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Home and Away

Drilling into brick ain’t easy. But at least it’s – via a series of chunky payments over 360 weeks – my brick. The small hole above the bathroom window where I eventually gave up proving to be an imprint. My signature. The final flourish being the calls to the tradies that follow.

I did fix a wonky cupboard door, rip up a small piece of carpet, revitalise a cooktop and cleanse a stained sink. And I did manage to find a good plumber to repair a leaky tap and got some people around to do measures and quotes and hopefully install new flooring. The flooring has taken on an almost mythical quality, the promised sunlit uplands of when I finally feel I can properly unpack and organise rooms. At the moment, it’s somewhere on a ship trying to get into Sydney.

I think the delineation between non-homeownership and homeownership must be how many times I have been to Bunnings in the last month. It may be double figures though not once have I succumbed to a slimy morsel of cooked entrails with onions loosely encased in a slice of bread. I’ve been to Ikea three times and Kmart at least the same, plus some carpet showrooms and the expensive kitchenware section of David Jones, to browse. It is like I have entered a parallel universe I never knew existed, where a few hundred dollars here and there is offloaded with hardly the bat of an eyelid.

In the meantime, the regular universe has been doing its thing. In my neighbourhood there are some tall dark conifers under which sit a carpet of needles and the occasional crazy person. But there are also some wonderful deciduous trees putting on a rainbow spectacle as the Canberra autumn seeps in. The red and green king parrots blend into the canopy, only startling with delight when whizzing overhead. The cockatoos are voracious, wanton in their pursuit of abundant, nutty delicacies. Leafy detritus scatters the ground.

A week or two of still days in the low twenties has offered much. It’s great for a bushwalk and I took the opportunity of a somewhat back to normal Saturday to head up into the hills. It had been quite some time since I had last walked from Corin Forest out to Square Rock, fresh and pepperminty in the morning sun. At the rock, expansive views west and a flask of tea to go with a Creme Egg. Before popping into Bunnings in Tuggers on the way home.

A couple of four day weekends have propelled April into even more genial heights. While the first over Easter was a bit of a homestay, the second turned into a tale of two weekends, with Monday and Tuesday enjoyed on the South Coast. Narooma was my last minute overnighter, hastily arranged when I decided I was too tired and achy and old to camp. This at least meant plenty of room in the back for the bike, to burn off some of the cakes / ice cream / fish and chips via beautiful boardwalks.

Cognisant of Tuesday being a public holiday I was especially keen to feast on staples on the Monday lest everything be closed the next day. Setting out early meant perfect timing for coffee and a muffin in Mossy Point, enjoyed down on the public jetty. For the most part this was a picture-perfect setting for sipping and munching and soaking up the salty air, prior to the appearance of a wet dog keen to get in on some of the muffin action. I’m not sure if the remainder of my coffee comprised half dog seawater blend.

Next on the agenda after a morning coffee stop was lunch so really I needed to create at least a little time and exercise between the two. A diversion to Moruya Heads offered up a fine way to fill in the gap, taking in golden bays, tranquil lagoons and a blend of dilapidated shacks and multimillion dollar homes. This a scene practically replicated up and down the coast, including in the next town down, Tuross Head.

The Boatshed in Tuross Head caters for prince and pauper alike. While most people drive and park up for a spot of lunch, the more fabulous way would be to pull up in your boat while a member of staff hands out your seafood platter from the deck. If more people were doing this there may actually be somewhere to sit, but I contentedly took mine away anyway, around the corner and beside the lake. The one disappointment being the depletion of salt and pepper calamari from the menu. As I waited for mine to cook, piles of chips topped with calamari taunted me as they were delivered to happy people sitting on sunny tables.

I resolved to make amends with ice cream, filling the next gap between eats with a small but sometimes steep bike ride beside the Tuross beachfront. The ice cream came further down the road in Bodalla. An obligatory stop when anywhere slightly within the vicinity. It never fails to disappoint and I made the point of checking if they were open Anzac Day as well. Store that one in your back pocket.

With a heavier car I eventually make it to Narooma as the afternoon was heading into that moment of low light and lengthening shadows. Enough time to wander beside Wagonga Inlet as it twists its way towards Bar Beach and the small, hazardous outlet into the ocean. In the calmer waters, resident seals await patiently for leftovers from the fishing boats returning from the sea, or maybe to munch on dark chocolate digestives instead. Whatever floats your boat. And I think about the necessity of a light, leafy dinner.

While I missed the dawn services of Anzac Day, I arose early enough to sample the warming glow of a rising sun reflecting off the sea. With barely a breath it would’ve been inexcusable not to ride my bike along the waterways and Oceanside beaches up towards Dalmeny. And back again to Narooma where what I think is a fairly new cafe fulfilled my hopes for simple, waterfront coffee sips.

All that was left was to paddle in the ocean, lie on a beach, eat another ice cream and meet up with friends in Malua Bay before the journey home. Waiting for me there an unexpected delivery of flat pack furniture. Still flat and still packed, ready for that tremendous day when they can be assembled on a fake oak floor. Hoping to make it into the world without any more careless signatures – unless I need to anchor them to the wall.

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Party time

There’s a folksy Australian song that rattles off numerous place names in rapid succession. You know the one, something like Tumbarumba Cootamundra Gooloogong Corryong Arawang Wee Waa etc etc. Macca will play it on his weird Sunday morning radio show, Australia All Over, in which Tony from Mungallala will tell us about the weather in western Queensland before an out-of-tune ukulele solo and some tips from Brenda of Bendigo on making a mint courtesy of franking credits while decimating the countryside in a f*ck off caravan. I sometimes tune in to keep my finger on the pulse.

I bring this to mind only because I feel like I have been living through that song during the first quarter of 2023. A less catchy but almost as infinite Phillip, Wallaroo, Grenfell, Crestwood, Queanbeyan, Nirimba, Lyons, Duffy. Like all good journeys it seems the final destination will also take me back to the beginning, a grande boucle finishing in Phillip. A few hundred metres from my old apartment. Just a matter of selling my soul to a hopefully solvent bank and one or two handshakes away.

Ah, handshakes eh. Remember how they were the norm? And then how a raccoon dog got sick and people thought we would never shake hands again, bewildering the Australian Liberal Party leader. And then we pretended the raccoon dog thing had gone and we went back to shaking hands again as well as not talking to our neighbours and not pickling vegetables and not walking an hour every single day? I tell you, I could live without those pesky handshakes.

For the sake of a good story I like to think it was a soul-selling handshake with a mortgage broker that not only meant my Australia All Over tour was destined to end but gave me the added bonus of COVID-19 on top of hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Most people get a little cashback or a year of insurance with their mortgage. I got an illness that shattered my delusion at being one of the invincibles.

Frankly, this sucked given I was somewhere between Queanbeyan and Nirimba at the time and continued to see the Cs and Ts in Lyons and Duffy. And what of it? I can’t say it was ever too serious for me but it drags on like an episode of Vera and is just as sure to make me feel sleepy. It also has impeccable timing at emerging just at the time when I thought I might have a break away from everything.

Nirimba is also known as a part of Caloundra which is also known as a part of the Sunshine Coast which is also known as a part of Queensland. Needing a few weeks of fill-in accommodation why not spend a little of it on the Sunny Coast instead of, say, Queanbeyan? With the offer put out there, why not seek some payback for those domestique duties back in the rail trail days? Why not celebrate Canberra Day with that time worn custom of fleeing Canberra? I mean, it’s not like anything could go wrong.

Indeed, apart from the terrible option of a Red Rooster dinner off the G’day Bruce Highway, things started off fairly well. A dawn start down by the beach with coffee and a brekkie wrap. Yes, it was a bit dull – the Sunshine Coast doing its usual thing of lacking sunshine – and, yes, it was a bit too early given the backwardness of the time zone, but there were good, healthy, fresh air vibes. In the water, surfers lay as bait for sharks while landlubbers strode with purpose along the boardwalk before settling down to read about rugby players in the Courier Mail. Happy Valley life.

Later in the morning the activewear extravaganza continued as I took a mountain bike along the smooth bike paths of new suburbia and found an island of remnant forest. As islands go it was more of the Drake variety than, say, Greenland, a small reminder of how abundant this ecosystem once was before bulldozers and progress. Just a koala-less snippet enough to take a sexy bike photo and at least pretend this was deep in the heart of the wilderness. Before popping to the IGA.

