Walking – Page 9 – gbpilgrim

November 18, 2015November 18, 2015

Swiss day out

The number 61 bus from Annemasse Gare to Geneve Cornavin seems to pass as one of the longest short journeys around. I don’t know what it is about it…perhaps the trundle through France, with its oil-stained Renault workshops and flashing green pharmacie signs? Or maybe the sombreness of being beneath a Leman gloom cloud, omnipresent in early November? Though a seamless (at least then) border crossing sweeps you into a more sanitised array of Swiss shops and streets, the rattling and bending and last-gasp stopping continues apace. Stylishness and affluence glides in, bag ladies and yoof dribble out. No-one, ever, stands up for anybody else, achieved (for those rare species without tablets and phones) through an accomplished display of middle-distance gazing, looking at nothing or no-one in particular.

The journey only takes forty minutes or so, which is considerably longer than the one hour, thirty six minutes and forty nine seconds it took me to travel almost all of the Piccadilly line (from Oakwood) to Heathrow, which in itself was longer than the flight duration from London to Geneva. But this bus feels the longest trip of the lot, and it is with relief and excitement that you find yourself at the virtual terminus of the Swiss railway network (not to mention round the corner from Manor).

Looking for something to do – for lake cloud to escape and bendy buses to flee – I availed myself of a Lake Geneva – Alps Regional Pass. It took some finding, for there is nothing the Swiss seem to like more (well, apart from chocolate, cheese, and referenda) than a convoluted array of rail passes, network zones and travel conditions, all in French, German, English and occasional Italian. I could get a Swiss Card for a half-priced fare, or a one-day whole-of-SBBCFFFFS roamer, or a Zug Snausserhorn Goldenpass or maybe a Cloud Cuckooclockland permit, with 70% discount on VIP chocolate train seats instead? What is certain is that no Swiss person will ever pay a full fare and that – despite such ticketing intricacies – the trains will still run like a well-worn cliché involving clock mechanisms.

It’s not just the timeliness of the trains, but the efficiency of connections, something which never fails to evoke wonder amongst travellers bred on a discombobulated British rail system or faced with a practically non-existent Australian one. Connections to other cantons and cities and major towns, but also to tiny villages, hay sheds and pieces of rock in the middle of nowhere. Like Montreux – upon glittering Leman shores – to Rochers de Naye, some two thousand metres in the sky.

Lake cloud which started to fragment in Lausanne had virtually evaporated by the time I reached Montreux, for my seven minute transfer to platform 10 and the Rochers de Naye train. Departing exactly at 09:47 as planned, the two cogwheel carriages made no bones about it and immediately veered sharply upwards, through a tunnel and out onto sun-filled plateaus coated with luminous autumn foliage and expensive views.

Riviera homes for bankers, third rate Swiss pop stars and dairy farmers alike slowly passed by, and occasional stops in the middle of nowhere allowed regulars to jump off to reach their hidden retreat in the woods. While some stations resembled the genuine thing sited in proper villages, other stops were little more than a plank of wood or a metal gate. Here, the train would briefly pause on a 50% gradient, before rolling a tad backwards in a disconcerting motion accompanied by a grinding shriek of metal on metal. You could almost smell the sparks as Sepp hopped off and waved a cheery goodbye to Michel, brown envelope in hand, as though this was the most normal thing in the world.

With altitude the ‘suburban’ stops fade and only walkers and the curious remain at this time of the year. Many of the walkers disembark at the Col de Jaman to walk up the nearby bulbous lump that is the Dent de Jaman. The curious – such as I – stay seated, dedicated to reaching their highs the easier way.

One final climb through a pitch black tunnel makes the dazzle of reasonably fresh snow all the more blinding. Such is the drama of the journey, the top station is a touch underwhelming. A few views are spoiled by ski infrastructure, while building work distracts from an overpriced and bitter coffee in the cafe. A couple of goats offer mild amusement but the jardin alpin is closed for the season. Fortunately there is a higher viewpoint from here, up a short series of switchbacks, from which Switzerland – and France – is on view.

And what a view. A long way down, Lake Geneva cuts a swathe like a bloated boomerang westwards. Beyond lumpy outcrops and hills forested dark green and charred red, the lakeside towns – Montreux, Vevey, Lausanne and others – portray one elongated urban jungle. Occasional tower blocks, cranes, churches, chateaus can be picked out, while the curvature of the rail line up from there resembles some kind of herculean bobsleigh run. The alternate side of the lake sits hazily desolate, hemmed in by the pile of Haute Savoie dents, cols and monts. On the horizon, the thin line of the Jura hovers above the remaining cloud, still seemingly enveloping Geneva.

And that is just the westward view. In all other directions, a sweeping panorama of snow-capped peaks and plunging valleys reaches out into the distance. The behemoths of the Bernese Oberland pierce the sky, pointed and rutted and sharpened and sculpted. Pillars of rock – too precipitous to catch the snow – endure; like resistant teeth in a seven year old’s mouth. This raggedy snowline fades into darkly forested slopes and meadows tinged brown by the passing summer.

There is still warmth in those upland valleys, a sun-trap that allows for wearing of T-shirts, particularly when walking uphill. Keen to take advantage of this unexpected vestige of a rapidly fading summer, I embarked on a circular walk pieced together with my Rochers de Naye leaflet and snatches of online maps for crucial moments of decision and misdirection.

Following a ridge gradually down from the viewpoint, I reached a junction: one way back through a small valley to the top station, or another down alongside a rock face to the Col de Jaman. Somewhere within this hulk of rock the train burrows through, while humans have to inch their way around on slate ledges and avalanche rubble. The route understandably prefaced with warnings involving sturdy footwear, slipperiness, and crumbling pieces of mountain made it an easy decision: lunch on a sunny patch of grass with a spectacular view, before heading back up the valley.

Thus it was that I found myself down to a T-shirt (and trousers!) while walking through snow. The snow had obviously thinned as the day had progressed, but remained thick enough to obscure the last part of the trail up to the top station. Warm, slightly breathless, low on water…I could see the appeal of taking the train now, which again emerged out of its tunnel to taunt me. It was heading down, and – after safely completing my walk – I was to join it.

I could have plunged all the way back down to lake level but – determined to make the most of this wonderful weather (not to mention my expertly discovered rail pass) – I paused at the Col de Jaman station. Walkers were still setting off to conquer the lump nearby and close up it didn’t seem too bad. Switchbacks yes, but nothing that would cause undue alarm for someone with sturdy footwear and good heart. Maybe on another day, but today I was content to bathe in the sunshine accompanied by the remainder of my giant Raclette pretzel bought from the kings of Cornavin.

My final stop on the way down was somewhat spontaneous and turned rather fortuitous. I had made a note of Glion on the way up, purely because of the splendid views down to the lake and across to surrounding mountains, sweeping their way into the Valais. The foliage too – on this lower south facing terrace – was something to cherish in the eruption of autumn. Through the leaves and branches, glimpses of glassy water would emerge, encircled by the mountains rising upwards through the valley haze.

The outlook was so alluring, the late afternoon light so enchanting, that I set off walking and carried on without really knowing where I was going. I assumed – given the gentle downward gradient of the lane I followed – that I would end up somewhere by the lake, from which an efficient and comfortable Swiss train would be waiting. Few cars bothered me, while occasional grand houses and health retreats sprung up on the slopes between the trees. At a kink in the road, passing two farmhouses, the view again opened out to reveal the colourful wooded hillsides tumbling down towards the lake, with a hint of winter looming upon the distant Dents du Midi.

For all the fun of the train I was glad to complete this final part of the descent on foot, each turn revealing a looming mountain, glimpse of water or avenue of bronze. Merrily marching, time whizzed by and before long I did indeed reach the outskirts of Montreux, a feat achieved more through instinct than design. A long straight balcony of a road continued to descend, each house and villa passed with a tinge of envy and click of a camera. A churchyard offered one final panorama as the sun started to graze the tops of the peaks to the southwest before dipping beyond. In such a setting, even I might be tempted to attend Sunday service here.

No doubt if I had stayed on the train descending all the way to Montreux I would have had such a simple and effective connection that I would be back in Geneva by now. Instead, arriving at the station on foot I managed to miss a train by a matter of minutes. The next was a whopping forty-five minutes away, an incredulous amount of time given Swiss standards. However, despite gathering weariness that comes with a 5:30am start and a ride on the 61 bus, I inched on down to the lake shore, feeling fortunate in the end to have missed that train…

Such was the beauty of the day, the charm of the late afternoon, the ambience of the evening as the last light faded I was tempted to stay for some dinner and catch a late train back. Perhaps if I did I would not have had to – shockingly –stand in the vestibule of a railway carriage, at least until Vevey. It turns out (relative) congestion sometimes exists in Switzerland too.*

No such problems back in Geneva, with a seat on the 61 to push through the darkness and over into France, eventually. Some of the people – enduring a long, hard day of low-taxing money making – were quite probably on the same bus as me this morning, staring absently into the middle distance. Their laborious daily commute was my stroke of fortune, a crucial cog taking me to the top of a mountain and back. An unappreciated, maligned link in a great continental railway – and now bus – journey.

* I should add, trains can run late as well. On another journey of mine the train was once running four minutes late departing Lausanne. The conductor was beside himself with contrition and pleaded to the gods that this had not caused any inconvenience to anyone whatsoever.

November 12, 2015November 12, 2015

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The times, they are a changing

Okay, the southwest of England is driving me to distraction, what with its salty fishing villages, sweeping expanses of surf-hit sand, babbling rivers trundling though woodland, and rolling, empty moors. There is also only so much Cornationendersfarm City that one can take, so, come the end of October, a change of scenery proved timely.

