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.
There is probably so much I have skipped. Top of mind: tranquility at Talland Bay, Dartmoor and chips, Bedruthan jackets and English wines, clubhouse iso, that really hip cafe on Mutley Plain, Mount Edgecumbe, Whitsand and the rest. More pasties in Looe (naturally), Tavistock ambles with coffee and walnut cake, blood tests, Tamerton Foliot creekside discoveries with Ernesettle reminisces, and just those sunny morning cuppas in the garden.
But time moves far more quickly than I can write and there comes a point (sat in a campground in Kangaroo Valley, NSW, for instance) where you simply have to draw a line under it all. Not to consign it to history but as something to live on in your mind and to seep into your heart, as opposed to a memorial of mere letters on a screen. Oh, also: London, crowded Northern Line wearing no mask, train delays to frigid Preston station, Ansdell walks with surprise sunshine and delicious Fairhaven ice cream. But I digress.
I stayed a long time in the United Kingdom, but not as long as it takes to appoint an even more diabolical Prime Minister. And that includes extra time, which was not so much a gift but a sad consequence of the turning of the world, the passage of life. Thank you for all the happy memories, memories that don’t need to be written here but live on at random moments, in places and patterns, in smells and sounds, or simply when a certain light shines through the trees.
Back in Kangaroo Valley, I could’ve had a beer this evening at the Friendly Inn (and with this stream of consciousness you may think this the case). But I didn’t. I had a takeaway pizza and thought I could wile away that black period before it was acceptable to go to bed by catching up with this blog. Occasionally I hear cheers in the distance from the pub, the eels are playing the dingoes or something in a semi-preliminary final or some such. I’ve been away too long.
The pub looked enticing, and far more enticing than where Dad and I ended up in Swanage. However, the first pub we went to was always going to be tough to beat. The Bridge Inn on the River Avon a little out of Amesbury, sparkling in Sunday afternoon sunshine. How good a cider tastes in such surroundings. Swiftly polished off to get away from that guy.
Having started here in June it was interesting to witness how two months had progressed. Upon the Pewsey Downs a landscape of golden grass, sweeping along ridges and hummocks and down into the Vale. A combine below creating a cloud of dust as it sets about its work under a searing sun. On the horizon, more dust, or is it a fire? And just around the corner, maybe Gundagai.
I guess these could be those much vaunted sunlit uplands but to extend the metaphor let me tell you they took a great deal of bashing through prickly, unruly, needless crap to reach. The Ordnance Survey is something great and British but even they cannot always steer us upon the right path (probably, I imagine, because they had their funding cut). The wrong kind of hedge fund.
I always like to have intimate encounters with the English countryside but this was taking it a little too far. A touch more sedentary (and bramble-free) were walks within the Wiltshire villages and towns. Salisbury, with its markets and bunting and majestic cathedral, admired the world over. And Bradford-on-Avon, melding that gracious, Brunel-era industrial heritage with wooded riverside walks and resident kingfishers.
The kingfishers have a following and you catch people lingering for a glance; some simply pausing with the kids on their way to the Co-op, others equipped with shiny lenses and tripods on their way to the Countryfile calendar competition. While the kingfishers remained hidden in town, teasing their audience, Dad and I made our way to Avoncliff, bought a cider each to cool down by the river, and enjoyed the accompaniment of several blurs of vivid blue darting from bank to bank. This is the way to bird.
They were hot days – another plume of continental airmass – and there was appeal in sedentary nature-watching. Like sitting on the sofa and being alerted to the presence of a Hummingbird Hawk-Moth. And another. And another. And, what, how many is that today? And eventually, even though you know it will be a pale imitation of the master’s work, sitting there waiting with your camera to capture this amazing little creature.
The heat didn’t quite last; in fact it inevitably disappeared when we went away to the Dorset coast for a few days. Standing ankle-deep in the water in Devon, I had a feeling I would see the sea again. And, of course, encounter the South West Coast Path.
We were practically straight out onto it, reaching Durlston Country Park on the southern side of Swanage. From here a jaunt along the south coast on a placid nothing kind of day – occasional haze interrupting a bluey-grey sky as small boats on the horizon inch westward toward Portland Bill. With its crumbling chalky cliffs and thicketed combes, the coast path here is a different beast from the western edge of Cornwall. But always, there is ocean.
We ended up walking a fair distance in the end, overlooking the rock formations at Dancing Ledge. These were heavily peopled by those having a ball: bathing, picnicking and, for the most part, engaging in adventure pursuits that require a wetsuit and fluorescent vest. Perhaps the vests aid discovery when they get lost in the brambles and gorse as they make their way up to the ridge away from the coast. Another foray through the rubbish to reach those uplands which, today, were not even sunlit.
We worked up appetite for an ice cream in Swanage and possibly the fish and chips that followed a little later. They were enjoyable enough beside the water, shared with hundreds of other people doing likewise. Yet despite this abundance there are not enough fish and chip eaters to go around to satisfy the voracious seagulls espying any remote opportunity to ruin a moment. Effectively, for protection, we were eating fish and chips from a bag and that somewhat diluted the ambience.
The ambience went further downhill in the only pub in town with seating. And then again the next morning thanks to some persistent rain. I mean I shouldn’t complain, we need the rain, but I will complain anyway. Why don’t you wait one more week when I am far, far away persistent rain? Still, um good weather for golf. If you can call it that.
Victorious on the first play-off ‘hole’ I went to celebrate with coffee and cake, and Dad was all too happy to tag along. Mine was some tiramisu concoction which I feel was born from baking an odd number of chocolate and coffee sponges and deciding the best way to use them up is to slather them with cream and dust with cocoa to entice passing Anglo-Australians on two month holidays who cherish the Britishness of escaping woes with a slice of cake. It was perfect.
Like the gigantic crumbs falling upon on my plate, the dazzling formations of Old Harry Rocks are deserving of attention. Proving almost as busy as the cake shop, a procession of visitors walk the fairly tame path to witness iconic chalk piles crumbling into the sea. On a cloudy, drizzly day, there is a welcome brightness to the rocks and a jollity in communal gathering, with some rather unique TikTok takes and selfie set ups.
