast when I bellowed out the most almighty call from a train stood at Platform 7 of Crewe station. Before promptly apologising to everyone on board. Naturally.
The trip was never in doubt. We had journeyed from Preston where another wonderful Avanti service came into the opposite platform to that advertised, triggering mass panic and stressed luggage wheels. Inevitably departing late, we enjoyed the short journey to Crewe wedged between our luggage and the toilet. This despite having seat reservations, which are about as much value as the paper they are not printed on anymore because everything has to be on another dysfunctional app.
With connection times getting tighter by the second the train did that thing it does when you think it is pulling into the station but stops just outside for no apparent reason. We inched forward at the pace of a geriatric snail, eventually lining up with Platform 6. Encouraging as 6 precedes 7 but annoyingly across the tracks.
In the melee, several passengers shot up the steps, swinging cases and coats and bags laden with sandwiches and fruit shoots. At some point over the bridge and down the steps Avery lost some ground, while I jumped onto the first open door of the train I could reach. She looked at the carriages, lost. A group of emo teens who might well have been on their way back from the Nantwich Loser Festival separated us. Please, look for the silver hair. “AVVVERRRYYYYYY!”
Of course what’s especially silly in retrospect is the high prospect of the train waiting for everyone to connect. It’s not like the Swiss railways or anything, where trains depart on the exact second of the exact minute of the exact hour. Besides, even if we missed it we’d have an hour until the next, which we could easily pass with tea and cake.
As it was, we settled down with luggage space pleasingly spare, ordered some scalding hot tea from the disgruntled trolley mandolly and ate gingerbread as the weather brightened and the borderlands rolled by. Footballer’s Cheshire, Escape to the Country’s Shropshire, Richard Ham’s Herefordshire and then a new country entirely. Prince’s Wales.
We arrived in Cwmbran, which is barely into Wales but feels very Welsh. It also feels slightly akin to Canberra in the way you can circulate the town for ages and feel like you have been here before. I know our accommodation was on the edge of town but have no idea on its relationship to everything else.
Still, some of the other relationships were a little clearer. Fathers and aunts and cousins and then I guess all manners of association by blood, breeding and beer. Coming together somewhere out of town for a renewal of vows and a hog roast. If I dare hazard to feel I have mastered marriage in 135 days, try doing 35 years.
A feature of our time in Wales was the supposed heatwave that was coming any day now. Ideal for catching up on laundry and finding it damp after a day in the cloud. Ideal for getting sunburn that catches you unawares in the mist. Ideal for packing shorts with optimism and never using them. And ideal for cooling off beneath waterfalls if you are local and/or socially influential.
It was a good idea to head to the Four Waterfalls Walk even if the reality was tinged with little annoyances. Like not so little steps and not so little an amount of people gawping like us at nature. The volume of visitors – of which we were admittedly an additional three – necessitated car park marshals, path closures and one-way systems. People-powered erosion is working at a faster rate than that prompted by the force of water. Only one is more captivating.
With such popularity, a trick is being missed with the absence of a good tearoom at the end of the walk; on a day such as this not only would the shortbread be millionaires. As it was, sketchy phone signal and scrambling detours led us to a potential opportunity that may well still be open, though it was touch and go along the single track lanes towards Pontsticill. The Old Barn Tea Room sounds just about perfect on paper and it delivered exactly what was needed. Warm sunshine in the garden the extra icing on the cake.
Perhaps this heatwave was finally happening after all. Certainly there was evidence of bathing along the banks of Caerfanell as we ambled up past countless cascades and swirling pools. There were people here too – including a party precariously firing up a barbecue on a 45 degree slope – but the mood was calmer and more ambient. And it felt like good grace from above that the final plunging falls of Blaen yGlyn were shared with us alone. We walked back through sun-dappled woodland lifted, hearts singing inside like the birds chirruping all around.
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The promise of shorts was finally realised on the Monday, a day in which Avery and I would leave Wales by train without too much drama. Of course, being borderline hot, the only condition was that air conditioning would invariably falter. Like Australia in the cold, Britain does not deal well with the heat.
Britain does do a good supermarket meal deal. Provisions aplenty for a picnic beside a Mediaeval pile. As a second choice (behind an under renovation Caerphilly), Raglan Castle offered everything one could wish for in such a facility: crumbling walls, lofty towers, regal thrones and cooling dungeons. Of course, a proximate cafe was too much to ask for but there is plenty of satisfaction in a £3.50 sandwich, snack and drink.
While not wishing to cut things too fine, our train back into England was still a decent stretch away so we were transported to the outskirts of Newport for a coffee and slice of cake. Unbeknown to me, Caerleon is a small town rich in Roman history. Think amphitheatres and baths and all those Latin excesses. This corner of the world truly has been hotly contested.
Nowadays, one wonders whether anybody would bother to ransack Newport. They may arrive thinking someone had already beaten them to it. Although having time to wait for the train is a luxury, now it cannot come soon enough.
For not only are we escaping Newport, leaving Wales and returning to England, we are also heading home. To the Westcountry, to Plymouth. Changing trains with time to spare at Bristol Temple Meads. Time to spare, indeed, to find Feathers McGraw outside the ticket hall. A neat and tidy conclusion to ThisMostWhistlestopAdventure.
There is nothing more British than an opening sentence about the weather. And nothing more British than weather which has you sweltering in a London backyard with charcoal aromas one day and freezing your arse off in a tumbledown seaside resort the next.
Britain doesn’t quite have the same climate regions as Australia – think tropical and desert and temperate and alpine. But it does have theNorth, a land where train stations are always freezing, hotpots and brews keep wildlings sated and 18 degrees is positively balmy. It’s a different kind of eet, reet?
Imagine all you had to look forward to was a summer holiday in Blackpool. In a Travelodge. Next to the Pleasure Beach. To be sure, there are enough rollercoasters to fill a week and enough fish and chip and donut combos to fill an obesity clinic. In a fleeting visit, we managed two hours of rides and an escape for pub grub with a dear friend.
The drive south along the promenade is a journey of transitions. From the grimy Bleasdalesque terraces and windswept tackorama of Blackpool South, things pick up towards St. Annes, yet giant sand dudes are still dotted with empty cans of Monster. Onward, the understated main street of Ansdell is almost the sweet spot. Go any further and you are into Lytham w*nker territory.
While this journey offered a 15 minute encapsulation of the British class system, Wallace and Gromit’s Thrill-O-Matic offered four minutes of fun and silliness. Which is far more satisfying on a holiday. And set the wheels in motion for A Most Notable Detour.
We were off to The Lake District by way of Wensleydale. The many positives of this included leaving the M6 to plunge into fine, single track countryside and encountering roadside services far superior to a Costa and Greggs. Crossing from Lancashire into Yorkshire, that most happy of road trip staples popped up in Ingleton – an independent and delicious bakery – boosting moods for the climb up into the Yorkshire Dales.
In a scene oft to be repeated over coming days, I felt as though I was driving across a Postman Pat landscape. Drystone walls and dotted sheep lace the valleys, yielding to desolate brown-green hilltops and low cloud. At Ribblehead, the model train set comes to life with its standout viaduct and the 12:07 to Carlisle inching its way into the mist. It is bleak and summery cold and definitively Yorkshire. Mustn’t grumble.
The scenery as we overlook Hawes is a bit more of the cosier Yorkshire Tea variety. Things seem brighter and less foreboding, a sanctuary from the moors where you foresee being welcomed with a strong brew and fruit bun. As a result, Hawes is bustling and parking is tricky. But many are not here for tea or fruit buns. Instead, cheese. Served with extra cheese.
Hawes equates to Wensleydale which is inextricably linked to Wallace and Gromit. They don’t labour the point but it is quite likely that a couple of gurning plasticine figures saved this creamery from extinction. Cranberries can only go so far.
We wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t introduced Avery to VengeanceMostFowl. I was pleased to find cheese without fruit though, and enjoyed the light-hearted cheese-making demonstration and learning about the history of the industry in this area. Two words: French Monks. As it so often is. The road to heaven is obviously lined with fine wine and pungent cheese.
The road to Cumbria is a slow and winding one but breathtaking in a downbeat, overcast kind of way. We reach the M6 again and briefly take it south, bypassing Kendal and reaching the hills above Windermere. The skies are looking more cheery and it is a relief late in the day, after a sublime pub pie laced with cheese, to wander not at all lonely in breaking cloud.
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It is inevitable that lyrical waxing flows with many a visit to the Lake District. It is the crumpled lay of the land that arranges itself into lofty fells and sinuous valleys. It is the patchwork necklaces of stone walls marshalling flecks of sheep. It is the wooded glades and butterflied meadows, the babbling brooks and glassy meres. It is an old cottage and a pub and a church spire.
It is probably not a gargantuan coach causing mayhem on The Struggle. I mean, the clue’s in the name and if that’s not enough a sign impishly advises of 25% gradients. Perhaps the coach was doing what we were doing though, escaping the parking lot that was the A591 between Bowness and Ambleside, detouring via KirkstonePass. It was a pleasant detour with some wonderful views to pass the time as a coach inches its way past opposing vehicles.
Eschewing Ambleside we amble along concrete in Grasmere, hotfooting it to famed gingerbread and an interminable wait for a coffee. The UK coffee update 2025 is much the same – avoid dreadful chains and it’s a coin toss between acceptability and dreadfulness. Though I am finding the creaminess of oat milk can mask some of the bitterest tears.
Someone in the cafe remarks it is busy today because the weather is good. I can only assume because it is not raining. We pace back to the car under cool, leaden skies and decide in such jovial weather there’s nothing better than being out on the water. Derwent Water in fact, layered and wrapped in coats, sheltering under flimsy caps, refreshing spray cooling the only bare bit of skin peeping out.
But it is hard to look away, particularly at the mountains in the distance, one protrusion piercing the cloud and flooding its upper reaches in sunshine. Perhaps there is a surprise in store after all, though not at Surprise View which is entirely as telegraphed. It’s a fine outlook over Derwent Water and beyond and a good spot to eat a lunch involving Co-op crisps and caramelised onion infused Wensleydale. Cracking.
With two W&G days in a row I thought we were having a break, only to be more surprised than the surprise at Surprise View to pass a cyclist wearing a Lycra jersey emblazoned with the face of Gromit. There was a fair chance the cyclist was gurning like Wallace too, embarking on the climb up to HonisterPass. With clouds parting, here was the Lake District providing elevated beauty and drama all the way down to Buttermere.
Sometimes a name can overpromise but Buttermere is every bit the delight it sounds. Water smooth as a knife, meadows plump with buttercups and bees and butterflies, cows cheerily chewing away, transforming green grass into ice cream and cakes and tea and – as Avery was subjected to – dire coffee. The cosiness of the place is heightened by the wild heights all around, deflecting the clouds to form a golden paradise. There is even that Buttermere tree.
It would have been appealing to stay overnight here but it is overly popular and overly small. Queues for the bus suggested some may be in for an unintended night; we took solace in the hire car and an out-of-the-way B&B a little further north. This took us through more glorious scenery fringing CrummockWater before bravely praying for no oncoming tractors among the lanes around Brackenthwaite and Thwackwaite. Splendidly Northern names if a little lisp unfriendly.
On nearby place names, it is fairly obvious that Cockermouth is going to be pronounced Cockermuth. But there is something about Cockermouth that makes one forget and – to the despair of locals – often results in both a hard ‘Cock’ coming out with a hard ‘Mouth’. And accompanying tittering.
Before things get too hot to handle let’s go to the reality of Cockermouth: Sainsbury’s in the drizzle. While a Sainsbury’s was a welcome sight (and sign of civilisation), the drizzle was not. It was a dampness that persisted overnight and into the next morning, on which we returned into town to post a pack of biscuits. I never expected sending a pack of biscuits would take longer than an hour and require more security questions than entry into the West Wing. But at least it passed time for the drizzle to lighten and the cloud to lift.
Plunging back down into Loweswater there was an optimism returning with the reemergence of hills and languid liquid shores. With some urgency to get out into it all, we devoured a Sainos meal deal for lunch and headed for the hills.
While this wasn’t really the day for high moors and ridgetops we managed to get above the canopy at BrackenthwaiteHows for some lovely, quintessential Lake District vistas. South of us the sun was sparkling off Crummock Water, bisecting the steep-sided fells of Grasmoor and Mellbreak. Scattered amongst this drama, seemingly in miniature, occasional farmhouses fringed with cows and sheep. A serene scene abruptly punctuated by RAF jets flying a hundred metres overhead. Both breathtaking and almost pant pooping.
There was much to get confused about when talking about the air force and Aira Force but we made it there in the end. This was via a spontaneous tea stop – which always makes for a good stop – at WhinlatterForest. And while I wouldn’t call it the full-on cream tea it would have been rude not to opt for the scone and jam and cream, with a cup of tea, safe in the knowledge that greater greatness awaits.
By the time we reached Aira Force it was late afternoon (only another 7 hours of daylight remaining folks). A good time to arrive given some of the crowds had dissipated and a subsidised National Trust parking spot was easy to find. The woodland and the falls were undeniably lovely, even if my lovelier wife went on to utilise this spot to both puerile and hilarious effect.
We had come this way, beside the shores of Ullswater, to locate a mysterious field on the top of a hill for a spot of serious dogging. I think that’s the term they use. No, wait, shepherding. Ironically, as we drove up a small lane, the Skoda was doing its own piece of shepherding as three dumb ewes tottered before us. Greeting us beside a gate, a farmer’s son looked bemused. Ah, city folk.
Upon this hill it was blustery and cool, and we had to layer up in everything we had. But it was a charming and enlightening hour or so, greeting an array of border collies (surely the best type of dog) and a friendly, attention-seeking Old English Sheepdog. The dogs were lined up roughly in age and a demonstration ensued of different skills and instincts, supported by Come Bys and Aways and remarkable variations of whistling. There was talk of farming and nature and the intertwining of the two, of thousands of hens eggs a day and farm shops and the bond between one man and his dogs. All the while, the sheep looked dumb and all I could focus on going round my head was Kaleb and I Can’t Stand Sheep.
After sweltering in balmy London not so long ago, it was fair to say we were freezing by the end of the sheepdog demonstration. I couldn’t feel my feet and my ears felt like two flattened crumpets that had got lost down the freezer two years ago. But this was a wonderful place and wonderful time, and there was a cosy pub not too far down the road to cap off our final night. Further down the road the M6, Preston, Wales, Plymouth. Some Equally Notable Detours yet to come.
I would still, I think, shirk a cruise. Or at least shirk a type of cruise on a gargantuan ship with casinos and cabaret and eleven varieties of norovirus, where a life on algae seas is punctuated by a stopover at some out-of-town docks in a shady part of the early hours.
What concerns me the most is the difficulty of escaping what is – in essence – a well-watered, well-fed and well-pampered prison. However, being well-watered, well-fed and well-pampered I can see why many can be charmed.
There has to be some kind of happy medium. Somewhere, say, you can feel as if you are being suitably glamorous and pampered and within touching distance of lifestyles of the rich and the famous without the prospect of throwing up the remnants of those prawns from the captain’s table down a series of portholes. Something like the spirit of a cruise ship anchored upon land.
Well, maybe there is such a place. And if you were hoping for some really daggy Australian novelty, such as a submarine in landlocked Holbrook, you’ll be disappointed. This was all class and not at all designed in the shape of a liner. A beacon to living the fancy life – with a handy 25% discount – on a headland in Mollymook. The good ship Bannisters by the Sea.
