eucalyptus – gbpilgrim

March 1, 2025

Something somewhere

Just wondering if my blog-writing is to go the way of logic, civility and sanity. A rare thing. Also wondering if a cabal of egotistical gazillionnaires will employ their artificial intelligence superkingbot to steal everything published on the interweb then distort it into simpering testimony to the BIGGEST MOST LOVED GENIUS MAN KING the world has ever seen? Oh, they already have. And on the subject of artificial intelligence, don’t call an obvious moron a moron, it’s the kind of free speech that might just trigger World War 3.

Anyway, eucalyptus trees and cake. I can’t blame the state of the world for my dithering and delay in writing about distant life in Australia. There’s been plenty happening, of varying sorts. And plenty more still to come.

There was a wonderful pre-Christmas trip down around Merimbula. Wonderful in many ways for the rather splendid outlook from the bath, situated just a little up from Bar Beach and offering commanding views across the bay. Alas, stretching out in the swimming pool next door was off limits, but there were plenty of free spots to choose from in nature. Sparkling sapphires everywhere.

It wasn’t quite a scorching bushfire kind of lead up to Christmas but a far more pleasant and settled outlook than recent years. Having said that, ’twas the night before Christmas Eve up on the Monaro Plains and a strong southerly wind from the Antarctic heralded greater comfort for portly old men dressed up in red and white. Christmas cheer was hard to come by in Bombala, though at least hot chips were available. And out of town a remote cottage with a log fire which could be put to surprisingly good use.

Without mobile, without internet, without a TV, just some crackly tunes on the wireless, a glass of wine, and a roaring fire. You can see why people get nostalgic for days of old, it’s just unfortunate this nostalgia often extends to empire, intolerance and a love of preventable diseases. But oh to be in 2024 again.

From somewhere far away in the middle of nowhere fast forward to a long weekend in Melbourne. Where a day before it was forty degrees, now twelve. Where the only answer when you mention this to anyone local or farther afield is a rather knowing “yep, Melbourne”. Something that’s baked in so much that it fails to impact the city’s often strong performance in those ratings of the best place to live in the world.

On this visit, the wind tunnel of a CBD was largely eschewed for jaunts out in the south-eastern suburbs meeting people, drinking coffees, eating lunches and dinners, being plied with afternoon tea. In many ways it was a journey of discovery and calorific intake. And for the most part the grid-like layout made it reasonably easy to navigate. One discovery that stood out to me was the inevitability of a McDonalds and servo every time two roads crossed at right angles and traffic lights. It made me wonder if Melbourne has the greatest number of Maccas per square kilometre. And do many of its residents also feast on cheeseburgers while tweeting a flurry of disinformation when sat on the toilet?

beach with a city skyline in the background

If the McMelboSuburbs can get a bit wearying after a while, there are some variations that add a bit more colour and spice. It was nice to get bayside, to blow away the cobwebs down in Mordialloc and – on a more sedate kind of day – beside the beach huts in Brighton. People elsewhere will often roll their eyes and smirk at the thought of Melbourne beach life but I think it’s rather understated and lovely. Tell someone in the other, pebble-strewn Brighton this is a lousy beach and they will think you too have become as deranged as a supposed leader of the free world.

Sorry, back to, what was it, eucalyptus and cake. Afternoon tea followed by a walk in the Dandenong Ranges. Where better to marvel at the gift, the comfort, the peace granted to us by nature. I don’t need no church, no temples, no ghastly solid gold AI-generated icons. Give me a cathedral of ferns and imperious Mountain Ash in which to linger, whether in cold, showery rain or glowing golden sun. Resilient, steadfast and full of grace.

I’m pretty sure I embraced and advocated for nature’s healing before it became a podcast or something you pay someone to guide you towards. Whether that’s balm for inside or outside, from suburbia or the world. Just look up at a tree or down at the ants. And hope you don’t get knocked out by a sudden limb fall or paralysed by a bite. It’ll almost always be fine.

May 11, 2024July 6, 2024

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Parks

Sky fades to pastel as the sun sinks west. City lights twinkle in haphazard fashion, playing illuminated noughts and crosses on towers of glass. A glow shimmers off the water as a ferry glides through. There is a hum and buzz and the squawk of a seagull, amplified many times over by that of a hen party. Glasses clink under the off-white orbs of an opera house. We have cocktails. And toast the Sydney sweet spot.

It takes a while to get there, and a great deal of patience and effort and cost. Sydney is not the easiest of erstwhile friends, rarely offering a simple parking spot or vacant intersection or route untainted by a hefty toll. And, rather than chill things out, Easter seems to exacerbate them, as everyone wants to do the exact same thing in the exact same place.

Undeniably the city is at its most accommodating on a ferry, but you have to first get to the ferry and then hope you can get on. Yet, aboard, the veer right around Bradleys Head never fails to provoke a slight tingle, a just about pinch yourself moment of relief. An unfolding panorama of a city skyline flanked by prized jewels. You can see this feeling on the face of others too.

Rewind a few days and it’s not too dissimilar a mixture of frustration and delight in the Blue Mountains. Even on a weekday the lookouts are popular and – in parts – pricey. Staying here overnight helps, day trippers dissipating and local councils offering a rare parking freebie after six. With the going down of the sun, remnants of hubbub coalesce on top, gazing over the edge at that most natural of wonder. Space.

A landscape of trees and escarpments at dusk

The Blue Mountains proves a good Mum spot. Many of the best lookouts are easily accessible. There are countless cafes for coffee and chocolate and cake. There are – of course – snapshots of a landscape that will etch memories for a lifetime. And there is the option to embrace a range of these vistas from a cablecar or railway. Swiss style.

Scenic World is exactly the kind of tourist trap I would normally tend to avoid. But with exaltations from that pioneering election night loser, Portillo, and the benefit of easy accessibility and free parking, it proves a no brainer. A cool cloudy start up top breaks as we plunge rapidly down into the Jamison Valley, courtesy of the much proclaimed steepest railway in the world. For once, not only the Southern Hemisphere.

The experience is akin to the dive of a rollercoaster, including that initial gentle roll forward that kids you that this is all going to be rather pleasant and somewhat overhyped. But hold on folks, and hope your bag and walking stick is tethered. All this is quite surreal when you look around and realise you are not hurtling toward a gaudy pleasure beach but gazing upon a UNESCO world heritage listed wilderness.