Over the ridge from Swanage Bay, we were now in Studland, which is a rather alarming or invigorating prospect depending on whatever floats your boat. I had visions of Dad and I leaning wearily on the ‘Welcome to Studland’ sign in our sexy waterproofs, each sporting a large package. On our back. Unfortunately ladies it never materialised and you may be better off making the trek to Penistone instead.
Thankfully though, finally, some brightness materialised at the end of our walk, which was conveniently next to a pub. I can’t say it was the best ale but the setting was exemplary and ambience was back on the way up. So much so that the sun came out, Dad went into the water, and I watched on at these Englanders embracing chilly water and a green algae fringe.
It felt more like summer holidays again. An alfresco pizza as the sun sets over Swanage and a morning breakfast bap as it heads up into the sky again. There was, of course, a tinge of Australia in this beachside kind of morning. Something I was all too quick to use as an excuse as to why I wouldn’t take a loyalty card for more awful machine-generated coffee in an otherwise lovely spot. Sorry mate, I’ll be in Australia next week.
Indeed time, extra time, was drawing to a close. Swanage was in the rear view mirror, as was Corfe Castle, as was Dorset and Devon and Cornwall. A Prime Minister was still not appointed but they were now down to two. The sun shone again and there were a few days remaining to walk among golden hay-bales, eat another tub of clotted cream, be bombarded by Hummingbird hawk-moths and say farewells. It was time to move on but with farewells that are never really final. For you take with you all the people, places, pasties and they add up to constitute your very being and shape every step forward you take. Whether that is to a cake shop, a mountain top or sat in a glade in the forest, soaking in sun-dappled light.
Pretty much at the beginning of this UK22 odyssey I heard one of the blandest songs possible, warbled out by George Ezra on The One Show, spouting insipid lyrics about green grass and blue skies. A summertime money-spinner predictably pounced on by Heart and played every half hour. What young George didn’t take into account was the abundance of blue, blue skies which would naturally turn the green, green grass a tinge of yellow, yellow straw.
The UK is still a green place but I have found myself of late detecting a slight Australian essence: an earthy smell at the end of a hot, hot day, of golden grasses secreting some relief as the sun, sun sets. Waking with an expectation of wearing shorts. Drawing the curtains in the day. Frequent use of sunscreen. Wildfires on the TV news.
One area that might just retain the green, green grass of home longer than others is northwest Wales. And while warm sunshine continued as Caroline and I entered the principality on the second phase of our up over olde at heart road trip, this unseasonal weather was set to wane. Soak it up I say, pausing beside the waters at Tal-y-llyn on our way into the hills…
Woodlands, green views and the Co-op
By handy coincidence, we were staying in Green View Chalet, perched loftily within the Woodlands Holiday Park. It was a neat, quiet little place with a distracting view. Pure Wales rolling down the hill and climbing up the other side, stone walls, sheep and all. With altitude comes a transition from temperate, lush valleys to unkempt, windy moors, topped with all sorts running wild.
Early on I took a short walk, encountering sheep galore and a minefield of droppings. Much the same happened on a longer circular walk that satisfied all the greater for taking place from the front door. The walk was a bit of a gamble in blustery conditions, cloudbursts evident both out to sea and further up towards the high mountain crags of CaderIdris. But I mostly stayed dry, treated instead to changing light and shadows, distant rainbows and soaring birds.
The closest town of note from here, sitting upon Cardigan Bay, is Tywyn. While devoid of vowels, it was handy for supplies, hosting a remarkably large Co-op and at least three Indian Restaurants where cash is king. Meanwhile, down on the seafront there was an old school feel to the air, conjuring a town tucked away in the nostalgia of childhood bucket and spade holidays. A town that is lost in time. A town where steam from the railways still rises into a disappointing monotone sky…
Tally ho Talyllyn
One of the very interesting things about North Wales is the multitude of heritage railway lines. You can imagine Portillo on constant loop here, stoking coals in blue dungarees or shoving a homemade Welsh Cake into his plummy mouth. While naturally providing tourist tucker, the network of vintage railways probably provides a more reliable service than the modern, expensive, strike-riven mainlines of Tory Britain, 2022.
The Talyllyn Railway departs from Tywyn, heading up the valley to Abergynolwyn. The railway was constructed in 1863 and – like many others in this region – was used to transport slate from the hills to the sea. Today, the slate lingers on in trackside fence lines and in the specials boards of train station cafés.
It was a grey, patchy rain kind of day, a suitably slate-like sky greeting us at Tywyn Station. More alarmingly, a parade of schoolchildren appeared to be heading in the same direction, seemingly set to infest numerous wooden carriages on the 10:00 to Nant Gwernol. But a stroke of luck – either they were off to the museum or a tour of the Co-op, which would keep them occupied for some time.
Full steam ahead then to the first stop of the day at Dolgoch, via chalet-spotting views over to Woodlands. Disembarkation here was a controversial affair – just us and two others while everyone else on board wonders what the heck. The attraction are some falls, silky slivers of white enveloped among a peaceful forested gorge. And hopefully a tea shop.
A tea shop that looks like a council house and looks very closed. It’s drizzling and sometimes more than drizzling and the next train is an hour away. What to do with an hour in Dolgoch? Check out the historic slate fence and wait for a train coming the other way and be entertained by the nesting sparrow chicks in the waiting area and the returning couple living life in imperfect harmony.
And then full steam ahead again, the arrival of the train a moment of great fanfare when a quiet forest glade transforms into a hissing, steaming pocket of noise and fury. The sparrows hide, the wayward tourists board, the drivers stoke coals and in one final giant puff of steam toot-toot we’re away.
The journey seems more attractive as we progress up the valley, partly because the sun briefly comes out, trees parting to reveal a patchwork of fields inching upwards into the exposed bracken and gorse of steeply rising hills. Here and there the odd farmhouse, the odd car, the odd siding decorated with purple foxglove. Briefly summer again before more rain sets in.
Turning around in a downpour, the train heads back with a layover of thirty minutes at Abergynolwyn. A period of time insufficient to do little else than converge en masse upon the station café. As if it was designed that way.