To Basingstoke and a stopover en route to London. A stopover providing what must be the culmination of the autumn season, full of colour despite a grey day. Virginia Water conjures up Peter Alliss blather, Major Stockington-Breeches-Follybottom, faux-Greco-Roman palatial commuter estates and an endless array of Lycra and leggings jogging with pricey strollers in hand. It is Surrey leafiness typified, fringing the regal Great Windsor Park. A place that remains welcomingly open to all, Range Rover, Lycra, knighthood or no.

On what must have been one of our more sedate walks, Dad and I set off to circumnavigate the water in a higgledy-piggledy fashion thanks to the allure of various trees and shrubs and leafy avenues peppered with colour. I don’t know if it’s the extra pollution, the degree or two increased warmth, the absence of ocean or – simply – the exotic plantings pillaged from the colonies, but everything was a lot more colourful than back in the southwest. And just as distracting.

Eventually, we reached the end of the water, crossing the bridge and turning back for home, still some several kilometres though further leafiness, lakeside reflection, and ornamental falls. Despite the gentle pace, the walk became a little weary and there was a palpable sense of the faded glory that comes with descent into autumn and, then, the foreboding of winter. Jets occasionally screeching overhead from Heathrow, dankness in the air, it was evocative of an imminent departure back to Australia. But not this year, for I will taste (hopefully) just a touch of winter.

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An extra hour in bed. That is the pitiful recompense so heartily proclaimed in an attempt to offset the despair of the sun setting at half four. For me though, this meant an extra hour to spend in Norfolk, which – given I had never set foot in the county before – seemed only fair to do it justice.

It could have been Australia – there was the company of Jill and Caroline, a very good coffee, some sunshine, sandy beaches, wildlife and lots of boatpeople. But it also obviously wasn’t. Drizzle, roast dinners, M&S and numerous buildings in Norwich dating back at least more than a hundred years signified what end of the world this particular Old at Heart tour was cosily embedded within.

Sunday morning in the village of Acle was just a tad brighter than usual, thanks to that shift in space and time that may or may not signal the start of winter. Watery sunshine evolved over the day, illuminating the Norfolk Broads into a swathe of silvery reflections and golden reeds. The closest resemblance I could (laughably) make was to the Florida Everglades, though with fewer alligators and slightly more bumpkins pushing wheelbarrows to the village shop to buy fork handles.

A delicious Sunday roast beside the water drifted into the dramatically shortened afternoon, leaving just an hour or so of soft, gorgeous light to explore the coast. Horsey Beach provided a remote seascape of gently rising dunes, collapsing into fine sand running like a protective ribbon along the perimeter of eastern England. A procession of groynes held it all together, occasional slippages and collapsed dunes testament to its precarious instability.

Upon this spacious sanctuary, clusters of people stood in small arcs, as if participating in some kind of Sunday service towards the gods of the sea. Closer up and cameras and selfies and standing about in wellies talking about mating was more the order of the day. Seals – and a good many of them – were the attraction. Lounging about, agitated with the waves, occasional grumpiness spilling over into aggression, they were quite mesmerising to watch. Something pure and pristine in this regularly despoiled of isles. Carrying on doing their thing, as they fade into the shade of the towering dunes, lapped by a frigid sea as the sun flames red and darkness begins to fall. And all before five o’clock.

Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

November 5, 2015

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October, revised

If I had been diligent and conscientious and just a little more bored, I could have written something about the month of October by now (as well as July, August and September). I would probably have discussed the drawing in of the northern hemisphere nights and the first big storms barrelling in from the Atlantic. Meanwhile, down in the southern half of the globe, shorts and bushfires would be a genuine topic for discussion yet again.

As it happens, October 2015 has been somewhat benign, at least in the southwest corner of England in which I have mostly lingered. And I have been perfectly content to linger there, what with this benign weather and all. I do believe we endured two whole weeks without a single drop of rain, an occurrence putting many outside of their comfort zone. At the start of the month I got away with a few hours in shorts, and the dry weather appeared to encourage farmers to set fire to things. On a beach, near Padstow, in an ashen blue sky air, T-shirt adorned, it could almost have been Australia.

One day of particular breathlessness spurred me to get on a bike, reassured that I would not face a headwind of Atlantic gale proportions. Hiring two wheels from Wadebridge, I rode much of the Camel Trail, only wishing that I was on my own more comfortable machine which languishes back in Canberra. Breathless from forty kilometres of riding through breathless scenery in breathless air. It was not quite Vancouver high, but the experience provided much to enjoy, including an inevitable stop for Rick’s fish and chips, well-earned.

Around the corner from Padstow another day offered something a little more sedate, though with just as much, if not more, breathlessness in the scenery department. A stop for coffee overlooking Watergate Bay (coffee=acceptable and worth revisiting) preceded a jaunt along the cliff line overlooking Bedruthan Steps. Here stands the archetypal grandeur of the North Cornish coast, carved and sculpted by The Atlantic, still relatively benign. And upon these mighty shores, the National Trust serves delectable treats from their cafe…potatoes as giant as the rocks and wedges of ham as thick as the surf.

T-shirts and scrumptious food at Bedruthan became a happily common theme for a few days, transferred to settings closer to Plymouth. A visit to Mount Edgecumbe offered discovery of a good lunch spot and welcome to an autumn, though at times it was hard to distinguish this from spring within the formal gardens. A couple of afternoon hours at Wembury proffered sunlit sea, coffee and cake. Meanwhile the steady climb up to the Dewerstone from Shaugh Bridge was sweat-inducing, relieved by a home-made sandwich that hit the mark like only home-made sandwiches sometimes can.

Plenty of leaves remain on the trees, but despite the best efforts of the weather the signs of autumn ever-so-subtly emerge. No Atlantic storms, but more and more tinges of yellow and gold, fading to dour brown, eventually to carpet the land and decompose into treacherous sludge. Sweeping moors are turned to rust by the bracken which dwindles under a lowering sun. Offers for Roses and Celebrations pepper the shops, a proliferation of karaoke singers and pantomime dancers parade on TV, and Argyle are still top of the league.

Quite possibly the best thing about this time though is the fact that Devon and Cornwall can return to some kind of quiet normality without flocks of marauding caravans and plagues of Daves from Dudley. The roads are quieter, car parks cheaper, dogs are (alas) allowed back on the beaches, even though it seems they were never off them in the first place. Sometimes you feel you have this land to yourself and it really is a quiet little backwater in our giant world.

And so, there I was, rarely bumping into anything other than the odd pheasant down in the Roseland Peninsula. A farm track took me out to Dodman Point, high above a placid silver sea pierced by the occasional trawler chugging back towards Mevagissey. Around the headland, Anvil Beach was – this time – peppered only by one or two souls, some inevitably allowing their dogs to run wild.

The tangle of tiny roads and time of year seems to make this area a backwater amongst backwaters. The seemingly vast Caerhays Estate hosts a few timeless hamlets, invariably reached by a steep decline toward the sea or a severe kink in the wooded lanes. At Portholland, chatter over a cup of tea rises into the gentle afternoon sun, while at Portloe, it is though you are transferred to a Polperro without the masses, sitting quietly content amongst its pockmarked coves. Here, as the afternoon quickly fades there are signs of closure, of people battening down the hatches, of a looming change to be embraced sometime soon. The Atlantic storms will roll in, but perhaps we will just have to wait until November for that.

Food & Drink Great Britain Green Bogey Walking

October 16, 2015

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Seventh Heaven

I experience inevitable pangs of longing as pictures of Floriade, flat whites and thongs in thirty degrees Celsius begin to infiltrate my Instagram feed. Suddenly (and quite dramatically this year it seems) the balance tips and before you know it the people of Canberra will be cycling blissfully along the lake in bushfire smoke. I would be quite happy to throw on some shorts, pedal down to Penny University for a coffee, pop back to Manuka for some takeaway Mees Sushi rolls, have a nap if the squawking birds allow, and then watch the shadows lengthen on Red Hill. Still, I could fairly easily be doing that this time next week if I chose to.

The day will come, but not yet. There have been, and still are, plenty of good reasons to linger in the northern hemisphere. The recent weather has been better than it was in August, though the days shorten and wind now has a bite. As September trickled into October, autumn itself appeared on hold. Seven days with barely a cloud, and even those were as fluffily white as the sheep. Seven days in which I again got distracted. Seriously…

Sunday

A morning walk on the moors, what better way to absorb the clear air and open space? Intending to go to one spot, I ended up at another, but that can often be the way with Dartmoor. Squeezing through Horrabridge and up to Whitchurch Down, the setting looked exquisite enough to not need go any further.

I think I ended up climbing to a clump of rocks known as Pew Tor but I didn’t know this at the time. It seems apt, since several rows of disorderly granite offered exemplary seating to watch proceedings across to Merivale and Great Mis Tor and down the moor into the Tavy and Tamar Valleys. Brentor was there (again) as were the beacons of Bodmin Moor across the border. A seat for a Sunday morning service I don’t mind attending.

Monday

I had duties to perform but duties that only served to add an extra layer of holiday feeling not at all conducive to working. The A38 and M5 – often a scene of holiday hell – acted as a gateway to Bristol Airport and temporary disposal of the parents. I could’ve just turned around and come back to revel in my newly found again freedom, but that little stretch of road between the M5 and Bristol Airport is just so lush that it seems a waste to pass it by. Especially when I can zip off my legs, eat ice cream and toil atop Cheddar Gorge.

Steep climbs made a warm sun feel hot. Only brief glimpses of gorge and harsh but inevitable comparison with the many amazing chasms of Australia put this one close to the wrong side of the effort-reward ratio. Still, the rolling Mendips and glary Somerset levels offered an appealing backdrop, and the effort was ample to justify a wedge of clothbound, cave matured, genuine Cheddar.

