As I disconcertingly approach twenty years in Australia I forget how many times I have been exposed to “the most highly anticipated Ashes series in history.” Only to be either irritated and / or bored senseless within the time it takes to make a dubious TV umpiring decision.
So, here we are again.
It’s funny how Australia (the cricket team) has irked me over the years, causing me to seek solace in Australia (the country). Give it thirty minutes or so among the gum trees and almost all is forgiven Warnie, Gillie, Mitcho, Smithy, Patty, Garry, and usually some guy slapping it about on “dayboo”. Even if the kookaburras knowingly cackle to rub salt in the wound (or sandpaper on the balls).
Meanwhile, the only time I get to wax lyrical about England is here on these pages, when I am focused on sharing the latest updates on pasties from Cornwall and vistas from a coast path. Indeed, there seems to be more English content for AI to regurgitate to the level of an eight-year-old than there is antipodean. Perhaps because England feels so exotic these days, what with its M&S biscuits and quirky place names and increasingly chaotic populist edginess.
Corners of Australia offer sanctuary from much of the nonsense, helped in part by third world internet and mobile blackspots. Purer, halcyonesque days of sandy toes and salty air, of flip flops floating on the incoming tide as whales flap within a deep blue sea. Places where some numpty on Facebook will film a short video montage to the title of ‘It kills me when people come to Australia and miss this pristine secret hideaway.’ If that’s what bloody well kills you then a) wait until you hear about the snakes and b) please, be my guest.
Since those sojourns in England we have been to the south coast of NSW at least three times by my reckoning. Twice in or around Tathra, where whales thrash their way down the Pacific Highway and prawns land upon the plate. There are friends to catch up with and walks through spotted gums to serpentine lagoons. And trips north or south to an array of small, unassuming coastal towns.
Eden made a change, a place I had not walked upon for several years but reassuringly familiar. There have been catastrophic fires and a pandemic and Trump x 2 and still the prospect over Twofold Bay is soothing to the soul. There is a lost paradise about this place, hidden within the rough edges.
Hidden too, the Bundian Way. An ancient 365km pathway from Turemulerrer (Twofold Bay) to the mountain ranges of Targangal (Mount Kosciuszko) that Aboriginal people from Yuin, Ngarigo, Jaitmathang, Bidawal Country have walked for thousands of years. Now rising in consciousness again following an impressive book and the development of an easy, accessible, beautiful couple of kilometres to start.
On the topic of hidden paradises, a golf course next to the sea would tick many boxes, especially for English cricketers busily training. Just north of Merimbula, Tura Beach has one, although the sea often remains hidden behind dunes and tea tree and banksia. These hazards are supplemented by protective plovers and swampy ponds and numerous retirees doddering along with their dogs. I never realised the entirety of Tura Beach was effectively a Goodwin retirement village.
Still, I might qualify soon. And being ‘of an age’, I have been trying to get into the swing of things again. This includes packing my golf clubs in the car and bringing them along for a coastal trip in the hope my darling wife will fancy a break from me and I’ll kill this time by hacking at a little white ball with a metal rod.
In hindsight perhaps I would have been better off with a siesta too. The recovery shots seem to be my forte, but then I get plenty of practice. Why don’t I just pretend I am smacking a low shot under some trees all of the time?
I could try fishing instead. Which takes me now to Mollymook and a tenuous link with Stein and his seafood cookery. Last time here we stayed above his restaurant overlooking the ocean eating noodles in a cup. This time, we stayed down in the Pavillion, eating at the golf club bistro. I guess, barring the noodles, this was a more downmarket affair.
This is possibly the most privileged paragraph ever written but I guess the problem with staying at Bannister’s Pavillion after previously staying at Bannister’s By The Sea is that you had previously stayed at Bannister’s By The Sea. The comedown is like being, say, 1/105 at lunch and then bowled out for 164. I mean the rooftop pool is pretty and that but what is with all the random gurgling and banging and knocking? Not to mention the parade of 5am Ford Rangers commuting back to the eastern suburbs of Sydney on a Monday morning just outside your room.
But, well, happy birthday me. The sun came out and the pool was inviting enough to dip in and we travelled a road well-travelled to get back home with familiar highlights along the way. Like Bendalong Bays and Kangaroo Valleys and Fitzroy Falls and Bundanoon Bakes. Familiarities becoming more familiar than scones and cream and Tesco and paying for air and countryside pubs. They, like test match wins, are the rarities. They the exotic.
There is jeopardy in revisiting a place of joyous memory. Risk in the raised expectations that many of the same ingredients will result in the same, delectable cake. But a second time around some ingredients are missing and some have additives and there is the chance they won’t combine in quite the same way. Not to mention the unpredictable variable of temperature. Why does it always come back to cake?
Sausage rolls are more the thing in St. Agnes, a stop off point on the migration to The Lizard. Sixteen humans, four cars and a dog, all bound for a holiday park mere miles from the southernmost point of the British mainland. But first, a brief foray on the north coast, for dramatic lines and vibrant hues and curious children. Minecraft takes on a whole old meaning.
We are decamped and scattered across fibro structures near Mullion. On site there is the usual mediocre pub food, a playground festering with past scrapes and tears and an outdoor pool that only seems to open between the hours of 12:87 and 3.574 on the first Tuesday after a blood moon. The staff are largely from the disgruntled set of Camborne Comp, moonlighting between here and Aldi and a quick vape after bingo.
This is all to be expected, all priced in, and I cannot fault our bungalow nor the location nor the amusement arcade with its strangely captivating spell of coins and tokens teetering on a precipice. Armed with buckets of bronze several people drift from one machine to another possessed. Convinced it is just a matter of one more tuppenny bit to score that Tweety Pie Tazo.
Being Britain I have no doubt some people will spend their entire holiday in this square mile. To me a shame, but whatever floats your boat. But there are real boats afloat just down the road. And sandy beaches and rugged cliffs and flowery lanes and pastel villages and scones and tea and beautiful birdsong and fluttery butterflies and ice cream.