At first, there is panic as everyone wonders whether they can get served, eat, and do the toilet in time. But the café operates smoothly and efficiently. As if they do it every day. I get my bacon sandwich, Caroline gets her jacket potato and the two old-timers sharing our table get their crisps, partly funded by a 60p increase in their pension, so I am informed.
It is unlikely they have money left over for that delicious looking cake. But perhaps some shortbread. A tasty treat that is balm to my coffee and lingers long in the memory, longer than it felt to head back to the future in Tywyn. Or 1980 at least.
Aberdyfi-dovey
Though hardly light years ahead, I think it’s fair to say the town of Aberdyfi is a notch above Tywyn in the seaside locations of upper mid-Wales stakes. Slightly more genteel, slightly more attractive, slightly more touristy, even the jellyfish seem to prefer it here.
We stopped at Aberdyfi a couple of times. The first a grey affair that still warranted ice cream, the second of sunnier disposition that still warranted ice cream. Any visit to Aberdyfi would warrant ice cream, simply because the Aberdyfi Ice Cream Company produces some top-notch stuff. The fruits of all that green, green grass.
The other highlight of Aberdyfi (and certainly up there in terms of the whole trip) was pizza on the beach. Sure, it was probably 14C and a tad blustery, but after a long day and the threat of frequent showers, we were rewarded with a touch of tranquility, golden light and golden sands bathing a stone-baked feast. Close your eyes, wrap yourself up and pretend you’re in Bondi. With an ice cream on top.
Shut your Barmouth
In the other direction from Tywyn the road becomes a rugged affair, hugging the coastline on one side and winding below calamitous slopes on the other. The sea eventually forces its way inland at Barmouth, the wide estuary of Afon Mawddach forcing its way around tidal flats into the heart of Snowdonia. It is all rather impressive and grand.
It is a landscape that proves difficult to tame, the road resigned to following the Mawwdach for many miles on either side before it can even attempt to cross. But fortunately for us and for Michael Portillo there is a long rail bridge spanning the estuary. A considerable engineering feat that sits perfectly within a breathtaking landscape of shifting sands and looming mountains.
While lacking steam and turn-of-the-century attire, the train ride would no doubt prove an interesting affair. Today the trains are on strike but thankfully the bridge includes a pedestrian and cycle-friendly thoroughfare. A suggested voluntary toll of two pounds to cross would be worth it if it didn’t convey the air of dodgy scam.
Still, Barmouth was far from a freebie with lunch and afternoon tea at the same place; seemingly the only place that had a small garden and didn’t offer an array of fast food and sticks of rock served up with seagull terror. While possessing an attractive harbour and ample sands, the approach to Barmouth proves more compelling than the town itself, where West Midland accents are as commonplace as vape shops and amusement arcades. I begin to tire of Barmouth, perked up by the prospect that the exit is the very best part. Majestic in fact.
Prisoners
And so we reach our last day in Wales and what a way to end. Heavy rain, gusty winds, cloaked in four layers and topped with the beanie I wasn’t sure about packing. Feels like something is in the air.
Driving north it certainly wasn’t a very Italian Riviera feeling day; more hot drink in a cosy cafe in a grey slate town like Dolgellau vibes. Still, we push on through a downpour, sit in traffic and park up to be greeted by only the slightest drizzle and possibly one of the most startling sights in Wales: Portmeirion.
How to describe Portmeirion? A vaguely Italianate village near the French border acting as a film set in the guise of a theme park pretending it is not in North Wales. A perverse colourful curiosity that is equally weird and enchanting at the same time. Possibly qualifying as a bit quirky. And naturally a beacon for all those COVID-confined celebrities yearning to make travel television somewhere, anywhere.
With all that publicity you would expect the place to be heaving, but the rain today actually has a benefit in keeping the crowds at bay. This means at times we seem to have a Mediterranean square to ourselves, a quiet Tuscan alcove to explore alone, pastel views unimpeded by fluoro kagools and monotone brollies. And thankfully most of the bad weather bypasses Portmeirion, the heaviest of showers conveniently coinciding with a car picnic.
I’m not sure how the plants feel about this weather. Some, I suspect, are struggling a bit like us. Nonetheless, the grounds at Portmeirion are a delight, boasting exotic species from around the globe, hidden pagodas and ornamental ponds. And from loftier heights there are snatched views of downtown and out across the estuary towards Porthmadog. Loftier heights that prove occasionally breathtaking as the rain marches forth.
Farewales…
The morning after dawned bright and fresh at Green View, features of the landscape cleansed like sparkling champagne flutes straight out of the dishwasher. The view, how you are drawn to that view. Those wild, undulating hills, plunging into a rich patchwork of fields. Lone cottages and barns and the perfectly imperfect lines of hedgerow and dry stone wall. Copses of broadleaf woodland sprout up while clusters of white dots decorate the grass. And a little after 10:00, slicing through it all is the toot and steam of a choo-choo train inching ever up the valley.
And there we are, yet another corner of this incredibly ample little country successfully navigated with much enjoyment, comfort and companionship over the past few days. Nothing could go wrong. Wales done us.
In another classic episode of Escape to the Country, semi-retired couple Martin and Glenda scour the land seeking a five bedroom property with countryside views, a home which has lots of history and character yet is spacious with all mod cons, is in a well-connected village or town but away from the road, and has a separate studio space as well as paddock for horses, kept within a low-maintenance garden. As always, they leave empty-handed.
For some reason, the county of Shropshire always brings to my mind endless episodes of Escape to the Country. It probably came about during a four hour afternoon binge of boredom when the best entertainment on offer was seeing affluent couples debate the merits of being located within fifteen minutes of Ludlow. From my (admittedly not rigorous) research, Shropshire is awash with such couples. And you can see why.
But more of that later, as our journey today starts in Cheltenham Spa, where I meet up with Caroline for a week of escaping in the country. It is a fine summer’s day and Cheltenham is looking mostly resplendent, particularly around the parklands lined with elegant Regency mansions. The weather suits a picnic and an ice cream and an outdoor drink before some alfresco dining and a long walk back to the Premier Inn.