Down amongst the millions of trees there is now a boardwalk, complete with fairy lights and Gruffalo trails and scuffling lyrebirds. This links up with a cablecar which can take you back up top, where you can either plunge down ad nauseum (we go one more time) or take another cablecar over a small canyon carved by Katoomba Falls. Up here you can also buy many, many varieties of cuddly Australian marsupial in the gift shop or even some stodgy pizza. We opt for a more refined lunch in nearby Leura.

A chocolate desert and lady with a chocolate milkshake

After lunch we make note of places for a potential afternoon treat. In between food, a stop at Sublime Point for another sublime view. Only here we were stung by parking for a mere 20 minutes and a rockiness just a little too severe for Mum. The pain eased by an overdose of chocolate back in Leura.

I wouldn’t say all we did was eat and congregate atop spectacular viewpoints. But with evening light fading within the Grose Valley and a quick stop off for megalithic outlooks at Evans Lookout, the day culminated with leftover chicken and salad at Govetts Leap. Peace and serenity among the drama, a fitting end to wild Australian majesty fading into the dark.

A wilderness landscape of gorges and escarpments lined with trees

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Coming down the mountains was a quiet affair, the back road via Bell and Bilpin feeling remote and sombre as clouds lowered upon densely clad hills. Fine drizzle intermittently coated the windscreen, necessitating frequent adjustment of wiper speeds. It wasn’t as inspiring as I would have liked at Mount Tomah, the Botanic Gardens offering mediocre coffee among a commendable variety of plants, not quite dazzling in an autumn peak. For the first time on Mum’s trip, a pervading feeling of winter crept onto the horizon.

A scrumptious apple crumble slice lifted spirits in Bilpin, even if we sat and ate it in the car, British style, as rain gathered force. It was only a passing shower, a few more grazing the route down into Sydney, where summer swiftly returned. Here at last to a city high on bucket lists and – on balance – rightfully so. Especially when you can find that sweet spot.

Sydney attracts people from all over the world and high among them are the Irish. It was a very large coincidence that a few weeks before, flicking through TV channels in despair, I stumbled upon Sydney Weekender. A largely vacuous program plugging the merits of Sydney and surrounds, a feature on food options alerted me to Big Dave’s Chipper. Big Dave himself was the star attraction, promoting his authentic and barely nutritious Irish cuisine and what looked like ‘proper chips’. The chunky sort that may just come with ‘proper vinegar’ if, like Mum, you protest loud enough.

We sat and ate them overlooking a choppy ocean near Maroubra. This meant accumulation of tolls that continued apace all weekend, transitioning from south to north to south to east and inadvertently through city tunnels. We were staying north, up on a hill among lush ferns and frangipani with rainbow lorikeets for curious company. A quiet Ramsay Street in the suburbs a short drive from Manly, with free, on-street parking.

Manly itself was another matter. A fine place to feel and smell the ocean air, to breathe in Australia with its surfboards and vitality and golden prospects, so enviable in many ways. A drawcard for many, many people on a Good Friday, transported by frequent ferries and occasional bus services and millions of cars. Cars congregating along every single street, making it especially challenging to find an empty spot and jump on a ferry into town.

I circled for a good 30 minutes before luck came my way, and achievements followed, namely parallel parking a hire car on a steep slope in a four hour space little wider than a hire car. It was a decent walk to the ferry terminal from here, but close enough to launch a foray onto that harbour, around Bradleys Head, towards that iconic skyline. Docking at Circular Quay to mill around like everyone else, ants drawn like honey to the white shells of an opera house.

Three people in front of Sydney Opera House

So much for people escaping Sydney over the Easter holidays. They were all here and pretty much everywhere else too. A few escapes into the bush provided some relief and – on terra firma at Bradleys Head – million dollar views without million dollar parking. Our lodgings also offered a breather from being one of the tourists. All too briefly a place we could pretend at living a privileged Sydney life.

A view through trees to the city skyline of Sydney across water

While it was tempting to linger on the deck with the lorikeets, Easter Sunday was the last full day of Mum’s visit to Australia. There was one gaping hole to be filled, one superlative cliché to pop in the bucket. For any Brit, Australia is as much about Bondi as it is kangaroos and cork-strewn hats. Sweltering in late summer heat, thousands of people browning and reddening and frolicking in the surf.

A view of a crowded beach hyped up by everyone despite being quite disappointing, along with a swimming pool that is very pretentious

We stopped for little more than 30 minutes for obligatory photos, before heading to Watsons Bay for what I envisioned would be a fine, lazy lunch. The reality proved a no-go, an impossibility, a narrow isthmus way beyond capacity. So a quick brainwave drove me towards Bondi Junction and the Southern Hemisphere’s most scenic Westfield food court. It was blissfully quiet here and easy to park too. Suspiciously so. Westfield was closed, and by now travellers were getting a little hot and bothered.

And so, just down the hill from our Airbnb, we resorted to some takeaway at two in the afternoon. I know the Koreans love this stuff for Christmas, but I hadn’t really imagined we would be having KFC as Easter lunch. It was hardly living the glamorous Sydney life. And while hunger ensured it went down with satisfaction, I was keen for this whole game to be lifted.

Cue a post-nap turnaround, an ‘ah f*ck it, let’s get an Uber, and have some cocktails.’ Dropped off close to Manly Wharf, squeezing on a ferry again, passing Bradleys Head, entering Circular Quay as the sun heads under the bridge and towards the horizon. A table underneath an icon, a bustling hum, a squawking seagull, twinkling city lights. Cocktails and snacks and a cool relief of a breeze. A sweet spot amplified by all the love. Park right here.

A seagull perched underneath a sunset and city lights

Australia Food & Drink Green Bogey

February 18, 2023March 4, 2023

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Bean there, done that

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Australia Green Bogey Walking

February 13, 2021

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Plenty

Many of Men at Work’s lyrics from that infamous song are undoubtedly insane. And for a sparsely populated continental land mass frequently sun-baked and on the very fringes of survival, there are legitimate question marks about its plentifulness. Plenty in size and scale and cultural history. Plenty in coal and iron ore and brazen luck. Plenty in toilet roll, despite everything.