Now usually ‘by-the-sea’ is a British adjunct denoting a place that is very sketchy and boasts access to brown tidal mudflats and a generous array of ASBOs. But no such qualms here, the ocean pounding on three sides, views north towards Jervis Bay from our very stationery balcony, not a hoon in sight. The pool below competing with a small rocky cove for either domesticated or wild swimming. Or just stay close and soak in the spa bath.
The little cove – known as Jones Beach – was far from the golden sweeps of sand more typical of Australia, more typical of Mollymook. If you squint a little you can see a piece of – maybe – South East Cornwall here. The kind of place where Mr Stein would cook up some pilchards on coals in a Covid-era travel show when he couldn’t really travel all that far. Before embarking on a wild swim or just a swim if you prefer before it became a ‘wild’ thing during the early 2020s.
Back on the ship, we dined on breakfast at Mr Stein’s eponymous eatery, an expectedly tasty affair without ever being too fussy. A place where after your choice of omelette you could spend a fortune on cookbooks and souvenir tote bags. I sometimes think we might bump into the owner, coming up from a swim in the cove and I’d be all like “Hey Rick, I’m from Plymouth” and he would say something smart like “Oh I’m sorry to hear that, though I once found terrific lobster at the Barbican fish markets from some guy called Bodger who later took me round the Mewstone in his boat.”
And I’d be all rose-tinted reminiscing of Britain-by-the-sea and we’d share a moment under the deep blue southern skies as the kookaburras cackle. Thinking home to a place that keeps pulling you back on its seaweed and shopping trolley tide. See you around Padstow, boy.
Whether it’s an epic global adventure or – more likely – random meanderings close to home, travel is an integral and frequently joyous feature of many of our lives. But we travel not only in relation to our immediate geography, we travel too in our mind and soul. We travel on that most mystifying and blessed journey that is life. And, like the laboured 09:00 from London Paddington, my life journey has called in – notably delayed – at a rather significant station.
Which is all to say I got married. So let’s call this station Bath rather than Bristol Parkway, for there is elegance and grace and it is a far nicer place to be. Plus I’m hopeful there will be more stops along the journey, all the way to my final Penzance (and then perhaps onto that renowned land of the undead, the Scilly Isles).
One of the lovely things about this Bath station is the convergence of fellow travellers from journeys past. Reunion and reacquaintance with others a cut above those relationships you form with strangers on the same carriage on the same train at the same time on the Northern Line from Finchley Central every weekday morning.
And so from this metaphorical Bath to a literal Canberra. It’s a fair leap, one almost mirrored in real life by Dad who arrived with time spare to stalk butterflies and ice cream parlours in between a wedding. We picked a good time of year for it, when Canberra’s skies are filled with decorations natural and man made, and the weather is plenty warm enough for hokey pokey.
I particularly enjoyed a walk with Dad to Square Rock immediately after the wedding fever had died down. Not only was it one of those rare spots he had never been to, it was also nourishing to cleanse myself of run sheets and entrance music files and stickers on glasses and lines in Mandarin and fingers crossed about the weather and forgotten bouquets and the pile of photos to sort out.
Space, clear air, nature and snacks on rocks. Though, with a ring on my finger, wedding memories were never far away. I was thinking the rocky outcrop would make a good spot for a proposal, champagne corks shooting into the yonder. But once is enough, thank you very much.
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From a romantic spot with Dad to a “honeymoon” with Dad. I use the quotation marks (and can mime the associated comical gesture should you wish) deliberately. For if I was to pick a honeymoon venue it would probably not be the Gold Coast. And yes it’s unlikely I’d take my Dad. Coincidence just did its whole chance occurrence of simultaneous events thing where cheap flights booked long ago met a weekend after a wedding.
There were many positives about the Gold Coast, enough to balance out the humid showers and traffic lights and bogan tendencies to etch cocks and balls in the sand. We had a super view from our apartment, only dwarfed into insignificance once atop Q1 for a buffet breakfast. Within a thong’s throw of the beach, the water was lovely to wade through, and residual sand could be washed off in our pool just across the road.
From the balcony, night markets were spotted and explored, a trail of stalls selling healing crystals or imploring you to hold a lizard for twenty bucks or to commission a really bad caricature for more. And food options lay out in excess, from Japanese to Thai to McDonalds and Messina. Gelato fans, new and old, converge.
The sprawl of the Gold Coast can make it seem hard to escape. And, like casinos in Vegas, that may well be the intention. Burleigh Heads National Park offers mini respite, in that at least it is not another high rise or souvenir shop. But this isthmus of bushland is, on a Sunday morning, undeniably popular with people in tight pants exercising, people who you suspect might use the words “media-based wellness inspirator” when asked what they do for a living.
Still, away from the curated coast path there are some pretty butterflies if you look close enough. Like everyone, enjoying relief in a lofty opening up out of the humid jungle. But also, like everyone, seemingly desperate to keep on the move.
I find the real gold of the Gold Coast is actually inland an hour, significantly less gold, more green and certainly not coast. You can still espy the sea and the skyscrapers from the Springbrook plateau, but in between lays verdant, dramatic, primeval rainforest.
Today, it’s significantly cooler and punctuated by cotton wool pockets of vapour drifting above the trees. Water is a major aspect of life up here, including a recent Cyclone Alfred inspired 1146mm in 7 days. It’s surprising the roads are – with a little repair ongoing – still open. And not at all surprising that the waterfalls are full crescendo. An idyllic honeymoon spot. An adventure invigorating. A location not immune to influencers but with enough space and spectacle to spare. A few miles and a million years from the Gold Coast.
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From a land of water to a land of water, unfortunately timed for the final weekend of Dad’s visit and our disjointed sort-of-honeymoon. We were heading to Tathra on the far south coast of New South Wales. Compared to the Gold Coast it’s like going from The Prodigy at a rave to Enya in a spa. I would use more contemporary pop culture references but I’m getting old. Besides, Tathra has a mid nineties vibe, a time when presidents played jazz and unhinged dictatorish ones were being prophesised in The Simpsons.
Despite portents of doom, the weather wasn’t exactly terrible when we arrived. Sure, take a raincoat to walk to the pub but do so with hood down. Then up. Then down again. And, as the last remnants of daylight savings endure, sit outside but make sure you are close enough to the walls to be under the veranda, just in case.
The next morning started with promise too, in that I don’t think it was raining much. But arrangements to meet down on the wharf were changed in the space of thirty seconds. Let’s try coffee inside and see if things pick up. Then let’s have some lunch and see if things pick up. How about after afternoon tea… maybe things will pick up then? But you surely know the rain has set in when the monopoly board is unleashed and you take comfort in a jam and cream lamington.
Thankfully these are good indoor Sundays, when hearty food and drink is matched by cheery company and chat. When cats retreat to bedrooms and paper planes rain down from the indoor skies. A time and place where it only costs $400 to buy land on Sydney Harbour and then, almost inevitably, end up in jail. Hoping to break free as the wind and the rain lashes at forty five degrees.
It was almost dusk when things did marginally pick up. And me, my Dad and my wife managed that kind of walk which was invigorating and refreshing and all the more enjoyable because of the wildness of the weather. Sure, let’s hope none of those branches sway any further than a few metres, and watch out for the newly formed rivulet trails. But check out those waves and those sounds and the clouds blowing through to dump more rain on the hills.
This weather all sounds very British. Which, by good narrative fortune and by way of Bermagui and Batemans Bay takes us back to that figurative Bath. Most of the passengers who came together are now on their way, the final one set for the 1540 to London. Balloons have deflated and cards are packed away. On the platform, two solo travellers have united, ready to embark on the next leg as one. Stand clear of the closing doors. Bristol Parkway, and far better places, await.
Just wondering if my blog-writing is to go the way of logic, civility and sanity. A rare thing. Also wondering if a cabal of egotistical gazillionnaires will employ their artificial intelligence superkingbot to steal everything published on the interweb then distort it into simpering testimony to the BIGGEST MOST LOVED GENIUS MAN KING the world has ever seen? Oh, they already have. And on the subject of artificial intelligence, don’t call an obvious moron a moron, it’s the kind of free speech that might just trigger World War 3.