The next day takes us through Herefordshire and into the heart of Shropshire, with place names familiar from daytime TV property shows. The first port of call is Ross-on-Wye, providing a taster for the towns to come, all higgledy-piggledy high streets, timber beams and hilltop climbs. From high up next to a church, the Wye meanders quietly into a panorama of what is to come.
The same sinewy river cuts through the heart of Hereford, where it is time for some lunch. That is if you can negotiate the ridiculous parking arrangements with apps and meters and enforcement cameras and other people scratching their heads as to why they make this so damn difficult. It is worth it, in the end, but doesn’t garner great first impressions.
Having grown up in a Plymouth whose centre was largely obliterated during World War Two, I rather like the character and charm of Hereford. Its cathedral upon the banks of the river impresses, as do the cloisters and laneways emanating from its heart. Yeah, it has Poundland and other such trappings but they are frequently encased in timber and crisscross cladding. Lunch in a laneway feels continental, though with more crisps and less Orangina.
At some point we pass into Shropshire and before long come within fifteen minutes of downtown Ludlow. I never realised there were so many fortifications in this part of the country, but it makes sense given cross-border rivalries. Ludlow boasts a decent castle atop its ridge, boasting a civilised cafe within its ramparts. The kind of place for scones and cream, if only the last of the scones were not taken by a family who would not fully appreciate such things.
It’s the kind of setting where Escape to the Country couples would gather with their host to discuss the pitfalls of all the properties they had visited before heading back home to the West Midlands. At some point on their journey, bucolic Shropshire will transition into industrial Black Country. Probably today it is somewhere beyond Ironbridge, though in the past this would have been the very epicentre.
Ironbridge shares a commonality with many Australian places in being named for the bleeding obvious. It is – famously – the site of the world’s first bridge constructed of iron, the gorge in which it sits once a thriving heart of the Industrial Revolution, warts, smoke, cholera and all. Within this context, it is at a confluence where cosy countryside property-buying programs meet the imperialist nostalgia and engineering worship of Portillo, Robinson, Bell et al.
Today, it is hard to imagine a noisy, dirty, smoky valley of mining and manufacture, shipping and smelting. The graceful iron bridge stands, backed by a picturesque village of quaint homes and tourist trappings rising up the hill. Being a warm day already, I succumb to an ice cream before noon and Caroline happily joins in. We find pleasant lanes and a pleasant park and, with some time-filled, a pleasant pub. It is not the pub garden of dreams, but it is a pleasant place for lunch.
Still seeking the pub garden of dreams later on, Caroline asked a couple of police officers strolling the amiable streets of Much Wenlock for their recommendations. There isn’t much to Much Wenlock and I doubt there is much for the Much Wenlock constabulary to do. Other than recommend pub beer gardens to out-of-towners. As it turns out, the recommendation in Broseley was okay but the garden more gravel car park than veritable eden.
Ideally there would have been a good beer garden in Much Wenlock itself, to refresh after a lovely amble around this most charming of small towns and its surrounding countryside. But much of Much Wenlock is chock full of timber-framed cottages, tightly wedged together with barely room to swing a cat. Gardens are a luxury. This is usually a point of contention for those couples in Escape to the Country, bemoaning a lack of space in the medieval home full of character they so desperately sought.
If it is space and character they are after then they may need to head west, and the Welsh borderlands. For here, just outside of Welshpool we discovered a good-sized pile boasting fine views, a well-maintained garden, several bedrooms with en-suite, plenty of wildlife, and all this situated within five minutes drive of Tesco.
While we may have missed out in our perfect pub garden quest, then Powis Castle was a roaring success of a National Trust day out. Even I don’t begrudge the admission fee, which was good value considering the wonderful gardens and grounds, the views, the preposterous wealth and artefacts of the insides, bonus peacocks and – with a little extra payment – coffee and cake. Oh, and a picnic, naturally. Proving the perfect escape to the country.
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.
Is anyone else fed up of living in ‘interesting times’? If there wasn’t the death of a rock icon followed by the self-harm of isolationism followed by the election of a rabble-rousing orange manbaby preceding the onset of catastrophic bushfires coming just before the spread of a deadly virus leading into wild lockdown parties before another calamitous war broke out would things really have been that boring? It’s no wonder many people my age seem to hanker back to the 1990s, when the biggest deal was Jennifer Aniston’s hairdo.
If you are seeking uninteresting times, you could look no further than a long drive from Canberra to Coonamble and back, especially if this takes you through Dubbo. Admittedly that would make for some pretty uninspiring content, but there is comfort and reassurance to be had in the boring. I just don’t know how I will stay awake though, and it’s probably the same for you, dear reader, as well. So, in an effort to entertain all round, I contrived to make the journey into one big loop, extending the kilometres but exposing myself to some new tarmac – and dirt – along the way.
The first of the new ground was along blacktop through rugged Karst country, taking me from Abercrombie Caves down into the fertile plains around Bathurst. I could have detoured around Mount Panorama the right way while I was here, but time was pushing on and I was getting low on fuel. Stopping at a nearby servo offering the cheapest E10 for miles around, I became the proud owner of the most expensive tank of petrol I have ever bought. Until next week.
As the last glowing oranges and indigo hues of sky gave way to a starry night, I settled down for the evening in Sofala. By settling down I mean parking my car in a free camping area next to the Turon River, eating salad and cold pizza in the front seat, before clambering into the back and onto an air mattress. For a night of sweet cheesy dreams, eventually.
Sofala is one of those tiny places whose glory days have long passed. The glory days being – like many of the settlements in this region – the discovery of rich deposits of gold. Information boards display grainy black and white images and describe a bustling town featuring stage coaches and banks and theatres and, naturally, several raucous hostelries. Today, the high street is a sedate affair offering understated charm and just the one, currently lifeless pub.
It turns out there is gold remaining just out of town, or at least the same glow emanating alongside the river. Water has scoured a course deep into the earth, leaving precipitous cliffs towering high above the mirrorlike pools of the Turon. Known locally as Wallaby Rocks (as indicated by a small, hand painted sign), this came as a total surprise, an interesting feature of an interesting drive that you wouldn’t have known about without passing this way.