Anyway, the weather was of course A-MAZE-BALLS and I may have added to my dirty tan. It certainly did not feel like autumn, despite a few sneaky clues emerging in shadier spots. Who needs Ibiza? Even the drive back on the M5 and A38 was quite a pleasure, as if one was heading west on holiday oneself. Which one pretty much was.

Such gloriousness spurred me to an impromptu, upwards detour as the sun lowered across Devon. Up to Haytor to see the last, laser hues of sunlight projected Uluru-like on the grey granite. Shorts still on, but not exactly appropriate. Cooler nights ahead, but clear and calm days to linger.

Tuesday

For balance, I completed some chores and did some work. But by about four o’clock that became tiresome and the sun was still taunting me through the window. So I hopped over on the Torpoint ferry to Whitsand Bay, parked up and walked out to Rame Head.

What gorgeousness in the shelter of the east wind, the sunlight cast low upon the rugged line of cliffs stretching to Looe. What good fortune to still be able to do this so late in the day, after being unusually productive. And what a nice spot to watch the sun go out again, the end of another year accomplished.

Wednesday

If I was to design my own exemplary birthday present it would probably involve a sparkling drive across the rolling countryside of eastern Cornwall. I would reach the north coast at Boscastle, where I would sip on a reasonable coffee by the water before moving on to Tintagel for a more than reasonable pasty. Crumbly fudge may also be picked up via this route as an optional but inevitable extra. Interspersed between the eating would be cliff top walks under a big blue sky, the sound of ocean waves rising from the caves and coves of the coastline. Yes, the coffee could be still better, and the weather still warmer, but I sense a contentment of such simple things with age. Tintagel Island my cake, a steak and stilton pasty the candle on top.

Thursday

Older, wiser, even more prone to daytime napping, I again used the day in a semi-productive manner with frequent interruptions. A few spots of cloud came and went and the hours ticked on by to leave me with yet another end of day outing. Somewhere handy and close would do the job, and while the inlets of Plymouth Sound and cars of the city are detrimental to handiness, the views from nearby Jennycliff still manage to do the job. Goodbye sunshine, see you again tomorrow.

Friday

Having barely ventured outside of the Plymouth city borders yesterday (a few steps on the coast path veering into the South Hams), corrective action was necessary on what was shaping into yet another sunny and mild day. This fine weather is getting tediously predictable, yet I still feel the urge to make as much of it as I can, because surely tomorrow will be worse. And so, ship shape and Bristol fashion, it’s off to Salcombe we go.

I think it’s fair to make a sweeping generalisation and say that Salcombe is in a more upmarket corner of Devon. Upmarket in the ships ahoy, jolly poor showing by the English against those Colonials I say dear boy mode. The Daily Mail is the predominant manifesto of choice amongst a bowls club of stripy sweaters keeping a keen eye on the watery horizon for any unwanted intruders. And, across the river – at East Portlemouth – high fences of hydrangeas protect expensive views and private beaches.

Thankfully there are access points for commoners who make the effort. The ferry – manned by a servant with pleasingly gruff countenance – bobs back and forth to link town with East Port (as the locals probably call it). The fine, golden sand of Mill Bay is perfectly accessible, as long as you abide by the many rules and regulations set out on the Charter of Public Citizen Access as endorsed by the Board of Her Majesty’s Quarterdecks and Royal Commonwealth Bridge Club. The National Trust – a more agreeable British institution – have usurped some of the land nearby for all to use, and this takes you round to a couple more secluded bays and out back into the wilds.

Now, the clipped hedges and accents fade, paralleled by a spilling out of protected estuary into untamed sea. A yacht bravely ventures out past Bolt Head and into the deep blue. A sea which is looking fairly placid today, reflecting much warmth towards bare cliffs and making me legless for the second time in a week. For some reason I am reminded of a tiny stretch of rare undeveloped Spanish coast between Cartagena and La Manga. Warm, barren, secluded. A palette seemingly burnished by the sun.

There are a few people for company out in the wilds, especially upon reaching Gara Rock Beach. An old man on some rocks seems to glare at me as if I was wearing a fluorescent pink onesie emblazoned with the words ‘LOOK AT ME’ or something. Only when he gets the binoculars out do I realise his penchant for birdlife, and my likely noisy clambering disturbing a pair of superb tits. A scattering of people bathe on the sands, while fellow ramblers wheeze their way up to the cafe seventy five metres above.

Ah the cafe. I am back in Salcombe, with its crayfish pine nut salads and cedar-pressed Prosecco, served on a deck all wood planks and reinforced glass. Torn between two worlds, I resist and plough on down through woodland with my homemade cheese and ham and – a little in keeping – avocado sandwich. Back in town, an ice cream from Salcombe Dairy perfectly caps it off, a delight that anyone can most definitely enjoy on a day such as this.

Saturday

And so we are back where we began. Or, to be precise, back where I had intended to begin a week ago: at the top of Pork Hill between Tavistock and Merivale and heading into the heart of empty, high Dartmoor. Late day light replaces that of mid morning, but the scene is much the same. Perhaps the grass is a little more yellow and the bogs a little less swampy. The sheep are thirsty and the ponies unfathomably shelter in early October shadows. Small white clouds swiftly pass on the steady breeze, projecting speckles of shadow on a landscape devoid of much at all. One small farmhouse lingers in the fringe lands of the valley. Tors rupture and balance in a haphazard jigsaw of granite. At Roos Tor, there are no roos to be seen, but I am perfectly fine with that. For now, in such magic weather, with such a magic week, there is nowhere better.

(Sunday: It was cloudy, I napped and had roast dinner)

Food & Drink Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

October 10, 2015October 19, 2015

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Walking in an unknown wonderland

A few weeks back I ventured bravely into the unknown, leaving the comforting bosom of Devon and Cornwall and stepping east into Dorset. At first, there was nothing of great alarm, trundling through sunny places with names like Littleknockers Botherscombleyton and Purdleywetherall Nincompoop. The quite dully named Dorchester still had a Tesco and it also had my Dad, who had mastered this particular rendezvous and whizzed us briskly onwards to West Lulworth.

If anywhere was going to remind me of GCSE Geography – apart from a teacher attired in 70s Cornish tramp style – this was it. Limestones, clays, chalk and sands…a concordant coastline of multifarious erosion (thanks for the reminder Wikipedia). But you don’t need to know your geology to appreciate such sights, on this most glorious of September days.

You may, however, need a decent pair of lungs and a sturdy set of hamstrings. Depending on distance, exploring this coastline is at best lumpy and at worst near vertical. I have an inkling this may be down to different rocks and things and their resistance to erosion and stuff. The current batch of Geography students at the top of the first hill might be able to tell me. But no time for stopping, for the first amazing sight is down the hill.

With a name like Durdle Door it could only be in Dorset. A headland (which has, again, multifariously resisted erosion) pokes out into the beautiful blue green water, which harbours shimmering sandy coves. It seems someone forgot to shut the door on this feature, because there is a big hole where it should be. Born in a barn, as they probably say here as well (to which the answer is, unequivocally, yes).

It doesn’t jump out at me and say: “India”. I haven’t been to India but it’s not what I picture from the clichés and stereotypes milling about my brain. Still, someone decided it was a good spot for a Bollywood movie. From above the beach (which was closed for filming) it seems this particular movie was about a bunch of young lasses and fellas having a right hoot playing football on the sand (surely it should be cricket, no?). There was some music and perhaps there was some dancing, as we turned onwards and most definitely upwards.

The good thing about this particular climb was the ever expanding backdrop, necessitating natural rest breaks for photos and selfies and simply having a breather and taking it all in. Occasional wafts of lively Bollywood music spurred you on to the top (arguably, to get away from it!) and you reached there and thought…well that wasn’t so bad after all.

But still, the trail (which is, I hasten to add, the oft venerated South West Coast Path) undulates. Another climb, another gargantuan row of white chalk cliffs and shingle beach colouring the sea azure. A long stretch, less steep but grinding, gnawing, nagging, starting to get a little annoying. The air is warm, the fields bare, the reflection from the ocean blinding. It is amazing, but I am being English and naturally starting to complain. Not out loud, but in my legs and in my head. A tiger roll and slabs of cheddar help as does the astonishing view. Looking back from whence we came, the highs and lows, crevices and coves, the jumbled tangle of concordant coastline which plunges and slides into the English Channel.

Turn the other way, and you can see that it does all come to an end. The cultivated rolling pasture of a Hardy novel reclaims the land, and villages like Corlookatthat Honeytemple wallow in the valleys of rampant conservatism. The endless sands of Weymouth look welcoming and – at least from here – Portland appears as some magical, mystical isle rising up out of the sea (spoiler alert: it’s not).

The route back from here departs from the cliff line and mercifully involves fewer lumps and bumps, skirting the edges of great bowl-shaped valleys and the occasional patch of gorse. It is infinitely less interesting, but does the job with a minimum of fuss. Occasional views north show hilltops and ridges many miles away, while patches of pastoral begin to return underfoot. It be no Devon but it aint a bad go.

In fact, despite similar voluptuousness, it seems drier than Devon and thus a little harsher on the eye. Perhaps top of year A Level Geography students would tell you it’s due to the geology of the place and the climate. Others will say it’s just a nice sunny day which is great for the harvest and even better for ice cream. Ah, an ice cream at Lulworth Cove. This may well have been something I was daydreaming about on a plastic chair back in an austere converted military hospital in Devonport in the 1990s. It took a long time coming, a spot of bravery, but it was worth the wait.

Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

October 4, 2015

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More moors

Dartmoor is a very handy place. Particularly on those days where guilt gets the better of me and I engage in the preposterous proposition of work. After instant coffee breaks – a sure sign I have been in England too long and settled for inadequacy – it reaches something like 3pm and I yearn to break free. And there Dartmoor is, through the school and hospital and fast food takeaway traffic, and up the A386.

The area around Burrator is probably the handiest and offers a useful mixture of forests, tors, ponies and a chance to gobble down a Willy’s ice cream. Sharpitor, Leather Tor, Sheepstor, Down Tor all provide the opportunity to scramble around and over clutters of granite, to gaze north and east into the wilds and south and west over the patchwork dream to the hazy ocean on the horizon. Swathes of bracken meander down to gnarly forests and tinkling streams, some of which are occasionally plummeting (conveniently and suspiciously close to the ice cream van).

From such moorland vantages – and practically any other hilltop in West Devon and East Cornwall – the modest mound of Brentor is visible, disconnected from the barren tops of Dartmoor before it slides down into the Tamar Valley. Its distinction not only stems from its prominence amongst flatter surrounds, but its famous church that some dedicated god-botherers decided to construct a long time ago.

I suspect the church provided a symbolic, steadfast two fingers to the heathens, roaming the moor via their crazy stone circles and rows, all wild hair, posies of heather, and rampant Chlamydia. An outpost for civilisation, a rising up from the moral turpitude of the flea-bitten masses towards the light. I feel much the same leaving Plymouth and heading to Dartmoor today, bathed in its pure air and natural light. Swept away in wonderment, even my jeans are feeling holy, what with all the pasties and frequent straddling of giant cracks between granite blocks.

As well as flailing raggedly down from Dartmoor, heathens would have been in profusion west of Brentor and into the dark, forbidding uplands of Kernow. Willing to shake it up a little, I grabbed my passport one afternoon, crossed the Tamar and headed towards Bodmin Moor. Less defined and gargantuan than its Devonian counterpart, there are nonetheless pockets of heather and gorse pierced by shattered tors. Ponies graze and stone rows lurk and the diggings and ruins of the tin industry crumble away in profusion. There is less of the idyllic in this zone around Minions, but there is enough to encourage future exploration.

From these boggy pastures the River Fowey runs south and widens into that rather delightful spot by the sea. Upstream has its highlights too, as I found at Golitha Falls. Verdant woodlands are making the most of the last of the summer, tinges of yellow and orange and red brushing the tops exposed to the sun. A scattering of leaves are floating down towards the mossy branches and rocks of the forest floor. All the while, the pure waters of the river meander and tumble unendingly onward, luring you to follow them forever towards the sea. Cool and refreshing and rejuvenating, there are no excuses not to get back to work, other than more moors.

Driving Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

September 26, 2015

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Gap Fillers 1: Southeast Cornwall

I am behind, seriously behind. Numerous distractions scattered within a 30 mile radius of Plymouth have conspired to infiltrate the memory card of my camera and ingratiate the memory banks of my brain. Blogging was so much easier when I was marooned in Canberra, with just the occasional escape to regurgitate and local tree pictures to upload. Today I forget what day of the week it was yesterday and where I popped out in the afternoon after labouring in front of my computer doing work (eeek).

So, in an effort to catch up to the present day, here is the first of a non-sequential, scattergun melee of words and pictures. To provide some semblance of logic, the focus is on Southeast Cornwall and various trips I have made across the Tamar to this somewhat understated of back yards. It’s an area that can get overlooked – in fact I have been guilty of such – for the drama and mystique of the North Cornish coast. But there are many gems, some of them new to me, littered within the rolling fields and crystal coves of the south.

Literally just across the Tamar are the twin villages of Cawsand and Kingsand. It’s a small pedestrian ferry ride away from the salty sewage and sinister seagulls of Plymouth’s Barbican. Despite the influx of Janners, it is undeniably charming courtesy of its narrow streets and pastel ocean tones. Stick around as a sunny Sunday afternoon lengthens, and you can gleefully soak in the mellow vibes with a Doom Bar outside the front of the Devonport Inn.

Around the corner from here is Whitsand Bay. An area that I frequently bypass in pursuit of those finer grains of sand. Come at high tide and there will be little of it to walk on. But when the tide is out, the bay stretches on and on and on. The ribbon of road skirting the cliff tops bears a passing resemblance to a small section of Great Ocean Road, and steep tracks lead down to the sands and rocks and pools far below. Not so bad to reach, but harder to return.

There is a great sense of space here – of vast ocean and big sky, Plymouth hidden by the hulking spine of Maker Heights and Rame Head. Small fibro shacks with names like Eddystone View and Shipwreck Haven add a rough and ready, ends of the earth, windswept aura. It could be coastal Tasmania, Devonport around the corner and Launceston up the road.

Along from Whitsand Bay the trappings of modernity return at Looe, a place of many a childhood day. There is nothing overly special about Looe – it’s just your regular run-of-the-mill southern Cornish fishing port nestled into a steep valley. Peppered with fish and chips and amusements it is a resort town, though not of the same ilk as Skegness or St Tropez. Two prime assets are its leafy branch rail line linked with Liskeard and Sarah’s Pasty Shop. Both in the same day make it worth an afternoon.

Many of the emmets and grockles and – indeed – locals combine a trip to Looe with a stop in Polperro. Polperro is undoubtedly the prettier of the two, with narrow (mostly car-free) streets, cosier cottages, and a ruggedly fishy pungency. Pasties look no more than average, but the recent revival in crumbly fudge (as opposed to the bland, processed slabs packed in Huddersfield) has blessed the town with a new outlet to be commended. Cornish sea salt is the fitting and fulfilling way to go.

From here I am going to skip a huge section of the coastline and return to it in a jiffy. Mainly because I want to build this post up towards a marvellous, heady climax. So, shifting further west, if I was to pick a line between Mevagissey and Falmouth I would be marking unchartered territory. It excites me that I still have unchartered territory in this part of the world. I made a small incursion into it the day after returning from London and it confirmed that if I was ever to move back to the UK it would not be in London (but never say never right?!).

Gorran Haven is, I suppose, nothing remarkable and its town beach would disappear with a high tide. But it offers a less touristified alternative to nearby Mevagissey, possessing enough steep narrow streets and cobbled harbour walkways to keep seaside amblers happy. I think it’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone and their business, which is no doubt discussed in lurid detail at the local RNLI supporters group meeting every third Tuesday of the month following the gathering of the Retired St Austell Druids and Mystic Circle Society. But I think I might like that. Its fish and chips and fairly remote and secret sandy beach around the headland might also make it bearable.

But if we are looking for blissful sandy beaches in azure seas there is a gem amongst gems, a golden crown gleaming through the rubies and pearls of Southeast Cornwall. I had not set my eyes on it until a month or so ago, benign and more subdued under cloudy skies. A sunny day in early September gave me inspiration to return.

Eschewing another day of winding lanes and tractor blockages, I took the train for a change, disembarking at Par for a bus to Fowey. Fowey is kind of like Looe and Polperro, being yet another steep harbour lined with pastel cottages and granite townhouses. I like it the most out of the lot of them, maybe because it is a bit more upper class when I am not. I could live here but doubt if I could afford it. You can tell it’s on the Islington radar, with a beautiful bakery and organic butcher and delicatessen and many a cosy cafe to wait for a water taxi to take you to your yacht. I think this might help explain why I think I could live here.

I could just as equally live in Polruan, across the river from Fowey and gateway to another luscious corner of cotton wool clouds hovering over creamy fields spilling into the sea. No fancy bakery, no organic quinoa, just good old fashioned St Austell Ales and the sound of circular saws emanating from the boatyard. A steep, steep hill laden with bunting, or a slightly less severe meander lead to St Saviour’s headland, and expansive views south, east and west.

Back in classic South West Coast Path territory, the trail dips and rises steeply once again, the glare from a becalmed sea radiating heat like the sun through a windscreen. Turn a corner and you cross over into the Mediterranean, as the horseshoe cove of Lantic Bay welcomes the weary. Islington-on-sea may have anchored down below, but the ultimate satisfaction is to arrive on foot, rewarded for effort beyond expectation. I cannot think of a better place to eat some of my provisions from that bakery and delicatessen, marvelled by the colours from on high.

A jewel for the keeping.

Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

September 17, 2015April 12, 2016

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London dummies

Just in case everything gets all a bit overly rustic and pastorally idyllic, there is always London. London: a city which once was my home and one which I thought I knew well. But its size and scale and – in places – rate of transformation mean that there is always something else waiting to be seen, something else to be done. Particularly when you can relive it all through the eyes of a novice.

Nothing new with the Northern Line, apart from the far more glamorous and airy edifice of Tottenham Court Road station. Nothing new with the rain either, turning the walk around Covent Garden and Soho into an unremitting trudge. Ducking in for cover at Costa Coffee again (sigh) and splashing out on an I Love London umbrella again. Where is that pastoral idyll, again?

But London is not unfamiliar with precipitation and many thousands mill about with their I Love London umbrellas, freaking out at floating yodas, larking about with toys in Hamleys, packing into the galleries and museums and trying to learn something new. Many thousands also learn little in Madame Tussauds, other than how to pose with a plastic reincarnation of Johnny Depp.

Not being naturally inclined to such a place, this was my first time in Madame Tussauds. I guess the dummies were good, I guess they were interesting, I guess I even started to pose with them myself towards the end – particularly when the Star Wars zone appeared just past One Direction and left at the Dagobar System. There was a silly but fun History of London ride and a silly but fun 4D movie. And, in that first day in London, we obviously got to meet the Queen who had obviously come out especially to greet us.