And even good coffee. Coverack a case study in discovering whether things will be just as satisfying the second time around. It feels harsh to relegate Coverack to grey morning filler but I think the benign nothingness of the conditions make the place feel even more appealing. Cottage For Sale signs even more alluring.
Things were busier at Roskilly’s, where this time around on top of savoury lunch I made sure to take in the staple produce of ice cream. I made sure Avery made sure of this as well by ordering one of those ludicrous sundaes that comes in a ridiculous glass and is peppered with delicious garnish.
Now, I’ll sound like a right jerk here but I have to say Cornish ice cream has underwhelmed a bit ever since I became addicted to Gelato Messina. Which is a shame when you consider the natural, rain-soaked bounty of this westernmost county. It’s the Jersey cows that make all the difference, rain-soaked or not.
Rain soaking was proving pleasingly elusive as parts of Britain crept towards something like their twentieth alleged ‘heatwave’ of the summer. And the wall-to-wall sunshine was blazing just overhead… the layer of low cloud obstinately stuck to the granite mounds and precipices of The Lizard. A situation ripe for conjuring up that legendary Cornish mizzle.
At first the conditions were an acceptable background to evoke scenes that a used car salesman would describe as atmospheric. The historic quay wedged into Mullion Cove eerily calm, the flat silvery seas vanishing into an unknown horizon. Film noir moods satisfying for as long as it takes to get to the underwhelming chocolate factory up the road.
It’llburnoffsoon, is the oft-thought line which is looking increasingly ludicrous, especially back up on the wild heights of the holiday park over lunch. But there are some scouts out and about on the WhatsApp family chat and there is a picture with blue sky on it. We pile on down to Poldhu, where the sun is tantalising just offshore. An hour later, I’m in shorts eating another so-so ice cream and some people are up to their neck in ocean.
Despite a very slow start, the sun lingers long into the midsummer sky. There is time for a rest and an infuriating wait for dinner, somewhere, anywhere, that will still serve you anything, please. The sun is well and truly up in Mexico by time a burrito bowl lands in front of me. In Cornwall it is now sinking faster than a taco and cold cerveza. Indigestion is just around the corner, as is the boomingly popular KynanceCove.
At around 9:30pm it is relatively serene. Well of course there’s someone waving some ropes and smoking pot in a tribute to the sun gods, but there’s still enough room for everyone to space out on rocky outcrops. With a quiet car park and cast in lingering light, it is phenomenally beautiful to experience, even if the sun sinks beyond the land.
Fast forward twelve hours to a stunning mizzle-free Thursday in early July and the fluoro-vested National Trust parking assistants are out in full force. Roger, head to Annabelle in a north-north westerly bearing and turn 270 degrees to line up next to the brambles with a clearance of 425 millimetres to starboard sir. Are you a member? Jolly good.
To be fair, if there is a need for National Trust parking attendants (I suspect the job is actually advertised as ‘Access & Experience Facilitator’) it is here. You can only imagine the carnage and open warfare in their absence. Like the emmets of local infamy, a procession of all sorts march downward from their cars, laden with striped bags, snorkels, blankets and buckets and spades. It is one endless conga line of flip flops, but the epic landscape consumes them fairly well. The tide is – thank the moon gods – out.
What follows is a wonderful couple of hours delving into sandy inlets and timidly inching feet into fresh waters while many others frolic unencumbered in the deep sea. For relaxation there is a trip to the café and a laze on a raised ribbon of sand. But relaxation can only be fleeting, niggled away by the inevitable turning of the tide.
You start to notice the changes slowly – a submerged rock here, disappearing seaweed there – but all the while you are wondering when it is best to leave. Once that small pool starts to link up again with the ocean, ankle deep. Others linger and incredulously a line of tourist ants continue to rock hop down to the shrinking bay. Destined to become as congested as the Northern Line at eight in the morning.
You may well think Insta-friendly Caribbean waters and Marbella vibes are as good as it gets but, for me, peak Lizard satisfaction was a more understated affair. It was a simple walk down a lane to HouselBay in late afternoon sun. A Cornish summer’s day in which life was burgeoning and bountiful, much of it packed into the high hedgerows leading down to a placid, inviting sea. Timeless – and like the time before – producing a longing to linger longer. To happily comeback again.
It’s not the most refined accent. I mean you’re never gonna hear James Bond strut into the Monte Carlo casino and loudly proclaim “tooe fowzund orn red me luverr an whyul yer at itt get me a razzbrie jinn an tonik and a monsder, ulryte.”
Strolling on The Hoe for what seems the umpteenth time, there is nonetheless something welcoming and endearing and genuinely warm in those Janner conversations. From the gentle ribbing of old fellas on the bowling green to the underdressed sass of bored teens flirting with each other like primitive amoeba beside the red and white lighthouse, Welcome to Plymouth. So often a staging post, but also a refuge.
I was exploring The Hoe again on my thrice daily walk from the Crowne Plaza hotel, an unexpected but probably not surprising Covid ‘holiday’ (yes, remember that?!). Booked hastily and not inexpensively with sketchy Wi-Fi I was hopeful for a sea view and comforting extras but, apart from a fluffy dressing gown, we were greeted with concrete wall vistas and an experiment in faded 80s minimalism. All very Plymouth. But still, at least the window opened slightly and I had an outlet into the world.
The need for fresh air was paramount, the problem being the howling winds buffeting against brutalist architecture at three in the morning. It has been rare on this trip to experience a still day, equally as rare to feel hot. At best I think I have felt pleasantly warm three times: an afternoon at Thurlestone, utopia revisited in Lustleigh, and in a tiny Cornish microclimate.
I’ll tell you about them in time but, for now, let’s journey up to Brentor. A landmark church sitting atop a rocky outcrop from which there are sweeping views of Dartmoor and half of Cornwall. Visible as we sauntered around Yelverton, disappearing as we whizzed to its base. As murky and disappointing as a coffee van beverage. One might kindly describe both as atmospheric and moody. Or perhaps just typical.
