Balloons rising over a lake with a row boat gliding across the water
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Surprise!

Whether it’s an epic global adventure or – more likely – random meanderings close to home, travel is an integral and frequently joyous feature of many of our lives. But we travel not only in relation to our immediate geography, we travel too in our mind and soul. We travel on that most mystifying and blessed journey that is life. And, like the laboured 09:00 from London Paddington, my life journey has called in – notably delayed – at a rather significant station.

Which is all to say I got married. So let’s call this station Bath rather than Bristol Parkway, for there is elegance and grace and it is a far nicer place to be. Plus I’m hopeful there will be more stops along the journey, all the way to my final Penzance (and then perhaps onto that renowned land of the undead, the Scilly Isles).

One of the lovely things about this Bath station is the convergence of fellow travellers from journeys past. Reunion and reacquaintance with others a cut above those relationships you form with strangers on the same carriage on the same train at the same time on the Northern Line from Finchley Central every weekday morning.

And so from this metaphorical Bath to a literal Canberra. It’s a fair leap, one almost mirrored in real life by Dad who arrived with time spare to stalk butterflies and ice cream parlours in between a wedding. We picked a good time of year for it, when Canberra’s skies are filled with decorations natural and man made, and the weather is plenty warm enough for hokey pokey.

Hot air balloons hovering over a lake

I particularly enjoyed a walk with Dad to Square Rock immediately after the wedding fever had died down. Not only was it one of those rare spots he had never been to, it was also nourishing to cleanse myself of run sheets and entrance music files and stickers on glasses and lines in Mandarin and fingers crossed about the weather and forgotten bouquets and the pile of photos to sort out.

A view over mountains and forest from a rocky outcrop

Space, clear air, nature and snacks on rocks. Though, with a ring on my finger, wedding memories were never far away. I was thinking the rocky outcrop would make a good spot for a proposal, champagne corks shooting into the yonder. But once is enough, thank you very much.

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From a romantic spot with Dad to a “honeymoon” with Dad. I use the quotation marks (and can mime the associated comical gesture should you wish) deliberately. For if I was to pick a honeymoon venue it would probably not be the Gold Coast. And yes it’s unlikely I’d take my Dad. Coincidence just did its whole chance occurrence of simultaneous events thing where cheap flights booked long ago met a weekend after a wedding.

view of a beach and blue green sea, with some artful cock and balls etched into the sand

Storm clouds approaching a beach

There were many positives about the Gold Coast, enough to balance out the humid showers and traffic lights and bogan tendencies to etch cocks and balls in the sand. We had a super view from our apartment, only dwarfed into insignificance once atop Q1 for a buffet breakfast. Within a thong’s throw of the beach, the water was lovely to wade through, and residual sand could be washed off in our pool just across the road.

From the balcony, night markets were spotted and explored, a trail of stalls selling healing crystals or imploring you to hold a lizard for twenty bucks or to commission a really bad caricature for more. And food options lay out in excess, from Japanese to Thai to McDonalds and Messina. Gelato fans, new and old, converge.

A group of people eating ice cream

The sprawl of the Gold Coast can make it seem hard to escape. And, like casinos in Vegas, that may well be the intention. Burleigh Heads National Park offers mini respite, in that at least it is not another high rise or souvenir shop. But this isthmus of bushland is, on a Sunday morning, undeniably popular with people in tight pants exercising, people who you suspect might use the words “media-based wellness inspirator” when asked what they do for a living.

A lizard sitting on a rock in the forest

Still, away from the curated coast path there are some pretty butterflies if you look close enough. Like everyone, enjoying relief in a lofty opening up out of the humid jungle. But also, like everyone, seemingly desperate to keep on the move.

I find the real gold of the Gold Coast is actually inland an hour, significantly less gold, more green and certainly not coast. You can still espy the sea and the skyscrapers from the Springbrook plateau, but in between lays verdant, dramatic, primeval rainforest.

Mist rising from a forested valley

Today, it’s significantly cooler and punctuated by cotton wool pockets of vapour drifting above the trees. Water is a major aspect of life up here, including a recent Cyclone Alfred inspired 1146mm in 7 days. It’s surprising the roads are – with a little repair ongoing – still open. And not at all surprising that the waterfalls are full crescendo. An idyllic honeymoon spot. An adventure invigorating. A location not immune to influencers but with enough space and spectacle to spare. A few miles and a million years from the Gold Coast.

Waterfalls plunging down to the ground

Not an influencer taking a rest in the rainforest

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From a land of water to a land of water, unfortunately timed for the final weekend of Dad’s visit and our disjointed sort-of-honeymoon. We were heading to Tathra on the far south coast of New South Wales. Compared to the Gold Coast it’s like going from The Prodigy at a rave to Enya in a spa. I would use more contemporary pop culture references but I’m getting old. Besides, Tathra has a mid nineties vibe, a time when presidents played jazz and unhinged dictatorish ones were being prophesised in The Simpsons.

Despite portents of doom, the weather wasn’t exactly terrible when we arrived. Sure, take a raincoat to walk to the pub but do so with hood down. Then up. Then down again. And, as the last remnants of daylight savings endure, sit outside but make sure you are close enough to the walls to be under the veranda, just in case.

The next morning started with promise too, in that I don’t think it was raining much. But arrangements to meet down on the wharf were changed in the space of thirty seconds. Let’s try coffee inside and see if things pick up. Then let’s have some lunch and see if things pick up. How about after afternoon tea… maybe things will pick up then? But you surely know the rain has set in when the monopoly board is unleashed and you take comfort in a jam and cream lamington.