Such wanderings in wax also allowed the rain to finally clear and deliver a bright and breezy couple of hours to end the day in the real world. Cue barges on the Thames, red phone boxes on Embankment, the slow rotation of the Eye, and the bongs of the bell in that most famous of misnamed towers. A walk with squirrels and dogs in St James Park, up The Mall and to Buckingham Palace, where the Queen failed to greet us (still at Madame Tussauds I guess). And then a rush hour crush on the Victoria Line, the truest London experience.

If only you could apparate between Green Park and West Finchley was not what I was thinking at the time. I was mostly thinking how the hell are we going to get past these people and out of the doors at Euston? Still, apparition was on topic the next day, providing a convenient means to segue between a ride home on the underground and a Harry Potter walking tour. Again, not something I would naturally lean towards, but I have read the books, seen the movies, and now taken a slightly obsessive teenage fan to London.

The walk required memory and imagination, but it did also offer a chance to see some of the sights: buzzing around the bustling lanes of London Bridge and Borough, crossing the Death-eaten Millennium Bridge, getting in the way of wanker bankers in Bank, and running into walls at Kings Cross. All guided, for this most English of creations, by an affable Aussie.

The underground continued to be magically fantastical – that is, not breaking down or being delayed or being on strike – throughout, and delivered us once again to Embankment the next day. Here was a chance to experience another most English creation: a long queue. A staff presence of one for buying tickets on the river ferries – not the most inspired during a sunny day in the school summer holidays. Boris may need to get his privileged upper class whiff-whaff hands on this one to sort it out.

Still, when finally aboard, the ferry to Greenwich was perfectly agreeable, cruising steadily past the many sites lining the wide brown serpentine Thames. And Greenwich was decidedly pleasant, offering expansive views and a palpable sense of Britannia once ruling the waves. The additional wonder of this being a cradle of scientific achievement may have been lost on some (compared with, say, a waxwork of Robert Pattinson), but some of that may lie in my confused amateur teaching, based on half-formed memories of history lessons, QI episodes and Professor Brian Cox saying something on TV in that affable and wistful way of his.

Confused teachings could have endured around the Tower of London, but even I was over it by then. Something about beheadings, protection of London from plagues of rats, queens eating beefburgers and radioactive ravens. Luckily, nearby Tower Bridge offered an ‘experience’, in which a video projection of cackling cockneys could tell you of the need for another crossing in Landan taaan and sour-faced Victorians go on to outline the ground-breaking design and construction. A more recent addition to the bridge would be the glass bottom walkways, offering a greater thrill for the increasingly daring in the twenty-first century.

For what it’s worth, I would definitely recommend the Tower Bridge experience, particularly as it is much cheaper than most other sights and you get a splendid view thrown in with it. Indeed, the late afternoon in the capital was looking splendid…all blue skies and white fluffs of cloud, glistening buildings, and a marginally less murky river. Friday vibes and mass commuter escapes, for that most English of bank holidays in August.

Escape was also on the cards the next day, for us, from London, and back to those country idylls and village idiots. Urban density giving way to flashes of affluent countryside and trim Tory towns. A patchwork becoming increasingly rustic finally seeping across into Devon. From Oysters to Roysters in half a day. London been and gone and now far away.

Great Britain Green Bogey Walking

September 8, 2015

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Devon slices

The eternal battle between Devon and Cornwall hinges on the correct approach to bedeck a scone. Cream then jam, jam then cream? Does it really matter when both are so god damn delicious? Well, clearly the answer is yes and, clearly, Cornwall wins.

It may seem a trifling matter, but the fight for sconepremacy reflects something far deeper in the southwest psyche. That is, which is the better county? Unlike the scone debate, this question cannot be so easily resolved. In my mind at least it is on a par with assessing the merits of England and Australia and as complex as Tony Blair being the logical person you’d hire to bring about peace in the Middle East. And you know what, I think the answer to this conundrum may be to appreciate each as equals, and revel in the fact that they are both pretty good anyway, particularly as scones are plentiful in whichever county.

For balance only the leftist BBC conspirators could dream of, let me now present some recent evidence for the case of Devon (given my last entry was Cornish). Specifically, the southern and western part of Devon within reasonable proximity to Plymouth. The other stuff doesn’t really matter, mostly because the pong from Exeter ruins it. And this is the stuff that is close to home.

The best mayo:

Hellmans and Simon despair, for Noss Mayo is the winner and may well take out loveliest village in Devon competition. Just a short run out from Plymouth via a maze of ten foot hedgerows, it’s a place of peace and serenity and that colourful bunting that is just about in every village in the southwest. Cottages with names like Anchor’s Rest and Primrose Lodge scatter haphazardly down to the water, while home grown asparagus sits next to an honesty box and a bowl of water for passing dogs.

An additional perk of Noss Mayo is the perfectly blended walk of seaside cliffs, creamy pastures, flourishing woods and boat-a-bobbing creek. A loop walk that can – should you wish – be completed at a relaxed, ambling pace. Just watch out for frenetic foreigners high on sunshine and the scent of silage.

Oh, and did I mention there’s a pub? I probably have, several times in the past. It’s positioned perfectly towards the end of that walk, at the heart of the village, jutting out into the water (or…at low tide, the slightly less idyllic mud). The pub is arguably the jewel in the crown of Noss Mayo and I can now recommend the fish and chips as well as the selection of ales. Experience suggests this may not assist the final climb back up to the car, but it will likely have you coming back for more.

A nice set of hams:

Outside of Noss, there could well be many other contenders for Devon’s loveliest village yet to be discovered. It’s a fair bet that a bulk of these will also be in the South Hams, the luscious, rolling countryside tumbling down from the moors and into the glittering ocean. Various rivers cut their course through the hills, passing thatched roofs and church spires on their way out into the sea, itself fringed with shallow sandbanks and undulating dunes.

Of course, the weather cannot always be relied upon to generate the picture postcard that I have so feebly conveyed. And when the sun does shine in summer, the village of Modbury can transform into a car park. Beaches such as South Milton Sands become busily popular, but there is enough room to play cricket and tentatively wade into the inviting but tepid ocean. Escaping humanity remains a possibility, with the ever glorious southwest coast path providing hope to reach Hope. Meanwhile, the increasing proximity to Salcombe means that the ice cream from its dairy becomes commonplace.

The loveliest village could actually lie along the stretch of road between Kingsbridge and Dartmouth in the South Hams. The problem is that it is difficult to assess, since negotiating each village by car requires a shot in the dark, following by a wait and a reverse, and a punt around the next corner before a tractor bears down on you followed by an unfeasible double decker bus, which is wedged in next to the pub that would be nice to have an ale at if there was somewhere you could park and be able to get out again, without hitting any ramblers lurking in gargantuan hedgerows. Despite its obvious perils, driving on this apparent A road is marvellously endearing.

I think it may be nine miles from Kingsbridge to Torcross but it can feel five hundred, and five hundred more. Torcross sits at the southern end of Slapton Sands, so named because the sands were obviously slapped on a ship and sent miles away, leaving only pebbles and more pebbles. Smooth and colourful and cleansing, they lend the seascape a pristine hue, and – if you don’t look too closely – the beach does appear as though it could pass muster in Australia.

Like everywhere around this way, there is good walking to be had. Over the hill to Beesands with its less photogenic beach, and on to Hallsands, precariously awaiting the next winter storm. Beyond Hallsands the waters of Start Bay curve their way against precipitous slopes, topped with radio masts, sea mists and happy cows, giving way at Start Point.

I could push on to there today, but the hills get steep, my legs say no, and I still have the potential car parks of Dartmouth and Totnes to negotiate before getting home. One small mercy is that the tide is now out, and the hill between Beesands and Torcross can be circumnavigated via the millions of pebbles. Who needs sand all the time anyway Cornwall? It just ends up in every crack and crevice.

Moor scones available:

While the South Hams possess the requisite balance of thatched cottage to rolling pasture to pebbly beach, the somewhat tamed landscape eventually gives up and transitions to the wild uplands of Dartmoor National Park. Now this is truly on the doorstep. One minute you are navigating hapless drivers attempting to cross a roundabout to get to Tesco, the next you are passing hapless drivers braking sharply and pulling into the Dartmoor Diner. Civilisation may well linger, but it is quite possible to see nothing or no-one obviously man-made for lengthy periods of time when out on the moor.

For many Dartmoor is Plymouth’s playground, where you can stroll, frolic in a river, cycle, have an ice cream, walk the dogs, and fantasise about hairy hands. For me too it is something of a Red Hill surrogate. Though clearly not quite as close (i.e. 5 minutes), there are hills to climb and views to be had and, if you squint hard enough (very hard), the sheep may take on the resemblance of a grazing kangaroo.

Just around the corner though (maybe 5 minutes with a good run of lights and a Bugatti Veyron) is the River Plym. Gathering down from the moors, the Plym gently meanders its way through leafy woodlands on its way to Plymouth Sound. One minute you are in an industrial estate, the next the lane narrows into a hobbit hole and you are bathed in shadowy leafiness. Again, children frolic, people cycle and dogs yap. Some (dogs) may even become potential kidnap victims due to ridiculous cuteness.

Plymbridge offers an easy escape – from Plymouth, from Asda, from endless episodes of Emmerdale. And it reminds you, quite simply and quite easily, how really lovely it can be to be in Devon. In fact, just as lovely as Cornwall.