Perhaps this was the turning point. On the way back, laden with sweet potatoes and a cauliflower, the gloom that had threatened all morning decided to unleash its saturating dampness. It wasn’t especially cold nor especially refreshing but a chore that made the short ride back bitter and infuriating. The only solace coming in brief moments imagining I was some Wouter Van Aert whizzing through the lanes of Flanders. And remembering that there was also an apple turnover being transported in my backpack.

What made me sick? Mortgage brokers, rain, apple turnovers, red roosters, plane flights or, perhaps in keeping with such things, a work planning day? I will never know but on Saturday things started to emerge. Unfortunately this came after a good two hours hard labour on a building site, sweeping up all sorts of dust while musing on the ostentatiousness of so much floor space. A smoko Beefy’s pie and slice of carrot cake wasn’t the only thing irritating my throat.

Do you know how many times I have shoved a swab up my nose and sometimes down my throat and watched as a bit of fluid rises up a small strip of paper on a cheap white plastic thing ironically made in China? You know that moment where the march upward reaches the T and you start to vision a line forming, convinced this time is the time, yet it proceeds up to C without a second thought? Well, the answer is I don’t know how many times that has happened to me, but at least plenty. In some ways it was a relief to finally see that T line glow bright and true, for at least there is a clear reason for how I am feeling. In other ways, my dreams of superhero status were dashed and I was stuck homeless and hopeless in Queensland.

I will not bore you with descriptions of too much sickness as surely we’ve all had enough of that to last a lifetime. In the end it was a blessing to be in Queensland yet also I longed for my own retreat, my own place of solace, my own bed, my own home. The blessing was that I had friends care for me and look out for me and even vacate their own home. I had a bedroom and a bathroom and a dose of warm, humid air when I wanted relief from air conditioning. I had Netflix and a domestique making me coffee, and two generous doggies to pat. I had taste and smell and, mostly, an appetite. Even if gathering treats from the IGA by bike was out of the question for a few days.

If only the home was closer to the beach. I would have gone on soothing strolls away from people, feeling the salty warmth of the ocean on my feet and shutting my eyes to absorb the rhythms of the surf. As it was I had the Dinosaur park and display homes to scrutinise, a sporting oval with distant views to the Glasshouse Mountains and, occasionally, the company of the dogs who will go absolutely bananas at the sense of any other dog in the neighbourhood. By day five, a trip to McDonalds was starting to sound like the most exciting thing to do, if I could make it.

But fast forward several days and it is back to the early morning beachside vibes of Happy Valley. This time, the morning sun is rising, shimmering off the mirror-like sinews of Pumicestone Passage. Surfers stroll down the steps with vigour into a golden glow. The water is gentle and soothing and delightfully warm. The air is still and the day is already on its way to becoming hot. I breathe it in as best I can, this bounteousness of ocean air. Just with a little regret at what could have been.

Now I enter the post-COVID era, superpowers extinguished. Really, how on earth did I last this long? It caps off what has been quite a rubbish start to 2023. All those place names might sound jaunty and adventuresome in a folk song but everyone could do with a place to hang their hat. A place to call their own. A place to mull over kitchen benchtop resurfacing and vinyl tiles and a new vanity. A place to put pictures on the wall, my pictures on a wall! Let the homeowner era finally begin*.

* barring any last minute handshake issues

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Bean there, done that

It is funny how an arbitrary line on the map can make such a difference to how things feel. Like totally new government feels. Different planning rules and street signs and higher rates and corflutes advocating for the next new candidate for the next new government. It’s not quite the transformation one feels walking from France into Switzerland, but welcome to Queanbeyan, New South Wales.

Somehow in Queanbeyan the gardens feel more exotic. As if it is longing to be part of the South Coast while ignoring the spectre of winter frosts. Dusk welcomes shrieking rainbow lorikeets while engine braking emanates from the trunk road heading through town. Surprisingly cute tin and weatherboard cottages compete for space with the sturdy brick brown blocks of flats lining the river. Buzzing waterfront taqueria contrast with a roundabout Red Rooster.

This is the juxtaposition of Queanbo life. A not quite Canberra suburb, a not quite country NSW town. A probable temporary life for me, though there have been a few properties that could have cut the mustard to make it last longer. You do get more bang for your buck, but at what cost?

Okay, well rates are set to increase by more than 60% over the next three years. The Queanbeyan River can sometimes flood. Everywhere else seems just that little greater, gas-guzzling distance away. And – at least where I’ve been staying – I just haven’t had the same level of greenery from the door.

I did find a reasonable coffee shop where you can get a large coffee for less than a fiver. Yet this little miracle means walking a little along the Kings Highway and then deviating through Brad Haddin Oval where you are reminded of the irritating deeds of Brad Haddin.

It’s a graceful and elegant oval set among large shady trees. Old folk from a nearby retirement complex play bowls and shuffle upon the tennis courts. It doesn’t really feel like Brad Haddin but perhaps he has mellowed too, joining the likes of Glenn McGrath and Mitchell Johnson as somehow thoroughly likeable chaps. I have doubts if Nathan Lyon will ever get there.

Perhaps Queanbeyan will feel the same to me, if and when it is no longer in my face like an amped up baggy green rage fest. I’m sure also when I leave someone will have come up with the bright idea of putting a café somewhere between the town centre and Jerrabomberra, providing the opportunity to grab a morning coffee and head into the bush. For now, flask tea is the best option.

Mount Jerrabomberra has proven the proverbially island in the sea. I had walked it once, gently rising along the main fire trail to a summit view and radio transmitter. But there are many random tracks veering off here and there, a spaghetti network offering infinite choose your own adventure.

Even the bush seems a little different here. Maybe it is the geology or the aspect or the way in which it is or is not managed. But one thing it has in common with many a neighbour is the encroachment of sprawling suburbs, trees spilling downhill to lap at a new road, a new Aldi, a new McMansion.

Apparently the land rates in Jerrabomberra are some of the highest in the country. Technically this is a Queanbeyan suburb but feels as much as it actually is over the hill and far away. What strikes me, more than anything, is that it has a stronger Canberra air. I think in the grassy median strips and footpaths between the backs of houses, and the engineered waterways and looping crescents, moulded to the hilly contours of the land. There is even a lake, albeit small, albeit with palm trees and an island that could well be Mar-a-Lago down under.

There are secrets here to be unearthed. Transecting that fringe between the mansions and the wilderness, a lushly green gully, a flowery scent of undergrowth, a deepening expanse of gum trees and acacia. The forest seems to push on, becoming more impenetrable as you go, perhaps heading ever eastward all the way to the ranges and the coast. Or maybe coming up against Googong.

Googong is the newer Jerrabomberra, the modern type where the larger houses take up pretty much all of their small block and where a scattering of townhouses offer as much floor space as an apartment at twice the price. What’s the cost of stairs and a garage?

It took until my last Friday night of Queanbo life to make it to Googong, or more precisely the fringes of Googong, bypassed to reach its namesake dam. This is no ornamental pond with palm trees or cultivated lake with coffee shops, but an expansive, Windermere-esque ribbon of water running many miles from north to south. The Lake District parallels may come as a stretch but there was something comforting and lovely strolling upon its shores under golden evening light.

Critics may jape that this is the best view in Queanbeyan, mainly because Queanbeyan is a long way behind your back. How do I feel about the place after almost an eight week stay? The welcome to town signpost sums it up well: Country living, city benefits, though I’d argue there are also city annoyances to add to the list. But in the ultimate test of the ‘could I live here?’ conundrum, I was pleased to enjoy a decent coffee one final morning, served up from my regular go-to café. Where, just before I depart, they finally remember my name.

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Grenful

I cannot believe I totally missed the big pick and pan. I mean, it’s not like the town of Grenfell is burgeoning with tourist sights. Yes, there are the archetypal painted silos, an old railway station and various manifestations of Henry Lawson, but that’s barely enough curiosity to fill a week. I’ll have to go back.

For the many billions of people unaware, Grenfell is situated in Central West New South Wales, a crossroads (or roundabout) between Young and Forbes, Cowra and West Wyalong. In many ways you may find it indistinct from all those other towns which regularly pop up every fifty clicks or so. In this indeterminate swathe of country, only gentrified Orange and an Elvis-upped Parkes may rise above the fields of canola, waiting to be cut down.

Still, I wasn’t really in Grenfell for touristing. Just being homeless and getting my laundry done, just like the good old days. Working remotely and staying with dear friends. Being grateful. And frequently offering entertainment for a three-year-old.

Oh to be three in Grenfell, where the world must seem full of stimulus. For us adults there is the Main Street and its chain of pubs which offer their own unique character. For me, it was hard to beat the Railway for its old school ice cold midis, the same again please on a warming summer afternoon. Quietly infiltrating a semicircle of locals with hats propping up the bar, one eye on the cricket.