Anyway, eucalyptus trees and cake. I can’t blame the state of the world for my dithering and delay in writing about distant life in Australia. There’s been plenty happening, of varying sorts. And plenty more still to come.
There was a wonderful pre-Christmas trip down around Merimbula. Wonderful in many ways for the rather splendid outlook from the bath, situated just a little up from Bar Beach and offering commanding views across the bay. Alas, stretching out in the swimming pool next door was off limits, but there were plenty of free spots to choose from in nature. Sparkling sapphires everywhere.
It wasn’t quite a scorching bushfire kind of lead up to Christmas but a far more pleasant and settled outlook than recent years. Having said that, ’twas the night before Christmas Eve up on the Monaro Plains and a strong southerly wind from the Antarctic heralded greater comfort for portly old men dressed up in red and white. Christmas cheer was hard to come by in Bombala, though at least hot chips were available. And out of town a remote cottage with a log fire which could be put to surprisingly good use.
Without mobile, without internet, without a TV, just some crackly tunes on the wireless, a glass of wine, and a roaring fire. You can see why people get nostalgic for days of old, it’s just unfortunate this nostalgia often extends to empire, intolerance and a love of preventable diseases. But oh to be in 2024 again.
From somewhere far away in the middle of nowhere fast forward to a long weekend in Melbourne. Where a day before it was forty degrees, now twelve. Where the only answer when you mention this to anyone local or farther afield is a rather knowing “yep, Melbourne”. Something that’s baked in so much that it fails to impact the city’s often strong performance in those ratings of the best place to live in the world.
On this visit, the wind tunnel of a CBD was largely eschewed for jaunts out in the south-eastern suburbs meeting people, drinking coffees, eating lunches and dinners, being plied with afternoon tea. In many ways it was a journey of discovery and calorific intake. And for the most part the grid-like layout made it reasonably easy to navigate. One discovery that stood out to me was the inevitability of a McDonalds and servo every time two roads crossed at right angles and traffic lights. It made me wonder if Melbourne has the greatest number of Maccas per square kilometre. And do many of its residents also feast on cheeseburgers while tweeting a flurry of disinformation when sat on the toilet?
If the McMelboSuburbs can get a bit wearying after a while, there are some variations that add a bit more colour and spice. It was nice to get bayside, to blow away the cobwebs down in Mordialloc and – on a more sedate kind of day – beside the beach huts in Brighton. People elsewhere will often roll their eyes and smirk at the thought of Melbourne beach life but I think it’s rather understated and lovely. Tell someone in the other, pebble-strewn Brighton this is a lousy beach and they will think you too have become as deranged as a supposed leader of the free world.
Sorry, back to, what was it, eucalyptus and cake. Afternoon tea followed by a walk in the Dandenong Ranges. Where better to marvel at the gift, the comfort, the peace granted to us by nature. I don’t need no church, no temples, no ghastly solid gold AI-generated icons. Give me a cathedral of ferns and imperious Mountain Ash in which to linger, whether in cold, showery rain or glowing golden sun. Resilient, steadfast and full of grace.
I’m pretty sure I embraced and advocated for nature’s healing before it became a podcast or something you pay someone to guide you towards. Whether that’s balm for inside or outside, from suburbia or the world. Just look up at a tree or down at the ants. And hope you don’t get knocked out by a sudden limb fall or paralysed by a bite. It’ll almost always be fine.
Yes it’s that time of the year again where I feel contractually obliged to say something, anything, about Australia. Have I been here so long that delightful sandy weekends and forays into that once mythical bush are so run-of-the-mill? Usurped by exotic escapes to Tavistock, ambles through brambles in Wiltshire, train station sandwiches in Preston?
I went to Sydney fairly recently and it hardly warrants a paragraph. To be fair it was a fleeting visit offering little new or enticing other than a convenient Gelato Messina. No ferry ride, no beach bums, just a quick visit to see the Opera House in the drizzle. And a sigh of relief farewelling the marching tentacles of Campbelltown.
If Sydney seems all a bit of a chore these days there is sufficient antidote down on the south coast. Even if you do exactly the same things over and over again. The Braidwood coffee, the Tuross Boatshed, the Bodalla Dairy. Little appetite left to wander indecisively around Bermagui Woollies. Waiting to be inspired by a quick sale.
After all those stops on the way down I feel like the size of a whale but then I see a whale and it makes me feel better about myself. I see a lot of whales in fact, both out on the open water and from numerous outlooks on dry land. None of them breach Free Willy style but there are plenty of flapping fins and tails to keep things just the right side of awe-inspiring.
The best vantage came around the Blue Pools of Bermagui, further consolidating the town’s position as the most likely to make you say ah sod it let’s quit this place and run an Airbnb/mushroom farm/Chinese import business on the coast instead. Judging by the postcards on a board outside Honorbread, it seems others have done similar, though largely with a tantric meditation crystal hemp cleansing forest kind of ambition.
The board is well-read given the wait for coffee on a public holiday weekend. I fondly remember a quieter time here, when I managed to nab a very fine pain aux raisins to take onto the beach along with coffee and Dad. No such luck this time thanks to the irritating cliché of a man in front of me deliberating like a moron on which exotic unpronounceable pastry morsel to take away and then opting for that last “snail”. A disaster. I was bitter, resentful, hateful and I still haven’t found a decent pain aux raisins since.
This includes in the hometown of Canberra. For which I hear you ask, what of Canberra? Well, still infinitely liveable, mildly interesting, a little needy but well stocked with common browns. I have enjoyed a few Monday mornings at the Botanic Gardens, a pale imitation of my father in pursuit of butterflies. Peak rice flower action precipitated an attempt to grow one at home, but so far all I have observed upon it is a single, unaccompanied, inevitable common brown.
The tomato experiments are going better and – in recent days as we near the frightful weather outside of Christmas – are cheerily ripening. Fruits like plump baubles on a wilting wreath, waiting to be ransacked by a possum. The surreal juxtapositions of the festive season down under.
It is almost midsummer and I have pumped out a batch of cheesy marmites and about two million gingerbread men from the oven. One Christmas event at a winery was cooled by a slight breeze, another to come will require icy liquid relief. There is officially a heatwave, but what to make of such declarations in December. I just feel sorry for all the Westfield Santas, even with their air conditioned red satin thrones.
Maybe the coast will offer relief. And prawns. Let’s hope so, for a few days prior to that 25th of December. So whether it’s in humdrum Australia or exotic England with your crazy storms and hype around minor celebrities ballroom dancing or eating kangaroo testicles on the Gold Coast, have a good one. 2025 promises much of something or other. Whether it makes the blog or not is another matter.
For many people, three weeks anywhere is a very generous holiday. And for many of these many, three weeks solely in England would be more than enough thank you very much. Escape before you get addicted to supermarket meal deals and the BBC weather app. Flee in rapture at a 6/10 coffee.
England really isn’t that big and, prior to that three week Contiki odyssey across 22 European countries, you might just ‘do it’ in a weekend. Start with a selfie under Big Ben, lunch in Oxford, overnight in York, across to Liverpool, south to Bath, and back to London via the A303. See it. Say it. Sorted.
I had two whole weeks in the southwest corner of the country and in a shocking turn of events didn’t even make it to Looe for a pasty. Hence a heavier than usual melancholy upon leaving, a sense of something unfulfilled. And it wasn’t just the pasty lacking, the biggest absence being a rugged hike along the coastline of North Cornwall. Perhaps followed by one additional cream tea.
Oh to turn back the clock as we pass by Shaldon with its bumblebees and bowls and bacon and eggs. The sun is out, the tide is in, but the train doesn’t stop, and we are impelled to drift on through a countryside canvas of villages and fields, of cottages and cows, of silage and sheds.