Food & Drink Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

August 31, 2015

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Cornish pastiche

Amongst the dollops of clotted cream and generous helpings of Plymouth rain during August, a few days away in Cornwall yielded a chance to dabble in classic British seaside family holiday territory, complete with dollops of rain and generous helpings of Brummie. Staying in a cosy cottage up an unfathomably narrow lane on the fringes of St Agnes, the benefit of this traditional British seaside holiday was that it was not entirely British or overly traditional. There were French people for a start and – well – the experience was less Blackpool bucket and spade and more scenic coastal delight. On a good day and some bad, the Cornish coast is difficult to surpass.

The trip started very much in the traditional way, departing Plymouth on a train in pouring rain, invariably teeming and spitting and drizzling all the way to Truro. And while this particular band of summer holiday weather cleared as a double decker valiantly wound its way to Perranporth, the emerging sun only served to bring out the windbreaks and ice creams and Brummies upon the beach. United in ice cream dedication, I then turned my back upon the human speckled sands and headed up, up and away.

What followed was a predictably exquisite walk along the coastline to St Agnes, despite the scarred residue of mining and the eroded zigzagging of ambling ramblers and rampant rabbits. Loaded with a backpack of clothes I could easily have been mistaken for some intrepid adventurer myself, hiking the entire perforated coast of the southwest and growing a beard in the process. I was happy for this facade to stick, passing impressed day trippers with their miniscule handbags and inappropriate footwear on their traditional summer holiday.

Navigating plunging cliff lines and sapphire coves, the thought of lugging a full backpack over days and weeks lost some appeal with the steeply unending climb up from Trevellas Porth. However, contrary to popular exaggeration this did end and it was with some joy that my muddy shoes and sweaty back made it into The Driftwood Spars for a prized pint of Doom Bar. I could, indeed, get used to this.

Reunited at the pub with the French family, my fraudulent pretence of long distance exploration could no longer be maintained. More traditional holiday pursuits – such as rock pool pottering, cheese eating, and children not really wanting to go to bed – amply filled the remainder of the evening. And I, with the rest of them, settled in for a comfortable night of sleep in the little cottage up the unfathomably narrow lane.

The next day offered something of a repeat of the previous, albeit more family-friendly and with one of those pathetic little daypacks on my back for company. What was unchanging however was the beautiful scenery, from the generous sands of Porthtowan to the charming cove of Chapel Porth. There and back again over heather and gorse, the curls of Atlantic surf peppering the craggy headlands and sweeping up empty beaches enjoying their day in the sun. Ice creams and sandcastles and paddles in the undeniably frigid sea were add-ons at the end of the day, as the summer clouds again gathered over the abandoned relics of this heritage mining coast.

Red sky at night, ice cream vendor’s delight, so the ancient saying goes. And true to this cliché, the next day dawned clear and blue, generating a fervour of ant-like humans engaging in traditional seaside holidays upon the sands of Perranporth. There were windbreaks and Brummies and disposal barbecues and the inevitability that is a once-loved but now abandoned flip flop. Plus, of course, ice creams in abundance.

Thankfully the tide at Perranporth was out and the beach here thus stretches on and on and on, offering enough room for everyone to enjoy their own holiday. Space to paddle in pools and throw Frisbees; dry sands on which to lay, wet from which to build; high cliff tops concealing the congregation of brooding clouds, the lofty rocks a sufficient shield to pretend briefly that this is actually summer.

It is in moments such as these that the appeal of the traditional British seaside family holiday becomes clearer, particularly if it happens to have a French twist and things proceed a little less in the Birmingham tradition. It is an appeal embellished of course with the delight that is being in this part of the world, with these people, and with the prospect of a rainy day yet again ahead, on the return to Plymouth tomorrow.

Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

August 23, 2015October 19, 2015

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Up Pompey

I must confess to an inexplicable, in-built prejudice towards the city of Portsmouth. While not quite as menacing as the Daily Mail’s fear-stoking crusade for an antiquated version of middle England, my prejudice stems from uninformed and socially constructed antipathy. Nurtured through supposed rivalry – the battle of the dockyards – between Plymouth and Portsmouth, I have naturally taken the side of Plymouth, envisioning Portsmouth as lacking anything of appeal.

This prejudice of course exists without ever having been there. And so, it seems obvious to say that the best way to make an informed decision about the city of Portsmouth is to actually base it on real experience and facts, a principle that seems out-of-reach of many a lazy newspaper editor and Facebook re-poster the world around.

One (of many) positive things I can now say about Portsmouth is that it actually has a summer. Well, at least for one day at the start of August. This may score it points over Plymouth, whose current endless drizzle is slowly driving me mad. The summer skies (which now seem an age away) are penetrated by a rather large erection – the Spinnaker Tower – brought to you, almost inevitably, by emirates.com. This protuberance now dominates the skyline, suddenly popping up around various corners and appearing from distant vantages. It has a Sydney Harbour Bridge quality in this respect, and is almost as photographically alluring.

Indeed, atop the tower you could kid yourself that you are staring out at that great harbour of the southern continent, ferries bustling, sails billowing, cruisers cruising, waters glimmering in the sun. Then you taste a coffee and are brought back down to earth, only one hundred metres up, and your feet are plonked precariously on a glass floor. Shortbread for millionaires and the far-reaching views sweeten the bitterness and steady the nerves.

The First Fleet left this same harbour a smidge over 225 years ago, just one small trinket of history in what is, undeniably, a great naval city. Today, the Historic Dockyard aims to pack all of this in around one sprawling site. Such is its richness that you cannot hope to cover it all in one day, but a harbour tour offers a good overview and – again – sat out on the deck on a warming clear day, a slight pang of the Sydneyesque emerges.

Within the dockyard itself several old ships of worldly significance stand, a reminder of empire and industry and rambunctious naval warfare between derring-do admirals and rascally foreigners with finely groomed beards and bouts of Syphilis. The hipsters of their time, strutting the maze of stairs and low ceilings of HMS Victory or gliding the gleaming decks of HMS Warrior. Doing things that will later appear in vaguely recalled history lessons and espoused more memorably by Stephen Fry and co on TV.

The dockyard experience makes a sudden swell of patriotism hard to resist, and it is inevitable that Rule Britannia will start pounding through your head, interspersed with Sideshow Bob Sings Songs from HMS Pinafore. How patriotic then to have delicious fish and chips in a pub and drive back through Jane Austen countryside, satisfied that the city of Portsmouth is actually one of suitable constitution to befit inclusion in this Jerusalem.

Now, if I had prejudice for the English countryside it would undeniably be overly-favourable and rose-tinted, photoshopping out little blips like power pylons, speed cameras, and fields of slurry. It would be a scene closely resembling a walk through the Wiltshire countryside, starting in the quiet, affluent high street of Amesbury and finishing atop an ancient hill fort with the needle spire of Salisbury Cathedral gleaming in the middle distance.

Along this serene, sun-filled walk, thatched cottages and glorious gardens scatter amongst sweeping fields of wheat and undulating grassy meadows. Shady wooded copses harbour tinkling streams and melodic songbirds. A village meanders along the banks of a crystal clear river, the pub garden its heart and soul. Country lanes melt away into the hedgerow landscape, and weathered stone bridges hint at a past industriousness.

This is all enjoyed on the second day of summer weather in a row, a rarity as scarce as the ability to wear shorts, which is also somehow happening. It is pleasantly warm rather than scorching, but conditions are adequate enough for cidery refreshment at the midpoint. While post-drink malaise now seems a little more conducive for a nap than a hike, we push on up onto a ridge and then to the summit culmination of Old Sarum.

With 360 degree views, Old Sarum obviously made sense for original Middle Englanders (and then various waves of migrants) to construct defences and forts and castles and cathedrals. Sat atop its slope eating lunch, it is quite easy to imagine pouring some scalding hot oil on a pesky interloper who has made it across the deep moat. However, life today is generally more sedate and the only oil to be found is something like cold pressed balsamic infused deluxe extra virgin organic Tuscan olive oil offered with semi-dried tomato and wild chevre slow-rise sourdough served up in nearby Salisbury. I would have settled for an ice cream, but then not everything can be perfect on this exemplary English day, on a consummate, enlightening British weekend.

Great Britain Green Bogey Walking

August 10, 2015

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Tasty taster

I suppose it is not uncommon to arrive in Plymouth in the midst of summer to find the place bedecked in insipid drizzle. A shroud of gloom so dank that even the statue of Sir Francis Drake stares out blankly, wondering where the rather large body of Plymouth Sound has gone and thus if it has been stolen by the Spanish. It’s a welcome that temporarily makes you question why you bothered, offering reassurance that you are doing the right thing by not living here. And then the weather clears.

In the space of one week, you remember to make the most of drier and clearer slots sparingly scattered across the southwest summer, and race to the moors, the coast, the countryside. Dartmoor is literally on the doorstep: one minute it’s all superstores and industrial units and Wimpey homes, the next rolling farmland and upland tors. Somewhere amongst the wilderness you may have the good fortune to deliberately stumble upon a cream tea. And once more, you are back in Utopia.

Across the border, a pilgrimage to the North Cornwall coast is a must, unifying the potential for pasties, fudge, and ice cream with rugged scenery and pretty towns. There are so many pretty towns with so many pasty, fudge and ice cream shops that is hard to know which one to raid. Experience proves a good option is to hone in towards Tintagel, and have it all.

First though there is Boscastle which is just simply a delight, no matter the weather (although the deluge causing flash flood variety does tend to put a downer on things). Ducking in to a cute cafe by the water as a shower passes overhead, it is all sunshine and smiles the other side of a typically variable flat white. The summer of sorts reappears, and a sweater can be removed in the sheltered harbour glow.