Today, in the natural world around me, there appears again this land of plenty. Turn back a year and there would have been much head-shaking at such a thought. A cruel fantasy. But since that point, we’ve had plenty of rain resulting in plenty of growth leading to plenty of productivity. Not all of this is welcome, with rabbits and mice and locusts replicating at the rate of viruses in Kent. And the plentiful fruits of this rejuvenation are proving challenging to reap without a stream of acquiescent backpackers.

Still, “she’ll be apples” as they say. Surprising apples if you find yourself on a road between Bundanoon and Marulan. I was heading back from a day of plenty when I spotted a small sign saying ‘Big Apple’ pointing to the left. Already astounded by the incredible-in-so-many ways Big Potato, the apple emerged as a more subtle dessert.

Giant fruits and vegetables are apt in the Southern Highlands given the land is – for the most part – rich farming country. Babe was also filmed around here, combining perfectly with some of the local apple sauce and roast spuds. I could see snatches of Babe country throughout, supercharged by the verdant green rolling landscape, scattered with fine weatherboard homes and lacy verandas. Such is the well-groomed nature of this land, that it comes as a dramatic contrast when the countryside falls suddenly towards the sea. Delivering plenty.

This happens at Carrington Falls, situated within Budderoo National Park to the south of Robertson. It was a misty, head-in-the-clouds morning, the kind that lends itself to Jurassic Park moments. Tall white trees disappear into the clouds, giant ferns at their base dripping with beads of moisture. The air smells earthy and rich, peppered with wafts of cool mint. Only the fizzing sound of water signals a break in this most stagnant of scenes.

Several lookouts provide the wow factor, the intake of breath, the magnetic allure of millions of litres of water falling fifty metres into a deep pool. It is unclear whether the mist swirling through the eucalypts are remnants of waterfall or lowering fingers of cloud. I suppose they are all part of the same big cycle taking on different forms. Steaming glasses and feeding natural spectacles.

I’m surprised by how busy the place is on a cool, damp Monday. A steady flow of visitors park up, loop along the lookouts and leave again. Most pause for a picture or two, alternating between ultra-serious brooding to comical selfies. One senior lady poses with what looks like a car windscreen shade over her head, arranged to resemble Mickey Mouse ears. The youth – students from Wollongong I suspect – brave the waters of the creek before they succumb to gravity.

There is another turn off near Carrington Falls that suggests further valley lookouts. I head to the first and closest, greeted with even denser mist and a disappearing view. Fine rain is now falling and – for February – it’s cold.

Back near the car and now thinking of a warming lunch, a sign points to something called Nellie’s Glen. It’s only a hundred metres, which is hardly going to delay the arrival of comfort food. And what a pleasant surprise this turned out to be, a gorgeous pool fed by gently cascading waters. The kind of place on a warmer day to soak and swim and avoid water dragons and hope that leeches aren’t longing for a bit of attachment.

With other lookouts and a campground I feel there is unfinished business in Budderoo National Park. But my mind – and stomach – has become fixated on pie. At the junction with the Illawarra Highway stands the self-proclaimed ‘World Famous Robertson Pie Shop’. Have you heard of it over there? It looks exactly the kind of place that would disappoint and end up on the news as a COVID hotspot. A pie of plenty instead came at the Robertson Pub, no doubt known as The Robbo, oppo the big potato.

It was perfect weather for pie and mash and gravy, washed down by a surprisingly good local ale whose name I sadly do not recall. Such feasting naturally induces a contented lethargy that makes the thought of further activity, further driving, further walking, further gazing at amazing, just that little bit less enticing. But I had to get home somehow, and there was still a waterfall way to go.

Thus the afternoon heralded Belmore Falls, a double delight viewed from afar. Some people had managed to find closer views next to the top of the falls and a couple – spied through my zoom lens – had made their way between upper and lower falls. I figured, judging by the size and athleticism of said couple, that it couldn’t be too hard to reach, though how they did so remains very much a mystery. Perhaps abseiling or helicopters were involved.

The drive from Belmore Falls to Fitzroy Falls proved joyful, a pocket of pure Babes country starting to welcome a brighter, afternoon sky. At Fitzroy Falls itself – the trustiest and most accessible of the waterfalls in this area – I felt a little as though I was going through the motions, but walked and stopped and took photos and gazed out in awe nonetheless. As well as both Fitzroy and Twin Falls adding to the daily tally, the view into the Yarrunga Valley never fails to enchant.

By the time I passed through Exeter and Bundanoon and abruptly turned to the left in Tallong, the sun had started to reassert itself and offer some welcome warmth. Better conditions for ripening apples I would imagine, and less potato friendly. A landscape now drier and more typical of great swathes of eastern Australia.

As a final stop before joining the highway I detoured to Long Point Lookout, where a spur of land thrusts itself out into an incredible wilderness. Below, some five hundred metres, the Shoalhaven River turns 180 degrees, carving out the steep hills and ravines which disappear off into the distance. All that water has to lead somewhere, and the Shoalhaven is quite a remarkable gathering of natural forces.

I spent a good half hour at this spot, as the late afternoon light cast itself in fits and starts upon the scene. Not one other car, not one other person stopped by during that time. Somewhere else, in another continent, in another country I couldn’t imagine such absence, such indifference. It would be a highlight, a spectacle, hustling with people and coaches and tacky souvenirs.

Here, it was as if no-one else knew. Here, in a country of vast open space, of forests and gorges still existing untouched, still largely unexploited, it was nothing special. Just another view, just another scene, just another place. And surely that is what makes it a land of plenty, he said, smiling with a Vegemite sandwich.

Australia Driving Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography Walking

February 9, 2020February 9, 2020

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Namadgi

It wasn’t love at first site. As national parks go, it’s not in the top tier. There are no obvious spectacles, no grand high tops, no sublime points, no copper canyons, no vernal falls. But it sits there, looking at you, consumer of sunsets and occasional catcher of winter snows. Endearing itself to you by its very persistence.

Namadgi National Park. Canberra’s park, Canberra’s playground; like Dartmoor is to Plymouth or Hampstead Heath is to North London. Before that, for many years before I came here and other strangers came here, special ground for Australia’s first people. Rising to the west, sheltering Australia’s young capital. A rugged wilderness reminding us of what we were and where we have come. And where we still have to go. Enduring still.