In between work breaks and play breaks I sampled the local country coffee, taking on board various recommendations. I dunno, I think my friends have been living here too long because not once was I any more than mildly accepting of the coffee quality. I could blame the skim milk, but what else is token recompense for a caramel slice?

Given the abundance of caramel slice, I was pleased that among the essential items of life filling my car (clothes, water, mobile office) I had managed to fit in a bike. The roads of Grenfell are quiet and mostly flat and trips to the Main Street become more inviting with a breeze. The week endured hot, with early mornings proving the most comfortable for galahs and humans alike.

Yet it was a couple of evening rides that garnered more joy, despite the heat and surprising hilliness on the way to Company Dam. Three’s company you see, even if my two buddies, Howard and Henry, are benefiting from electric power. It was nice up here, replenished by La Niña rains and golden evening sunshine. Plus it was (mostly) downhill all the way to ice creams at the servo.

Servos – formerly known as petrol stations – tend to take on extra responsibilities in country towns such as Grenfell. For as well as U91 and chamois, you can usually buy an array of deep fried beige coloured goods: hot chips, chiko rolls, potato scallops, meat pies, fish bites. Most of the home cooking I was treated to was excellent but occasional chips on the side never hurt anyone.

Indeed, chips on the side were a highlight on the one foray out of Grenfell, to the neighbouring and larger town of Cowra (size being measured by the presence of Maccas and Aldi). In between, Conimbla National Park punctuates the farmland and proves both bountiful and sparse.

It is highly probable that both Norz and I were the only people walking the only tracks in the park that morning, the Wallaby linking up with the Ironbark. Beautiful swathes of flannel flower were a highlight but the other vegetation was tending towards the spiky and overgrown. Throw in a few spiderwebs for added spice and I was satisfied at my choice of long-legged activewear. Norz, on the other hand, had prioritised temperature control. The resultant encounters between nature and bare leg frequently provoking a soundtrack of short, sharp oohs and ows.

At least there was a lookout, and morning tea strawberries. The view a less dramatic and more modest interpretation of gorges visited in the past. Devoid of humans other than us two, it was a sensation to be replicated down in Cowra on a Sunday lunchtime.

I once had a nice pub lunch in Cowra but it must have been on a Saturday. Today, pub closed. Norz heard of a cute cafe that had recently started up, today closed. An ad hoc Aldi charcuterie or McAussie burger? Or the local chook shop on the main road, which appeared to at least be open? How can you look past chips on the side, with chicken salt.

In servos and chook shops and old fashioned bars with the cricket on in the background and average coffee and building heat and (admittedly overlooked) big things, it turns out this week in country NSW was fulfilling the quota of much that is regional, rural and remote. And when it came time to leave, I felt like I was only just getting used to there being nothing much going on at all. The journey back to Canberra heralded relative hustle and bustle and more trawling through the stairwells and cupboards of open homes. While the most open home of the lot, a home of warmth and friendship, was fading away in the rear view mirror. Until next time.

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A tale of two valleys

Well, I hope you had yourself a merry little Christmas. In a clear sign of ageing gracefully I was pleased to unpack a new, lightweight, bagless, cordless vacuum cleaner and a brand new thermos flask in pastel hues. I think part of the joy was in unpacking something rather than packing it up. Other festive highlights included a love-hate relationship with a ham (I’m so over you) and sitting in the dark in the middle of the day. I haven’t felt so hot since being in, um, England.

So it seems I’m at the point where vacuum cleaners are exciting, too much heat is wearisome and I find ample satisfaction in ambling around the NSW town of Tumut. It was noticeable how many times I was asked Why Tumut?, including from the Airbnb host making money from people actually staying in the town of Tumut. But it’s just nice. Cute and a little cosy, I could live here in something actually affordable. There is a decent café and a Woollies and an awful McDonalds all out of Caramilk McFlurries but most of all there is the river swishing fulsome through leafy parkland and cow-filled meadows.

The Tumut River joins the Murrumbidgee River which joins the Murray River, feeding gigalitres of water downstream during the La Niña spring. For once there is almost too much water, and too much Dorothea Mackellar, espoused by the usual suspects to justify this as normal. Even my pretty little Tumut is not immune.

Feeding into the Tumut River, the Goobarragandra shows signs of flood in its flattened banks and weedy debris. It’s been a lovely drive through luscious countryside to Thomas Boyd Campsite and a trailhead for the Hume and Hovell. I walk a little of the track, barely decipherable through tall, snake-infested grass. It’s okay but nothing to write poetry about.

I pause for coffee (in an old flask) and a Macadamia slice purchased from Gundagai bakery. And decide the best means to perk things up – and fulfil the clichés of middle age – is to hop on the bike.

Flat and sun-kissed, the going is joyous as the road nears the banks of the river, seemingly wilder and more dramatic than it was around the campground. Grassy plains yield to undulating meadows, the shadows from cotton wool clouds projecting onto higher, bush cloaked peaks.

All too soon the river meanders away from the road and those undulations kick in. I climb one and decide that will be enough. And dream of Christmas futures when I can unpack an e-bike.

Is another sign of getting old waking up with the kookaburras? I certainly have evidence to support this theory but then there are also those outliers. Or inliers, so to speak.

In truth the Christmas break has produced some relative lie ins, but this has been countered by a desire to get out early before the furnace is at full force. So there have been a few mornings where instead of sedately lying in bed listening to Radio National and sipping tea I have hopped and skipped out into the bush.

I entered Namadgi National Park around seven and was surprised to find a number of cars at the visitor centre. I suspect they had smartly set out for Mount Tennent while it was still cool and fresh. I wasn’t going to join them, instead heading further south to a rendezvous with a creek.

I do believe the Rendezvous Creek walk is one of the few marked trails in Namadgi I have never set foot on before. And with relatively low expectations (I find that can be the best approach here) I discovered utter delight. At first shady and fragrant, the trail opens out into a hills are alive style valley. The only sound being the rustle of grass in the breeze, the trickle of water, and the buzz of the great Australian blowfly.

Who needs touchscreens and Twitter and endless ham and Michael Buble schmaltz and David Warner tons and lightweight vacuum cleaners and Caramilk McFlurries when you can simply be blessed with the vastness of nature, the blueness of the sky and the buzz of a fly? But allow me one modern day indulgence. Make that two. A brand new pastel flask filled with tea and a Walkers shortbread mince pie. Well, it is Christmas after all.

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Moving around

It feels like an entire Prime Minister ago that I fumbled around with the English language and strung a few words together to put on this interwebs thing. Has much been happening? It rained a bit. There’s some dubious football tournament going on. Twitterred. Trumped. And lately all the right kinds of Farages appear to getting their snowflake-patterned knickers in a twist about some insipid doco on Netflix.

If only I had a palace to turn to. Alas my tenure at Castle Easty in the Kingdom of Wodenne is drawing to a close. Usurpers with gold and all that. Leaving me with the most taxing endeavour for the chronic procrastinator: choices and decisions.

Will I stay in this area with its colourful storm drain network and ever changing traffic circulation? To head to the Westfield or the park or the shady cemetery. Or to wander further into suburban bush, passing emerald greens and into the calming of Red Hill reserve. And onward still to Mugga Mugga and those flask tea log-filled sanctuaries.

Or shall I go west? Life is peaceful there. Especially when you reach the suburban perimeter and cross into countryside. The Ridge at Cooleman proving the very precipice between Canberra on one side and the mountains on the other. Creep downhill, towards the sunset, and a whole city disappears.

It’s a city that – to some surprise – is marching purposefully towards half a million souls. And some lost ones too (I blame the roundabouts). In the north, a recent paddock is maturing into a modern and vibrant centre. There are neat townhouses and shiny high rises and – occasionally – the quarter acre block. Light rail eases into Gungahlin marketplace, cafés bustle beside Yerrabi Pond. Cycle lanes fan out towards Harrison and Throsby and Forde and then they come to an end. Halted since 1994 by the superb parrot and foresight that is Mulligans Flat and Goorooyarroo. So just take a bike that copes with gravel.

The Old Coach Road that passes through Mulligans Flat was the main stage route between Yass and Queanbeyan back in the 1800s. Today it mostly carries echidnas. But, to the east, across the border, Queanbeyan endures. A New South Wales suburb, an Annemasse to a Geneva, complete with different registration plates and cheaper petrol. Could I live in a completely different kind of state?