I was heading up towards Hill End, another settlement grown rich on the sunlight shimmer of minerals. Today it is preserved by NSW National Parks as a historic site, a village of the past functioning in the present. And so there is an old pub that still operates as a pub, a general store that still operates as a general store, and a scattering of private residences with owners doing the usual mowing and chook-feeding and sitting on creaky wooden verandas. I expected a more bustling affair here, but on a Friday morning it felt like I was the only visitor, a conspicuous sight wandering the streets and peering into people’s gardens.
If nothing else, the village is aptly named, clustering at the end of a long plateau above the deep valley of that Turon River. This results in the promise of three separate lookouts and though not quite of a scale of – say – the Blue Mountains or Kosciuszko, they offered fine views of the golden, rolling countryside. Vistas that were, I suppose, somewhat interesting.
From Hill End I took a lengthy, winding road down towards Mudgee. This would be one of the more interesting towns along the route but cognisant of making progress north and noting the fact that I had stayed there before, I eschewed the town centre and made for lunch in Gulgong instead. The lunch would not be as fancy or as overpriced, but it was satisfying enough on a shady bench in a town that appeared to be rooted in the 1950s. Or maybe 80s. Golden times, whenever they were.
With every kilometre the level of interest along the road peters out, the landscape flattening and becoming dominated by grain. A painted silo at Dunedoo testifies to its abundance alongside the effort of these towns to generate some form of tourism through silo art. Further along at Mendooran there isn’t even a silo to justify stopping, but I stop anyway, grabbing a country coffee and slice of carrot cake to appease the bitterness of the coffee.
It is perhaps the plainness of these plains, today frazzled hot and windy, that makes the volcanic pinnacles and rugged chasms of Warrumbungle National Park all the more interesting. More than interesting in fact. Spectacular. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I love this place and its very magnetism makes it impossible to drive on by. The view from Tooraweenah beseeches: come hither.
I should be making for dinner in Coonamble but cannot quite turn left. Sure it is thirty-five degrees, but the midday sun is well and truly a thing of the past and the return of trees to the landscape should offer some shade. Besides, I need to do something more interesting today, something other than largely sitting on my arse as Australia passes by. Climbing more than a thousands steps to Fans Horizon and marvelling in a conglomeration of sweat and awe at an incredible landscape is pretty interesting.
Prior experience of Warrumbungle National Park alerted me to the presence of showers in the campground, something I was thankful to use before completing the final leg to Coonamble. Last time I came here, the town had quite the aroma courtesy of the mouse plague. I didn’t want to be the one bringing that reminder to its townsfolk today. And be turned away for dinner.
And what a dinner, as always. The interest here is less Coonamble but more friendship and warmth and good food and loud voices and love. From twilight walks along the flat roads with my dear friend Norz, to tales of sand-blown motorbike adventures and potential pizza toppings with Howard. And then there is the joyous company of a two year old, one minute impelling me to drag race him in a plastic toy car, the next inventing the new sport of whisk tennis.
There are some mildly interesting things in Coonamble, including a painted silo, the nickname hall of fame, and the languid brown ribbon of the Castlereagh River. This time I discovered the weir, some new metal emus (competing with the Galahs of Gulargambone), an impromptu water park at the pub, and consumption of a different slice at the only café open on a Sunday. It’s not much, but it doesn’t matter.
There were some surprises remaining out of town, most notably the splendid Sculptures in the Scrub. Tucked away in The Pilliga, the setting was unexpected: a fine, forested gorge whose escarpment is punctuated by artistic installations of meaning and connection. I always thought of The Pilliga as one big flat sandy forest, a landscape of monotony that would imperil any who should veer off its dirt roads. Here, you can feel things which are rich and timeless.
Just a stone’s throw away is Pilliga Pottery, but only if you’re a crow or galah. The generous rains of this summer meant the fording of a creek was out of the question, with further unknowns awaiting beyond. So, an hour and a half later, on mostly sealed road via Baradine and Coonabarabran, we were finally feasting on pizza and drinking out of earthenware cups. Another little enclave hidden in the woods, perfect to bunker down from the world.
Interestingly enough, in many ways the world was also here. The terracotta and tiled roofs and earthen walls evoked a late lunch in Spain, pre-siesta. The scattering of outbuildings and cars and rusted trinkets could be backwoods America. And then, as well as pizza on the menu, there was Bratwurst and Sauerkraut to be enjoyed. The reason became clear hearing staff converse in German, a multigenerational family thriving in The Pilliga. A veritable United Nations, without the veto power of a deluded kleptocracy.
And so, we return to those interesting times. Via Warren and Trangie and Forbes and Cowra and Murrumbateman and Moscow. With more time, Warren warrants greater exploration, particularly among the fringes of the reinvigorated Macquarie Marshes. Back in big sky grain country, Trangie may warrant a return purely for cake. I paused in Forbes for a late lunch, one of the last remaining towns of the Central West that I had yet to visit. This too had charm, elegant municipal buildings rising up among a town centre boasting a fifties Cadillac drive-in vibe. Elvis does live just up the road after all.
From Cowra the road is more familiar and home is on the horizon. Interest fades and thoughts turn from the rear-view mirror to what lays ahead. Hopefully avoiding the Highway to Hell.
Freedom. We hear much about its supposed decline. Personally, I’d quite appreciate the freedom not to be exposed to a bunch of conspiracy nutjobs freely protesting about their lack of freedom and flaunting their undeniable individuality through exemplary selfishness. The freedom not to have my head done in.
Sometimes you just want to say “oh f*ck off” and sometimes I do just that when a news story about freedumb fighters forcing cancellation of a charity book fair or abusing a masked-up pensioner or accosting a sixteen year old in a supermarket trying to support the safety of the community gets an airing on the radio. Seriously fuck right off you fucking freeloading fuckwits. Excuse the language but free speech and all that yeah.
At other times it would be nice just to get away from it all, lose radio reception, lose phone signal, lose the presence of moronic people. A solace fairly easily achieved on a comfortable drive down to Kosciuszko National Park and then via your own two feet. Nature, fresh air, rugged wilderness, freedom from freedom.