Still, give it a couple of hours and a helping of Tavistock chilli and all will be swell. Post-lunch sunshine beams down on glowing moorland and hazy glades. Cows amble nonchalantly across the tarmac while sheep chill out on the grass. German caravans pause on single track lanes to admire the zeitgeist.
My brother sates himself on Willys before we soak up the splendour from Cox Tor. Gorse and granite and ponies pepper the surrounds, leading to outlooks upon a wildness that is rare for these isles. As the uplands creep down into river valleys and patchwork fields, an outpost stands resolute in the west. The unmistakable landmark of Brentor, aglow.
Downhill and back in Plymouth there continue intermittent spells of sunshine with which to grasp some form of hope. I quickly adjust to checking the BBC weather app and buy into the unfounded optimism that is going out without an extra layer in August. And briefly it seems the right call, as sun breaks through on the Barbican and we can sup on okay coffee as oversized seagulls strut their stuff and oversized men in green shirts strut theirs.
Then we head to Argyle and a gloom sets in. A chill wind, a portent of life under Rooney perhaps? Sure we have a padded seat and two free, unsurprisingly mediocre pasties, but that wind is reminiscent of a 0-0 draw in February against Grimsby rather than a lively one-all in August versus Hull. I have been there countless times.
I sit and wonder what Avery thinks of thousands of grown men and women belting out Janners? A what-the-heck moment both incredulous and incredible. I sense some awe and bemusement, and she embraces the moment by pulling on a recently purchased argyle top. Mostly because of that chill.
Travelling with someone coming to England for the first time you can tend to forget all this is a little weird. Like meal deals and massive bumblebees and little dogs on trains heading for a day out in the drizzle. Not to mention the size of those seagulls. All I notice that’s different are bottle tops no longer separable from their hosts. Out of habit, I endeavour to tear them apart anyway, frequent dribble resulting on my pants.
A local trait I may have lost is to not put too much trust in the weather forecast, although this results in occasional merry times when it surpasses expectations as well as the regular underperformance. Scones in a shower at Mount Edgecumbe? Why not, especially since this is the last such occasion (scones not showers) for the year. And the sun will radiate in the thousands of flowers and the warmth of loved ones anyway.
Having low expectations is the birthright of a Plymothian (and is most manifest when it comes to Argyle). So it is a merry time in and around Noss Mayo when the clouds hold back. A walk of such dear character, of such Devonian charm. Farmhouses (or Airbnbs) surrounded by fields of wheat, cows and sheep peeking above the hedgerows, true blue sea and green, green grass, cottages, flowers and bunting galore. A pub on the water, a Ploughman’s and some local murky brew like Otter’s Arse. All just in time before the sumptuous plop of a first raindrop.
The rain sets in on the Barbican. We hunker down in a café and bike shop, optimistic about the chances of decent coffee when it’s associated with Lycra. It’s not bad; the flat whites remain too small and strong and the lattes a little weak. All they need to do is find that middle ground. Maybe one or two more years.
I’ll be back to taste. Next week, next year. Always Plymouth, Janners, Seagulls and all. Semper Fidelis.
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.
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.
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 LanyonHomestead – were compensated by sunshine and flowers and the fact this was still better than 95% of British establishments.
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?
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.
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.
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.
From here, half an hour to coffee, half an hour to cuisine, half an hour to home. Doorsteps rarely get any better.
Growing up, Christmas TV viewing used to be such a big thing. A double episode of Eastenders in which someone and/or something sizzles in a suspicious blaze. A blockbuster movie that was so new it had only aired in the cinema little more than a year previous. A Father Ted comedy special which was really fecked. And of course – usually avoided because of concurrent feasting on dried up old turkey – The Queen.
While others still go crazy over Love Actually or A Muppets Christmas Carol or even the old royal turkey himself, I have mostly been watching the BOM radar this holiday season. Only Big Bash cricket – for all its stupidity – competes for airtime, though usually in the background, usually while looking at the BOM radar. It’s riveting viewing, where you simply won’t believe the biggest twist yet.
They say Christmas comes around earlier every year and it was just ticking over into December when BOM radar became the must watch event of the year. Was Mount Kosciuszko up in the clouds, was that storm clipping Thredbo, would it ever stop raining in Jindabyne? Would Yarrongobilly Caves provide best refuge or how about the local pub? As long as you get in after the meat raffle and before the Christmas karaoke, yes.
Rain, rain go away and come back in the form of a waterfall. A lull in weather drama one morning providing relief and release and joyous, primitive, natural freshness. Sawpit Creek plunging and fizzing and totally out of mobile range to check the radar. Ignorance and bliss and all that.
Nimmitabel also produced sketchy mobile data and all I can say about that is it was a stroke of luck that I fancied a pie. Or, supposedly, Cornish Pasty. While discovering the sacrilege of sweetcorn the heavens opened, rapid rivulets formed and I prayed for the car outside. By time I forced down the last corner of dry pastry it had stopped, and Dad and I plunged down towards the coast.
I wouldn’t quite say the rain followed us. At least not until after we navigated flooded detours in the Bega Valley, stopped the car, and went to discover sea foam oozing through Wallagoot Gap. Only then did the rain return, obliterating the scenic drive to Bermagui and forcing fish and chip consumption in the car.
There was clearly a bit of a British summer holiday vibe going on. This extended to the following day when it was – in spite of more downpours forecast – only really mostly cool and cloudy. Relativism a conduit of positivity, low expectations a nurturer of delight. Mustn’t grumble. Things could be worse. We could do something.
It wasn’t really a peachy beachy day, unless seeking moody shots of rock formations and blustery coastlines. So we ended up in Tilba, drinking coffee and eating cheese. In between, taking a tour of its lush environs under the brooding hulk of Gulaga. Briefly the sun came out, and so too the flies.