We make it to Pewsey in Wiltshire, close enough to a must-see attraction for internationalists touring England in a weekend. The mysteries of Stonehenge are celebrated and often weird. Of note are the way it deploys magic powers to slow traffic on the A303, its ability to attract flat-earthers with healing crystals and unemployment benefit, and its successful maintenance of impressive Neolithic potholes. Chuck in some YMCA and it all sounds a little bit Trumpy.
Despite this garbage, in late afternoon hazy sun it is an interesting and attractive proposition standing in a field somewhere in Wiltshire. A steady procession of people saunter along, pause, reflect and construct some kind of comical selfie. But best of all are the sheep, who don’t really give a shit. They’re only here for the grass.
Us humans, or at least us English humans not encamped on a byway off the A303, prefer roast dinners to grass. Situated in a business park on the fringes of Amesbury, the Toby Carvery is hardly an idyllic country pub but who cares when the Yorkshire Puddings are so grand and there are three types of gravy? It does do a decent impression of cosy pub warmth and dingy darkness, meaning you may be liable to leave behind any sunglasses that were atop your head.
Sunglasses or not, the light is fading as we walk it off a little by the River Avon in Durrington. You could spend many happy days following this river, as best you could cutting through brambles to bypass grand estates with exclusive frontage. While the water quality has no doubt been unable to escape the ravages of modern neglect, there is a tranquil timeliness to it all, an inescapable fact of English life and landscape nurtured by water. The veins and arteries keeping a country alive. And the green refuges keeping it sane.
The next river we see is perhaps the most famous of all and – at least here – far from the peaceful meanderings of the Avon. We are waiting on a pontoon bobbing up and down on a wide, brown body of water, boats and barges nipping back and forth. A ferry passes under Tower Bridge – which is not London Bridge – approaching London Bridge. It is burdened with people and we await the next with Americans, Irish, Spanish and Chinese. Seeing England.
To my eyes it is a sad fact that many international visitors’ only experience of England takes place in London. But also what a place to take it all in. Who doesn’t know of the Thames, and Big Ben and some guys in funny hats who can’t crack a smile and the misconception of what is and isn’t London Bridge? With a first-timer tagging along even I am susceptible to a selfie and sense of wonder.
The thing is, it is so easy to get out of London. You can even do a day trip to Ansdell and Fairhaven, way up north in Lancashire. 99% of people in England would think this ludicrous but then they don’t tend to drive a solid two hours just to have fish and chips on the coastline of New South Wales. Everything is so much closer, but also so much more jam-packed. You can see why Portillo can still find content for Season 27 of Great British Journeys with a Seniors Railcard Visiting Shoelace Factories and Unexploded World War 2 Ordnance.
Even places you have visited in the past can be unveiled in a new light. I think it was sunlight, a rare thing in the northwest, that made Preston seem actually not too bad. I had an hour to kill for a train connection and wandered a by-now almost deserted high street, admiring grand edifices of industrial heritage, welcoming civic squares and the meal deal options of Sainsburys Local. Such was my indecision I needed to adopt a brisk pace to reach the train station for the two hour journey back to London.
Remaining days were a combination of Central London highlights and North London reminisces. Under a Travelodge in Finchley, arguably the best coffee of the trip (reflected in the slightly eye-watering price). Around the corner, the reliability and reassurance that is the nearby Tesco, reminding us how we yearn for more supermarket competition down under. Spreading out south, the parks and wooded avenues of Highgate and Hampstead and proper good pub gardens in the sun. And on the doorstep the reasonable functionality of the Northern Line, to take us into this country’s beating heart.
So much to see and so little time to see it. The British Museum is simultaneously bewildering, amazing and tainted. M&Ms World is much the same. Lunch at a Ramsay restaurant comes with a touch of relaxed refinement. If I were being a critic – and isn’t everyone – I would say the Idiot Sandwich was just a bit too greasy, but then it does have American origins after all. We need to walk this off, meandering through Mayfair, past the Palace, along Hyde Park where the Royal Albert Hall seems to be forever on the horizon. Finally it is upon us and I am pleased for a sit down in the shade, in history, in the company of some world class performers. Something I probably wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t had Avery by my side.
She made it, she survived England, we survived and thrived in England, COVID, cool winds, clotted cream and all. And we only just scratched the surface, barely broke the crust. In this mammoth little country, eager to see that little bit more. Many an encore to come.
Cornwall. Finally a chance to soak up the landscape and imbibe the delicacies. And not just any old Cornwall, but West Cornwall, where the Atlantic and Channel come to blows against heaving granite battlements. Sandy residue forms into gold and emerald bays while fishing boats scatter out to the deeper, bluer sea. Tin mines and stony relics dot gorse and heather uplands, granite thrust from the earth like blades from an iron throne. In the towns and villages, lobster pots and window boxes and coloured stone walls lean into constricted, sinewy lanes. A sometime paradise challenged in August by a voluminous throng.
After some brighter weekend weather it was a dreary Monday morning travelling west, a race against time before a band of rain once more made landfall on British shores. And by time we reached St. Erth, archetypal summer scenes packed in on platform 3 for the branch line to St. Ives. People and dogs and pushchairs in raincoats, laden with paraphernalia for a day at the beach. Simultaneously muttering variations of “it’s not too bad.”
Given the weather it seemed St. Ives was the best option for us to while away a few hours before we could check in. I was hesitant, but what other options were there? Join the masses of masses pretty much doing the same thing.
Despite the gloom, there was an undeniable vividness in the waters trundling along the rails beside the bay, an essence of palm tree and other exotica exuding warm vibes and expensive lettings. And there were even a few surprise sunny breaks, as if the skies wanted to tell you, look, this could be the French Riviera, oui?
That was about as good as it got. St. Ives proved 90% summer holiday horror show, 10% charm. That 10% largely came from the first glimpse of colour at Porthminster Beach, a brief beam of sunlight in the sandy harbour, and a fortuitous walk for fifty metres along a side street absent of cars wondering where the hell they were going and pedestrians from the West Midlands pretty much doing the same.
Otherwise it was all dreadful battles through crowded streets, seagull angst, soggy sandwiches in a squall, and a lacklustre coffee in the only café with any space whatsoever (compounded by sightings of spectacular cake on the way back, an opportunity missed). Still, at least the Co-op was okay, and goodness knows what else we might have picked up in St. Ives apart from some bananas and emergency crisps.
Boarding the 15:06 to Lelant was a relief as heavier rain set in. Such inclement conditions meant we could explore the entire confines of our Airbnb. This wasted two minutes but uncovered the world’s noisiest wine fridge and an inexplicable absence of toiletries. And while blissfully quiet outside, the downside to staying in Lelant was that we couldn’t stock up on provisions. No shop or petrol station but at least there was a pub. Priorities.
I don’t know if it was the pub, the train, or the cool, damp weather that made Avery wake up with a sore throat the next day. But we are blaming St. Ives because, well, the place hasn’t been pilloried enough already. Heaving, horrid, infested, infectious St. Ives.
Given she wasn’t feeling so well, my plans for a busy schedule of sightseeing, of stunning, sandy waters and epic landscapes and most of all some treasured coast path on the edge of Britain were put on a back burner. We headed instead for a seemingly more sedate experience at St. Michael’s Mount.
This island sure has a presence, loftily rising out of the shallows of Mount’s Bay as we double decker bus it down towards Marazion. The bus naturally inches its wing mirrors between stone walls and parked cars, depositing us near flat, tidal sands leading out towards the Mount. The sea is out and still receding, meaning we can try not to slip up on the causeway. But before that, there is a queue to get on it. And much expense, naturally.
Arriving on the shores of the island is like transporting yourself to Kings Landing, only with a couple of coloured plastic tokens for entry instead of a lust for jousting and regicide. Immediately there is a shop and café and we make use of the latter before joining the trail up to the castle. Once more, finding myself treading in the footsteps of Portillo, Lumley, Humble, Robinson et al.