Two people taking photos of large waves at sea

Wispy wave action from a long exposure iPhone shot of the ocean

Thankfully these are good indoor Sundays, when hearty food and drink is matched by cheery company and chat. When cats retreat to bedrooms and paper planes rain down from the indoor skies. A time and place where it only costs $400 to buy land on Sydney Harbour and then, almost inevitably, end up in jail. Hoping to break free as the wind and the rain lashes at forty five degrees.

It was almost dusk when things did marginally pick up. And me, my Dad and my wife managed that kind of walk which was invigorating and refreshing and all the more enjoyable because of the wildness of the weather. Sure, let’s hope none of those branches sway any further than a few metres, and watch out for the newly formed rivulet trails. But check out those waves and those sounds and the clouds blowing through to dump more rain on the hills.

This weather all sounds very British. Which, by good narrative fortune and by way of Bermagui and Batemans Bay takes us back to that figurative Bath. Most of the passengers who came together are now on their way, the final one set for the 1540 to London. Balloons have deflated and cards are packed away. On the platform, two solo travellers have united, ready to embark on the next leg as one. Stand clear of the closing doors. Bristol Parkway, and far better places, await.

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Up and down under

Yes it’s that time of the year again where I feel contractually obliged to say something, anything, about Australia. Have I been here so long that delightful sandy weekends and forays into that once mythical bush are so run-of-the-mill? Usurped by exotic escapes to Tavistock, ambles through brambles in Wiltshire, train station sandwiches in Preston?

I went to Sydney fairly recently and it hardly warrants a paragraph. To be fair it was a fleeting visit offering little new or enticing other than a convenient Gelato Messina. No ferry ride, no beach bums, just a quick visit to see the Opera House in the drizzle. And a sigh of relief farewelling the marching tentacles of Campbelltown.

a sandy beach with waves from the ocean

If Sydney seems all a bit of a chore these days there is sufficient antidote down on the south coast. Even if you do exactly the same things over and over again. The Braidwood coffee, the Tuross Boatshed, the Bodalla Dairy. Little appetite left to wander indecisively around Bermagui Woollies. Waiting to be inspired by a quick sale.

After all those stops on the way down I feel like the size of a whale but then I see a whale and it makes me feel better about myself. I see a lot of whales in fact, both out on the open water and from numerous outlooks on dry land. None of them breach Free Willy style but there are plenty of flapping fins and tails to keep things just the right side of awe-inspiring.

An image of a whale in a deep blue ocean

The best vantage came around the Blue Pools of Bermagui, further consolidating the town’s position as the most likely to make you say ah sod it let’s quit this place and run an Airbnb/mushroom farm/Chinese import business on the coast instead. Judging by the postcards on a board outside Honorbread, it seems others have done similar, though largely with a tantric meditation crystal hemp cleansing forest kind of ambition.

A man fishing with a mountain in the background

The board is well-read given the wait for coffee on a public holiday weekend. I fondly remember a quieter time here, when I managed to nab a very fine pain aux raisins to take onto the beach along with coffee and Dad. No such luck this time thanks to the irritating cliché of a man in front of me deliberating like a moron on which exotic unpronounceable pastry morsel to take away and then opting for that last “snail”. A disaster. I was bitter, resentful, hateful and I still haven’t found a decent pain aux raisins since.

This includes in the hometown of Canberra. For which I hear you ask, what of Canberra? Well, still infinitely liveable, mildly interesting, a little needy but well stocked with common browns. I have enjoyed a few Monday mornings at the Botanic Gardens, a pale imitation of my father in pursuit of butterflies. Peak rice flower action precipitated an attempt to grow one at home, but so far all I have observed upon it is a single, unaccompanied, inevitable common brown.

Butterflies on a pink flower

The tomato experiments are going better and – in recent days as we near the frightful weather outside of Christmas – are cheerily ripening. Fruits like plump baubles on a wilting wreath, waiting to be ransacked by a possum. The surreal juxtapositions of the festive season down under.

It is almost midsummer and I have pumped out a batch of cheesy marmites and about two million gingerbread men from the oven. One Christmas event at a winery was cooled by a slight breeze, another to come will require icy liquid relief. There is officially a heatwave, but what to make of such declarations in December. I just feel sorry for all the Westfield Santas, even with their air conditioned red satin thrones.

Sunset over forest and hills

Maybe the coast will offer relief. And prawns. Let’s hope so, for a few days prior to that 25th of December. So whether it’s in humdrum Australia or exotic England with your crazy storms and hype around minor celebrities ballroom dancing or eating kangaroo testicles on the Gold Coast, have a good one. 2025 promises much of something or other. Whether it makes the blog or not is another matter.

Merry Christmas!

A mountain with a tower reflected in a lake
Australia Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography
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The old appreciation post

Stuck in Sydney traffic? Bored of South Coast beaches? Looking for terrific sunsets and nation-leading coffee? Then you’re in for a treat courtesy of yet another Canberra appreciation post, taking on both familiar perspectives and fresh views.

With Mum staying here for a significant duration I was pleased to see she quickly adapted to the local custom of a morning flat white and was equally as fond of lakeside ambles, bushland meanders and golden sunsets. I was also pleased Canberra was able to throw on a few shows and spectacles involving balloons, lights and fireworks. Oh – and apart from one stormy afternoon – finally some proper summer weather.

A building illuminated at night

The Canberra day begins for many with a labradoodle walk, a run or a cycle. More often than not mine is a cup of tea in bed first. The absolute shock of not having time for a cup of tea, throwing on some clothes and scrambling out in the dark shakes the very foundations of the household. And with usually quiet avenues peppered with SUVs, things are definitely amiss. I can’t even park close to where I want to, as if this was like Sydney or something.