With all the runoff of recent days the normally sapphire seas around Bermagui were a bit more Bognor. But Monday – the day of travelling back to Canberra – was much better. Radar viewing indicated little going on, much like a filler episode of Home and Away (or a normal episode to be fair). There was good coffee on the beach to kick things off, good waterside coffee again in Narooma and fish and chips by the lake in Tuross for lunch. Filling the time between dining stops, beach views and maybe the risk of sunburn.
In fact we stopped stopping at beaches because we were tiring a little of golden sand and fabulous blue waves. A bushwalk among the spotted gums was calling. A search for elusive butterflies and a surprise sugar glider, taking advantage of a respite in the weather to feed on nectar and ambrosia. Inspiration for the ice cream at Bodalla Dairy.
For a day, BOM Radar was barely a thing. The Australian summer in all its glory was back. Even the sea started to look that little more sapphire. But then I heard they commissioned a second season. Featuring a Christmas special. In which there will be some even bigger twists you never ever saw coming in an unprecedented TV first. Oh how I hark back to a spot of arson among the mince pies in Eastenders.
While closing an impromptu trip to England with cream tea nirvana may convey the archetypal happy ending, life – even curated online life – isn’t as simple as that. Endings are rarely happy affairs otherwise they would just keep on going. And more often than not, an end is also a beginning and a middle and any other indeterminate point on the march of civilisation, a turn of the wheel in the cycle of life.
It’s nice when that cycle is electric powered, even if this may ultimately lead to the downfall of civilisation. There is nothing like the fillip of pressing a switch to give you a boost at the very moment you are flagging. Especially when one of those switches says TURBO.
I always thought of Salisbury Plain as flat. The clue’s in the name after all. It should be a doddle to cycle through, barring confrontation with tanks and gunfire. But tanks need steep inclines to be put through their paces and bullets have to travel uphill or something. The plain is far from plain.
And so, when offered the services of an e-bike to join that of my Dad’s, I was happy to give it a whirl. Funnily enough, pride and that old man in Lycra tut-tutting in my head made me pedal au naturale for as long as possible. But when you flick that switch there is no stopping you.
I was quite the passenger that day, in more ways than one. Usually in awe at my map memory, if was to retrace our route across the plain I’d be as lost as a ray of sunshine in Manchester. Each chalky track seems to lead down to a tangled thicket then up past a copse and left towards some squaddies and then 180 degrees avoiding gunfire and then straight through a paddock before joining what looks like where we were an hour ago. Somehow this 3D puzzle spits you out in a village and you find yourself recuperating with a cider and delicious battered fish sandwich.
It was worth all the pedalling (and quite frequent button pushing) to be in that pub garden. British country pubs in the sunshine are really like nowhere else. I wasn’t expecting to be in another one an hour or so later, but even e-bikes get punctures. And unfortunately the pub was the nearest point of refuge as Dad turbocharged his way to the rescue vehicle.
Fast forward a few turns of the wheel and white chalk becomes white sand, fish sandwiches become fish cocktails, and electrical assistance becomes all my own willpower.
Returning to a classic bicycle has been tough, any incline – however short – feeling like a mission to reach base camp. Maybe riding in Australia is just more of a challenge, what with the limited number of proper teashops, the higher proportion of fit athletic types putting you to shame, and near certain harassment by magpies.
From sweating in Salisbury Plain my first foray back on the bike in Canberra was a freezing affair. Okay, maybe seven degrees but there are simply not enough layers to shield the core from that breeze which whips up no matter what direction you face. I struggled for barely ten flat kilometres, and that included a stop for coffee and a M&S mostly chocolate biscuit.
But over time, on those rare occasions when the temperature makes it into double figures and the wind is below 15kph, I have been getting more acclimatised to cycling without electric again. Just little jaunts two or three times a week. A few more inclines, but nothing too steep. And still coffees and biscuits.
It’ll be handy for the bike legs to come back as I feel like my car might be stuffed! Something with the electrics, the transmission, the gears. Not as simple as a flick of a switch, the crank of a derailleur and a couple of allez.
I may have harmed it going to and from Jervis Bay, not that it screwed up at the time. Perhaps it didn’t like the moisture as the first rain in weeks dampened activities for the journey down and back again. Still, the Sunday was sunny, if not reaching the globally heated summits of earlier that week. And with reasonable enough winds there was an opportunity to once again revert to pedal power.
In my head it was flat between Sanctuary Point and Vincentia but I hadn’t been to Jervis Bay in many years. The reality is more lumpen but can I just put it on record that I made it up that hill whereas the younger, fitter-looking guy who whizzed past me on the flat got off and walked. I probably have a bigger rear cassette.
Between Vincentia and Huskisson it is all bliss. There are more young, fit athletic types but also oldies shuffling and dawdling and standing in the middle of the cycle path chatting to other boomtime babies with their designer glasses and designer dogs. The route follows the coast, all beautiful bays and turquoise waters and that eye-watering white sand. Plenty of escapes for a bike to bask.
Of course returning to Sanctuary Point required a good coffee and biscuit as well as inching over a couple of those lumps again. I almost didn’t make it but figured I could reward myself with two potato scallops to go with lunch as a reward. The downhill stretch begins.
Post-lunch fatigue was inevitable and, looking for a turbo boost, I switched to foot power to amble along a stretch of the White Sands Walk. Boasting majestic bays punctuated by lush, tall eucalypt forest, I would definitely put this in the top ten. It’s the kind of walk that would make one of those TV shows where some minor but amiable celebrity type goes for a walk, meets a few random nerds, and hangs about in a hidden World War Two bunker that they just discovered. (Talking of this genre, now Nick Knowles is titting about on trains…I mean how many middle aged white English men need to show us how to ride a train?!)