Of course, those guys tend to receive exclusive, unimpeded access with a personal tour from Lord Wazenose of Loftingsnout, who points out the many previous family owners and esteemed visitors hanging on the walls. There are a lot of them, and a lot of walls and it is indeed a thoroughly fascinating place to wander around, even without a personalised talking-to from the establishment. Occasionally the procession of people breaks and you get a room all to yourself to imagine being an aristocrat. And, even in a crowd, space never feels far away with breathless, blustery views over the seas and much of Cornwall. An egalitarian outlook.
It was a bright but cool day, cool everywhere but the rather exotic gardens spilling down the southern ramparts. The contrast in temperature was akin to exiting an easyJet flight from Manchester to Granada. And the plants here were themselves pretending to be thriving in the Alhambra rather than growing just off the A30 near Long Rock.
With most of the West Midlands by now accumulating on the island it all started to feel a bit St. Ives. And with the tide on its way in, we headed back to the mainland and another huge queue for a pasty, some cheese straws, a couple of drinks and a tote bag decorated with pasties. The pasty was fulfilling, more than satisfying a quota or two but I felt a bit rushed to eat at least half of it before the bus arrived. I needn’t have worried. In fact, it would have been prudent to save some lest we become emaciated on a bench in Marazion, two skeletal remains still waiting for the Land’s End Coaster, a seagull picking away at any remaining sinew.
Before the bus didn’t arrive for more than two hours I was still marginally hopeful of an early evening sunset jaunt. Get back, have a nap, hop on a later bus to transport us along the rugged north coast to Botallack, and marvel at the golden light projecting onto the rocks and waves and iconic Cornish landmarks. But the lesson learnt is that there’s no point making plans based off a bus timetable in August.
In the end we just got a bus, any bus, which deposited us in Penzance. The plus side to this was we could pick up some reduced price snacks from Tesco Express and – tucked away in a dusty corner filled with spiderwebs in Boots – a pack of Covid tests. To think these were all such a must-have accessory circa 2021.
Back at the bus station it was with expected irony that the Lands End Coaster via Marazion was waiting. I have no idea if this was the 12:30 or 1:30 or 2:30 or 3:30 but it left at 4. And it stopped at Marazion, picking up two older ladies who I recognised from our time at the bus stop, looking slightly more emaciated than before. Eventually we got ‘home’, wiped away the day with no toiletries and started the process of reluctant snacking.
A tad infuriated at how the day had panned out, thank goodness for a five minute walk to Porthkidney Sands. Along a leafy lane, past the chocolate box stonework charm of St Uny’s Church, across the alluring fairways of West Cornwall Golf Club, over grassy dune hummocks in which a rail line somehow weaved. The tide was in, but there was still some sand. And some waves. And some birds. And very, very few people. A chance to breathe again, to experience the magical in West Cornwall. Definitely feeling positive. Both of us.
Do you ever get asked to recount the favourite part of your holiday? Or to share the best thing about <insert multifaceted, dynamic, diverse country you have just visited>? Usually it’s a question posed upon returning home when people want to take an interest but not too much interest. And it’s a struggle to answer.
As an indecisive Libran who treasures so many little things and rarely chooses favourites unless they come from Cadbury, I find it an infuriating question. Just one thing? However, in true contrarian fashion, this year I may just have settled on something. As memories fade with each day, one that stands out stronger than the rest, when time could happily stand still.
I won’t head there yet because I’m going to resume talking about the weather. A gorgeous morning in Plymouth, clear and calm skies offering the best beach prospect of the entire trip. When Plymouth shines usually the South Hams shine stronger. So there is an even greater feeling of despondency as we drift through sunny villages towards a distinct band of cloud. ‘Typical’ is the exasperated utterance of choice. Why didn’t we go west?!
With glimmers of promise becoming sparser, we decamp at Kingsbridge under an atmosphere of light grey. The mission here is to get a bite to eat, and what a mission when there are nine of us. Still, I was surprised to find quite the high street tucked away from the quay, rising up in a Totnes kind of vein. Not enough bakeries and tea shops but I’d already done some noteworthy coffee and cake down by the bus stop.
The cloud was lingering as we arrived at Thurlestone, a site steadily establishing itself as the South Devon go-to beach of choice, mainly because of reasonable parking and accessibility which was made all the stronger by bringing a footstool for that one last big step down to the sand. The beach here is essentially one end of South Milton and while that area involves regimented National Trust-controlled fleecing and pop up Instabars, this quieter side has more of a traditional bury your kids in a hole after they have mild hypothermia from the water kind of vibe.
Certainly my tippy toe experience ascertained hypothermia would take a matter of minutes. But at least in one direction there was hope on the horizon with acres of overhead blue progressively creeping closer. Finally bright spells transform to basking weather, when the outside temperature is marginally warmer than the sea.
Hope was also on the other horizon, or just over a headland. This meant navigating an increasingly naked stretch of South Milton, admiring some highland cows and other bovines. A couple of undulations later and we overlook HopeCove, bustling and bursting, a long way from my first acquaintance with the place a couple of decades ago on a cool and cloudy late winter’s day.
There are a few memories from Hope Cove, the most enduring being on that first occasion, retreating to an empty pub and becoming acquainted with the joys of a perfectly baked treacle tart paired with local clotted cream. It’s something that hasn’t been replicated or improved on since. Today, the pub is busy and treacle tart is absent from the menu. I make do with a dollop of Salcombe Dairy from the general store. There will be sweeter, creamier days ahead.
And so that brings us to Trago Mills, undoubtedly not the highlight of the trip but a necessary forerunner. A space to wait out some time as the day warms up, the sunshine bringing extra sweetness to massive trays of strawberries for a pound. I once remember a friendly debate with an Australian when I lauded the superiority of English berries. And while I concede the blueberries and raspberries are broadly on a par, I challenge anyone in Australia to come up with a strawberry as succulent as that of an English summer. My partner, Avery, says she will never eat an Australian one again. We both can’t handle the disappointment.
What goes with strawberries I hear you say? Cream. Cream also goes with treacle tart and brownie and ice cream and plum pudding and meringue and anything really. Scones of course are the natural partner, a marriage made often in Devon. There is always a risk that the second time round will not live up to the first, but I doth my cap to Lustleigh. And forever will pay it homage.
This is an occasion that lingers, but in a way which sets up a perfect moment in time, a perfect holiday memory. Sated in warm sunshine, meandering along the brook in the village orchard. Through clumps of apples, the swings and benches and thatched roofs and church spire cluster around a tearoom. Avery and I wander, attracted by the vivid blue and green demoiselle zipping above the water. Spread out, family are equally soaking in their own little thing, their own quiet corner of contentment. Time feels like it stands still here and you very much wish you could stand still with it. But we have to move on, there are questions to face.
It’s not the most refined accent. I mean you’re never gonna hear James Bond strut into the Monte Carlo casino and loudly proclaim “tooe fowzund orn red me luverr an whyul yer at itt get me a razzbrie jinn an tonik and a monsder, ulryte.”
Strolling on The Hoe for what seems the umpteenth time, there is nonetheless something welcoming and endearing and genuinely warm in those Janner conversations. From the gentle ribbing of old fellas on the bowling green to the underdressed sass of bored teens flirting with each other like primitive amoeba beside the red and white lighthouse, Welcome to Plymouth. So often a staging post, but also a refuge.
I was exploring The Hoe again on my thrice daily walk from the Crowne Plaza hotel, an unexpected but probably not surprising Covid ‘holiday’ (yes, remember that?!). Booked hastily and not inexpensively with sketchy Wi-Fi I was hopeful for a sea view and comforting extras but, apart from a fluffy dressing gown, we were greeted with concrete wall vistas and an experiment in faded 80s minimalism. All very Plymouth. But still, at least the window opened slightly and I had an outlet into the world.