From a distant parking spot the sky gently warms and people throng and inflatable bits of fabric fill with hot air, popping into the sunrise, drifting over the misty vapours of Lake Burley Griffin, perilously bound for a close encounter with the sharp needle of Telstra Tower. It is the balloon spectacular and it never fails to be spectacular, especially so when it is topped off with a long-awaited coffee and breakfast.

Balloons rising over a lake

Later coffees are more typical and a particular favourite for Mum was an iced version down by the lake. Curtin proved reliable, often tied in with a quick pop into Coles. Even the poorer coffees – such as at the perennially disappointing Lanyon Homestead – were compensated by sunshine and flowers and the fact this was still better than 95% of British establishments.

Flowers in front of a cottage

Lanyon would be a prime cream tea location, though that would deliver inevitable disappointment too. But other local foodstuffs excel and tempt. From Banh Mi to Kingsleys to ice cream from Messina, there are numerous dollops of delight which often pose the question, where can I get one of these at home?

Ice cream, roast dinner, BBQ

At other times, it is the home-cooked variety of cuisine which provides content. A belated Christmas dinner from Mum feels both right and wrong in 30 degree heat but there is – as always – no room remaining for Christmas pudding. More climate-friendly BBQs – whether on the balcony or beside a river – are always popular; public BBQs another wonderful asset of the lucky country which can’t really get a run ‘back home’.

Fish and chips are more contestable in the culinary Ashes. In Australia we experience usually excellent seafood frequently let down by salty fries lacking malt vinegar. Mum is astounded that they don’t do proper chips and they don’t do proper vinegar, so much so that it becomes a FaceTime conversation piece with the relloes back home. But it’s only a small blip on a golden evening at Snapper & Co. If only I remembered to bring the bottle of malt vinegar gifted by Dad.

As the polite seagulls dissipate (another win for Australia), the sky glows in that most typical Canberra flourish. One of several satisfying sunsets as daylight savings stretches on towards the end of March. With each rise and fall, there is only a hint of coolness after dark and a slight yellowing in the canopy.

Sunset sky over a mountain

A selection of images at sunset

From late summer to early autumn the changes are only subtle as temperatures remain steady and some of the coffees remain iced. But the clocks tick and the calendar turns and nature knows this is a time in which to make hay, to harvest, to revel in abundance and prepare to turn your thoughts to the prospect of a winter.

On the fringes of Canberra, Tidbinbilla offers a couple of immersions into the natural Australia, a literal sanctuary in which this weird and wonderful land can do its thing. In late February, the same table at which I sat with Dad is now hosting an evening picnic with quiche and bubbles. In late March, the same type of snake is again putting on a display for British tourists to tell tales back home.

A landscape of mountains and forest

And if snakes ain’t your thing there are cuddlier critters to hit you in the face with the realisation, the dream that you are here in Australia. The birds chime and squawk in different tones and melodies. The lizards bask uncaged. The flies occasionally irk. And the platypus remain mysterious.

A koala, bird, snake and potaroo

From here, half an hour to coffee, half an hour to cuisine, half an hour to home. Doorsteps rarely get any better.

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You better watch out

I imagine people imagine spending Christmas in Australia on the beach. Barbecues sizzling, beer stubbies and glasses of Chardonnay clinking, the background soundtrack of pounding, refreshing, aquamarine surf. Dress code: thongs, budgie smugglers and Santa hats. Perhaps the odd singlet professing No Wucken Furries. She’ll be right maaaaaate.

I imagine Dad was not quite imagining this when arranging his first Christmas in Australia, but perhaps not far off. I doubt he was imagining a sodden suburb of Canberra, confined indoors as thunderclaps rage and the decision, the very right, to wear shorts on Christmas Day is a brave one. Family warmth proves consoling, food nourishing and, all in all, she’ll be right maaaaaate. I guess it was far from clichéd.

Weather forecasts and santa hats

The sun came out on Christmas Day, the only downside being it was 7:30pm and not a lot of it was left. But still, BOM Radar viewing could be downed for a brief period and I could go for a quick walk before again imbibing quantities of ham and other saturated fats. The sun set and would, hopefully, come up once more.

And it did and for a moment outside Doubleshot waiting for a coffee on Boxing Day morning it felt truly Australian Christmassy. The test match started on time, Australian openers plodded on and Dad and I sat outside to eat traditional mashed potato with ham and an arrangement of pickles. To snooze or walk it off? Snooze appeals, but the sun is still out and the BOM radar looks okay. We shall walk.

The walk quickened on the way back to the car as rumbles of thunder intensified and evil clouds spilled down the mountains into the Gudgenby Valley. What started out promisingly was now an escape from paradise. A paradise of chirping birds, grassy meadows and fragrant eucalyptus. A footstep into the wild, sedated by the meandering waters of Rendezvous Creek and the encircling mountains. A spot to dwell and marvel and appreciate. Usually.

A green valley under dark clouds

At some point on the road out of Namadgi someone up in the sky tipped a massive bucket of water down on the earth all in one go. A few minutes later it was dry again. BOM radar episodes were confusing, using the classic dramatic device of leaving things hanging. Would it, wouldn’t it, where and when and why? I pity the poor forecasters who have been lambasted for their forecasts of late (hint: the clue’s in the word forecast). It’s like forecasting an overlapping cohort of people will go apoplectic about a food store not selling tacky plastic flags the wrong shade of blue made in China which will probably end up in the stomach of a turtle on a degraded barrier reef. How unpatriotic of them.