One of the best things about being here on a late Sunday afternoon is that most people have by now returned to Sydney or Canberra or Nowra or Wollongong. And, with my legs and feet now pretty much out of gas I was starting to blend in well with the retired locals. I used my last dose of energy to make it down beside the basin in Sanctuary Point, sit on a bench with a flask of tea, and watch the sun sink. Dipping behind the hills as if thinking it was some kind of ending. Just another turn of the wheel.
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.
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.
Devon. It feels far from ambrosial when hunting for chicken wings among the half-empty shelves of Lidl on Union Street. Outside, cars circle a small concrete plot as people embark on their quest to endure the least amount of walking possible. Further along the street, once grand facades appear sullen and decrepit, run down by time and indifference. Only pigeons call them home, foraging on the pickings of kebab spilling out like the desperation and menace exiting shady clubs in those dark, seedy hours.
Pan out from Union Street, across the shanty town of cash-in-hand workshops and inevitable vape shops and things will begin to change. Urban renewal they may call it or – worse – gentrification, as if in some way what had gone before was base and unworthy. Waterside apartments in Millbay, loft conversions in Stonehouse, renovated terraces in West Hoe. Far from the wages of a labourer or carer or teacher. But at least they can still afford a bag of chips and a round of crazy golf at West Hoe Park.
And Plymouth Hoe itself acts as a great leveller, a place where anyone can stroll, picnic, kick a ball, or gather in a cluster with several other yoof and create tiktoks. Old ladies may wild swim and Vodka Dave may dance and most people can get a coffee of bitter tears that may mercifully be saved with cake. The sun may shine and, sat beside the glistening water of Plymouth Sound, one may wonder if anything could really be that much finer. Especially when visible in the distance pockets of ambrosia await.
Immediately out of the city limits a web of narrow lanes burrow through trees and hedgerows to places like Heybrook Bay, Bovisand, Down Thomas and Wembury. Wembury is by far the largest of the lot, a virtual suburb of Plymouth renowned for its untamed beach and extortionate parking. Many Plymothians make the trip here but only tight arses like me park up in the village, content to embrace a longer, circular walk promising a different perspective.
I was heading past garden allotments and lone cottages once more towards the River Yealm. This is a river whose waters I have so many times witnessed from the other side. The side with lofty views atop the summit of Revelstoke Drive. The side with densely packed woodland cascading down to sea level. The side with a narrow lane leading to the charms of Noss Mayo and its creekside inns.
Hello from the other side. A similar world of bobbing boats and shingle shores, of dense thickets and a scattering of homes, sitting as neatly into the landscape as they do in my mind when it turns to an idyllic life of fantasy. You could summon a ferry out of nowhere to cross to the pub, but I’ll leave that for another time. And taste the caustic coffee beside Wembury Beach instead.
Not that the Ship Inn was to be bypassed altogether, an addendum for a sunny afternoon in a summer of sunny afternoons. A Friday beer o’clock escape, when you can briefly picture this as your local. Tribute and a pack of pork scratchings among the minions and the millionaires. All the time, the tide imperceptibly creeping in to imperil the cars of those from out of town.
When it comes to millionaires, you’d be hard pressed to encounter a denser population than on the streets of Salcombe. Well, not the streets per se but the grand designs surrounded by moats of lush exotics overlooking sparkling bays. And if not found on wooden deckchairs in the garden absorbed in the Daily Mail, the likelihood is of frequent sightings upon those opal waters below, sweater and chinos all aboard the MV Smug.
With some world-beating inflation in the UK, I could just about afford a millionaires shortbread from M&S. However I opted instead for a bag of Monster Munch left over from some far off Tesco meal deal. Still, with those pickled onion morsels come million dollar views, situated around the corner and down towards Soar Mill Cove. The coastline here is about as dramatic as it gets in South Devon, all ups and downs and ups again. The cove – in its sheltered enclave with raggedy rocky outcrops and see-through waters – a kind of mini Kynance. Only without the million dollar parking fees.
There are, of course, other priceless coves down this way. Conjuring the prospect of Friday night dinner down by the sea, I persuaded someone else to drive down the A379 for a change (thanks Steve). This came with the omnipresent soundtrack of my niece, Brooke, but at least afforded me the chance to be drawn into views of beautiful countryside, stone bridges, tunnels of trees and the wilds of upland Dartmoor in the distance.
We all disembarked at Hope Cove which seems caught somewhere between a rustic fishing village of lobster pots and an upmarket resort of eco-pods. For a while you can play at millionaire here too, taking a perch for some refreshment overlooking the bay. And the coast path is always free. Dinner, however, seems another prospect, with the few places around busy and focusing on menus of the hand-caught goujon of Start Bay Sea Bass served with a melange of Rosemary-flecked Kipfler potatoes and wild lemon-infused baby samphire variety. A pizza on the beach or something would’ve been nice.
So, feeling increasingly hangry, we shifted a few miles up the road to the biggest town around – Kingsbridge. To emphasise its size, Kingsbridge boasts a Tesco and a Morrisons, plus several pubs, restaurants and takeaways. We practically did a tour of them all, before ending back at the first place we saw next to the car park. Of course. But this was pretty close to the town square and quay, and we sat outside alongside summer holiday vibes and terrific weather. The only downer was the early closure of the Salcombe Dairy Ice Cream booth. Off home to count their millions.
I did eventually manage to ingest some Salcombe Dairy at a predictably inflationary price. It came as icing on top of a final Devon cake of a day. A concoction that is so wonderful and blessed but tinged with a background air of melancholy that comes with imminent farewell. For once, the goal wasn’t really to gorge on cake, just the icing on top.
There were cakey temptations at Heron Valley Cider Farm, where it was too early for a cider but perfectly suitable for a coffee. Signs that I had been here for two months were starting to show in the agreeableness of the coffee, an agreeableness that was only usurped by the luscious setting. What is it again? Green, green grass, blue, blue sky? Thank you Heart, as continually always two months on.