The answer is kind of yes for at least a bit I think, and, who knows, maybe longer. You tend to get more bang for your buck in Queanbeyan, plus a town centre that if not charming at least pays homage to an inland country town. Riverside parklands provide some breathing space while Mount Jerrabomberra offers a necessary dose of eucalyptus infused altitude with laughter.

Looking back across to Canberra there is another region nestled somewhere between those ridges. The Tuggeranong Valley, a deep south of solid suburbs lapping at a rising town centre. This deep south, a beautiful south? Perhaps upon pockets of the lake with the strikingly proximate mountains beyond. Or standing atop the hummocks of Urambi Hills high above the Murrumbidgee. And back down by its ample waters at Pine Island.

North, south, east, west or simply in the middle? I think almost anywhere would be fine. As long as there is a spot for a walk, a vista around the corner and a decent coffee shop with optional cake. If only I could be more fussy, if only I could narrow things down. But that would whittle down the choices, simplify the decisions. And what kind of chronic procrastinator would I then turn out to be?

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Moving somewhere

So it turns out my last blog post was premature. As I left the UK, the dystopian psychodrama of Who Wants To Run The Country Into Disrepair appeared to be finally coming to a conclusion. But lo and behold it seems we only reached the credits of the extended opening episode of Season 6. Brought to you by the writers that gave us Black Mirror amped up twenty-four hours a day on LSD. God only knows how the denouement of this one goes.

Talking of writing, I see there has been much criticism of The Crown of late for making stuff up but seriously you couldn’t make this shit up. And now we have the prospect of a comeback about as endearing as the return of Kevin Spacey.

With its revolving door of Prime Ministers and warm, elongated summer full of crispy grass and fire dangers, the UK has been doing a fine job imitating Australia. All that is left is cheating at cricket and making proper coffee. Meanwhile, Australia feels more and more akin to England these days. Overblown commemoration of a monarch, escalating lettuce prices, train strikes and days in which the only hope is for a slight chink in the rain. Car picnics will multiply and tea and Digestives will soothe. If only the strawberries were better.

When I bathed in morning sun by the sea in Dorset I knew the next time I would gaze upon the ocean it would be from an Australian shore. Passing through storms, over washed out rainforest roads to a beach in Kiama. A cool breeze whipping off the surf, relieved with spells of sunshine. It was all a bit Devonesque.

I’m pretty sure I read Kiama was one of those places that had a decent pandemic…if you sold or managed to buy a property here. One of those places with tidy shops, decent cafés and a railway station. A fine work from home destination, where you can head for a lunchtime run to the Blowhole and pop on a train to Sydney for an important meeting about advertising.

Today the trains were running, though not quite on time. I was commuting to Wollongong for a glimpse of many more wheels rotating at far greater speeds. The train trundles along like a Home Counties stopping service, only with Australia-scale double decker carriages and that unique easy-going flexible seating. At Wollongong station, bright red hibiscus belies the pretence of being anywhere else.

For a whole week the city of Wollongong was hosting the UCI World Road Cycling Championships, an annual event that is usually far more comfortable threading through venerable piazzas and over short, sharp cotes topped with a medieval church (although next year, Glasgow). Rarely have these elite athletes whizzed past a suburban Supercheap Auto under the ferocious defence of a newly parented magpie. Wout van aaaaaaagghhhht.

Still, they made a good fist of it and today was the turn of the women’s elite road race riders to run the gauntlet. After some scenic made-for-TV coastal ambling and a climb up into the verdant escarpment, the race route made multiple laps of a Wollongong city circuit. With each lap taking around half an hour there was just enough time to intersperse glimpses of a frenetic bundle of colour and energy with coffee and cake, ice cream, fish and chips.

When I broke for fish and chips the heavens well and truly opened again. Seeking protection to feast under a Norfolk Pine, I was astonished to observe a seagull warding off other numerous seagulls and leaving me in relative peace. In what kind of world does this happen? Certainly not back in Swanage.

With the last chip, the shower had passed and the sun came back out as the race reached a conclusion along the Champs du Marine Drive. Two hundred metres from the line, some people whooshed on by and that was that, for today. Back to the station, back on the train, back to Kiama, and back over an alarming mountain of more gushing rain in the pitch black. I felt my car handled it as well as an Alaphilippe, and was pleased to safely bed down to that classic Australian sound of rain on the tin roof of a Ford Territory.

I was camping in Kangaroo Valley, mainly because I couldn’t really find anywhere closer to stay at a reasonable price. This came with added benefits though, including Fitzroy Falls on the way down and a Sunday morning in which disappointing mist quickly lifted to leave glorious blue skies. Ringed by rugged rainforest mesa, its a landscape burgeoning with abundance, a valley carpeted with pasture as green as anything in Devon. It really is quite the enchanted spot.

It was a bit of a shame I couldn’t linger longer now that the weather was fine, but I had another train to catch. The road over the mountain to Berry was much better with light and sun, leading to the bonus of great coffee and pastries in Berry itself. Since I was last here a bypass for the Princes Highway has opened up but Berry itself doesn’t seem to have suffered. It is still, after all, within Sydney Weekender and mass wedding party range.

Unlike yesterday I skirted around Kiama and instead caught the train from Albion Park. This is the kind of area where Australia more closely resembles the United States: freeways and intersections, monotone warehouses, concrete car parks, fast food strips. For later I note a KFC and a servo with cheap petrol, something to help me up over the Illawarra Highway towards Canberra. For now, more frenetic two wheel action was in store.

Today was the jewel in the crown, the World Men’s Elite Road Race. I think the kilometres covered would take them back to Canberra if they wished, but instead more scenic coastal roads, lofty escarpment, and seemingly endless laps of that Wollongong circuit.

Thus I was able to position myself in various spots to watch them stream by, thinning and stretching with the revolution of every lap. Coffee and ice cream and fish and chips was harder to come by as I moved into the suburbs and it was with great envy that I passed parties on decks and could smell the aroma of barbecue lunches. For the most part I lingered in and around Ramah Avenue, a Ramsay Street of clichés beamed to the world. Seventies concrete brick homes, Utes in the drive, magpies warbling from atop bottle green gums. In between laps some hoons played cricket in the street.

Unlike Ramsay Street though Ramah Avenue possesses fifteen percent gradients, which made it a hotspot for crowds with cow bells, fancy dress dinosaurs, imitation devils. At times, cyclists would pass by slowly, though still – to my despair – at a speed I can just about muster on the flat. With each repetition the weariest fall back and you can sense their eyes roll at yet another climb. Dripping with sweat, thoughts perhaps turning to those snags on the barbecue and a cold one at number 52.

Eventually one of them pops clear. A frontrunner who can no longer be caught. A diminutive Belgian, a rising star. Remco, a racer who looks about 12 but acts in a way far more mature than many who should really know better. Real inspiration, real leadership, a long, long way from a Big, Big Dog. And let’s just hope I’m not too premature about that.

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Sand shifts

Do you ever linger long enough to wonder whether this is the last time you will ever see something again? We pass through, move on, find the next thing all too quickly, rarely pausing to contemplate a moment that will most likely never recur. To do so can be confronting and, deep down, we simply assume – or hope – that this will not be the end.

I can relate to these ponderings on a recent, spontaneous trip down to the the far south coast of New South Wales. Unexpectedly treading along the white sands of the Pambula River once more. A cool but sunny Monday morning when I could pretend at being retired and living my best franking-credit fuelled coast life. Replete with eastern sunrises, fish and chip quests, wooden boardwalks and sand in toes.

I first came across these shallow sapphire waters in December 2006, enamoured with the trill of bellbirds and the dazzling contours of tide and land. Discovering the depths of Australia for essentially the very first time, one of several south coast missions with Georgina who was doing the very same. I materialised in the same place many times since: with Jill in 2013, prior to our off-road slip-sliding drama in Ben Boyd National Park; with Dad and Michael on our way to the border in 2018; a day or two before bushfire calamity at the end of 2019; and, the last time, sheltering from a sea breeze as I munched on fish and chips from Wheelers.

Each one of those visits may have been the last. But here I am again in May 2022. Sharing the place with a couple of fishermen missing all the action in the middle of the river and an old codger and his dog, sporting an unkempt slept-in-car look but quite probably owning one of those houses commanding an outlook over Eden. He remarks on the frenzy of fish coming to the surface, a sight still so remarkable as to catch the attention of even visitors more regular than I.

