Whether it’s an epic global adventure or – more likely – random meanderings close to home, travel is an integral and frequently joyous feature of many of our lives. But we travel not only in relation to our immediate geography, we travel too in our mind and soul. We travel on that most mystifying and blessed journey that is life. And, like the laboured 09:00 from London Paddington, my life journey has called in – notably delayed – at a rather significant station.
Which is all to say I got married. So let’s call this station Bath rather than Bristol Parkway, for there is elegance and grace and it is a far nicer place to be. Plus I’m hopeful there will be more stops along the journey, all the way to my final Penzance (and then perhaps onto that renowned land of the undead, the Scilly Isles).
One of the lovely things about this Bath station is the convergence of fellow travellers from journeys past. Reunion and reacquaintance with others a cut above those relationships you form with strangers on the same carriage on the same train at the same time on the Northern Line from Finchley Central every weekday morning.
And so from this metaphorical Bath to a literal Canberra. It’s a fair leap, one almost mirrored in real life by Dad who arrived with time spare to stalk butterflies and ice cream parlours in between a wedding. We picked a good time of year for it, when Canberra’s skies are filled with decorations natural and man made, and the weather is plenty warm enough for hokey pokey.
I particularly enjoyed a walk with Dad to Square Rock immediately after the wedding fever had died down. Not only was it one of those rare spots he had never been to, it was also nourishing to cleanse myself of run sheets and entrance music files and stickers on glasses and lines in Mandarin and fingers crossed about the weather and forgotten bouquets and the pile of photos to sort out.
Space, clear air, nature and snacks on rocks. Though, with a ring on my finger, wedding memories were never far away. I was thinking the rocky outcrop would make a good spot for a proposal, champagne corks shooting into the yonder. But once is enough, thank you very much.
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From a romantic spot with Dad to a “honeymoon” with Dad. I use the quotation marks (and can mime the associated comical gesture should you wish) deliberately. For if I was to pick a honeymoon venue it would probably not be the Gold Coast. And yes it’s unlikely I’d take my Dad. Coincidence just did its whole chance occurrence of simultaneous events thing where cheap flights booked long ago met a weekend after a wedding.
There were many positives about the Gold Coast, enough to balance out the humid showers and traffic lights and bogan tendencies to etch cocks and balls in the sand. We had a super view from our apartment, only dwarfed into insignificance once atop Q1 for a buffet breakfast. Within a thong’s throw of the beach, the water was lovely to wade through, and residual sand could be washed off in our pool just across the road.
From the balcony, night markets were spotted and explored, a trail of stalls selling healing crystals or imploring you to hold a lizard for twenty bucks or to commission a really bad caricature for more. And food options lay out in excess, from Japanese to Thai to McDonalds and Messina. Gelato fans, new and old, converge.
The sprawl of the Gold Coast can make it seem hard to escape. And, like casinos in Vegas, that may well be the intention. Burleigh Heads National Park offers mini respite, in that at least it is not another high rise or souvenir shop. But this isthmus of bushland is, on a Sunday morning, undeniably popular with people in tight pants exercising, people who you suspect might use the words “media-based wellness inspirator” when asked what they do for a living.
Still, away from the curated coast path there are some pretty butterflies if you look close enough. Like everyone, enjoying relief in a lofty opening up out of the humid jungle. But also, like everyone, seemingly desperate to keep on the move.
I find the real gold of the Gold Coast is actually inland an hour, significantly less gold, more green and certainly not coast. You can still espy the sea and the skyscrapers from the Springbrook plateau, but in between lays verdant, dramatic, primeval rainforest.
Today, it’s significantly cooler and punctuated by cotton wool pockets of vapour drifting above the trees. Water is a major aspect of life up here, including a recent Cyclone Alfred inspired 1146mm in 7 days. It’s surprising the roads are – with a little repair ongoing – still open. And not at all surprising that the waterfalls are full crescendo. An idyllic honeymoon spot. An adventure invigorating. A location not immune to influencers but with enough space and spectacle to spare. A few miles and a million years from the Gold Coast.
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From a land of water to a land of water, unfortunately timed for the final weekend of Dad’s visit and our disjointed sort-of-honeymoon. We were heading to Tathra on the far south coast of New South Wales. Compared to the Gold Coast it’s like going from The Prodigy at a rave to Enya in a spa. I would use more contemporary pop culture references but I’m getting old. Besides, Tathra has a mid nineties vibe, a time when presidents played jazz and unhinged dictatorish ones were being prophesised in The Simpsons.
Despite portents of doom, the weather wasn’t exactly terrible when we arrived. Sure, take a raincoat to walk to the pub but do so with hood down. Then up. Then down again. And, as the last remnants of daylight savings endure, sit outside but make sure you are close enough to the walls to be under the veranda, just in case.
The next morning started with promise too, in that I don’t think it was raining much. But arrangements to meet down on the wharf were changed in the space of thirty seconds. Let’s try coffee inside and see if things pick up. Then let’s have some lunch and see if things pick up. How about after afternoon tea… maybe things will pick up then? But you surely know the rain has set in when the monopoly board is unleashed and you take comfort in a jam and cream lamington.
Thankfully these are good indoor Sundays, when hearty food and drink is matched by cheery company and chat. When cats retreat to bedrooms and paper planes rain down from the indoor skies. A time and place where it only costs $400 to buy land on Sydney Harbour and then, almost inevitably, end up in jail. Hoping to break free as the wind and the rain lashes at forty five degrees.