Now, normally finding myself with Mum in such a location around eleven o’clock in the morning I would feel obliged to support local business by purchasing one of the many slices and treats arranged on the counter. Mum would murmur things like “oh I probably shouldn’t” and then we’d look at each other with a knowing glance that I would quickly succumb. “Oh sod it, I’m on holiday” I would say, mildly aware that it’s not the best idea when it’s a two month holiday.
Yet today, of all days, I was steadfast. A coffee was enough. But before I pat myself on the back too much, it’s only because lunch was a mere matter of miles down the road.
Farm shops can be funny affairs. In the golden days before Google you would turn up never quite sure whether you’d encounter a smorgasbord of local delights or a few cartons of mismatched eggs next to a pile of withered green beans. Nowadays, the more savvy enterprises promote their wares with funky Instagram stories and filtered Facebook posts.
So I knew beforehand that as well as eggs and green beans and no doubt meat, Aune Valley Meat, just outside of Loddiswell, advertised a hog roast bap in their Valley View Café. I would usually bemoan the strict ordering times and a lengthy wait but this just served to amplify pangs of hunger to the point of drool. And when the food eventually arrives upon its wooden board (oh dear), salivation soon becomes salvation.
Like Beaufort in Beaufort and Pizza in a Piazza, that additional ten percent elevating the taste all comes from the terroir. Those lush, bounteous hills of the South Hams that – thankfully – are not dotted with potential future hams. At least not from our vantage. The Devon flag flutters, the tractors make hay, the tourist caravans tentatively inch past towards their constricted destiny.
Moving south, the terroir of the sea tends to induce thoughts of fish and chips and ice cream. Given the scale of lunch, the fish and chips are quickly ruled out, but perhaps there can be an ice cream in the offing. First, some recovery on the beach at Thurlestone, where crystal waters once again tempt with Caribbean vibes. Caribbean in colour only.
Unwilling to freeze in the ocean for long, I hotfoot it along the coast path. That enduring friend who I shall miss as much as anything. It takes me past Thurlestone Golf Course, adding the hazard of wayward balls to the potential to stumble off a hundred foot cliffs. Looking west, I see the distinctive mount of Burgh Island and, further still, the entrance into Plymouth Sound. Rame Head, Cornwall sticks out beyond. But let us not speak of Cornwall here.
In the other Devon direction lies Hope Cove, Bolt Tail and then Salcombe. I discover their dairy ice cream has made it this way, just along from Thurlestone at South Milton Sands. But its arrival is only in tubs and only in the most preposterous National Trust café I have ever come across. For here, not scones and jam nor crisps and sandwiches. But alcoholic drinks and a DJ. This is what happens when Boris Johnson becomes PM, I tell you. Not that he was actually doing much at the time, but nobody seemed to notice.
Boris and Carrie might have been there as the tunes began to bang and the bouncers evicted non-patrons from the wooden tables outside. It seemed that kind of place. Locals need not apply, except between the months of September and May. Just stick to the farms, thank you very much.
The hog roast roll at Valley View Farm felt a long way from a chicken wing hunt in the heart of Union Street. But wondrously they really aren’t so far apart. And that is probably why the people of Plymouth – unbeknownst to many of them – find themselves in one of the most fortunate locations in the UK.
I thought I was done with Devon with that final day out, but an uplifting Saturday morning and a spare hour encouraged me to see the sea here one more time. I whizzed through Plymstock and around Staddon Heights to Bovisand. Here, warm sunshine beamed down upon a grassy bank as I lingered over another agreeable coffee. A couple of small, sheltered coves welcomed a handful of bathers and boarders who were welcoming the weekend. Life was as sweet as Ambrosia Devon Custard.
It felt like we were here in a forever summer and none of us wanted it to end. Could not every morning be as agreeable as this? Can we not just press pause and dwell in this unreal reality? But time and tide move on, seasons shift, people come and people go. And I had to get back to Plymouth one last time to barbecue those bloody chicken wings.
What do you do when you visit an epicentre of ice cream? Um, order a massive burger cooked in a wood-fired oven which – circa 2012 – is topped with pulled pork? We were sat at Roskilly’s farm shop on the eastern side of The Lizard. Purveyors of decent ice cream across Cornwall. But, for once, I wasn’t in the mood for that. And there would be plenty of other times.
It may have been that creamy coffee in the morning that satisfied my dairy quota. Sips of goodness in Coverack, overlooking one of those archetypal harbours bedecked with jaunty fishing boats tipping slightly askew on low tide mud. A stone’s throw across from the dream home cottage that had just been sold.
I began to have fantasies of a life here, doing a spot of work in that cottage before popping across the road for a mid-morning drink. Perhaps then a bit more work, a nap and, at day’s end, a trip to a beach. In this utopia, I’d likely head to the wonderful beaches on the western side of The Lizard. But there would be plenty of other options of things to do, places to see, things to eat, closer to home.
One of them would be around Kennack Sands, over which our temporary home for a week was perched. This was far from a dream Coverack cottage, just two six-berth caravans that were a squeeze for ten. But like all good caravans, every little nook was optimised, every fold-up bed assembly a triumph of geometry, every passing of one another in the kitchen an elegant pirouette.
Down the hill, Kennack Sands themselves were less golden than elsewhere but still fine and generous and largely remaining at the mercy of nature. This meant the occasional jellyfish sighting among clear, sometimes warm waters, as well as frequent dog walkers at the start and end of each day. Among the more memorable human sightings was a mass gathering of booty shaking one day and an irksome guitar dude with a three song repertoire on another.
Needless to say, escape via the coast path was always on hand. One afternoon found me on a solo walk up and down towards – but not all the way to – Coverack. After days of family time, the peace was eerie and it felt a lonesome endeavour along a hardy, unkempt landscape. Fellow walkers were few and far between and I found myself yearning for times of mass booty shaking and beach boules.
Companionship was aplenty in the other direction, five of us walking along the coast path from our caravan park to the small village of Cadgwith. Along the way some diverting remnants of serpentine mining at Poltesco – a rare rock type that is abundant on The Lizard. More abundance flowed alongside generous meadows and stony bays kissed by a sparkling sea.