On the pursuit of freedom I’ve been finding appeal in the idea of multi-day walks of late (or bike rides). Admittedly most of that appeal gravitates towards the South West Coast Path or the Hadrian’s Wall Path or the Cleveland Way or any other number of routes traversed by Portillo, Humble, Green, Reeve, Robinson et al. and delivered to me via the SBS evening schedule. The kind of walk where you can stop after a mile for tea and cake, pushing on for a lunchtime pasty before reaching a quaint coastal village for a pint, feed and cosy room for the night.
Thanks largely to its wildness and locking up of much of the land, such walking experiences are harder to find in Australia. Instead, multi-day hikes are more intrepid affairs requiring the portage of camping gear and emergency beacons and snake bite kits. I would probably quite like these too, if I had a Sherpa. Many people head into Kosciuszko to do as much, and the cars parked at the trail head in Guthega on a Friday indicate some are out there now.
I too park my car up to join the Illawong Walk, slightly anxious about leaving my new second-hand toy overnight. My backpack too is full, but compact in size. Mostly it contains a change of clothes and extra layers and, of course, a flask of tea and accompanying treat from a Jindabyne bakery. Passing the upper stretches of Guthega Dam, through herbaceous meadows and spiky wildflowers, it doesn’t take long to reach the suspension bridge across the Snowy River. An opportune spot for tea and cake already.
I had first come here almost a year to the day. Back then it was warmer and glowing, a delightful surprise full of sunshine, vanilla-honey aromas and Sound of Music earworms*. At the bridge I noticed a new track under construction. Destined for Charlotte Pass. And one year later it is clear. It is free. It leads – sort of – to a hotel.
And so the walk continues to follow the Snowy as it meanders through open valleys and rising hills ever nearer to its source. While at times the vistas are expansive, at others the experience feels enclosed, contained, inching through tunnels of achingly beautiful and impossibly smooth snow gum. Alpine flowers form in clusters of white and yellow and pink. From near and far, the crystal waters of the river alternate between wide, placid pools and frenetic ribbons of white.
The walking is good and never especially steep, with much of the route marked by a metal walkway elevated from the ground to protect the rare and fragile environment underneath. Its newness is clear and sometimes you feel as if you are the first to tread its course. There are other people testing it out, but even these are few and far between.
Closer to Charlotte Pass people become a more common occurrence as the trail intersects with the Main Range circuit. More familiar views open up, from the stepping stones across the river to the outline of the trail weaving upwards towards Blue Lake and Mount Carruthers. One of these rounded humps is Mount Kosciuszko itself, so indistinct and underwhelming as the nation’s highest summit. But this is still a lumpy topography, something I am reminded of once again in that arduous push up to the parking area at Charlotte Pass.
Charlotte Pass village is nothing more than a cluster of ski lodges and cabins which are no doubt a lot more abuzz in winter. It’s another kilometre or two down the road, a fairly uninspiring drag that will be worse in the morning when walking in reverse. At the road junction down to the village a truck displays a massive red billboard promoting food, drinks and coffee. The one and only thing open.
This is the Stillwell Hotel and it also has beds for the night. It becomes clear pretty quickly that I am the only guest. I find it strange and sad that these places are so dead in summer, given the access to many walking routes and biking opportunities and extreme running and perhaps some fishing and possibly just a lovely picnic amongst the wildflowers. Still, at least there is something open (this is an improvement on past years) and there is food and drink being served. For me, a pizza overburdened with cheese will hit the mark, and provide catering for lunch tomorrow.
I theorised I could make this a proper multi-day walk by heading to Thredbo the next day, stopping over at another inn for the night. But there wasn’t much room, Thredbo now the mountain biking mecca and hosting some x-games rad-fest over the weekend. Instead, my hiking adventure merely involved a walk back to the car along the same route. Still, there are new perspectives to be had from a different angle.
Not that I could see the next morning, negotiating the incessant upward angle to the end of the road high in the clouds. Mist and drizzle swept into the valley, adding to the bleakness of Charlotte Pass village and its Stephen King feels. I decked myself out in every layer I owned, hood pulled up and wedged tight by a hat. A few cars passed as I lumbered my way toward the parking area, and I wondered if they thought I was some intrepid adventurer and / or serial killer.
Many, many cars are parked here and it is interesting to see how many days they have booked to be in the national park. Expiry dates on windscreens provide entertainment in the mist and you wonder how those people with three days left are going out in the wild. Other people are just here for the day, and a few gaggles embark optimistically for the lofty summits somewhere out there.
They should be fine. As I re-join the trail back to Guthega the clouds are starting to break up and passing glimpses of hillside and snow-dotted summit provide hope. The dour, swirling air seems to accentuate the beauty of the snow gums and the fragrant shrubs and the pin pricks of delicate flowers scattered among them. Small spider webs are bejewelled by the rain. The river sounds closer and reassuring, a clarion call to guide through the grey.
With a gradual descent the clouds rise and there are pockets of blue sky ahead. A series of summits are illuminated bright, bare hills erupting in shattered outcrops of rock. There is a sense of Dartmoor at times, and in other places a sense of Wales. But no refreshments in a cosy teashop a mile away.
Instead I have my flask and a big bar of KitKat, though it took some time to locate a suitable rock to sit on for morning tea. Further on, past the suspension bridge and close to the car, I finish up the pizza. By now, there are many more people setting out on a Saturday, lugging hefty backpacks with rolls of canvas and sleeping bags and kitchen utensils. Seeking their own freedom.
I am unsure why the final half a kilometre of a long walk always involves a ridiculous uphill drag. I probably could have parked closer. But I am pleased to see my car there, and pleased to see that it opens and starts. Now I am free to drive and free to stop in Jindabyne again and free to fill up with the very opposite of free petrol. Freely cruising up the Monaro and back to my home in Canberra, free of vaccine mandates and usually free of morons. Until they arrive from elsewhere. Both sitting in the nation’s parliament and camping at Exhibition Park. Strangely doing, pretty much, whatever they like.
* current earworm: Hasselhoff. Freedom. Oh, you too?
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.