Like the glittery dance of fish breaching water, there are other jewels to be had down this way. In fact, it’s an embarrassment of riches. After the morning at the river I head back into Merimbula. The night before had seen me navigate its boardwalk until dusk, filling in time before picking up some fish and chips (verdict: a bit underwhelming, sadly). As time-fillers go it wasn’t a bad option, with a few remnants of laser-like sun infiltrating the mangroves and reflecting off rows of oyster bed. There is something so soothing about stepping out on a boardwalk, even as some jog off in a breathless frenzy.

Today I am looking to reacquaint myself with another blast from the past: a coffee and bacon and egg roll nestling within the sparkling cove at Bar Beach. The coffee was everything a perfect coffee should be in such a setting; all too often, advantageous spots such as these yield disappointing fare. But not here. Chilled vibes, friendly baristas, a scattered mix of retirees, young Mums, ambos on a break, fishing type. Drinking it all in.

However, since this is 2022, not everything can be quite so exemplary. I note with alarm that the bacon and egg roll has been crossed out on the chalkboard menu. I set off for a walk to figure out how to recover from such news, passing a food delivery truck on the way up the hill which provides a glimmer of hope. It’s hope that stays with me as I glimpse the estuary through the trees, the beach through the scrub, the ocean through massive orb spider conglomerations. Ducking low under one final palatial web back to the kiosk. Where I now notice a sign on the counter proclaiming no food at all.

Things cannot exactly always be the same as before. And divergence throws up different pleasures and opportunities for new delights. Certainly, eating a couple of – admittedly pricey – takeaway sushi rolls in my comfy fold up chair upon the sheltered sands in the sun was a pretty decent way to spend my remaining few hours on the coast. And the lighter lunch makes a forthcoming stop, another repeat, at Nimmitabel Bakery all the more necessary. Shame.

With cake in mind, I say adieu to these crystal waters once again. Crossing country through Cathcart and Bemboka and up the big hill to Nimmitabel. Struck by the verdurous landscape spilling over the horizon in every direction. Embraced by green with a sense of manure, it only takes a few gears to imagine myself driving in the midst of Devon. There again. By fate, magnetism, and sheer good luck, once more coming back to something I love.

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Freefalling

There is a quaint tradition that takes place in Australia around every three years. Puffed up on bombast and / or desperation, the Prime Minister of the day boards a private jet to Canberra before being chauffeured through its leafy streets to tea with the Governor-General (almost ubiquitously a retired military general). He (almost ubiquitously a he) asks the Governor-General to dissolve parliament and allow for a general election. Outside, the nation celebrates in one almighty eye roll and stocks up on paracetamol to get through a six week headache.

In 2022 when we have all been Zooming and Teamsing and FaceTiming like forever, this ritual seems quite the preposterous exercise. Not to mention overly excessive in the use of fossil fuels. But the mining donors will love it and, of course, the media lap it up. Cue live coverage of the Prime Ministerial jet landing, the man himself ushered into a shiny white car, frenzied speculation about what weekend voting will fall on and the odd reference to a democracy sausage (like the sausage sizzle at Bunnings, tastes awful and often comes with a sick feeling several hours later).

Should the PM look up before pressing the flesh with the GG he might notice the beautiful tree-lined avenue of Dunrossil Drive. A road that – like the GG – gets its moment in the sun every three years. Spring elections will be accompanied by a tunnel of vibrant, lime green. Autumns, the golden shimmer of industrious nature gently on the wane. Cycles of nature and political fortune.

If the Prime Minister is anything like me (hopefully not), he will get out of his car and walk around taking surreptitious pictures of suburban streets with his phone. Every March, April and May they stack up, a photo reel transitioning from green and yellowing hues to fluorescent pinks and purples. Every now and then a picture of a cake interrupts the timeline.

Some of the photos manage in landscape but more often than not portrait mode is required, creeping ever backward and breathing in to fit the entire scene in frame. Should the Prime Minister find himself in such a situation he might want to beware of falling backwards into a hedge or car park or sports hall or absence of policy on women’s equality or word salad on climate change. But admiring the scene, how good is this climate change?

As the days, dress ups, press conferences and weeks pass, the Prime Minister may or may not make it back to see the Governor-General to get sworn in or (should this transpire) hopefully sworn at. By then, the colours of the capital would have faded some more, the trees along Dunrossil Drive depositing a crisp confetti to be scattered by the wake of a Comcar. And the Prime Minister and his cabinet and his members and his friends and his lobbyists and his mentors and his donors will be stuck in Canberra in the freezing fog. A beautiful thing.

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Half a world away

Until recently, the last time I witnessed the ocean it was obediently marching towards the stoic cliff line of North Cornwall. A showery, blustery day unsurprising in early December, as fickle and mean-spirited as the lack of warming jacket potatoes and the distribution of parking tickets. Utterly glorious but only in fleeting spells between disenchantment.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to see the sea again. But fate and circumstance have been unpredictable allies, regularly conspiring to deliver huge volumes of rain along eastern Australia, more often than not over the course of a whole weekend. Floods, landslips, surges, maelstrom. The usual 2022 kind of stuff really.

Canberra, naturally, has been a little more protected from the onslaught, feasting its way through annual festivities towards the ambience of autumn. But there’s only so many gum trees and mountain vistas and cafes on bike rides and lake reflections one can digest before yearning for a saltier breeze. Waiting, watching, hoping for a porthole.

And finally there is a Sunday in April. A Sunday following several more days of heavy rain but a window nonetheless. A Sunday when I hotfooted it east with haste, bypassing the regulation coffee stop in Braidwood so that I could enjoy one instead on the sand. From Mossy Point down to Broulee. Regulation muffin making for a vision realised.

Broulee is always a good bet, boasting a selection of beaches and bays, aforementioned coffee (and muffin), and a diverting walk around its not quite island. Here it’s not all fine white sand and azure water, but slabs of rock, stunted scrub and seaweed lending a dose of unkempt nature to proceedings.

Indeed, with the generous gift of La Niña there is plenty of seaweed to mar those paradisiacal sands, the water a distinctly browner shade than normal from all the run off. But under blue skies today, who’s complaining?

With a spot of dawdling and reading and milling around to give the muffin at least some time to digest, I headed onto Moruya to source some fish and chips for lunch. Or fish cocktails and a potato scallop to be precise. The cocktails – all crunch outside and softness within – are to be commended, the scallop – all undercooked insipidness – to be fed to the gulls.

Still, the food was more than enough to propel me towards a post lunch lull and I had visions of fading in and out of consciousness on a sheltered bay somewhere nearby. On name alone, Lilli Pilli Beach tempted me towards it and I settled on the sand with hope, only to be distracted by a cool, funnelling breeze and pooey wafts from a stagnant creek. This motivated me to move and explore among the wonderful spotted gums above the bay.

Trying again for a final dose of utopia I pulled off the road at McKenzies Beach. This was more like it: no smells, no wind, and the rhythmic throb of surf as it meets the crescent of fine, south coast sand. And while there was no nap to be had, I sat contentedly, sun on back, reading about some lady cycling around France eating cake. There is no shame to have an escape within an escape, especially when it involves patisserie.

Back in the very present, I finished a chapter atop the Col de Joux Plane and cast imprints of my feet in the sand. Greeting the ocean and wading ankle deep. Thinking the next time they touch the sea, they may well be half a world away.

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The golden days

Is anyone else fed up of living in ‘interesting times’? If there wasn’t the death of a rock icon followed by the self-harm of isolationism followed by the election of a rabble-rousing orange manbaby preceding the onset of catastrophic bushfires coming just before the spread of a deadly virus leading into wild lockdown parties before another calamitous war broke out would things really have been that boring? It’s no wonder many people my age seem to hanker back to the 1990s, when the biggest deal was Jennifer Aniston’s hairdo.

If you are seeking uninteresting times, you could look no further than a long drive from Canberra to Coonamble and back, especially if this takes you through Dubbo. Admittedly that would make for some pretty uninspiring content, but there is comfort and reassurance to be had in the boring. I just don’t know how I will stay awake though, and it’s probably the same for you, dear reader, as well. So, in an effort to entertain all round, I contrived to make the journey into one big loop, extending the kilometres but exposing myself to some new tarmac – and dirt – along the way.

The first of the new ground was along blacktop through rugged Karst country, taking me from Abercrombie Caves down into the fertile plains around Bathurst. I could have detoured around Mount Panorama the right way while I was here, but time was pushing on and I was getting low on fuel. Stopping at a nearby servo offering the cheapest E10 for miles around, I became the proud owner of the most expensive tank of petrol I have ever bought. Until next week.

As the last glowing oranges and indigo hues of sky gave way to a starry night, I settled down for the evening in Sofala. By settling down I mean parking my car in a free camping area next to the Turon River, eating salad and cold pizza in the front seat, before clambering into the back and onto an air mattress. For a night of sweet cheesy dreams, eventually.