Igniting

The lustre of spring radiated across the valley and lifted the soul the way that spring can only do: that warming sun on your face as you cast your eyes upon a celebration of green, a chirpiness matched by the creatures awakening from their slumber. Treading into this world along the valley floor, each footstep a newfound joy, each pause a chance to breathe it all in. An enclave of life and of love, promising halcyon days ahead.

Monday 27th January: A small plume of smoke appears over a hill as I drive back home. It throws my bearings since it isn’t where I expected to see smoke today. I check Fires Near Me for probably the fifth time this morning and see a new blue diamond symbol has appeared in Namadgi National Park. It has been listed as the Orroral Valley Fire.

Taking hold

The sky had that washed out tone of winter that threatens but barely delivers. It is the colour of childhood skies beside the sea, when the excitement of snow was dashed by the delivery of icy rain. If you were being generous, you might describe it as sleet, but only that narrow, spitting variety rather than a satisfying splodge. As I climbed through the freshest forest to crest the ridge of Booroomba Rocks, a new squall spilled into the valley of gums below. A wind chill well below zero blew away the cobwebs. And cast a few shards of icy, spitting rain my way.

Tuesday 28th January: The fire quickly takes hold and becomes uncontrollable, spreading west into Honeysuckle Creek, Apollo Road and climbing up towards the crest of Booroomba Rocks. A large smoke plume intensifies as the day heats up and spreads many miles west, hanging over the Canberra skyline as multiple planes and helicopters disappear into its heart.

Consuming

We used to have adventures. These often involved hikes to lookouts and – if we were lucky – a bird roll with a view. All across Australia. 2018 offered the comeback tour and an adventure a bit closer to my home.

Older, probably not wiser, I persuaded Jill to join me on the Yerrabi Track, hoping the drag uphill wouldn’t cause consternation. Hopeful that the rocky platform at the end, with a bird roll, with a view, would appease any potential discord at my choice. May I present to you the wilderness. Close to Canberra. And a long way from Norfolk. Or Sydney. A real place to breathe on holiday, or at home.

Thursday 30th January: A few days of cooler and quieter weather provide some respite and a chance for fire crews to lay down containment lines, large air tankers plying back and forth overhead. While much is done to try to protect properties and cultural assets, the fire continues to feed on the tinder dry heart of Namadgi, spreading down towards Yankee Hat and Boboyan Trig, a key marker on the Yerrabi Track.

Threatening

From Canberra, Mount Tennent stands sentinel over Namadgi National Park, 1,375 metres into the sky. The first prominent peak as you enter south, looming over the visitor centre and the small village of Tharwa. In spite of this proximity it took me many years to climb. Cypress Pine lookout was usually as far as I made it before arriving at the conclusion that that is more than enough thank you very much.

Sometimes you need the momentum that comes from walking with friends. An encouraging peloton. A crisp morning that warms with the rising sun on your back. Views that deliver over the Monaro, its golden paddocks strewn with the fairy floss of rising mist. Each step up a shared endeavour, summiting a shared prize. Victors in a deep blue sky, miniscule among uninterrupted green.

Friday 31st January: The temperature nudges towards 42 degrees and the fire threat escalates, creating spot fires which push into NSW. Authorities publish worst case projections for the fire spread that – should they come to bear – would spill further down from the summit of Mount Tennent and consume Tharwa, before entering the far southern suburbs of Canberra. The ACT declares a state of emergency and the city is on edge.

Tearing south

I can recall the pleasure in discovering something new; a circular trail in the deepest dirt roadiest section of the southern ACT that scored high on the effort-reward ratio. It was nearing Christmas and I had been in the city that morning, catching up for coffee and passing on gifts. By afternoon I was gently climbing up through forest onto the ridge of Shanahans Mountain. The reward: a fluffy clouded blue sky hanging over the wild contours and emptiness of the Clear Range. Christmas had come early, a new vista my present.

Saturday 1st February: A brutal day of solid northwest winds and temperatures reaching 43 degrees expanded the fire quickly southeast across NSW and upon settlements around the Monaro Highway, including Bumbalong, Colinton and Bredbo. While Tharwa and suburban Canberra dodged a bullet, around a dozen homes were destroyed, principally around Bumbalong as fire raced over the Clear Range and engulfed properties.

Creeping north

I wonder if there is anything more satisfying than the scrunch of footsteps upon fresh snow. While chaotically parked cars and excitable humans rapidly transform Corin Forest into dirty slush, ahead of me is a virginal path of white. It took some effort to reach. Lung-busting in fact. But before me, the Smokers Trail slices through a forest of tall, majestic eucalypts under the deepest blue sky. It is a wonderland both un-Australian and undeniably Australian. Waiting to be scrunched underfoot.

Thursday 6th February: A week of cooler, calmer weather subdues fire activity considerably, though it continues to slowly expand, particularly to the west and north. It has passed over the Smokers Trail, nearby Square Rock, and moves over and beyond Corin Forest. The slow creep of the fire appears less destructive and the infrastructure around Corin Forest is protected. Now nearing Tidbinbilla, fire crews instigate backburning to halt progress.

Enduring still

Is it as simple, as logical, as linear as a before and after? Because a before was also an after. When I took my first steps into Namadgi it was not so long after 2003. When the hills and gullies had previously burned, arguably even more vehemently than today.

In the much used vernacular of the new normal it may not be quite the normal cycle of the Australian bush, but there is a cycle nonetheless. We may be in the immediate after now, but I can take solace that this is the start of another before. When Namadgi will again nurture love and life, expel fresh air and bounty, guide adventure and inspiration. Enduring still.

Sunday 9th February: The rain is tantalising, teasing. We’ve had a few millimetres and promises of a deluge keep getting pushed back. Another hour. Another day. Probabilities suggest something decent will come. A few spells of drizzle and blustery showers mimic England. It is only seventeen degrees and perfect roast dinner and red wine weather. That in itself is an encouraging sign.

The Orroral Valley Fire has changed status from Out of Control to Being Controlled. That in itself is an even more encouraging sign. It has consumed around 80% of Namadgi National Park and around a third of the ACT’s landmass. Taking into account various offshoots into NSW the fire encompasses approximately 113,000 hectares, or 1,130 square kilometres. That’s about the same as Hong Kong Island. Or most of Greater London if you exclude some of the crumby bits like Croydon.