Well, this hot vaxxed summer thing ain’t exactly going to plan is it. More like a tepid damp squib. I suppose it’s all that hope and promise unfulfilled which jars the most. There were supposed to be unlimited hugs and nonstop parties, the kinds of things almost all of us have gone without for two years. Instead we get to spend the summer cooped up with Uncle Omi enduring The Ashes.
If Christmas were a Christmas present it would have been the kind of one you tactfully accept and immediately place on the regift pile, hoping that the next one finally brings you that shiny bike you’ve had your eye on. In the end I did well for Christmas gifts, mainly because I embraced that newfound mantra of individual responsibility and thought f**k it. New belt, new shoes, new car. If only I could get some new rapid antigen tests.
So the belt, I mean car. Ford Territory. 2009. Immaculate. Judging by its condition it may well actually have been in the care of one careful lady owner. It’s still in the state where I feel guilty about loading it with a bike and treading in half of Red Hill in the footwell. Today I ate a muffin with the utmost caution, catching and recycling crumbs off my lap. I bet no-one has even thought about the prospect of sleeping in it.
As test drives go, the journey from Canberra to Tumbarumba via Gundagai is quite the examination. Though to tell the truth, everything was so smooth and cruisy I was feeling very sedate by the time I reached Murrumbateman and picked up a coffee. And muffin.
At Coolac, a few random beeps enlivened events. I still have no idea what they were all about but my best guess is speed cameras. Such are the joys of discovery, frequently embodied in the age-old use of windscreen wipers to indicate.
Turning off the Hume Highway, the first encounter with dirt came on a short stretch down to AdelongFallsGoldMillRuins. It was nice to reach the parking area without every bump in the road flowing through my hands and arms and shoulders and back. The only alarm was the slight residue of dust on the shiny white exterior, again besmirching its untainted soul.
The falls were busy, but this was a warm Saturday and it soon became clear there were plenty of swimming holes and replenishing rapids along the river. I’m not quite sure where all these people came from given the size of Adelong itself; I guess passing through, touring, going on extended test drives and the like. Still, it was a nice spot to pause and amble and eat a sandwich from my fridge plugged into one of three power outlets available.
Through Batlow and Tumbarumba I was reminded of Saturday afternoons in small town Australia, where small towns become even smaller. Barely an IGA and a sleepy pub open to distract from the nothing much going on at all. It feels all very siesta like, as lackadaisical as the large Australian flag hanging limply in the front yard of a wooden cottage.
And what else to do but naturally acquiesce to the next part of the test drive experience: sleep. The excess of space in the Territory provides the option to lie flat. To lie flat parked under a shady tree, the open back door framing views of a burbling river as chirpy wrens and a delightful breeze induce that state of lolling semi-consciousness. Everything working as it should.
I had parked at Paddy’s River Flats, where a free campground attracted plenty of others with the allure of flushing toilets and hot water. Other than one or two tents, most visitors were equipped with opulent caravans and big rigs and six ring barbecues and diesel generators and that most prized accessory of the dyed hair nomad, the satellite dish. The fact that I could just about arrange seats in a car to lie flat seemed relatively insignificant.
Without a TV I was content to make a cup of tea and sit in my chair beside the river for a while. I would have gone for a drive to explore some more but I was reluctant to risk losing this prime waterfront location. Lessons for next time, where bringing a tent – even if half-heartedly assembled – would at least allow me to mark my territory.
Unable to sit and do nothing for too long, I set off on a walk downstream where there was the promise of some waterfalls. Unfortunately the track to reach them had fallen into considerable disrepair following floods and fires, and it simply became too much to try and bush bash my way through. The road near the campground was quiet and I walked along this for a while instead, soaking up the golden hour as vistas opened up.
It was disappointing not to see the falls but there was another way, another time. An episode in which the Territory really felt at home, really felt like it started to belong. Seeing me through a reasonably comfortable night, the car took me along the road to the falls, twisting downwards to a parking area among the eucalypts. The first orange light of the rising sun lit up a picnic table and beckoned me to have breakfast and a cup of tea. The whistle of the shiny green kettle was poor competition for the sound of thundering water rising from somewhere deep below.
And what a spectacle Paddy’s River Falls turned out to be, that classic Australia assemblage of escarpment and water and generous growth fed by never-ending spray. A wonderful, inspiring culmination to this test drive that evokes the promise of more adventures, more enchantments, more new territory to come.
Now all that is left is to retrieve the bike also comfortably stored in the back, and adventure on two wheels instead. But that is a story, a gift, for another day.
Where do I begin? Faced with the rare overstimulation of drives to Sydney and flights to Darwin and much, much longer flights to Heathrow and double masking and swabs being shoved up noses and drives down the A303 and bacon and egg butties and autumn leaves and Ken Bruce still on BBC Radio 2 and drizzle? Where do I begin?
With speed bumps. Some shit may have gone down since May 2019 but if there is one upside to this passage of time it is the erosion of speed bumps along Eggbuckland Road, Plymouth. Approaching ‘home’ again I no longer need to brake every ten metres or so but can happily glide without delay towards long awaited reunions.
I suppose in this the neglect of governments proves to have its upsides. Or literal lack of them. Perhaps this flattening of speed bumps is what he means when he can be arsed to bumble out piffle like “levelling up”.
I may have been away for long but Britain feels a strange place to be in these days. COVID-normal Britain even stranger, particularly so for an arrival from the antipodes. It’s not an especially appealing destination in November 2021 yet somehow I crave it. Because here there are connections. And cream teas.
What I don’t usually come to Britain for is the coffee. However it is fair to say the serving from Olive & Co at Siblyback Lake on my first day there was bordering on the realms of impressive. To my delicate Australian ways, the sign requesting limitations on the number of people entering to order takeaway was also reassuring. Until a couple naturally disregarded this with their smug mask-free faces, as if they alone had conquered a whole pandemic.
To recover from this distress Mum and I did the whole sit outside in eight degrees under grey skies thing. Still, the outside world offered an antidote to everything else going on, those rolling green hills of the Cornish countryside feasted on once again by my hungry eyes. Damp, earthy air filled my nostrils while my mouth also came to be amply occupied.