Sofala is one of those tiny places whose glory days have long passed. The glory days being – like many of the settlements in this region – the discovery of rich deposits of gold. Information boards display grainy black and white images and describe a bustling town featuring stage coaches and banks and theatres and, naturally, several raucous hostelries. Today, the high street is a sedate affair offering understated charm and just the one, currently lifeless pub.

It turns out there is gold remaining just out of town, or at least the same glow emanating alongside the river. Water has scoured a course deep into the earth, leaving precipitous cliffs towering high above the mirrorlike pools of the Turon. Known locally as Wallaby Rocks (as indicated by a small, hand painted sign), this came as a total surprise, an interesting feature of an interesting drive that you wouldn’t have known about without passing this way.

I was heading up towards Hill End, another settlement grown rich on the sunlight shimmer of minerals. Today it is preserved by NSW National Parks as a historic site, a village of the past functioning in the present. And so there is an old pub that still operates as a pub, a general store that still operates as a general store, and a scattering of private residences with owners doing the usual mowing and chook-feeding and sitting on creaky wooden verandas. I expected a more bustling affair here, but on a Friday morning it felt like I was the only visitor, a conspicuous sight wandering the streets and peering into people’s gardens.

If nothing else, the village is aptly named, clustering at the end of a long plateau above the deep valley of that Turon River. This results in the promise of three separate lookouts and though not quite of a scale of – say – the Blue Mountains or Kosciuszko, they offered fine views of the golden, rolling countryside. Vistas that were, I suppose, somewhat interesting.

From Hill End I took a lengthy, winding road down towards Mudgee. This would be one of the more interesting towns along the route but cognisant of making progress north and noting the fact that I had stayed there before, I eschewed the town centre and made for lunch in Gulgong instead. The lunch would not be as fancy or as overpriced, but it was satisfying enough on a shady bench in a town that appeared to be rooted in the 1950s. Or maybe 80s. Golden times, whenever they were.

With every kilometre the level of interest along the road peters out, the landscape flattening and becoming dominated by grain. A painted silo at Dunedoo testifies to its abundance alongside the effort of these towns to generate some form of tourism through silo art. Further along at Mendooran there isn’t even a silo to justify stopping, but I stop anyway, grabbing a country coffee and slice of carrot cake to appease the bitterness of the coffee.

It is perhaps the plainness of these plains, today frazzled hot and windy, that makes the volcanic pinnacles and rugged chasms of Warrumbungle National Park all the more interesting. More than interesting in fact. Spectacular. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I love this place and its very magnetism makes it impossible to drive on by. The view from Tooraweenah beseeches: come hither.

I should be making for dinner in Coonamble but cannot quite turn left. Sure it is thirty-five degrees, but the midday sun is well and truly a thing of the past and the return of trees to the landscape should offer some shade. Besides, I need to do something more interesting today, something other than largely sitting on my arse as Australia passes by. Climbing more than a thousands steps to Fans Horizon and marvelling in a conglomeration of sweat and awe at an incredible landscape is pretty interesting.

Prior experience of Warrumbungle National Park alerted me to the presence of showers in the campground, something I was thankful to use before completing the final leg to Coonamble. Last time I came here, the town had quite the aroma courtesy of the mouse plague. I didn’t want to be the one bringing that reminder to its townsfolk today. And be turned away for dinner.

And what a dinner, as always. The interest here is less Coonamble but more friendship and warmth and good food and loud voices and love. From twilight walks along the flat roads with my dear friend Norz, to tales of sand-blown motorbike adventures and potential pizza toppings with Howard. And then there is the joyous company of a two year old, one minute impelling me to drag race him in a plastic toy car, the next inventing the new sport of whisk tennis.

There are some mildly interesting things in Coonamble, including a painted silo, the nickname hall of fame, and the languid brown ribbon of the Castlereagh River. This time I discovered the weir, some new metal emus (competing with the Galahs of Gulargambone), an impromptu water park at the pub, and consumption of a different slice at the only café open on a Sunday. It’s not much, but it doesn’t matter.

There were some surprises remaining out of town, most notably the splendid Sculptures in the Scrub. Tucked away in The Pilliga, the setting was unexpected: a fine, forested gorge whose escarpment is punctuated by artistic installations of meaning and connection. I always thought of The Pilliga as one big flat sandy forest, a landscape of monotony that would imperil any who should veer off its dirt roads. Here, you can feel things which are rich and timeless.

Just a stone’s throw away is Pilliga Pottery, but only if you’re a crow or galah. The generous rains of this summer meant the fording of a creek was out of the question, with further unknowns awaiting beyond. So, an hour and a half later, on mostly sealed road via Baradine and Coonabarabran, we were finally feasting on pizza and drinking out of earthenware cups. Another little enclave hidden in the woods, perfect to bunker down from the world.

Interestingly enough, in many ways the world was also here. The terracotta and tiled roofs and earthen walls evoked a late lunch in Spain, pre-siesta. The scattering of outbuildings and cars and rusted trinkets could be backwoods America. And then, as well as pizza on the menu, there was Bratwurst and Sauerkraut to be enjoyed. The reason became clear hearing staff converse in German, a multigenerational family thriving in The Pilliga. A veritable United Nations, without the veto power of a deluded kleptocracy.

And so, we return to those interesting times. Via Warren and Trangie and Forbes and Cowra and Murrumbateman and Moscow. With more time, Warren warrants greater exploration, particularly among the fringes of the reinvigorated Macquarie Marshes. Back in big sky grain country, Trangie may warrant a return purely for cake. I paused in Forbes for a late lunch, one of the last remaining towns of the Central West that I had yet to visit. This too had charm, elegant municipal buildings rising up among a town centre boasting a fifties Cadillac drive-in vibe. Elvis does live just up the road after all.

From Cowra the road is more familiar and home is on the horizon. Interest fades and thoughts turn from the rear-view mirror to what lays ahead. Hopefully avoiding the Highway to Hell.

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Still well

Freedom. We hear much about its supposed decline. Personally, I’d quite appreciate the freedom not to be exposed to a bunch of conspiracy nutjobs freely protesting about their lack of freedom and flaunting their undeniable individuality through exemplary selfishness. The freedom not to have my head done in.

Sometimes you just want to say “oh f*ck off” and sometimes I do just that when a news story about freedumb fighters forcing cancellation of a charity book fair or abusing a masked-up pensioner or accosting a sixteen year old in a supermarket trying to support the safety of the community gets an airing on the radio. Seriously fuck right off you fucking freeloading fuckwits. Excuse the language but free speech and all that yeah.

At other times it would be nice just to get away from it all, lose radio reception, lose phone signal, lose the presence of moronic people. A solace fairly easily achieved on a comfortable drive down to Kosciuszko National Park and then via your own two feet. Nature, fresh air, rugged wilderness, freedom from freedom.

On the pursuit of freedom I’ve been finding appeal in the idea of multi-day walks of late (or bike rides). Admittedly most of that appeal gravitates towards the South West Coast Path or the Hadrian’s Wall Path or the Cleveland Way or any other number of routes traversed by Portillo, Humble, Green, Reeve, Robinson et al. and delivered to me via the SBS evening schedule. The kind of walk where you can stop after a mile for tea and cake, pushing on for a lunchtime pasty before reaching a quaint coastal village for a pint, feed and cosy room for the night.

Thanks largely to its wildness and locking up of much of the land, such walking experiences are harder to find in Australia. Instead, multi-day hikes are more intrepid affairs requiring the portage of camping gear and emergency beacons and snake bite kits. I would probably quite like these too, if I had a Sherpa. Many people head into Kosciuszko to do as much, and the cars parked at the trail head in Guthega on a Friday indicate some are out there now.

I too park my car up to join the Illawong Walk, slightly anxious about leaving my new second-hand toy overnight. My backpack too is full, but compact in size. Mostly it contains a change of clothes and extra layers and, of course, a flask of tea and accompanying treat from a Jindabyne bakery. Passing the upper stretches of Guthega Dam, through herbaceous meadows and spiky wildflowers, it doesn’t take long to reach the suspension bridge across the Snowy River. An opportune spot for tea and cake already.

I had first come here almost a year to the day. Back then it was warmer and glowing, a delightful surprise full of sunshine, vanilla-honey aromas and Sound of Music earworms*. At the bridge I noticed a new track under construction. Destined for Charlotte Pass. And one year later it is clear. It is free. It leads – sort of – to a hotel.