Initial reports suggest significant variability in the damage caused within the park, mirroring the variability in fire intensity over its course. Positively, key infrastructure, including historic huts, culturally significant sites and telecommunications resources have been protected, while threatened wildlife within nature reserves have been successfully relocated.

It is one small footnote this summer.

Australia Green Bogey Photography Walking

December 30, 2019December 30, 2019

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A brief breather

What started as an unfortunate spectacle – that we thought would probably go away as soon as it came upon us – has settled in Canberra for the summer. There is little anyone can do to not talk about the pervasive smoke that hovers above Christmas prawns and glazed hams. Occasionally it lifts a little, dispelled by a hot northwesterly which only serves to deliver arid desert air from the only direction in which major fires are not burning. Yet. It feels only a matter of time before we are encircled.

This is not a happy Christmas really. The weather outside is indeed frightful. People are growing downbeat and sullen; infuriated and furious. We gather and share and eat fine food and go and watch the Star Wars movie in beautiful air conditioning, and these are necessary distractions. But even in the midst of a lightsabre battle, a smoky essence infiltrates the movie theatre. The ultimate 4D experience. Just give us the Lord Vader breathing masks please.

Making plans is hard to do – what road is closed, which national park on fire, which stretch of tarmac melting? Christmas gatherings cancelled; long circuitous journeys made. Holiday towns on the coast dying under a barrage of emergency warnings and absent visitors.

Even doing simple things like laundry takes strategic planning. Today I got it wrong, and now it is being washed again, content that the hot, dangerous northwesterly has now well and truly kicked in to sizzle it sans woodsmoke flavouring.

Escape is an appealing option, as long as there are still options. Three days before Christmas I looked at flights to the UK. I looked at flights to New Zealand. I looked at flights to Tasmania (where even today it is nudging forty degrees). Cost was extortionate, but then it might reach a point where even that is a burden worth bearing.

Dissuaded for the time being, I tried to make pastry in forty degree heat. I went for walks in the mall. Just because. In between I monitored the weather forecasts and wind directions and air quality readings and areas of land not on fire. I looked at campgrounds that might not be full and which might be safe. And I finally glimpsed a small window of opportunity to escape, to clear the air…

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Boxing Day and the atmosphere at the MCG was bubbling up nicely, accompanying me on the radio as I drove south towards Cooma. With the Kings Highway to the coast closed this is proving a major alternative route. As a consequence, the main sights of Cooma – McDonalds and KFC – were overflowing. Around the corner, ALDI was quieter, and I picked up an obligatory half price Christmas pudding. Probably for winter if such a thing still exists.

Between Cooma and Bombala the drive is spectacularly bleak as it traverses the Monaro Plains. It is for all intents and purposes, desert at the moment. Not exactly pretty to look at, but with the smoke haze thinning a touch, at least it was something to look at.

And then, through Bombala and into South East Forests National Park, there was something resembling freshness. Blue sky. Green. Giant trees untainted by fire. A campground almost deserted, the camp guardian a spirited Kookaburra feeding its young. A sense of wonder and relief that this is all still actually possible. Breathe.

It remained quite hot to be sure, and on a walk around nearby Myanba Gorge there were plenty of flies as usual just to remind you that summer in Australia is actually a bit shit. The riverbed shaping the gorge was bone dry and surely it was only a matter of time before I would turn a corner and step on a deadly snake or something. But no, a dog and its two owners were the only things to greet me, in between the flies in my eyes.

What I did find turning that final corner was a sight the likes of which I have seen a thousand times before in Australia, but which appears all the more precious today. A deep valley of eucalyptus sweeping down towards the coast. The cries of a couple of black cockatoos surveying their terrain. And a clear blue sky – perhaps more pastel than is normal – but true blue nonetheless.

The night passed with another rarity – feeling cold. Even a few days later it seems surreal to think I was shivering a little until I finally succumbed to using a sleeping bag in the correct manner.

The freshness of morning was greeted by a 5am cacophony of hundreds of birds, which was a marked improvement on the 2am hoonage taking place on some of the nearby forest roads. Sleep was a luxury and I was reminded how the concept of camping may be more appealing than the reality. But then it was on the journey to the long drop that I felt at one with the world, enamoured by its natural grace and beauty, a feeling you never get in a Best Western.

With the promise of another smoky scorcher back in Canberra I was in no hurry to rush back. I carried on south, across the border into Victoria on what was a beautiful drive towards Cann River. This is a corner of the land boasting tremendous old growth forests cloaking rugged, untrammelled peaks. Driving along sweeping curves under a dappled canopy, it’s all shafts of sunlight falling upon giant ferns. Keep eyes on road.

This region – East Gippsland – is sparsely populated and only has a few access points to the coast, through the gorgeously pristine Croajingalong National Park. Camping in the park is popular over Christmas and I had no chance. But at Cann River itself, a free campground was available in which to set up at ten in the morning. And it came alongside a short walk through woodland that in places reminded me of somewhere in England, such were the treasured patches of greenery.

With plenty of time up my sleeve and following a bit of a mid-morning doze under a tree, I explored the coastal area down around Cape Conran and Marlo. Both were fairly busy, with Cape Conran again bursting with campers who had – at that time – won the holiday lottery. It was so good to be beside the seaside, especially as a cool southeasterly was emanating off the water to offer joyous relief. This was probably the freshest air I had experienced in weeks, if not months.

Marlo is famous as the place where the Snowy River meets the sea. It’s probably the main thing it has going for it, but they certainly do well with what they have. Several lookouts and a sensibly plotted estuary trail allow you to follow the waters as they congregate into a series of shallows and lagoons before inching out into the ocean. It’s definitely worth a nosey, followed by possibly one other thing Marlo has going for it: ice cream. Thank you very much.

Memories of ice cream lingered as I drove inland slightly towards Orbost, where several dairies were testament to what is generally a verdant, rain-blessed corner of Australia (the cream and yogurt from Gippsland Dairy is to be recommended!). But even here it looks dry, a burnished beige more than a pea green. In the distance, beyond Orbost, inevitably, the bushfires burn uncontained and out of control.