I tell ya what’s proper Aussie. A majestic red-bellied black snake nonchalantly crossing your path and disappearing into the bush like it couldn’t give two fucks. They must be liking the humid sunny mornings followed by thundery downpours as much as they like putting on shows for Englishmen to tell terrifying tales to all the folks back home. You beauty.

This one was in Tidbinbilla, prior to the inevitable emergence of a thundery downpour. It was a highlight of what turned into a good day… largely because the thundery downpour came late enough to be able to do things first. It was a day which started off closer to home, down by the Murrumbidgee River and a walk to calendar-worthy Red Rocks Gorge. Greeted by a resident Peregrine Falcon, it was a perfect site for a flask of tea, a couple of pieces of shortbread and a watchful eye on potential snakes.

A rocky gorge and river

At the end of the walk, BOM Radar still looked pretty clear so Tidbinbilla came as a bonus. We picked up some takeaway lunch, spotted a new butterfly close to our picnic spot and continued on into the Sanctuary. Focused on elusive platypus, when someone says to you “watch out for that black snake” you do tend to almost fall over yourself. I have almost stepped on them before. At least this time there was warning and chance to admire, from a little distance.

A snake!

* picture credit: Dad (don’t get too close!)

There seemed plenty for a snake to eat in Tidbinbilla. As much as there was plenty to eat at home. Having said that, I was tiring of ham and leftover desserts and a homemade lentil couscous salad thrown in to create the illusion that I was eating healthily. I was also tiring of being subjected to magical storms appearing from nothing in the space of half an hour when out in the middle of nowhere. Like at London Bridge Homestead, billowing clouds gathering upon all sides, the only hole being where we stood. Wondering whether to shelter in the dilapidated ruins of a shed or driving home with the assistance of BOM radar akin to an airline pilot weaving around tempestuous anvils of doom. Crash or crash through.

Old sheds among some hills under a cloudy sky

I was over the drama. What I needed was a settled, uncomplicated day. And also giant prawns. What I needed was some Australian Christmas.

A beach and sea

Trees and water and some prawns

It came a few days late on 28th December, driving to the South Coast to feel sand and sea and waves and a bit of congestion as people gather in pilgrimage to the ocean. Shady Murramarang forests delight and walks to untouched beaches are a blessing. Kangaroos hop along the sand, sea eagles soar and people frolic in thongs, budgie smugglers and Santa hats. It takes a while to arrive, but there are also giant prawns to be had under a cloudless sky. No wucken furries.

A drongo in the ocean wearing a santa hat
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Road to nowhere

In the scheme of things, in the scheme of the last 18 months, the loss of a car is just a small bump in the road. Perhaps that’s why I felt the tiniest tingle of relief as it was loaded on a trailer for a sliver of cash. Effectively a burden gone, another potential disaster-in-waiting purged. Plus who wants to pay for petrol at the moment anyway?

So with an empty carport and a sliver of cash I am left wondering what does one do with cash these days? Wave it in front of a card reader? Hide it under the mattress? Feed it in stages into the soulless void of a self-service surveillance checkout? I know I could put it in the bank, but that would involve a drive to the nearest branch in Wollongong and, well, see above.

No hasty decisions. The last time I made a hasty decision I bought a car and that didn’t go so well. I think the purchase came about as an expensive alternative to comfort eating after the ultimate, exquisitely executed ghosting. Buyers Beware. A spoonful of newfound adventure and fresh horizons, with the mid forties option of sleeping in the back. I slept in the back three times at $3,333 a night, and never very well.

So I don’t really have fond memories of that car, not in the same way as the almost as demanding Outback. And thus the day it went on that trailer it was almost like a release. And I could just go for a walk instead…

A walk first through the cemetery, my gateway from home to Woden storm drains and the afterlife. The vibe pretty much the same at both. Between, the purgatory of brutalist office block festering in diesel bus fumes and detours. Yonder the pearly gates of Westfield.

But I am not heading in that direction just now. Instead, life and joy and wonder. Sunlight and flowers and bees. Simple pleasures you see on foot, absorbed at a natural pace. Suburban magnolia peeking above fences, wattlebirds clucking in the callistemon, the honeyed smells of acacia. A hum of spring release and endeavour, all the way to the golf course.

A man talks loudly on his phone, the sound of a work call in between the wattle and magpies. We have all done it but I feel slightly irked by this intrusion. As if this spectacle of life, this annual miracle of rebirth is simply a backdrop ignored for talk of Gantt charts and stakeholder management.

Technology huh. Like this whole lane assist thing that new cars seem to think you want. Along with no key and handbrake. Welcome to 2023, I feel, as I take advantage of a bargain rental deal for the weekend. Cue a logistical feast of car-based activities, including Bunnings and IKEA and a drive to the tip. But there’s also a bit of time for at least a mini road trip.

Trying to manoeuvre around potholes in spite of lane assist I head south into Namadgi National Park. For all of Canberra’s interwoven parks and hills I want to feel that wilderness, that overpowering sense of nothing but me and the world. No cars, no phones, no storm drains. That almost but not quite realisation of being the first to tread into something undisturbed.

I’m in the Orroral Valley, which has in reality been quite disturbed by former homesteads and satellite tracking stations and – in 2020 – an army helicopter sparking a bushfire that went on to impact 80% of the park. If you didn’t know it you might not notice today, but a closer look reveals burnt stumps, scarred trees and charred stones.

From here I’m swiftly rising above the valley and eventually into another more untampered. Over a rise bedecked with fresh eucalyptus and large granite boulders and into the sinewy hollow of Nursery Creek. I like to think so named as a place where nature and life can breathe and evolve into something remarkable. Though probably more likely a place name claimed by an invading pastoralist slightly drunk and reminiscing about some nurse he once harassed in downtown Gundagai.