And so the walk continues to follow the Snowy as it meanders through open valleys and rising hills ever nearer to its source. While at times the vistas are expansive, at others the experience feels enclosed, contained, inching through tunnels of achingly beautiful and impossibly smooth snow gum. Alpine flowers form in clusters of white and yellow and pink. From near and far, the crystal waters of the river alternate between wide, placid pools and frenetic ribbons of white.

The walking is good and never especially steep, with much of the route marked by a metal walkway elevated from the ground to protect the rare and fragile environment underneath. Its newness is clear and sometimes you feel as if you are the first to tread its course. There are other people testing it out, but even these are few and far between.

Closer to Charlotte Pass people become a more common occurrence as the trail intersects with the Main Range circuit. More familiar views open up, from the stepping stones across the river to the outline of the trail weaving upwards towards Blue Lake and Mount Carruthers. One of these rounded humps is Mount Kosciuszko itself, so indistinct and underwhelming as the nation’s highest summit. But this is still a lumpy topography, something I am reminded of once again in that arduous push up to the parking area at Charlotte Pass.

Charlotte Pass village is nothing more than a cluster of ski lodges and cabins which are no doubt a lot more abuzz in winter. It’s another kilometre or two down the road, a fairly uninspiring drag that will be worse in the morning when walking in reverse. At the road junction down to the village a truck displays a massive red billboard promoting food, drinks and coffee. The one and only thing open.

This is the Stillwell Hotel and it also has beds for the night. It becomes clear pretty quickly that I am the only guest. I find it strange and sad that these places are so dead in summer, given the access to many walking routes and biking opportunities and extreme running and perhaps some fishing and possibly just a lovely picnic amongst the wildflowers. Still, at least there is something open (this is an improvement on past years) and there is food and drink being served. For me, a pizza overburdened with cheese will hit the mark, and provide catering for lunch tomorrow.

I theorised I could make this a proper multi-day walk by heading to Thredbo the next day, stopping over at another inn for the night. But there wasn’t much room, Thredbo now the mountain biking mecca and hosting some x-games rad-fest over the weekend. Instead, my hiking adventure merely involved a walk back to the car along the same route. Still, there are new perspectives to be had from a different angle.

Not that I could see the next morning, negotiating the incessant upward angle to the end of the road high in the clouds. Mist and drizzle swept into the valley, adding to the bleakness of Charlotte Pass village and its Stephen King feels. I decked myself out in every layer I owned, hood pulled up and wedged tight by a hat. A few cars passed as I lumbered my way toward the parking area, and I wondered if they thought I was some intrepid adventurer and / or serial killer.

Many, many cars are parked here and it is interesting to see how many days they have booked to be in the national park. Expiry dates on windscreens provide entertainment in the mist and you wonder how those people with three days left are going out in the wild. Other people are just here for the day, and a few gaggles embark optimistically for the lofty summits somewhere out there.

They should be fine. As I re-join the trail back to Guthega the clouds are starting to break up and passing glimpses of hillside and snow-dotted summit provide hope. The dour, swirling air seems to accentuate the beauty of the snow gums and the fragrant shrubs and the pin pricks of delicate flowers scattered among them. Small spider webs are bejewelled by the rain. The river sounds closer and reassuring, a clarion call to guide through the grey.

With a gradual descent the clouds rise and there are pockets of blue sky ahead. A series of summits are illuminated bright, bare hills erupting in shattered outcrops of rock. There is a sense of Dartmoor at times, and in other places a sense of Wales. But no refreshments in a cosy teashop a mile away.

Instead I have my flask and a big bar of KitKat, though it took some time to locate a suitable rock to sit on for morning tea. Further on, past the suspension bridge and close to the car, I finish up the pizza. By now, there are many more people setting out on a Saturday, lugging hefty backpacks with rolls of canvas and sleeping bags and kitchen utensils. Seeking their own freedom.

I am unsure why the final half a kilometre of a long walk always involves a ridiculous uphill drag. I probably could have parked closer. But I am pleased to see my car there, and pleased to see that it opens and starts. Now I am free to drive and free to stop in Jindabyne again and free to fill up with the very opposite of free petrol. Freely cruising up the Monaro and back to my home in Canberra, free of vaccine mandates and usually free of morons. Until they arrive from elsewhere. Both sitting in the nation’s parliament and camping at Exhibition Park. Strangely doing, pretty much, whatever they like.

* current earworm: Hasselhoff. Freedom. Oh, you too?

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The 0832 to Tumbarumba

Trains and schedules go together like trains and – well – Michael Portillo. Sometimes these schedules are fastidious affairs as in Switzerland, while at other times they are indicative aspirations, such as upon the platform of St. Budeaux Ferry Road. The problem with fastidiousness is the absolute carnage when it all goes wrong, like that time when a few trains into Geneva were running ten minutes late. You could see the terror in the faces of panicked locals as they reached for their mobiles to share the drama with loved ones and remediate the knock on effects of being late for an overpriced dinner. Quelle horreur!

When rail lines have faded into obscurity and decades of bureaucracy and nimbyism have finally been overcome to transform them into a gentle thoroughfare for people power, you wouldn’t think schedules really matter. They certainly don’t appear on the jauntily repainted railway sheds and hastily assembled flower beds signifying the start of the line. But schedules matter on a rail trail, because you really need to time that break for morning coffee and cake.

This is why, on a sunny Sunday morning in January, I embarked on the Tumbarumba to Rosewood Rail Trail by going from Rosewood to Tumbarumba. Or to be more precise, Rosewood to Tumbarumba Bakery, the only cake stop in town. Twenty one and a half kilometres to burn a few calories, work up a hunger, and hopefully enjoy some pleasant pedalling as the countryside passes by.

It is astonishing to think this is the only rail trail in New South Wales. While the state once again proclaims its own exceptionalism in leading Australia out of the COVID-19 pandemic (by ensuring everyone gets infected and supports the economic activity of Chemist Warehouse), it is a laggard in the rail trail stakes. Compared with the mighty 145km Brisbane Valley Rail Trail, this effort is a wee path. But what it loses in scale, it makes up for in quality.

I’d say the route is comprised of three parts, though given I am doing the return journey make that six. From Rosewood, the going is easy, fuelled by that initial excitement which makes life on a bike feel good. Rolling hills that could have been transplanted from Devon snuggly descend to flat pasture. Horses and cows and sheep and tractors can all be sighted along the way. Accompanying the trail, the meander of Mannus Creek sparkles in the early morning sun and all of this is undeniably bucolic.

Eventually the trail crosses over Mannus Creek and the landscape opens up considerably. Already warm, I pause in the shadow under the bridge to feast on an orange. Surely this is a fruit that tastes one hundred times better as an accompaniment to exercise. Those half time oranges sure do make sense. But there’s another fruit appearing upon the horizon, with rows of grapevines cloaking the curves of a more distant range of hills.

The going is more exposed now and the incline seems – though imperceptible to the naked eye – more wearying. While the grapes never do quite make it down to the trail there is a blueberry farm on the other side promoting goods for sale. But even this is a little detour and I decide the sound of a gunshot from that general vicinity is enough to motivate continued pedalling. With little on offer between Rosewood and Tumbarumba, I do think there is a missed opportunity here: a pop up stall with fresh blueberries and chilled champagne.

Along the final stretch into Tumbarumba I could use some effervescence. It is uphill all the way, though uphill in that long, circuitous drag of an old rail line manner. But pleasingly it is also a bit more wooded and the passing shade and scent of eucalypts is welcome. You also start to come across more signs of humanity – walkers, people tending to chooks in a smallholding, the sounds and smells of timber being processed.

The trail terminates on the edge of town, high above the shops. So while the plunge down to the high street is most welcome, this – for me – is also of concern for the return. I can see some walking in my future. But in the present it is 10:24, perfectly on schedule to buy a coffee and apple turnover from the bakery. Oh and a real thing Coke and another cheap one dollar slice for the road.

There wasn’t really much to Tumbarumba but I was pleased to find a shady bench in a shady park with shady conveniences. It is the largest town around but that really isn’t saying too much. Still, it seemed amiable and well-kept and it wouldn’t be a bad place to linger longer. But of course I had a schedule to keep: the 11:17 to Rosewood.

Naturally the return was the inverse of everything that has gone before, though with a different angle it is amazing what else you can see. Best of all was the instant downhill where I really didn’t have to expend one kilojoule of fresh cream for five or six kilometres. After that, the earlier enthusiasm drains under a midday sun, and you start to develop a hatred of the e-bikers out for a jolly. My bike seems heavier, the chain rougher, the gears more grinding. Meanwhile my right knee creaks and my butt definitely feels more tender.