Tempting cakes and bakery goodies are purgatory, but you push on in the knowledge that a Pengenna pasty awaits up the road in Tintagel. A meal in itself, today it is the main reason for stopping there. A walk past plastic Arthurian swords and St Austell Ales, it nourishes but is underwhelming. High expectations from past delectations are hard to satisfy, but solace comes from a creamy fudgy pile of ice cream from Granny Wobbly instead.

What better way to burn off just a few of the calories than in Port Isaac? Doc Martin and an array of quirky characters with affected bumpkin accents may have walked these narrow streets, but today it is over to the tourists. Most are taking pictures of the places where Doc Martin and an array of quirky characters have walked the streets, but some – like me – push on through the town. Up onto yet another gargantuan headland with views of the harbour and coastline stretching north to Hartland. Inland, as the rain clouds refuse to budge over Bodmin Moor, patchwork farms go about their business of producing life essentials, many of which I feel I have eaten today.

So, a cream tea, pasty and fudgy pile of goodness completed in little under 24 hours, ticking off both the wilds of Dartmoor and the coves and crevices of the North Cornish coast. Occasional rain days offer more mundane revisitations around Plymouth, but the foodstuffs continue apace. A roast dinner, proper Cadbury’s, and even a barbecue in a bright and breezy sixteen degrees mate.

All this eating necessitates exercise, I guess. If I was in Canberra I would head up Red Hill but here I can return to Dartmoor. Waking early on a Saturday morning, little traffic on the roads heading gradually up through suburbs and to higher ground, half of Devon and much of Cornwall reveals itself. It is, again, bright and breezy, just the ponies for company in the lee of Sharpitor. Selfies are needed, but the emptiness, the space, the clear air, the expanse is a joy to behold in this sometimes claustrophobic country.

Sigh…if only you could get a good coffee. Hang on, what’s this? It still requires further validation, but there could be something with potential. A flat white which is flat and white and creamy and not scalding hot with a pile of insipid froth on top. Blended together with a mellow strength. Served in a glass as if a latte but I can forgive that. I will have to come back and reinvestigate.

Fortunately there are fine cakes and pastries on offer even if future coffees end up being awful. And there is always tea. With a scone. And maybe some jam. And a smidgeon of cream. And a landscape which is as delicious in the admittedly intermittent summer sun. It is the Ambrosia, and I will come back to taste it again.

Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography Walking

July 24, 2015August 3, 2015

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A rival for affection

Initially I wasn’t too fussed about spending time in Vancouver, my appetite instead skewed towards the forests and mountains, inlets and meadows of super natural British Columbia. This feeling was elevated as a week travelling in such environments was drawing to a close, a trip that I could have quite happily continued. But as the final greyhound drew into the quite uninspiring Vancouver terminus, I resigned myself to a couple of days in a big city.

Happily, Vancouver has a magical gift that justifies its frequent position in all those different lists of the best cities in the world to live. It is often vying for the title alongside places like Melbourne, Sydney, Copenhagen, and even a little country town called Canberra. Indeed, I sensed a bit of a Melbourne vibe, a touch of Sydney waterfront, the smell of Danish-like bacon, and, err, a backdrop of rugged, open ranges.

Thus, in the space of a laundry washing and drying cycle, I had managed to readjust to the idea of being in a city, and embracing everything that entailed. Things like pedestrian crossings, in which the Canadian version appears to involve the traffic light receiving a flurry of tweets. @RobsonandGranville #crossnowhumans #tensecondsleft. The emergence of coffee shops, many of them dire, many of them Starbucks, on every street corner, though luckily the outside temperate was conducive to far more favourable iced coffee options. And something I embraced more wholeheartedly was the plethora of good quality, low cost, always welcoming Asian eateries, all too conscious that such choices will practically disappear in Europe.

Probably a good reason I ended up loving Vancouver so – apart from the chicken karaage and spicy udon ramen – was the sumptuous weather. Crucially there was no smoke accompanying an ambient temperature somewhere around the mid twenties. What this means is a happy, healthy, blissed out and mostly beautiful populace, invariably strolling, cycling, rollerblading, or volleyballing their way into the light evenings beside the waterside paths and parks of False Creek.

Such spirit is infectious, and the next day I joined the many hiring a bike near Yaletown dock. The freedom and joy of two wheels again, made all the easier by Vancouver’s generous allotment of cycling paths and priority lanes. Here, it became clear the city rivals Canberra, and it was quite possible to cycle something heading towards forty kilometres without jostling with vehicles.

The first task was to head up False Creek and into Stanley Park. This is essentially where everyone on a bike goes and you can see why. A rounded peninsula of spruce, cedars, firs and totem poles, occasional ponds and meadows, cafes and beaches, all encased within a sea wall. It is the sea wall that provides a thoroughfare for the bikes, so that there are eternal city, mountain, harbour and ocean views with every pedal. The parade of bikes is incessant, sometimes requiring adept manoeuvring, but it is simple to stop and go for a stroll in an empty forest.

The park easily filled a morning, meaning that I handily reached Granville Island around lunchtime. This spot is cluttered with wooden shacks selling handmade jewellery and boating slacks and things like paperweights and incense sticks. But mostly there is food, centred around the Public Market and coming in a variety of forms. Fresh and healthy, processed and gluttonous, and everything in between.

Given I veered towards the gluttonous I was happy to pedal all the way to Point Grey and the University of British Columbia. Passing several beaches – Kitsilano, Jericho, and Spanish Banks – the views back to the city and its mountainous backdrop progressively opened up. Climbing up a long, steady hill – the kind that seems like an impressive feat only when you come back down – the university campus strikes you as a quite magnificent place to study. The challenge though would be to concentrate on a lecture, rather than stare out of the window all of the time.

I came here to visit the Museum of Anthropology and while this contains numerous worldly artefacts, the predominant focus is on that of the First Nations. A huge hall houses an array of impressive totems, canoes, boxes, archways, tools, and utensils. Displays tell of the meaning, the stories, the legends, and the inevitable intrusion of the white man. Outside, a Haida village is recreated in the Vancouver sun, and the cafe next door sells Nanaimo bars. Two cakes in one day but I am, I think, working it off.

Back downhill, I paused numerous times beside the beaches to take in the view, as the westerly sun incrementally illuminates the city skyline and the mountains stretching north. The beaches are no Broulee or even Bondi, but it is warm and the city folk are a-flocking. I reflect on what has been a truly magnificent day, one which continues with still another ten kilometres back to the bike shop. Ten kilometres to join the healthy and happy populace, continuing to elevate their endorphin levels. A fabulous day, inevitably topped off with Asian food for dinner.

I had such a good time with a bike I almost considered doing it again the next day – my last in Vancouver. In the end I took the public transport option, crossing by ferry to North Vancouver and trundling by bus through the leafy suburbs climbing up to the base of Grouse Mountain. From here a far more expensive gondola transports you up to a world of mountain meadows and pines, fancy restaurants, ziplines and kitsch lumberjack shows. There are few longer trails on which to escape, but the views are there to be had. I can see the United States of America, most prominently in the form of Mount Baker, and my proximity to a previous travel adventure hits home. Meanwhile to the north and west, the mountains roll on, a reminder of the sparseness of this land, while the city of Vancouver shimmers many hundreds of metres below behind my back.

This is bear country, and it so happened that I came face to face with a grizzly up here. Mercifully, two of them who were orphaned and are now cared for in captivity. No doubt softened by a life being pampered, they are nonetheless fearsome and overwhelmingly gargantuan. Despite being orphaned and this being the best option for them (the other likely being death as cubs), I cannot help but feel that I should be seeing such an incredible beast out in the wild, ruling its pristine domain. But, looking at the force and scale of such a creature, I am mostly glad I am not.

After Grouse Mountain, I should have headed back, rested, and readied myself for a staggered transatlantic voyage. But I was starting to not want to leave this city. My final trundle on a bus therefore took me to Lynn Canyon, where a suspension bridge offers a little bit of wow amongst the beautiful forests and riverside pools, increasingly populated by youngsters and families seeking a cool down towards the end of the day.

While others settled in this utopia for the evening, I had to drag myself away and – annoyingly – transport myself and belongings from the place I was staying to an airport hotel. There was, however, a good prompt to do so. One Direction were performing in BC Place, literally across the road from my hotel. This explains why they had no vacancy for my last night there and also why I seem to find myself having to increasingly negotiate a pathway through gawky teenage legs.

As adolescent screams echoed through the warm evening sky, I lamentably turned my back on Vancouver. But after gliding twenty minutes by train and dragging a suitcase along the concrete sidewalk of a grimy highway, Vancouver said goodbye to me from an upper floor of a Travelodge. A sky as fiery as the flame in my heart and the chilli in my laksa. A final, luminous ocean of evidence that the lists are not wrong, and this truly is one of the best cities in the world.

Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography USA & Canada Walking

June 30, 2015October 19, 2015

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Winter warmers

There are plenty of ways to warm up during an Australian winter. Koala soup; scenic coal-fired electric blankets; just living practically anywhere apart from inland uplands, exposed southern promontories and frigid deserts. Only in the bleakest of places does a winter bite, the bleakest of places and Canberra.

Yet even within touching distance of the capital’s shivering legoland suburbs you can work up a sweat and work off a sweater. Climbing seven hundred metres or so, rising from the valley mists into a blue stratosphere, toward the crown of Mount Tennent. A steady grind with the sun on your back, the consequences clear in the comfort of short sleeves. And warmed all the more by vistas providing a positive effort:reward ratio so critical to the success of a good tramp.

Meanwhile, back, again, in Queensland the effort required for such warmth is negligible. Brisbane may experience a fog but it barely lingers. It is quite comfortable – actually very comfortable indeed – to sit beside the river and eat a slab of cake alfresco. This place has been a second home of late, but despite this being my fourth visit in the space of a month I still cannot acclimatise sufficiently like the locals to wear a scarf without feeling entirely fraudulent. Fare thee well Brisbane, you have been good for my core temperature and bank balance, but your City Cycles are terribly uncomfortable.