The need for fresh air was paramount, the problem being the howling winds buffeting against brutalist architecture at three in the morning. It has been rare on this trip to experience a still day, equally as rare to feel hot. At best I think I have felt pleasantly warm three times: an afternoon at Thurlestone, utopia revisited in Lustleigh, and in a tiny Cornish microclimate.
I’ll tell you about them in time but, for now, let’s journey up to Brentor. A landmark church sitting atop a rocky outcrop from which there are sweeping views of Dartmoor and half of Cornwall. Visible as we sauntered around Yelverton, disappearing as we whizzed to its base. As murky and disappointing as a coffee van beverage. One might kindly describe both as atmospheric and moody. Or perhaps just typical.
Still, give it a couple of hours and a helping of Tavistock chilli and all will be swell. Post-lunch sunshine beams down on glowing moorland and hazy glades. Cows amble nonchalantly across the tarmac while sheep chill out on the grass. German caravans pause on single track lanes to admire the zeitgeist.
My brother sates himself on Willys before we soak up the splendour from Cox Tor. Gorse and granite and ponies pepper the surrounds, leading to outlooks upon a wildness that is rare for these isles. As the uplands creep down into river valleys and patchwork fields, an outpost stands resolute in the west. The unmistakable landmark of Brentor, aglow.
Downhill and back in Plymouth there continue intermittent spells of sunshine with which to grasp some form of hope. I quickly adjust to checking the BBC weather app and buy into the unfounded optimism that is going out without an extra layer in August. And briefly it seems the right call, as sun breaks through on the Barbican and we can sup on okay coffee as oversized seagulls strut their stuff and oversized men in green shirts strut theirs.
Then we head to Argyle and a gloom sets in. A chill wind, a portent of life under Rooney perhaps? Sure we have a padded seat and two free, unsurprisingly mediocre pasties, but that wind is reminiscent of a 0-0 draw in February against Grimsby rather than a lively one-all in August versus Hull. I have been there countless times.
I sit and wonder what Avery thinks of thousands of grown men and women belting out Janners? A what-the-heck moment both incredulous and incredible. I sense some awe and bemusement, and she embraces the moment by pulling on a recently purchased argyle top. Mostly because of that chill.
Travelling with someone coming to England for the first time you can tend to forget all this is a little weird. Like meal deals and massive bumblebees and little dogs on trains heading for a day out in the drizzle. Not to mention the size of those seagulls. All I notice that’s different are bottle tops no longer separable from their hosts. Out of habit, I endeavour to tear them apart anyway, frequent dribble resulting on my pants.
A local trait I may have lost is to not put too much trust in the weather forecast, although this results in occasional merry times when it surpasses expectations as well as the regular underperformance. Scones in a shower at Mount Edgecumbe? Why not, especially since this is the last such occasion (scones not showers) for the year. And the sun will radiate in the thousands of flowers and the warmth of loved ones anyway.
Having low expectations is the birthright of a Plymothian (and is most manifest when it comes to Argyle). So it is a merry time in and around Noss Mayo when the clouds hold back. A walk of such dear character, of such Devonian charm. Farmhouses (or Airbnbs) surrounded by fields of wheat, cows and sheep peeking above the hedgerows, true blue sea and green, green grass, cottages, flowers and bunting galore. A pub on the water, a Ploughman’s and some local murky brew like Otter’s Arse. All just in time before the sumptuous plop of a first raindrop.
The rain sets in on the Barbican. We hunker down in a café and bike shop, optimistic about the chances of decent coffee when it’s associated with Lycra. It’s not bad; the flat whites remain too small and strong and the lattes a little weak. All they need to do is find that middle ground. Maybe one or two more years.
I’ll be back to taste. Next week, next year. Always Plymouth, Janners, Seagulls and all. Semper Fidelis.
Sky fades to pastel as the sun sinks west. City lights twinkle in haphazard fashion, playing illuminated noughts and crosses on towers of glass. A glow shimmers off the water as a ferry glides through. There is a hum and buzz and the squawk of a seagull, amplified many times over by that of a hen party. Glasses clink under the off-white orbs of an opera house. We have cocktails. And toast the Sydney sweet spot.
It takes a while to get there, and a great deal of patience and effort and cost. Sydney is not the easiest of erstwhile friends, rarely offering a simple parking spot or vacant intersection or route untainted by a hefty toll. And, rather than chill things out, Easter seems to exacerbate them, as everyone wants to do the exact same thing in the exact same place.
Undeniably the city is at its most accommodating on a ferry, but you have to first get to the ferry and then hope you can get on. Yet, aboard, the veer right around Bradleys Head never fails to provoke a slight tingle, a just about pinch yourself moment of relief. An unfolding panorama of a city skyline flanked by prized jewels. You can see this feeling on the face of others too.
Rewind a few days and it’s not too dissimilar a mixture of frustration and delight in the Blue Mountains. Even on a weekday the lookouts are popular and – in parts – pricey. Staying here overnight helps, day trippers dissipating and local councils offering a rare parking freebie after six. With the going down of the sun, remnants of hubbub coalesce on top, gazing over the edge at that most natural of wonder. Space.
The Blue Mountains proves a good Mum spot. Many of the best lookouts are easily accessible. There are countless cafes for coffee and chocolate and cake. There are – of course – snapshots of a landscape that will etch memories for a lifetime. And there is the option to embrace a range of these vistas from a cablecar or railway. Swiss style.
Scenic World is exactly the kind of tourist trap I would normally tend to avoid. But with exaltations from that pioneering election night loser, Portillo, and the benefit of easy accessibility and free parking, it proves a no brainer. A cool cloudy start up top breaks as we plunge rapidly down into the Jamison Valley, courtesy of the much proclaimed steepest railway in the world. For once, not only the Southern Hemisphere.
The experience is akin to the dive of a rollercoaster, including that initial gentle roll forward that kids you that this is all going to be rather pleasant and somewhat overhyped. But hold on folks, and hope your bag and walking stick is tethered. All this is quite surreal when you look around and realise you are not hurtling toward a gaudy pleasure beach but gazing upon a UNESCO world heritage listed wilderness.
Down amongst the millions of trees there is now a boardwalk, complete with fairy lights and Gruffalo trails and scuffling lyrebirds. This links up with a cablecar which can take you back up top, where you can either plunge down ad nauseum (we go one more time) or take another cablecar over a small canyon carved by Katoomba Falls. Up here you can also buy many, many varieties of cuddly Australian marsupial in the gift shop or even some stodgy pizza. We opt for a more refined lunch in nearby Leura.
After lunch we make note of places for a potential afternoon treat. In between food, a stop at Sublime Point for another sublime view. Only here we were stung by parking for a mere 20 minutes and a rockiness just a little too severe for Mum. The pain eased by an overdose of chocolate back in Leura.
I wouldn’t say all we did was eat and congregate atop spectacular viewpoints. But with evening light fading within the Grose Valley and a quick stop off for megalithic outlooks at Evans Lookout, the day culminated with leftover chicken and salad at Govetts Leap. Peace and serenity among the drama, a fitting end to wild Australian majesty fading into the dark.
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Coming down the mountains was a quiet affair, the back road via Bell and Bilpin feeling remote and sombre as clouds lowered upon densely clad hills. Fine drizzle intermittently coated the windscreen, necessitating frequent adjustment of wiper speeds. It wasn’t as inspiring as I would have liked at Mount Tomah, the Botanic Gardens offering mediocre coffee among a commendable variety of plants, not quite dazzling in an autumn peak. For the first time on Mum’s trip, a pervading feeling of winter crept onto the horizon.
A scrumptious apple crumble slice lifted spirits in Bilpin, even if we sat and ate it in the car, British style, as rain gathered force. It was only a passing shower, a few more grazing the route down into Sydney, where summer swiftly returned. Here at last to a city high on bucket lists and – on balance – rightfully so. Especially when you can find that sweet spot.