I was pleased for a shady rest spot to finish off my performance enhancing Coke at Wolseley Park Station. This was one of several stations that sprouted up to service the local farms, helping to foster small communities with a post office and village school and a dairy and a mechanics institute. If only those mechanics were on hand today to fine tune my derailleur. Still, at least the cows were still about, making some dubious noises. With five kilometres left, my mind turned to lunch.

The steak sandwich at Gone Barny in Rosewood was everything I had dreamed of and more. The more being the side of delicious, deep fried chips. I think, with my extras, this was one of the most expensive items on the menu, at a mere $15. It won’t win Michelin Stars (though that Michelin Man does look partial to a few chips), but as good, honest, tasty food goes, this was an outright winner.

Did I earn this feast after 43 kilometres, a large coffee, a larger apple turnover, a full-on coke, an orange and a few Vegemite Shapes? Oh I doubt it, but the whole point of doing these rail trails is to support these small regional towns, right? Gone Barny is a case in point. Now I leave full, feeling accomplished. Ready to schedule the next one.

Australia Green Bogey
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New territories

Well, this hot vaxxed summer thing ain’t exactly going to plan is it. More like a tepid damp squib. I suppose it’s all that hope and promise unfulfilled which jars the most. There were supposed to be unlimited hugs and nonstop parties, the kinds of things almost all of us have gone without for two years. Instead we get to spend the summer cooped up with Uncle Omi enduring The Ashes.

If Christmas were a Christmas present it would have been the kind of one you tactfully accept and immediately place on the regift pile, hoping that the next one finally brings you that shiny bike you’ve had your eye on. In the end I did well for Christmas gifts, mainly because I embraced that newfound mantra of individual responsibility and thought f**k it. New belt, new shoes, new car. If only I could get some new rapid antigen tests.

So the belt, I mean car. Ford Territory. 2009. Immaculate. Judging by its condition it may well actually have been in the care of one careful lady owner. It’s still in the state where I feel guilty about loading it with a bike and treading in half of Red Hill in the footwell. Today I ate a muffin with the utmost caution, catching and recycling crumbs off my lap. I bet no-one has even thought about the prospect of sleeping in it.

As test drives go, the journey from Canberra to Tumbarumba via Gundagai is quite the examination. Though to tell the truth, everything was so smooth and cruisy I was feeling very sedate by the time I reached Murrumbateman and picked up a coffee. And muffin.

At Coolac, a few random beeps enlivened events. I still have no idea what they were all about but my best guess is speed cameras. Such are the joys of discovery, frequently embodied in the age-old use of windscreen wipers to indicate.

Turning off the Hume Highway, the first encounter with dirt came on a short stretch down to Adelong Falls Gold Mill Ruins. It was nice to reach the parking area without every bump in the road flowing through my hands and arms and shoulders and back. The only alarm was the slight residue of dust on the shiny white exterior, again besmirching its untainted soul.

The falls were busy, but this was a warm Saturday and it soon became clear there were plenty of swimming holes and replenishing rapids along the river. I’m not quite sure where all these people came from given the size of Adelong itself; I guess passing through, touring, going on extended test drives and the like. Still, it was a nice spot to pause and amble and eat a sandwich from my fridge plugged into one of three power outlets available.

Through Batlow and Tumbarumba I was reminded of Saturday afternoons in small town Australia, where small towns become even smaller. Barely an IGA and a sleepy pub open to distract from the nothing much going on at all. It feels all very siesta like, as lackadaisical as the large Australian flag hanging limply in the front yard of a wooden cottage.

And what else to do but naturally acquiesce to the next part of the test drive experience: sleep. The excess of space in the Territory provides the option to lie flat. To lie flat parked under a shady tree, the open back door framing views of a burbling river as chirpy wrens and a delightful breeze induce that state of lolling semi-consciousness. Everything working as it should.

I had parked at Paddy’s River Flats, where a free campground attracted plenty of others with the allure of flushing toilets and hot water. Other than one or two tents, most visitors were equipped with opulent caravans and big rigs and six ring barbecues and diesel generators and that most prized accessory of the dyed hair nomad, the satellite dish. The fact that I could just about arrange seats in a car to lie flat seemed relatively insignificant.

Without a TV I was content to make a cup of tea and sit in my chair beside the river for a while. I would have gone for a drive to explore some more but I was reluctant to risk losing this prime waterfront location. Lessons for next time, where bringing a tent – even if half-heartedly assembled – would at least allow me to mark my territory.

Unable to sit and do nothing for too long, I set off on a walk downstream where there was the promise of some waterfalls. Unfortunately the track to reach them had fallen into considerable disrepair following floods and fires, and it simply became too much to try and bush bash my way through. The road near the campground was quiet and I walked along this for a while instead, soaking up the golden hour as vistas opened up.

It was disappointing not to see the falls but there was another way, another time. An episode in which the Territory really felt at home, really felt like it started to belong. Seeing me through a reasonably comfortable night, the car took me along the road to the falls, twisting downwards to a parking area among the eucalypts. The first orange light of the rising sun lit up a picnic table and beckoned me to have breakfast and a cup of tea. The whistle of the shiny green kettle was poor competition for the sound of thundering water rising from somewhere deep below.

And what a spectacle Paddy’s River Falls turned out to be, that classic Australia assemblage of escarpment and water and generous growth fed by never-ending spray. A wonderful, inspiring culmination to this test drive that evokes the promise of more adventures, more enchantments, more new territory to come.

Now all that is left is to retrieve the bike also comfortably stored in the back, and adventure on two wheels instead. But that is a story, a gift, for another day.

Australia Driving Green Bogey
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Wide green land

In what can only be taken as a positive sign, I will soon need a visit to a petrol station. The last such experience was on Monday 13th September at 10:20am, a level of precision recorded in posterity – or at least for one month – by the magic of QR code. Looking back at it now, it felt a risky manoeuvre at the time, beyond the boundaries of my self-administered geographical bubble, justified in my mind by being significantly cheaper and twinned with the prospect of a different coffee shop. It was quite the holiday.

Since that date, the petrol gauge dipped in small increments only to hasten in more recent days. Friday 1st October granted the freedom for human beings to enter national parks – or a national park more precisely – and outlying nature reserves within the boundaries of the ACT. Just in time for a long weekend that would see newfound lovers of national parks and nature reserves flock to suffocate them with their devotion.

I was primed to wait, to let the suddenly-engaged nature enthusiasts have their maskless moment in the sun. But then I awoke early on the Monday – infuriatingly early given daylight savings had just kicked in – and saw an opportunity too good to pass.

An open road had been an object of desire for many weeks. Being Canberra there have been empty roads and there have been open vistas but never have these situations quite provided that sensation of travelling in a landscape. Of countryside flying past your window in an everchanging composition of shapes and colours and light and space. Each second a unique expression of time and place curated for your eyes only.

And what expressions of time and place these proved. Just out of town on the road to Tharwa, a countryside cloaked in misty lingerings and golden dew. Sturdy ranges rise up from sweeping grasslands, scattered with the withered trunks and branches of old gum tree. Cows and sheep and the odd outbuilding catch the eye, mere dots on a magnificent green canvas stretching to the sky. And oh how green.

If I were restrained within a bubble for but a few minutes this sight would still make my heart sing. And now that it is here again, I want it all the more.

I can leave the car and venture out on foot into the fringes of Namadgi National Park. Already at the Visitor Centre a dozen or so cars are parked up as their inhabitants embrace the outdoors. The trail – worn from good rains and the numerous footsteps of a long weekend – cuts a muddy swathe towards the looming summit of Mount Tennent, still capped by its own personal cloud. Today, that exertion is far from my goal. I want to linger and learn.

For all the joyous expansiveness of the landscape, topped off with flask tea on a seat at the Cypress Pine Lookout, I am distracted, fascinated, heartened by the more miniscule. The work of nature overcoming winter, recovering from fire, embracing spring. All emerging into the world once more.

One of my attempts at Lockdown 2 Self Improvement Projects has been aligned to the season and the pursuit (and somewhat more challenging identification) of our native wildflowers. Provided with generous encouragement and impetus, I have found this a satisfying, almost addictive pursuit, one that can easily turn an hour walk into two.

So, from the fragrant myrtles to the delicate orchids, the indecipherable varieties of pea to the bulbous generosity of golden lilies, there is so much to discover. Far and near, it truly is spectacular how much you can see when you actually look. Checking out as much as checking in.

Australia Driving Green Bogey Photography Walking