The walk ends at Nursery Swamp, which doesn’t feel particularly swampy today. Late winter has been dry, almost as dry as the sandwich I force down on the end of trail bench. A couple of scarlet robins espy me from a small bush, knowing there will be crumbs. Keeping a watchful distance until I depart. Sweet, and less in your face than a magpie.

Yes, those spring magpies. On the first warm day of the season I took my lunch out to a nearby bench to eat it in the sun, only to be harassed by a magpie. On a lovely, golden afternoon in Mulligans Flat, peace and contentment was obliterated in one fell swoop from a magpie. On the bike, well, I think one ride notched up a double figure attack count from more than one magpie.

It was a long ride to be fair. A part training part test ride. No hasty decisions when it comes to a car, but reckless abandon when it comes to a bike. An e-bike no less. Free of registration costs and petrol costs and faulty transmission (though maybe a dodgy Shimano) plus not enough room to sleep in the back.

Yes I’m not yet 50 and yes I will still use my other, conventional bike as well. But I feel this can take me further and higher and faster. Expand my horizons. And, with food and coffee stops, probably expand my waist. Among the losses, there’s still something to gain.

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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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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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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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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.

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Off track

Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t say I’m especially fond of a cracked phone screen on top of a magpie attack on top of an earthquake on top of a lockdown on top of a pandemic. Served up with a hearty dollop of impending nuclear Armageddon intersecting with blistering fire and dust super tornados. No, Wednesday you didn’t particularly rock my world.

Frankly, out of all those, the bloody magpie irks me the most. How dare you take away the satisfaction and soothing of my allotted outdoor exercise time in lovely spring sunshine. And mean another pathway is added to the blacklist. The pathways are busy enough as they are with all these people in various states of mask undress discovering pathways for the very first time. Why don’t you attack them, stupid magpie? Oh, that’s right, you remember me, but yet conveniently you don’t remember how I have never once tried to steal your babies in all those years, you bloody shit.

If there is any positive, the magpie at least adds a bit of frisson to another daily outing in the same part of suburbia. Six weeks in, the confines of living within a vague radius or region are starting to grate. There are only so many times – for instance – you can wander upon Red Hill without getting weary of the same route. On the most recent occasion, I found myself annoyed with an endless procession of joggers and dogs not on leads and family gatherings. Eroding the sensations usually associated with an escape to and immersion in nature. Sounds, sights, space shrinking.

An actual problem looking for a solution, I find myself more often than not heading off track. A little out of the way. Not exactly bush-bashing, more weaving between weeds. There are still a few spots in which to escape around the Woden zone. I probably shouldn’t share them here but figure a readership of six people – many of whom are not in Canberra – is not going to cause a sudden ruination of my life. If it does, I’ll know who to blame. And set that magpie upon you…

The Old Mugga Mugga Way

If Red Hill is akin to Fitness First every goddam afternoon, Mount Mugga Mugga Reserve is more like that rusty bench press underneath a pile of boxes at the back of the garage. Fringing the weirdness of O’Malley, it seems the varied diplomats and consuls who inhabit the area rarely go out to exercise. Perhaps like most aliens they have been cowed by those great tales of deadly inhabitants of the Australian bush. Preferring the safety and comfort of their own little piece of soil.

The Centenary Trail runs through the reserve and introduced me to the area back in the good old days of 2020. A few people still come and go along this thoroughfare but it’s simple to veer off onto a number of faint tracks and choose your own adventure. The landscape is a very Canberra mix of weedy incursions and precious Yellow Box-Blakely’s Red Gum grassy woodland, replete with gnarly old eucalypts and their generous, homely hollows.

One particular tree has fallen, and I have taken to it on several occasions to perch and drink tea from a flask and eat a treat and watch Gang-gangs fly past while kangaroos graze and deadly inhabitants of the Australian bush lurk in the crevices of the fallen tree on which I am sat.

The whole flask of tea thing has become another more frequent happening in my life in recent weeks; I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it much before. Perhaps I simply wasn’t quite of an age. But pandemics and magpie attacks have a way of adding on the years, transforming a simple flask of tea in the middle of the bush into something that feels much more precious.

Isaacs Off Piste Ridge

Mount Mugga Mugga itself is scarred by a quarry and the summit appears fenced off, thus remaining that rare Canberra hill not trampled upon by my own two feet. Yet it’s just one lump in a broad range extending from Red Hill south towards the Tuggeranong Valley. Adjoining Mugga Mugga, Isaacs Ridge proves popular for its pine trails and dog walks and boasts an archetypal trig marker summit loop with 360 degree views.

That all sounds a bit mainstream for me at the moment, so I veer off the fine balcony trail lapping at the foot of the ridge and decide to head up cross country. There is a very faint track at first, which slowly blends into a landscape of open grassland and rocky scrub. Over a false summit, a field of thistly plants remains quelled by winter – give it a month or two and the going will come with greater hazard. A random copse of casuarina appears as if some long-forgotten scientific experiment, offering a landmark to follow slowly upwards to the top of the ridge. And lo and behold, a photogenic gum tree, with some fallen logs for a rest (and possible tea).

From here, there are views east to that far off land of New South Wales. There is countryside and Mugga Lane and quarrying work and possibly even just a little part of the tip. But mostly it’s countryside. There is also the white trig marker visible to the south, acting as a beacon to aim for, navigating the rocky boulders and grasses of the ridge and returning to the mainstream.