Cadgwith itself makes Coverack seem a metropolis, the village focused around a small shingle inlet on which sit a cluster of working boats. At one point there is that distinctive odour of salt and seaweed and fish guts, pungent and evocative at the same time. Fortunately it is fleeting and doesn’t dissuade ice cream refreshment. I was aghast to find out that my niece, Joy, wasn’t a massive ice cream fan and opted for a fishing net instead. But the rest of us made up for it, multiple times.
Give a girl an ice cream and she may eat for a day, but give her a fishing net and she can eat for a lifetime. Maybe. Probably easier to head to Lizard village though and pick up fish and chips. Tender, juicy cod, crisp golden batter and amazing chips made from Cornish new potatoes, soaking up lashings of malt vinegar.
Other than a fish and chip shop I didn’t get a chance to explore Lizard further. My impression was of a place where you could source ample food along with a fair share of useless tat. And be in a situation where you can march off in any direction and discover wonder.
A little south of the village, Lizard Point itself represents the most southerly position on mainland UK. There exists an appropriate edge of world vibe – beaming white lighthouse, cottages hunkered into rocks, rampant rabbits upon tightly shorn grass and a couple of businesses proclaiming themselves as the most southerly spot you can get a cup of tea. As the land plunges into sea and the sun sinks west, spectacle.
We were blessed to witness a couple of sundowns around Lizard Point. A time when the warmth of the day started to fade, and the summer grasses began to breathe. I remember distinctly here for the first time an Australian odour, an almost impossible to describe earthy freshness that comes after a hard day baking under the sun. As if the land is singing in relief.
The very last sunset accompanied our final night. A night to try and use up all those naughty food bits we had accumulated in the week, including two tubs of ice cream from the local farm shop. A night to not be lactose intolerant. A night to count blessings. A night to lament the prospect of leaving tomorrow. And, like the sun coming up again in the morning, to contemplate doing it all over again.
The it’s too hot brigade have been out in force lately. The worrying thing is they are probably right. More worryingly, I have caught myself occasionally joining them. This, along with an increasing tolerance of British coffee and quietly muttered acceptance of noisy people in the quiet carriage, suggests I am getting more comfortable on these shores. Apart from when it is too hot of course.
The heat would be more agreeable if Britain boasted fine sandy bays and crystal clear coves, a setting for languid summer holidays and Mediterranean vibes. Perhaps with some tapas, gelato and meze thrown in. Let me introduce you, then, to The Lizard.
Down in far west Cornwall, TheLizard is an area where the southernmost chunk of mainland Britain tapers into the ocean. With water on both sides there is a veritable array of beaches and bays, harbours and headlands to choose from. And it is on its western shore, facing the Atlantic as it feeds into Mounts Bay, where some of the finest sights and sands can be found.
The very first morning of a week-long family holiday provides some pinch yourself moments at PoldhuCove. I must confess, like so many other annoying tourists, it was Instagram that thrust Poldhu into my consciousness. What entranced me were the golden sands, blue waters and white swirls of cream decorated with all sorts of gooeyness atop a hot chocolate. The excellent Poldhu Beach Café has a slight Aussie vibe perched upon the sand, delivering decent coffee, brownies and down to earth chit-chat. It felt very much peak dream home.
Either side of the cove the outlook becomes even more idyllic as the transparency of the water shines, magnifying the outline of rocky reefs and diffusing the shadows of colourful paddle boards upon the seabed. On shore, the cliffs rise, coated in a swathe of still-green grass and wildflowers flourishing under the sun. The coastline tracks toward the horizon on either side, encasing a welcoming expanse of Cornish perfection. It felt very much peak dream home.
Beyond the northern headland to Poldhu, the next bay along – ChurchCove – has a more old school air. Grittier sands, seaweed, emboldened National Trust parking attendants. The presence of the old church wedged between rock and sea oozes tradition and heritage. Lichen-infused gravestones suggest at whole generations of fisherfolk and farmers of centuries past, whose ancestors probably still plough their fields and rent their shepherd’s huts today. The surrounding greens of Mullion Golf Club nestle perfectly, as if they have sat in this landscape forever.
Also fitting in, The National Trust run a small kiosk at Church Cove. Naturally. A pleasant enough mini-menu of Bakewell slices, cheese and onion crisps and ham salad sandwiches. But when you know what is just around the next corner, a short up and down across coast path heaven, then why linger. Especially when you have a partner in crime.
I found myself eating alone overlooking Praa Sands but still wasn’t complaining. While some rosy-hued patrons were already on the booze Magaloof style, I contented myself with coffee and a rocky road. Not Poldhu quality but you could have anything here on a day like today and still feel you had won the lottery. Eat in the view, drink up the ambience.
Praa Sands is a long golden bay, increasingly marvellous as the tide rolls out. Forget the Med, think Australia. Near the car parks, caravan parks, shops and cafes it could be a bit of a Bondi on Boxing Day. But the farther you move away, the closer you come to a NSW south coast style stretch of empty beach.
It’s quite a trek from west to east, but with sand between toes and tepid clear waters lapping at them, the footsteps pass with ease. Eventually Praa Sands can go no further, coming against RinseyHead, over which the South West Coast Path once more meanders. The scenery becomes a more classic Cornwall, capped off by the archetypal abandoned tin mine. WhealProsper. We certainly will.
And confirming that, despite best efforts, this is not really the Med or Australia, how about a pasty back on the beach? Proving this is 100% pure Kernow.
Like pasties, I doubt you would find a bag of pork scratchings on a tapas menu, salty fatty fodder to accompany a pint of St. Austell Tribute. Still, I can easily envisage pints and pork products down on the Costa del Sol. Gammons eating bacon with tea and Estrella.