One more week of work to go, one more week to go. That was what I was telling myself walking over the craggy hills and gentle sands of Magnetic Island. But, being on that island, it was hard not to think that I was on holiday already. I believe it may be down to the palm trees by the beach, or the strip of outdoor cafes at Horseshoe Bay, or the one road linking a few small towns in which most other people are on some kind of temporary or permanent holiday. Even the presence of backpackers adds to the mood that the only thing for it is to swing in a hammock.

Possibly because Brisbane was not warm enough, work brought me north to Townsville, handily coinciding with a weekend in which to kill some time. So I grabbed the ferry across to the island and spent a wonderful day or two upon its shores. Saturday may have clouded over, but there was ample time to gently reacquaint myself with tropical forests and colourful birds, the briefest of sunsets and the longest of beers. Acclimatisation into that hammock holiday-minded state.

But it was the Sunday that was super, cloudless throughout, though with a morning freshness that made the walking all the more pleasurable. Commencing with a wake up coffee by the beach in Horseshoe Bay, it was over one hill to one fine beach, over another to the next, and onward and upward to lookouts galore. A substantially energetic loop walk that topped out around The Forts – a series of wartime installations plonked atop the forest in a tasteful rendition of Plymouth city centre style concrete. Obviously here because of the commanding views, but the koalas didn’t seem to care whether the Japanese were coming or not.

With the satisfaction and accomplishment of a walk complete, a late lunch of salt and pepper calamari beside the water will suffice thank you very much. Oh, and ice cream, of course. I am feeling like I am on holiday after all. So much so, that as Sunday dwindles and the prospect of Monday creeps up, I do not want to leave. The late sun glows and dips and fades and the stars and moon twinkle as blue turns to black. Yet still I am comfortable in shorts, and with another end of day beer in hand.

Happily Monday brought some drizzle and the transition back to work was reasonably comfortable in Townsville. But there was an abrupt decline in its standard as I re-located south, to Dubbo. On the plus side though this was not as bad as I expected, but then I expected little. The people were nice, I found a good coffee, and squeezed in a pleasant riverside walk. But I was ready to get out of there and, temporarily, get home.

And so, the climatic rollercoaster finally shifted into Sydney, for one night only and then onto Canberra. Sydney was putting on its sparkling look-at-me face, demonstrating a pretence at winter that is misaligned with the comfort of not needing a coat. I was even able to brave an ice cream, sadly. Canberra, meanwhile, had its morning shroud of cold and cloud, but cleared to its best fresh hue of blue. One more week, one more week of keeping warm, and then a northern summer will bless me again.

Australia Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography Walking

June 1, 2015

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Queenslander

Ask an Australian to say “Dirk Drongo is making his debut for the Maroons” and you will realise you are indeed in Australia. The fact that Dirk Drongo is making his dayboo for the Murowns will not only secretly appal the smug little English teacher lurking inside of you, but you will also wonder why this is front page news on the Courier Mail. Apparently, it’s all to do with a game of rugby or – preposterously – football as it is called. Not the FIFA type of football in which you kick a ball at an open goal only to see it diverted by a mysterious sheik into a pit of money built by exploited foreign labour. No, the rugby league type of football, in which scandals are much more unsophisticated affairs involving parties on balconies that somehow always seem to get out of hand and end up with contrite media conferences in which apologies are made for any offence caused.

Having spent a substantial amount of time in Queensland recently it was a relief to escape a few hours before the Murowns played the Blues in something called State of Origin. It was possibly the only relief, because Queensland appears to be quite beautiful this time of year, decorated with clear blue skies and radiant, twenty degree-plus warmth. As a couple of nights of minus five await, and the citizens of Canberra adorn themselves as if on an expedition to the Antarctic, my spirit is lifted by the thought of Brisbane on the horizon once again.

While locals will vehemently disagree, it is quite possible to live in Brisbane without a jumper. Mine came off emerging from the plane, although I did put it on again one morning, just to appear less of an outsider. Meandering around amongst the city towers and along the river, a touch of summer lingers forever: clusters of dark green foliage dwell under a weight of blooming extravagance; sweat is apparently still a thing here; and the official State costume of thongs and boardies can be easily detected in the outdoor swimming pools of Southbank.

There are of course many upsides to this, and one of them is ice cream. And flat whites that remain a pleasure to sip alfresco. Sure, some overzealous cafe owners may have blasted on the outdoor heaters so that you too can relive those heady summers of Marble Bar, but the coffee is at least of reasonable metropolitan standard. It seems to taste blander than that in Canberra, but then maybe I just don’t know the right spots…always a first world curse of first world business trips.

A good spot with or without coffee is GOMA, the Gallery of Modern Art. Probably without coffee, because that would have been condensed into an essence of cold-dripped Columbian syrup and daubed on the walls to spell out a series of Japanese characters that make no sense whatsoever, but have deep, deep, meaning, hmmm. Still, I love the building in which such work sits, and there is something immensely satisfying in cloaking your laptop bag for an hour and transitioning to a world away from depth interviews and strategically coloured bar charts.

Moving down now a cultural gear or ten, it is on to the Gold Coast. One could argue that the height of culture in the Gold Coast is the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet on the 71^st level of a tower in Surfers Paradise. But here dwells the Australian dream on steroids, and many people lap it up like State of Origin players and…well…steroids. Here, you can live in a big white house in a gated community on a reclaimed island, be woken up at 5am by a cacophony of lorikeets and get all your tax minimisation forms done by seven. Then you can go for a power walk by the beach, enjoy a weak soy latte, and engage in a round of golf at the Princess Palmer Palace Retreat and Country Club Theme Park. Later, after listening to a radio station called Hot Tomato, it is quite possible to head out as the shadows of towers infringe upon the sand, surfing in your very own paradise.

I have always said I don’t mind the Gold Coast and I still think that way. I’m sure my inner Brit arrives here and sees a stretch of white sand, a modern and affluent city-cum-holiday resort, with good food and reasonable coffee. I love nothing more than an all-you-can-eat challenge, a power walk up Burleigh Heads in guilt, and the pronunciation of tomato on Hot Tomato driving back. And, of course, more than anything, it really does seem to be twenty-four degrees in winter.

Away from the surfers there is still a paradise. Towers and condos and gated communities drift away and roads rise into a hinterland. Side-stepping villages of token tweeness mixed with essential oils, Springbrook National Park stands guard over the landscape, one lofty remnant of a massive, ancient caldera. Stunning lookouts? Check. Plunging waterfalls? Check. Rainforest? Check. Bitumen? Check. Good walking trails? Check. Still with proximity to coffee, cake and ice cream? Check. Funny rat-like marsupials unlikely to cause significant damage as you drive down the hill at twilight? Check. Springbrook is probably one of the best national parks I have ever been to, and now twice in my life.

I would happily go back a third time, and then I would actually remember to bring my proper camera. You see, these travels in Queensland have been for business which came to be mixed – thanks to clever scheduling and a will to make up time on weekends – with pleasure. But I travelled with business in mind and today’s blog is brought to you in conjunction with the iphone 6. It has a good camera…hell…it’s a great camera considering it is one tiny little part of a slender and stylish lifestyle enhancement device ((c) Apple Marketing 101). But it cannot make waterfalls flow ghostly ribbons of white.

Neither can it do justice to the best of all lookouts, which is aptly marked on the map and road signs as Best of All Lookout. But then any camera would struggle with the scale and grandeur (not to mention the shade and light complications of 4:30 on a winter’s afternoon). I came here before in 2007, the lookout stubbornly shrouded in the clouds. Today, not one fouled the sky, allowing the late sunlight to project its glow upon Mount Warning, and a chill to emerge in the shade to prepare me for a return to Canberra.

The Gold Coast airport was but a twenty minute drive from where I was staying, but I detoured a few hours. With a flight later in the day there was one other branch of Springbrook to revisit. Again, part of the joy is getting there, again blessedly on bitumen, but winding around west of the escarpment and into a valley of the dinosaurs. Lush and green, it’s an alternative route across into New South Wales, the border a genuine high pass which throws you up and over into the verdant Tweed Valley. It is a landscape that, beyond cane and bamboo and no trespassing signs, one cannot help but suspect is dotted with marijuana.

A natural high just before the border is Natural Bridge, which again is best captured with a proper camera on a slow shutter speed. Nevertheless, the walk through rainforest is of agreeable length while the falls – plunging down a hole in the rock and out through a cave – cannot fail to thrill. In the valley, in the shade, it is again quite cool and Canberra feels closer.

Over in New South Wales, Murwillumbah sits amongst the sugar cane and feels a lot less glitzy than the Gold Coast. There seems to be good coffee on offer and a fine brownie to keep me going, not laden with local produce – apart from sugar – as far as I am aware. Following the Tweed back to the coast, the tower blocks and marinas soon again emerge, and that lost world, that lost valley of earlier seem all the more remarkable in contrast. And with contrasts clear, like the light and dark from the Best of All Lookout, it is time to put the jumper back on and head south.

Australia Green Bogey Photography Uncategorized Walking

gbpilgrim

Wanderings in the world. Meanderings from the mind.

Category: Walking

Swiss day out

The times, they are a changing

October, revised

Seventh Heaven

Walking in an unknown wonderland

More moors

Gap Fillers 1: Southeast Cornwall

London dummies

Devon slices

Cornish pastiche

Up Pompey

Tasty taster

A rival for affection

Winter warmers

Queenslander

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