It was almost dusk when things did marginally pick up. And me, my Dad and my wife managed that kind of walk which was invigorating and refreshing and all the more enjoyable because of the wildness of the weather. Sure, let’s hope none of those branches sway any further than a few metres, and watch out for the newly formed rivulet trails. But check out those waves and those sounds and the clouds blowing through to dump more rain on the hills.
This weather all sounds very British. Which, by good narrative fortune and by way of Bermagui and Batemans Bay takes us back to that figurative Bath. Most of the passengers who came together are now on their way, the final one set for the 1540 to London. Balloons have deflated and cards are packed away. On the platform, two solo travellers have united, ready to embark on the next leg as one. Stand clear of the closing doors. Bristol Parkway, and far better places, await.
With the undeniable passage of nature there are sure signs that winter in Canberra is slowly ebbing away. There have been a few recent days in which I have left the house without a coat, while the sunlight is waking me up well before seven and allowing me to read almost until six. Wattles explode, daffodils unfurl, the odd fly is resurrected and finds its way into my living room for what seems like all eternity.
I guess a triathlon is a bit of a googly within the normal course of events. It also led me to be in Hackett one sunny late afternoon, at the northern end of Canberra nestled underneath Mount Majura. Not so much a change of scenery, but at least a different path on which to wander, all stretching eucalypt branches, golden grass and copper earth, with some snatched views of the surrounding landscape through the bush. Plus, slithering away as I marched downhill, a brown snake disappearing from the corner of my eye.
Still, sheltered by untainted forest and rolling coastal hills, kissed by the radiance of the crystal ocean under clear skies, there is certain comfort to winter here. It is at one tranquil and vivacious, glowing in a freshness swept in by cold fronts and a seasonal lull in nature’s freneticism. The tried and trusted walk between Depot and Pebbly Beach proves to be at its very best.
The kangaroos and wallabies appear to be fans of this weather, out in force grazing on the luscious fringe of grassy dune and really, really hoping for a stray sandwich. While far from the explosion in #quokkaselfies on Rottnest Island in Western Australia, the placidity of these animals – along with the idyllic Australian coastal setting – have made #rooselfies a thing, sort of. Especially when there are tourists about.
In truth, the walk up the Yerrabri Track in Namadgi National Park was only part of a bigger equation. An equation whose solution was a delicious bird roll or two. N+J*OzNP(vt)+C0les=br. It’s a concept that has evolved from very preliminary experiments at the New Years’ Test in Sydney, refined to perhaps its ultimate manifestation on the top of Mount Kosciuszko. Replicated many times since, it is now a requisite of any encounter between Jill and I. Recently, each of us have tried to outdo one another in the bird roll stakes and today, on a rocky platform overlooking peak serenity of an abundant emptiness, I may have taken the lead. For now.
Still, with every up there’s a down and I have lost mountain views. I have also moved into an area where there is a yappy dog. I only write about this now because I just heard it, again. I always seem to find myself in a neighbourhood with a yappy dog. I think everyone does. There seem to be yappy dogs everywhere these days, coming over here, taking our peace and quiet. They frequently pester me on Canberra nature walks too, usually roaming free because their owners don’t need to pay heed to the numerous signs regarding leads and wildlife protection and all that silly nonsense. Still, at least I can see the mountains on these walks, and the dog yapping can be tolerated with such rewards.
Take Dairy Farmers Hill, which sits in the National Arboretum on the western fringe of Canberra. I cycled up here a few times in the past, but was usually too close to fainting to really appreciate the 360 degree panorama. Driving one evening with the comfort of air con was somewhat more agreeable. The sun dipping onto and over the Brindabellas offered a treat, while the proximate lumps of Black Mountain and Mount Ainslie received a farewell glow. There were no dogs.
You don’t notice from afar, but these ranges are peppered with giant, rounded granite boulders stacked like clumps of frozen peas that have been left in the freezer for far too many years. These boulders congregate quite generously up on Orroral Ridge, where a series of slightly neglected tracks lead to rocks named for their resemblance to animals and people and other inanimate objects which aren’t rocks. Such is the profusion of rocks that geologists have wet dreams, climbers drool onto their harnesses, and random waifs and strays seeking mountain air delight in the summer coolness of virtual caves formed in the hollows of a cluster of boulders.
I wasn’t expecting much from this walk – in truth it was something to do in a lull while my washing dried. Plus being practically the last remaining marked trail I hadn’t been on in Namadgi I felt a little obliged to complete it. The word ‘swamp’ was hardly enticing, with images of squelchy boggy plains, rotting carcasses and festering mosquitoes. But it was actually quite a delight, rising steadily through lofty Peppermint Gums, bypassing a few more giant boulders, and meandering through button grass and boardwalks under blue skies and fluffy clouds.
The swamp turns out to be a fen, as the information board at the end of the walk explained. I’m not really sure of the difference, but it was fairly less swampy than I imagined. A bench here overlooked a river of vivid green grass, lapping at tall forest and rocky outcrops. Being now beyond midday it was the perfect place for a simple homemade sandwich and, once again, for all the expensive meals and gourmet plate ups*, can there be anything more satisfying than a bushwalk sandwich? I don’t think so.
gbpilgrim 