I remember Orbost quite fondly from the only other time I was here in 2013, mainly because I found a bakery that served something akin to a Paris-Brest. It’s not really what you expect but my memory of this raised expectations beyond what I should have expected. I was looking to pick up some supplies for dinner, which I managed but not to the standard I had expected. The result was a very Christmas meze of leftover ham, sausage rolls, cheese and a couple of salads. How I craved a hot meal! Oh well, there is always tomorrow.

Tomorrow was the time to pack up and head back to Canberra, partly because I wanted to sleep in my own bed but also because the heat was due to spread its ferocious finger down into Gippsland. As if on cue, there was a hint of smoke in the air on an early stop to amble along a rainforest walk with a coffee and mince pie in hand. And then, crossing the border again towards Eden, visibility was once more replaced by viscosity.

This had thrown my good intentions to do a decent walk in Ben Boyd National Park as a means of justifying fish and chips for lunch. But, heck, it’s Christmas, what else am I supposed to do? And I was very good and didn’t have chips. Just three of the best potato scallops instead, oops.

The other plan I had was to hopefully laze and have a nap alongside the Pambula River before the three hour drive home. Fortunately, given the long wait for lunch as I battled a billion bogans, a stiff sea breeze had kicked in and the smoke was clearing pretty quickly. On the downside, thunderstorms were brewing slightly to the north. The relaxation necessary to nap wasn’t really possible, and my decision to quit the beach at just about the right time was sound. Not before getting a little wet.

Rain! It all felt a bit peculiar. A strange sensation to be fleeing and sheltering from something that is so essential, so welcome, so life-giving. Yet such are the nature of storms that they proved random and fleeting. And any lightning falling on the tinder dry is far from welcome. The window was definitely closing.

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Back home the next day, I became alerted that the authorities were urging around 30,000 holidaymakers and residents to evacuate an area of East Gippsland half the size of Belgium. As I write this, 12 Emergency fire warnings are in place in the region, including the stretch of coast between Cann River and Mallacoota, and a swathe of land taking in Orbost, Cape Conran and Marlo. Highways are closed. Inland from Pambula, not a million miles from the South East Forests, another emergency warning has appeared. Multiple fires are springing up in the wilderness between Cooma and the coast. Another window doesn’t merely close but shatters.

And for all that we try to do our best, to care and share, to catch a breather, this is not a very merry Christmas at all. It is a catastrophe.

Australia Driving Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography Walking

October 28, 2019October 28, 2019

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Flying by

It’s been a while since I’ve driven so far on consecutive days. The passage of years dulls the memory of cruising on straight, flat roads under an endless sky; pausing at a bakery in a one street kind of town, finding a ramshackle table beside a drying creek to stop and sample the local flavours. Seeking shade from the sun and solace from the flies. Always the flies. Now I remember the flies and that quirky shimmy to dispense of their attachment and manoeuvre into the car without them. A memory regained and repeated again.

I was heading west towards Griffith, the first stage of an elongated loop involving a couple of stops for work. Beyond Wagga it becomes much clearer that Wagga is a veritable hub of civilisation, with a handy Officeworks and everything. Another hundred clicks on and the town of Narrandera welcomes like an oasis, perched upon the muddy brown of the Murrumbidgee and boasting one of those high streets of slightly faded charm.

There is a colony of koalas here, and I was pleased to come across one in the first hundred metres of my walk. It was around midday and hot, exactly the kind of conditions in which you should not be out walking. But with this early sighting, the pressure was off – no more relentlessly craning one’s neck upward in the usually forlorn hope of spotting a bulbous lump that isn’t a growth protruding from a eucalypt. I could instead loop back to the car concentrating more on keeping the flies from going up my nose. Yes, they are absolutely back.

Through Leeton – one work site – I pushed on to stay overnight in Griffith. Griffith is famed for a few things – lots of wine production (apparently, 1 in every 4 glasses consumed in Australia), Italian mafia, flies I would think, and citrus. Quite stupendously I had arrived at the time of year when the town parades an array of citrus sculptures, mostly located in the median strip of the busiest road going through town. I suppose it’s convenient to look at if you’re just passing through, but I can’t fathom why anyone would not get out of the car to take a closer look.

They say citrus but I don’t recall a single lemon, lime or grapefruit. Apart from the vines, most of the trees you pass are dotted with oranges, all fed by the ditches and canals of the Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area. It would be hard work out on those fields, under piercingly hot sun among the flies. Giant brimmed hats with nets (rather than corks) are a must.

For a touch of diversity in what is a fairly mundane landscape, I took an early evening drive out of town towards Cocoparra National Park. Getting out of town is the first adventure, given that Griffith was designed by our old friend Walter Burley Griffin. You can see the giveaway circles and roundabouts on a map, but I can’t say there was a particularly strong Canberra sensibility about the place. Leigh Creek in South Australia provides a more authentic – and surreal – replication.

Within the national park, the Jacks Creek trail promised much – traversing a dry, rocky gorge before climbing out to vistas of the surrounding landscape. Indeed, it would have been quite idyllic bathed in the end of day light, an Australiana glowing golden brown and rusty red. The kind of earthy environment that to me has been a highlight of past trips out back.

Yet not since Arkaroola have I found myself in such a landscape outnumbered ten thousand to one by flies. I feel like I keep repeating myself, but they truly were unbearable. Pausing to reflect and soak it in was impossible. Stopping to set up photos proved an ordeal, exacerbated by the movement of my camera shaking off another cloud of useless parasitic twatheads seeking water from whatever orifice they could find.

After coming such a long way, flies had wrecked the experience. It’s akin to a rare sunny day in England, battling through Sunday drivers to discover a lovely beer garden, nabbing a prime table overlooking a patchwork quilt of fields, tucking into a hearty lunch with ale. And then the wasps appear and come down to doom us all.

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Thankfully the number of flies per square metre dissipated a touch as I turned east, eventually to reach Sydney. Along the way the landscape softened too, more rolling and pastoral with a surprising touch of green in places. Along the way, fine country towns such as Cootamundra, Young and Cowra, famed for Bradman, cherries and prisoners of war. All words that wouldn’t feel out of place in a Shane Warne tweet.