The Murrumbidgee Vista Rocky Outcrop

For several weeks, Cooleman Ridge was proving one of those ambiguous places in the application and interpretation of local coronavirus restrictions. Is it in the Woden, Weston and Molonglo region or is it Tuggeranong? Is it within five kilometres of home or six and a half or eight? The answers are yes and sometimes you just have to ask the question does it actually matter?

One of those days was a lunchtime and instead of a flask of tea I packed up some crackers, nuts and cheese and went on a quest for the perfect place to snack. Eschewing the usual, well-defined summit rocks and strategically-situated benches I veered off towards a hillock I had eyed up in the past. A few gum trees stood atop resistant, hosting flurries of wattlebird and passing rosellas. Imagine by delight that under one of them was the perfectly positioned, home-crafted seat.

Someone had been here before looking for the ideal situation to escape to the country. A kindred spirit. And if a backdrop of lush farmland cloaking a river valley beneath forested hills isn’t enough, check out those crackers and cheese and nuts from Kingaroy. Off track snack pack perfection.

The Oakey Dokey Hill with bonus Hummock

Along with off track adventures one of the permissible things I have been doing virtually every day is picking up a takeaway coffee. It is the stuff of contact tracing nightmares and triggers the inner COVID police in me every time. Quit loitering. Stand away from me. Stop touching your face. Don’t order multiple coffees with various shades of milk for your entire bubble.

I’m also – naturally given current confines – alternating my takeaways between a mere handful of proximate cafes, constantly hoping they fail to materialise on the exposure site listing. In Lyons, Stand By Me offers something that is walkable from home and – should I wish to venture further – can be incorporated on a climb of Oakey Hill.

Of the six hilly nature reserves forming a horseshoe around the Woden Valley, Oakey Hill is probably the least fashionable and most unkempt. Power pylons compete with decommissioned water reservoirs and temporary fencing. The flora seems more degraded, more weedy, more battered and bruised by the elements. Still, there is a nice bench beside the trig marker if it’s vacant and a little used side track that offers good views out to the mountains.

Across from the reserve, a green corridor lines the divide between Lyons and Curtin. From here, more slivers of green penetrate into suburbia, one of which hosts a determinedly vicious magpie. Nowadays I avoid that particular route and instead continue around the outside of Curtin on a track that at one point takes on the appearance of pasture. It forms part of what has become a fairly regular ten kilometre bike jaunt which culminates in a different takeaway coffee at Red Brick.

Along this way, at the back of Curtin, there is a hummock which takes me away too. Behind, fences protect garden refuges with trampolines and lemon trees and potting sheds and shrubs of shady bottlebrush. But in front there are fields of green and skies of blue. On the horizon, the distinctive angles of the Brindabellas promise at much more freedom. And I am whisked away to a place far from busily exercising humans and irritating magpies and daily case numbers and limited coffee options. I am taken again off track.

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Constellations

My better instincts tell me not to add to the infinite pile of mediocrity written about lockdowns. Enough of the wry observations on human behaviour and knowing, self-satisfied quips about sourdough. But forgive me one indulgence: I absolutely hate myself every time I realise I am rolling my eyes or muttering under my breath about a misplaced mask or a small cluster of people sitting on open grass simply trying to get through life as best they can. I absolutely hate that we all now have a little COVID police officer within us.

When out and about I should really focus instead on the threat of magpies and the impending advent of flies hassling my face. These are, perversely, bright spots of our times. Reassurance that there is a normal, no matter if that involves a petulant bird trying to peck out your eyes. There are many bright spots right now.

Take Sunday morning. Scenes of Emma Raducanu and an awesome kid on a bike coming together with an awesome adult on a bike. Out in the real world another awesome kid on a bike warmed me with a good morning greeting on the way for coffee. Sun was out, bees were buzzing, magpies were lurking. Shorts were on.

Bare legs couldn’t remain all day, the weather typical of spring: one day it’s all throw open the doors, the next retreat back into your cave. Nonetheless, the joy of spring is as enduring and as uplifting as ever.

Favourite – and very local – spring spots include a clutch of trees next to Chifley shops transforming into a tunnel of pink, a cul-de-sac in Curtin that is equally as resplendent in autumn, and the natural blooms of Woden Cemetery.

The cemetery is a funny one, not that you hear anyone laughing. Here is open space on my doorstep that I conscientiously tiptoed around for a few years, driven by some hallowed sense of not wanting to intrude. Should a place of grief and loss really also be a place for me to ramble around seeking joy and delight? Well, in the full gamut of emotions that make us human, yes, or at least I have convinced myself of that in a lockdown during spring. And there is something undeniably poetic in the new life flourishing among the tombstones that I suspect many passing souls would beam a broad smile at.

Nearby, the rocks and stones scattered on a small piece of bushland between Garran and Hughes marvel at equally magnificent transformation. This is most apparent in the explosion of golden wattle, so full and vibrant and unashamedly Australian that is hard not to feel borderline okay about the batting average of S.P.D. Smith. Gang-gangs and galahs and annoying myna birds provide the backing for the exquisite melodies of our wonderful magpies. Everything feels industrious here, with a touch of ornithological romance and floral perfume in the air.

Each bead of effervescent wattle bloom is a bright spot. As is each elongated creak of a Gang-gang, each delicate petal of cherry blossom, each sun-glazed afternoon where you can throw on some shorts until the chill returns. Marry these with uplifting moments of human endeavour and achievement and connection and compassion and you have enough bright spots to form a whole constellation. A sky of stars so powerful it can even eclipse those inner COVID police, for a while.

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No business like…

While we waver towards probable lockdown at some point down the road, a certainty to hold on to is the march of spring. I can start to sense it in the evenings that are still light at 5:30, in the alarm call of birds beginning a stout defence of their nest, in the explosion of green and gold wattle somehow reminding me of many a repeat during the Channel 7 Olympic coverage.