Sydney attracts people from all over the world and high among them are the Irish. It was a very large coincidence that a few weeks before, flicking through TV channels in despair, I stumbled upon Sydney Weekender. A largely vacuous program plugging the merits of Sydney and surrounds, a feature on food options alerted me to Big Dave’s Chipper. Big Dave himself was the star attraction, promoting his authentic and barely nutritious Irish cuisine and what looked like ‘proper chips’. The chunky sort that may just come with ‘proper vinegar’ if, like Mum, you protest loud enough.
We sat and ate them overlooking a choppy ocean near Maroubra. This meant accumulation of tolls that continued apace all weekend, transitioning from south to north to south to east and inadvertently through city tunnels. We were staying north, up on a hill among lush ferns and frangipani with rainbow lorikeets for curious company. A quiet Ramsay Street in the suburbs a short drive from Manly, with free, on-street parking.
Manly itself was another matter. A fine place to feel and smell the ocean air, to breathe in Australia with its surfboards and vitality and golden prospects, so enviable in many ways. A drawcard for many, many people on a Good Friday, transported by frequent ferries and occasional bus services and millions of cars. Cars congregating along every single street, making it especially challenging to find an empty spot and jump on a ferry into town.
I circled for a good 30 minutes before luck came my way, and achievements followed, namely parallel parking a hire car on a steep slope in a four hour space little wider than a hire car. It was a decent walk to the ferry terminal from here, but close enough to launch a foray onto that harbour, around Bradleys Head, towards that iconic skyline. Docking at Circular Quay to mill around like everyone else, ants drawn like honey to the white shells of an opera house.
So much for people escaping Sydney over the Easter holidays. They were all here and pretty much everywhere else too. A few escapes into the bush provided some relief and – on terra firma at Bradleys Head – million dollar views without million dollar parking. Our lodgings also offered a breather from being one of the tourists. All too briefly a place we could pretend at living a privileged Sydney life.
While it was tempting to linger on the deck with the lorikeets, Easter Sunday was the last full day of Mum’s visit to Australia. There was one gaping hole to be filled, one superlative cliché to pop in the bucket. For any Brit, Australia is as much about Bondi as it is kangaroos and cork-strewn hats. Sweltering in late summer heat, thousands of people browning and reddening and frolicking in the surf.
We stopped for little more than 30 minutes for obligatory photos, before heading to Watsons Bay for what I envisioned would be a fine, lazy lunch. The reality proved a no-go, an impossibility, a narrow isthmus way beyond capacity. So a quick brainwave drove me towards Bondi Junction and the Southern Hemisphere’s most scenic Westfield food court. It was blissfully quiet here and easy to park too. Suspiciously so. Westfield was closed, and by now travellers were getting a little hot and bothered.
And so, just down the hill from our Airbnb, we resorted to some takeaway at two in the afternoon. I know the Koreans love this stuff for Christmas, but I hadn’t really imagined we would be having KFC as Easter lunch. It was hardly living the glamorous Sydney life. And while hunger ensured it went down with satisfaction, I was keen for this whole game to be lifted.
Cue a post-nap turnaround, an ‘ah f*ck it, let’s get an Uber, and have some cocktails.’ Dropped off close to Manly Wharf, squeezing on a ferry again, passing Bradleys Head, entering Circular Quay as the sun heads under the bridge and towards the horizon. A table underneath an icon, a bustling hum, a squawking seagull, twinkling city lights. Cocktails and snacks and a cool relief of a breeze. A sweet spot amplified by all the love. Park right here.
Alongside death and taxes it seems a certainty in life that you will be greeted by heavy rain on your first day of holiday. This after many weeks of glorious weather, hotter-than-average temperatures, and hours stuck inside on a computer, gazing out at it all.
I suppose it was all due, departing a chilly Queanbeyan car pick up point, heading into weather fronts through Bungendore and Braidwood and down the sliding mountain road to Batemans Bay. At least there was finally rationale in Mum packing a raincoat and good sense in waiting out a particularly heavy burst in the shopping mall.
Back it is to BOM radar viewing then. This was more promising than times past and a gap allowed at least a foray to the waterfront for a big bowl of prawns and some deep fried snack packs. Eating passes time and weather fronts and when we made it through the majestic forests and potholes of Mt Agony Road, the sun appeared to enliven the greens, blues and yellows of Pebbly Beach. Sopping wet kangaroos sought vantages from which to dry, positioned perfectly for wandering tourists to capture Australia. Potholes also dried out a bit.
Almost unbelievably the rest of the day featured ice creams and dips in the pool and one of those early evening ambles on MollymookBeach that bring a singular satisfaction that can only be fostered by golden light with seaside sounds and sandy, salty sensations. Hardly a wash out.
Still, a potential wash out was forecast for later in the week so with fair weather we hot-footed it to Jervis Bay the next day. Things started a little cloudy but were blessedly calm; calm enough to exit the marina at Huskisson and venture out looking for dolphins. A distant flap in the water proved a signal beckoning the boat to hang out with them for a good hour or so. Animals and humans enjoying the ride.
The day won’t get too much worse with lunch among the spotted gums and an almost empty white sand and aqua bay. And while Mum was more than content to bask in the middle of Greenfield Beach I conformed to type and wandered off into the trees and out upon another almost empty white sandy beach.
With boat trips and beaches this may have been peak holiday, the only blip being the iced coffee hastily gathered in Vincentia. It is rare that I would waste something but Mum and I agreed this would be better served to the plants than to us. We’d make up for it with cocktails later.
And so to make the day even more insufferable we gathered at the Pool Bar at Bannisters Point as the daylight faded to gold and red and indigo and black. Yes, it is the cheaper option to Rick Stein’s seafood restaurant next door but with what I imagine is less formality and fewer bisques. The salt content – if you have ever seen one of Rick’s TV shows where he adds just “a little pinch” – was certainly on point.
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And so to that day of heavy rain which turned out to be an early morning spell of rain clearing to drizzle and mackerel skies. Among all the excess it was kind of nice just to mull around; to dawdle over breakfast, to take a short drive out for morning coffee, to lightly lunch and to nap. It was far from a write off either, with steps gained on a looping afternoon ramble around Mollymook itself while Mum prepared a warming, home-cooked dinner to go with some wine.
And with that day ticked off, the next was certainly clearer if a little cool thanks to a wind change. The kind of breeze that sets you thinking where can I go to maximise advantage of the sun with natural shelter? Well, bustling Milton wasn’t such a bad start, basking in the concrete next to the Princes Highway, coffee on tap. And then along many a bend to the peaceful shores of Bendalong, for a spot of paradise.
It wasn’t the friendly rays or the handsome bay or, indeed, shelter from forest that put Bendalong a touch above. It was our very own ocean swimming pool, formed by a quirk of tide and rock. A clear water haven warmed and bejewelled by the sun. A gentle place to wallow.
A fitting final taste of the beach, before a fitting final dinner. Sure, it was at Mollymook Golf Club which was less Pringle sweaters and plus fours and more meat raffles and franking credits. I’d usually do my best to avoid an establishment where you need a membership card, one additionally thriving from the misery of gambling addiction. But it was nearby, had a reasonable menu and – with a little extra effort to snare a table – oceanside views.
Perfect to watch as surf rowers charge full on over the first white cap, the reddening sun lengthening shadows and softening the skies. Gulls scatter and soar while – finally – the last winning ticket of the never-ending meat raffle is loudly aired. A few murmurs, the odd shuffle and – now all out of slabs of minute steak and glutenous pink snags – the club practically empties. Until next week.
For Mum and I it is until some other time and probably some other place. We linger one final morning beside the sea before meandering towards charming towns and verdant valleys of the Highlands, pausing to admire precipitous falls and rugged sandstone wilderness. A taster of – come rain or, more likely, shine – a little more still to come.
gbpilgrim 