As the sun leaned low against the western sky, I paused for the night in the town of Blaney, where it cooled down sufficiently to deaden the activity of insects. Wandering around the streets early the next morning, there was a touch of the genteel in the gardens and verandas of the old brick homes, verdant patches of life fed by the creek on the eastern side of town. Of course, being Australia things do not remain sedate for too long; two magpies decided to have a go at my head while a family of geese with newborns made sure I didn’t pry too much. An old guy wheeling out a bin stared and muttered – perhaps both in contempt at my alien presence and in recognition of a deeper affinity.

Walking back to my motel I noticed one of those brown tourist signs with a small fort-like shape pointing to Millthorpe. It wasn’t far and while I was pretty sure there would be no small fort-like building there, it had to be indicative of something. Perhaps a smaller, more endearing version of Blaney, with a quiet high street lined with buildings from yesteryear. A village brimming in spring blooms and fragrance, boasting not merely a café but a “providore”. Wine rooms and antique curios…we are nearing Orange after all.

Millthorpe offered a tangible culmination of my growing appreciation of the grace of small town Australia. The small town Australia that isn’t too threatening or distant, somewhat gentrified by being in range of Sydney weekenders, bringing good local food and drink to the table. You can imagine renting a cottage here and treading its creaky boards, sheltering in its shady alcoves, napping as the afternoon light creeps through the blinds, casting shadows of wisteria onto the soft pastel walls. There’s probably not that much to do, but that’s all part of the attraction, offering time that can simply be sated with coffees and brunches and platters of meat and cheese and wine.

Still, should you wish to rise from this indulgent slumber, another hour or so east will bring you to the western fringe of the Blue Mountains. Suddenly things change, and not just the petrol price rising thirty cents a litre in as many kilometres. The day trippers are out in force, the coaches idling at every single possible lookout, of which there are many. The escarpment top towns of Blackheath and Katoomba and Leura are brimming with people shuffling between café and bakery, spilling down like ants to the overlooks nearby. Below the ridge, however, and the wilderness wins. Only penetrable at its fringe, placid beneath a canopy of ferns and eucalyptus.

I walked down a little near Katoomba Falls, thankful to be below the tumult of the populous plateau. The falls were barely running, but the views up the valley towards the Three Sisters were inescapable. Overhead, a cableway gave visitors the easy option to take this all in through the glass and air conditioning.

The Blue Mountains have some momentous lookouts but are best appreciated on a bushwalk away from the crowds. However, my time here was limited and some ideas that formed for longer hikes will have to wait for another day. A lunch stop at Sublime Point will be the last I take in for now, that distant view of millions of trees to be replaced by millions of people navigating the congested thoroughfares of Sydney.

The city awaits, the space disappears, the understated charm of the country fades away. The buzz of people rushing here, there and everywhere gathers, pressing in like a thousand flies in the face, and ears, and mouth and nose. Taking your car park and your seat on the train, getting the best spot on the beach, the last table at the cafe. Persistent and relentless these ones cannot to be swished away or disposed of by a disjointed shimmy into a car. The flies are unavoidable, everywhere.

Australia Driving Green Bogey Photography Walking

July 21, 2019July 21, 2019

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Hop, skip, jump

Or how to catch up two months in one thousand words.

Can it really be more than two months ago that I was faring well an England seemingly destined for Johnsonillae exitium philanderus? Well, yes, it was and with that comes the strange and daunting prospect this year of an entire Canberra winter. Which, to tell the truth, hasn’t been overly taxing thus far. A few cold nights and fresh mornings, the occasional horror day featuring bone-chilling winds and foggy drizzle. Yet time it right in the afternoon and you can be bathing in 15 degree sunshine. And as the temperature plummets overnight, watching a cricket world cup at four in the morning in bed is cosy, if not calming.

Arriving back in mid-May delivered me to a climate marginally warmer and certainly sunnier than the realm from which I came. A mild, ambient goldenness that stretches into early June, as leaves linger and fade and float slowly down onto the ground. It was pleasing to still see autumn abounding after experiencing spring sprouting. A soothing ointment for jetlag.

Like the 4pm sun on a scarlet leaf, there is a distinct contrast returning from the UK to Australia, and Canberra in particular. Where are the streets clogged with parked cars and the friendly waves between drivers allowing one another to pass? What happened to the sweet birdsong and bounty of green? Just where is everyone? On the light rail maybe.

Wilderness, absolute emptiness is not really a trait of the British landscape, but here it practically feels as though it’s around every corner. A lingering day trip holiday hangover prompted me off to Braidwood for the token mid-morning coffee and cake and then on into the Budawang Wilderness. A landscape of escarpment and gorge, ferns and eucalyptus, blue hills and blue skies. A new peak to conquer – Mt Budawang – and those very Australian views. Not in Kansas or Kensington anymore.

There was more sandstone bush aplenty on another day trip into the Southern Highlands with two friends – Michael and Angela – who were briefly in the country for a change; equally keen to taste that generous sense of antipodean air and space before embarking for the freneticism of Europe. It was a right proper miserable public holiday morning in Canberra, but a little north and east near Bundanoon the drizzle faded, the skies cleared, and the hills and valleys of a small pocket of Morton National Park glowed. It became – still – comfortable enough for t-shirt.

Given such fortuitous conditions we stretched the day out with a visit to the ever popular Fitzroy Falls. The bulk of day trippers take the short stroll to the top of the falls, a few less meander on to the first couple of lookouts, and just the hardcore like us go all the way. It’s not that taxing – around 6km return – and it’s a walk constantly accompanied by generous vistas and plentiful woodland. Today, we had the bonus display of a lyrebird, perching and prancing and going through its repertoire of impeccable mimicry, reminding us, once again, how unique Australia truly is.

These Australian winter days are in many ways incomparable to those of the north; I could not imagine being so comfortable and surrounded by the continuing flourish of nature on a windswept Princetown tor in January. Or May. Yet, coincide some of the higher, harsher landscapes with the handful of genuine wintry days, and it can feel like a cream tea in front of a log fire would have been a far more sensible choice. Such as exposed upon the summit of Booroomba Rocks, as a tenuous sleety shower whips across the valley.

There is snow to be had as the year progresses into July, a clue provided by the proximity of the Snowy Mountains to Canberra. Most of the white stuff falls above 1800m or so, but a dusting can accumulate at lower levels to coat the western backdrop to the Australian capital. Clever foreshortening with big zooms can make it look as though the hill behind Parliament House is some kind of snow-capped Mount Fuji, but it takes around an hour to reach these powdery playgrounds.