In Australia, winter doesn’t always feel as distinguishable. What Queenslanders call winter certainly is not. In Bondi you can quite comfortably be parading minimal activewear in July, taking essential exercise to hang around in the line for takeaway coffee. Even Canberra – while frequently subjected to alarmist rhetoric and gloating Queenslanders – is still no Ice Planet Hoth.

Snow remains a novelty, especially in the city. Occasionally, hail masquerades or something between drizzle and sleet briefly descends. The only real flurry is in the resultant Facebook posts proclaiming snow. If it is snow, it is a very Plymouth kind of snow, with the same building anticipation and ultimate let down.

As in Plymouth, you must head up. And up and up, towards the high country in the sky. You can drive there on a weekend with thousands of others to enjoy traffic jams and diesel slush or put in the hard yards and discover a pristine winter wilderness by foot.

I go for the latter, though the hard yards are harder and many more yards than I initially hope. At Mountain Creek car park in Tidbinbilla I hope for a rerun of a previous time in this spot, when a good covering of fresh snow blanketed minty forest trees and the fire trails nearby. I hope to experience winter in its fullness in a matter of minutes, with enough time to retreat and find a warming café. I hope I have not dragged myself, my car, and my friend Alex out here in vain.

We set out on the Camels Hump Trail, with no intention of actually going to Camels Hump. Just enough altitude gain to reach the snow line. It’s steep at first, but that would mean we get to the snow quickly. Eventually, the first speckled dusting appears on some leaves. The first sprinkling upon the muddy brown fire trail emerges, disturbed by the tracks of a vehicle that has been fortunate enough to climb this way. By time the tracks vanish under a proper covering of snow, we are closer to the top.

The trail has levelled off enough to encourage continuation, each step forward bringing incremental increase in snow cover, providing that uniquely satisfying sensation that comes with a Size 9 imprint. Between the laden eucalypts, views to the bare countryside glow from down below. Ahead, a pyramidical outcrop looks very much the mountain.

This was Camels Hump. After a year and a half I thought I may have exhausted all possibilities, but this was a new one. The fire trail ends, and the remaining track to the summit is through tunnels of low trees iced in white. The way ahead is almost indecipherable, the thought of descent alarming. I call it quits on a particular slippery rock and wait for Alex to return. Happy to watch the weather rapidly pass over Johns Peak.

After what seemed forever, Alex does return. I’m relieved there is no need to call on emergency services. I’m equally as relieved to hear the summit is enshrouded in dense shrubbery, without any visual reward. The visual reward is simply all around me, in this very winter wonderland.

And now with that achieved, roll on Spring.   

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Tour de ACT

The buzz. The excitement. The nerves. The never-in-my-lifetime strangeness underpinned by a back catalogue of disappointment. The sense of hope, exhilaration, and gut-wrenching drama more often than not deflated by events. The inevitable post-mortem punditry and scapegoating and resignation and acceptance. But maybe – just maybe – this time will be different.

If ever there was a weekend to finally come home this would be it. But I’ll be in bed, 12,000 miles away, turning on the bright lights of a laptop at five in the morning. Thinking about Italian coffee and chocolate digestives to perk me up. Minus three degrees in my shirt.

It’s a bed in a home that I haven’t written about for a good half a year, what with other more exciting jaunts. Canberra is still here, still going through its motions, still – touching wood – absent of coronavirus despite the best efforts of our neighbours. Still understated and beguiling, fortunate and free. Offering abundant life and opportunity if only you should look.

Over that time, Canberra has been doing what Canberra does, transitioning slowly but surely through the bursts of colour of autumn towards morning fogs which (usually) lift to reveal brilliant blue afternoons. It’s the time of year when continental superspreading sporting events disrupt sleep and sub-zero mornings add to the challenge of getting out from under the doona. A time when travel bubbles pop and masks finally become a thing. But do not despair. There is always fresh air.

From the reliable vistas atop Red Hill, a quick jaunt up the road once the laptop powers down. Winter light always doing something special just before five in the afternoon. A warm angelic glow spreads over the rising towers of Woden, the hospital and the Pfizer vaccination hub. Kangaroos munch unaware. Some things change and some things don’t.

A sunset scene over Woden and the hills

Rapidly contesting with Red Hill as my favourite nature reserve, Cooleman Ridge offers great reward for minimal effort. Fringing the west of Weston, the reserve boasts fine views back over Canberra but the real splendour is on the other side. Paddock. Hills. Forest. Mountains. A Murrumbidgee Valley creation. With suburban sprawl and hoonish echoes fading behind the ridge, it is a country walk in a city. And because so much of the Australian countryside is shamefully locked behind fence and gate and no trespassing signs, this is a real treasure. 

A view of mountain ranges and countryside

The treasures of Mulligans Flat are perhaps a little less obvious – and much more likely to emerge at night. But this place is a sanctuary for humans and animals alike. It is another place that has grown on me through a pandemic, from the initial Centenary Trail crossing to volunteer tasks hassling echidnas and wallabies and turtles. As is oft-mentioned on a twilight tour, the dams were dry back when we were enshrouded in smoke. Today they come alive. 

Sunset reflection in a dam

A bigger dam sits further west, lapping at a much bigger wilderness. When you stop and think about it, it is quite something that you can be picking up a good coffee at the neighbourhood shops and fifteen minutes later staring out towards this. Cotter Dam vistas shrink and stretch as you rise further into the sky, reaching a new summit at Mount McDonald.