We were snacking in a pub garden in Mullion, a prelude to ending the day down in MullionCove. The small cobbled harbour here almost seems an impossibility. Wedged into the towering coastline, it feels like a tiny fissure in an almighty, unyielding wall. Sanctuary from violent winter storms might only be cursory, sparing. Yet here the harbour still stands, and to stand here is to feel on the very precipice.
Somehow there is a way up from the nook of the harbour, via another goat track section of the coast path. It’s open country, ideal for rabbits and birds of prey eating rabbits and walkers just casually wandering and falling down an unseen ravine. Compared to those fine sandy beaches elsewhere the ocean in front is a less inviting prospect, though arguably more beguiling. A swirling canvas captivating and luring smugglers and pirates and hardy fisherman’s friends of yesteryear.
Illuminating it all, the reddening sun drifts towards a watery horizon, setting closer to ten o’clock in this incredible summer. Glazing the sea and the land and the sky. And kissing our faces a shade of gammon.
And so, the final Lizard bite (part I) culminates in the perfect encapsulation of everything that has gone before: Kynance Cove, with bonus half a pasty.
In recent years, Kynance has become prey to a combination of Poldark Disease and Instagramitis, developing mythical, bucket-list status. All too frequently I am presented with short video clips set to jaunty music showing half-naked people frolicking in crystal waters, often with the caption “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS IS ENGLAND!!!!!!”. As tedious as these become after constant repetition, they have a point. Kynance is an undoubted jewel in a very lavish crown.
The good news is that despite a warm sunny day in July propelling many vehicles to the National Trust car park, the scale of Kynance Cove is sufficient to maintain a sense of space and serenity. This is especially the case with the tide on its way out, revealing wider stretches of sand, secret nooks and unexpected crannies. In spite of everything anyone can find their own little wonderful spot of paradise.
Still, the kids built a fortress of sandcastles on the beach to keep wandering Scousers at bay, encircling our clan from marauding invaders and video influencers. Not that I sat within it for long spells, keen to just potter up and down and in and out and via the NT café for a mediocre coffee and slice of carrot cake.
Views from up high once again highlight the drama and spectacle of nature, as huge lumps of rock appear as they have been thrown haphazardly into translucent waters and edged with golden sand. The people who once seemed many and varied at sea level morph into colourful speckles, dots on a more expansive landscape. But, with a bit of zoom, that family fortress is still visible.
As I descended to sea level to join them, still a bit peckish, I was delighted to find I had been gifted half a pasty. Originating from the locally ubiquitous Ann’s Pasties, it must have been a product of Kynance proportions for there remained a substantial lunch in front of me. Gorgeous, and at least it wasn’t too hot.
Well that was a first. I literally spat out my coffee. In front of bemused patrons of the National Trust. It is not the standard one expects within the National Trust, but it was bloody hot. I think I forgot how it is acceptable here to ruin coffee by ensuring it has similar properties to molten steel. And this was a sizeable gulp whose safest pathway was back out onto the grass.
On the plus side, the cake at Lanhydrock eased the palate and I was able to wash it down with sips of coffee after 15 minutes. Plus there could always be something cooler and soothing to come later on.
Unwilling to invest substantial capital to enter the property at Lanhydrock, the cafe was a mere pit stop on the way to the coast of North Cornwall. It was a dispiritingly cloudy, drizzly kind of drive but one in which I felt a little on autopilot: over the bridge, Trago, the A30 and past the holiday homes littering the outskirts of Newquay.
Mum and I were heading to West Pentire, where social media had amply promoted the annual appearance of poppies. Clumps of poppies. Swathes of poppies. Whole fields full of poppies. Enough poppies for influencers the world over. So many, that you can easily find your own patch.
This spectacle for once diverts attention from some classic Cornish scenery. On one side, the golden sands of Polly Joke Beach call out to those willing to carry deckchairs and bodyboards, while the massive expanse of the Gannel estuary with the tide out magnifies Crantock Beach a hundred times over.
Such is the scale, it takes a fair few minutes to drive to the car park for Crantock, run by our good friends at The National Trust. I hope I haven’t been blacklisted already for my earlier misdemeanours, but they seem happy enough to take our two quid for an hour. It is an hour to eat some packed lunch on a sand dune and cram in a walk to the fringe of the Atlantic. In the shallows it feels fairly warm but I do not linger any longer than the sole lifesaver escaping the creep of the returning tide in his four by four.
Being a National Trust bad boy I think I exceeded the parking by four minutes but I blame it on the sand-shaking and shoe-shuffling. Sensible footwear for the journey back to Plymouth. Yet those shoes took us on a little diversion, via a charming farmhouse in Callestick, a spot where they happen to churn out mountains of ice cream. Naughty shoes. Least I didn’t spit any of this out.
Foodstuffs continued to be on the mind during other forays into Cornwall. This included throughout a three day hike along the South West Coast Path – much more of which can be digested in another post here. In brief: fish and chips, ice cream, cider, cream tea, chips, ham sandwich, double decker, crisps and beer, croissants and celebratory pasty. With some walking.
And then there was Looe. Pasty? Cream Tea? Pasty? Cream Tea? Both? For all my bravado beforehand I couldn’t do both on the same day, so instead visited Looe twice. Once to see Sarah and her pasty paradise, the other to revisit Daisies which, despite being under new ownership, still served a fine cream tea (8/10, needs a little work to reach previous heights, but extra points for cream top up).
Though it has good foodstuffs and is convenient I am getting a bit over Looe. It must be all those visits for pasties and cream teas and occasional fudge. Countless laps of the car park, voracious seagulls, tacky gift shops, stinky low tide and shuffling grockles. It may well initially charm, and does always nourish, but there are better places I might be.
So after devouring the last cream tea on an overcast day, it was straight back to the car park to gift a space to a happy Mercedes. Leaving Looe to seek a quieter, mellow kind of place. Discovered not so far away at Talland Bay, where the natural delights of the coast meet tractor-friendly dreams.
Espying there a building sat upon the cove. A scene for another day, another year. A café by the water.
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.
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.
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.
gbpilgrim 