When these powdery playgrounds receive a fresh dusting on a Sunday during school holidays, carnage can ensue. In fact, it creates a scene reminiscent of the frenzy after a dusting on Dartmoor, when cars stop and pull over willy-nilly, the white blanket concealing rocks and ditches and any intrinsic common sense remaining. The snow becomes muddy and slushy and by noon the picture resembles a bad day’s racing at Exeter Speedway in which the childcare centre has experienced full on meltdown.

I assumed leaving around eight in the morning I’d be one of a handful of pioneers to add fresh footsteps in the virgin snow around Corin Forest. Yet I find I’m in a queue of mainly oversized Utes idling while the road remains closed. I could wait, for goodness knows how long, to follow the many vehicles in front as they lose all sense of common sense upon the first sighting of a pile of slush. Or I could park up on this nice flat grassy verge and walk. Somewhere.

As fortuitous as the parking spot was, my luck doubled with the gate leading onto a fire trail which eventuated into a loop walk taking in a bit of a climb and gradually moving away from the road and the sound of idling engines and despairing parents with despairing children who need a wee. Fresh, fragrant eucalyptus with just a dusting of snow; seemingly not enough to really close a road, honestly, but a coating of white nonetheless. A scene sufficient to paint a picture of transition from the spring blossom to the autumnal gold to the middle of winter in two months. Two months and one thousand words. Okay, not quite one thousand, but if I just add up the words as I write this extra bit, I reckon I might just get there.

Australia Green Bogey Photography Walking

January 24, 2019January 24, 2019

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Forty degree challenge

I really don’t get this whole Ten Year Challenge malarkey. Not because it’s like some glorified chain letter vanity project or anything. No, my only bewilderment with it is what the actual heck is the actual challenge?

Surely a real challenge would be something like – oh I dunno – unpacking forty years of legislation and agreements and treaties that you have actively shaped and adopted in order to enable the cohesive and productive functioning of society without it resulting in the only certainty being the uncertainty of what exactly can fill the void which will not simultaneously provoke pandemonium and lead to a bitter aftertaste in the plummy throats of anti-elitist elites who really deep down can’t warm to little Abdullah no matter what they might say about saving their NHS which they don’t even have to use because of their private health provider in whom they have offshore investments.

Another more challenging challenge would be coming up with a sentence longer than that. Or how about getting through a particularly hot spell in a hot Australian summer?

It’s a tough gig, and the reality of four straight days in a row above 40 degrees was enough to force me fleeing to the coast, at least for a couple of those days. Thankfully when I got back there came a reprieve with temperatures dropping back down to 37 with a cool change as ineffectual as any number of Secretaries of State for Exiting the European Union. Yes, the hot air persists.

At least on the coast the temperatures dropped a good eight to ten degrees, pampered with pleasant sea breezes and clear cool waters. There was fish and chips and ice cream, paddles upon shores and across inlets, and a decent amount of lounging with a book in the sand. Yet the highlight of this escape was away from the edge of the water. Instead, upon the edge of wilderness.

Morton National Park is a gargantuan expanse of vast sandstone plateaus and dense valleys separating the coastal strip of southern NSW with the golden tablelands inland. With alluring names such as Monolith Valley and The Castle, and pockets that have probably never even seen a human face, there is a timeless, spiritual brooding conjured by its landscape.

It’s certainly tough to penetrate, with a few access points denting its edges. One of these comes around half an hour’s drive from UIlladulla, up through pockets of verdant rainforest and along a bumbling dirt road. A small car park welcomes you to the start of the Mount Bushwalker trail which is – pleasingly – all bushwalk and very little mounting.

Setting off nice and early before heat rises, the trail actually proves somewhat dull – a fire trail becoming a narrow tunnel cutting through low shrubs and over boggy watercourses. A family of black cockatoos enliven proceedings, startled by a lone bushwalker and fleeing somewhere vaguely over the horizon. There is the feeling of grandeur metres away, just around the next corner, through the bushes, palpable but never really visible. Until, that is, the very end.

The trail truly proves a means to an end. And if all endings end up ending like this then sign me up to end the end music in Eastenders. An end coming at only around half eight in the morning, just me, a vegemite sandwich (yes, truly), and millions of eucalypts spilling across to the vertiginous walls of The Castle. Australian through and through.

It was borderline whether I had really earned what was to follow, such was the relative ease of this walk. Out of the wilds, the cutesy hilltop town of Milton inevitably has a bakery, which I inevitably visited, inevitably not for the first time. There is a pleasing inevitability in the inevitability of cake and coffee.

Down the road from Milton, through the fringes of Rick Stein’s Mollymook, is the small coastal village of Narrawallee. Not only does this have a genuinely great sounding name, relaxed holiday vibes, and a good-looking coffee shop by the water, but it also hosts a delightful meandering inlet, protected from the ocean and perfect for all sorts of wading, dipping, paddle-boarding and family gatherings for cricket on a sandy tidal flat. Having passed on a shower – what with my early start and anticipation of a sweaty hike – this was refreshment at its finest.

Nearby Mollymook Beach is equally as idyllic, a fine sweep of sand reminiscent of but far superior to Bondi. It seemed to me a suitable location for an early evening read on a blanket followed by an amble along that stretch contested between land and sea. However, gathering thunderstorms also took a liking to the beach and closed in for what proved an entire night of tumultuous electrical drama.

You might hope the stormy melee would clear the air and cool things down to proffer something more reasonable. But, no, we are in an age of extremes after all. Following a sweaty goodbye ocean coffee and a cheap petrol fill up at Batemans Bay, the car had to work overtime to keep cool on the climb up Clyde Mountain. And then, returning to Canberra, the sight of Black Mountain Tower on the horizon, shimmering in a dusty haze of 38 degrees. And still rising.

A challenge means a challenge after all.

* with due deference to Adelaide.

Australia Green Bogey Photography Walking

gbpilgrim

Wanderings in the world. Meanderings from the mind.

Tag: eucalyptus

Something somewhere

Parks

Bean there, done that

Plenty

Namadgi

A brief breather

Flying by

Hop, skip, jump

Forty degree challenge

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