A large reservoir surrounded by forest and hills

Another new summit is added to my life experience when I take the dirt trail up to Mount Jerrabomberra. I have ventured beyond Canberra, though only just, and only before the latest Bondi-fed outbreak (just in case some paramilitary border goon decides this is reason enough to bar me from Western Australia for twenty years). I have come to Queanbeyan for the rare opportunity of coffee and cake at three in the afternoon, discovering a café that actually opens beyond two. Why is this not more of a thing? Especially when you can easily walk a few crumbs off afterwards.

Last rays of sun over the silhouette of a landscape

It is becoming harder to discover new things like this in the backyard, but I am not there yet; Coronavirus may have to last another twenty years for that to materialise, something I would dearly love not to happen. I would love instead to walk in the Alps again, to hike along the downs of southern England chasing butterflies, to stroll through the Barbican and up to Plymouth Hoe, snaffling some fudge and an ice cream along the way.

But do not despair. I discover a winter’s walk alongside the clear water of the Tidbinbilla River, striking out through green forest singing in the aromas of fresh peppermint. Occasional early wattle pops golden and soothes like honey. There are views towards rocky crags and precipitous ridges and – down the track – a little home: Nil Desperandum. It has been restored to cuteness and if only they had a kettle with some tea and perhaps freshly baked scones waiting, the walk back wouldn’t have seemed such a chore.

A homestead set within forested hills

Nil desperandum. Whenever or whatever might come home, do not despair.

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Covers

The return of the traditional road trip has been another much vaunted consequence of our most recent history. With nowhere to flee overseas, we are discovering our homelands, our paddocks, our backyards. A large proportion of this adventuring has been undertaken in kitted out camper vans, luxury coaches, or simply a mattress in the back of a beat up station wagon. Canvas roofs have blossomed in trodden fields of green, the sound of mallets beating tent pegs as widespread as cicadas.

Initially when the pandemic hit, and uncertainty was rife, I thought I could do this if it came down to it. Fruit would need to be picked somewhere or fences would still be in need of repair. Possessing a swag, small dome tent and station wagon, sleeping options could be mixed and matched, while the trusty camp kitchen box could cater again for bangers and mash in thirty five degrees. There is a dreamy, deep rose-tinted quality to these visions, one that conveniently overlooks the discomfort, the dirt, the sweat and the toil.

As it turned out, I was lucky enough to be able to sit in front of a computer all day and receive the compensation of a regular income. But these wistful visions of a nomadic life have never quite gone away. The compromise has been day trips into the country, eventually culminating in a night on a mattress in the back of a beat up station wagon. Another night became aborted because – well – I could just make it home, and I began to question my commitment to life almost under the stars.

Yet a new year brings new resolution so we are led to believe, and with the prospect of more distant travel still a distant prospect there is logic to be had in persevering. What if I could make 2021 – or at least the warmest parts of 2021 – the year of the camping weekend? Could this provide – in its own way – a new purpose to fill the void that is the Centenary Trail?

Only time and possibly this blog will tell, but with this idea still racing through my mind like an out-of-control hamster wheel I swiftly purchased a new tent online. Click and collect from BCF in two hours.

I have always poured scorn on BCF, mainly because their adverts of boating, camping, and fishing escapades are layered thick with Australian drongoism. Like you can’t boat, camp or fish if you went to university. Or it is simply unheard of to do these things and care about the environment and refugees and good coffee at the same time. Only blokes in thongs with a nasal dislike of political correctness can go boating, camping, fishing. 

I suspect I read too much into it. The process was very efficient. The lady in Fyshwick who handed me my tent was perfectly lovely. A new tent to add to the swag, the 2 person dome, and the mattress in the back of a beat up station wagon.

You may well ask why I even need another tent and I would say that what I need is something that doesn’t give me as much of an excuse to turn back for home. Something that – as I march towards wisdom over youthfulness – is less of an ordeal. What I need is something more akin to glamping than it is to homelessness.

And so that is how I found myself erecting a brand new ‘instant’ four person tent at Mount Clear Campground in the southern part of Namadgi National Park last Sunday. With my pristine tent, deluxe airbed, comfy lounge chair, I looked every part the newbie amateur who had just splashed out on some shiny things for Christmas. Not the hardened traveller who had done three months in a swag and persevered with bangers and mash in thirty-five degree heat.

Only the rumpled, irregular mallet hints at greater experience. With this in hand I pleasingly managed to erect the tent quickly and efficiently, as though I knew what I was doing. To say it is an instant tent is probably an overstatement once you take into account pegs and guy ropes and – should you wish – a shady awning. But it was a reasonably simple erection, and I was happy to find ample room for my deluxe mattress and comfy chair and body standing in an upright position.

The more taxing part was choosing where to pitch the thing, given so many lovely-looking spots. In this respect, an estimation of neighbours is instantly required – deciding between a cluster of boomers and a foursome of millennials, while a BCF loyalist blares out some country and his kids run amok. All potentially troublesome, yet also reassuringly present.    

In the end I inched slightly closer to the millennials, which ended up a mistake when they decided to stay up around the campfire until after one. But a home is a home and not only did it stay upright and protect and comfort, but it also came with some of the most generous backyard within our little capital territory.

From settler’s huts to magical vistas, over swampy plains and through one year charred trees. An urge to pee brings staggering night skies, turning to gold as birds and boomers rise. There’s a hike through meadows, there’s wading through a creek, recovering with camp stove coffee and old Christmas cake. And then replenished, full on nature’s bounty, there’s a home to dismantle, and achievement to take.

The tent managed to fit back in its bag.  

Australia Driving Green Bogey Photography Walking