Near Siblyback, the River Fowey twists and tumbles irresistibly toward the sea, a whitewater ride packaged together as Golitha Falls. It’s popular with dogs and photographers and people in wellies walking dogs and taking photos. Among woodland clinging on to the final browns of autumn, mossy tree trunks tell of the abundance of moisture all around. It feels like it will be this way at least until May. Or more likely forever.
Enduring cake at Siblyback, it took a whole twenty four hours to reacquaint myself with a proper cream tea. Again outside, but this time under brighter skies within the charming village of Widecombe in the Moor. Considering it had been two and a half years, it took a good five minutes to arrange a photo shoot and administer jam and cream by which time the tea was lukewarm and scone a bit dry. But it went down well all the same.
Was it enough to justify a complicated trip to Britain in November 2021? Well, probably not. But pan out from that village green onto the expanse of Dartmoor above and the tables begin to turn. Peaceful, dramatic, enchanting, quintessential, comforting, fresh. Perfect skies and vistas and air to share with Mum. And the anticipation of a couple more weeks of COVID Britain in store. Surely enough time for another cream tea or two.
Do you remember the time when you could leave footprints in the sand to melt away with the tide? Or take walks within forests as the sun scatters golden through a canopy of spotted gum? Can you recall when you could linger on a bench to feast on deep fried fruits of the sea? And what about that period when Australia really was the place to be?
I do, but it feels a long time ago, even though it was little over a month. With opportunity and freedom I had journeyed to the coast, cognisant of wintry weather in Canberra and the pervasive feeling that you might not be able to do this again. For a while.
I had found a quiet kind of place to stay in North Durras. The kind of place you might hunker down to see out a pandemic. A place where the biggest drama at this point in time was the wind, though where small reminders of far more disastrous natural events stir the mind. The wind quelled the temperature and whipped up sandy frenzy, but it was still an improvement on Canberra. And an invigorating reminder of the power of nature.
Not that I was thanking the wind when the power went down, just as I was about to settle into an evening escaping on a tour around France. I had to read and that felt like hard work when you really just want to lounge as lazily as possible. Thank goodness for the lights coming back on and the Col de Tourmalet.
Around North Durras I made friends with some King Parrots and Kangaroos, explored the sands and forests, and found my way wandering along the waterways as they infiltrate inland. Always across the channel, signs of South Durras peeked above the scrub and I wondered if there was a strong rivalry between the two. The South were probably boastful of having a shop while the North derided snooty Canberra-by-Sea.
Just for a while I had to remove myself from such unlikely drama. It was Saturday morning, and I was hoping for that perfect combination of sheltered sunshine and oceanside coffee strolling. I aimed for Bawley Point, noting some positive signs in my research: small bays protected from the south-easterly; a coffee caravan on a headland with a strong showing on TripAdvisor; Canberra-by-Sea.
At least the bays were sublime.
For some reason, the thought crossed my mind that Barry Cassidy had a holiday home in Bawley Point and hung out with Mike Bowers while Heather was off on some back road cracking a horse whip with Old Reggie Mundoon of Canowindra. This will mean nothing to any English readers, and most Australians too. Anyway, I think I remember this because Mike posted a picture of plumes of smoke from Bazza’s ample deck around the Christmas of 2019.
I could’ve watched Barry’s successors waffle on about ineptitude and continue to needlessly debate the pros and cons of lockdowns on the ABC on Sunday morning. But why do that when I can just take a few steps from my cabin and expose myself to a world of beautiful calm. From the abundant forest full of melodies to the glassy clear water stretching across to the south. No wind and a beaming radiance to lift the soul.
This would be a fine place to ride out a pandemic, though it could handle a decent café otherwise I may not survive. To ensure an improvement on the day before I left North Durras and drove south to Mossy Point, where there is a reliable spot for coffee. And a raspberry and white chocolate muffin. Just because.
The day was continuing to sparkle, and I was in no rush to head back home. With hardly a breath of wind it would’ve been the perfect day for a bike ride. Perhaps heading from Moruya along the river and out through pasture towards the ocean at Moruya Heads. You could pack some lunch and eat it in a sheltered bay, glistening under warm sunshine. Good job I packed my bike and prized $16 bike rack.
Doesn’t it look nice?
There was a beach at Moruya Heads – Shelly Beach – that offered the kind of nirvana that would prove an entirely effective crescendo to a piece of writing. The very essence of what I was seeking on this little break to the south coast of New South Wales in winter. Comfort, delight, beauty, and a quiet spot to sit in a T-shirt. I could have gone full shorts, but none were packed.
An ice cream would’ve hit the spot too, but I had to cycle back to Moruya – including over what felt like a mini Tourmalet – and then drive a fifty kilometre round trip. I mean, I didn’t have to take a fifty kilometre round trip but no, really I did. I’d done fish and chips, I’d done coffee by the sea and now I needed a double shot of Bodalla Dairy.
Another moment to treasure, to add to the bank of dream times to remember. And to look forward to when they are there to spoil us again.
Two weeks on holiday normally wouldn’t be such a strange thing. But it seems a pretty big deal these days. In the world BC, holidays would involve a month crisscrossing the UK in search of friends, family, scones and ales. Plus a European side trip featuring alps of snow and mountains of cheese. One day I’ll make it home again.
However, over the years I’ve come to think of home as more than a singular physicality. There are homes and, following the big bike ride, I needed to somehow find my way from Point B – Caloundra in Queensland – to Point A – Home, Canberra.
It had been a hectic holiday really, and I had visions of a couple of days nestled beside the ocean in some mild clime with good coffee. Perhaps a pool to soothe aching muscles. And a regular ice cream jaunt in the afternoon before taking in the final golden light of sundown. Alas, the weather forecast didn’t look especially conducive to this fantasy so – once again – I opted for the John Denver approach to travelling home.
Still, this wasn’t before at least taking in the sand and water on the Sunshine Coast. It was a brief foray, in between heavy showers and ocean chop at Alexandra Headland. Nearby, the Sunshine Plaza didn’t really offer a brighter disposition but eventually I located some much sought after rocky road. For later.
Faring Jason well with the understanding that we will one day again reunite for rail trail cycling magnificence, I fired up the four wheels and headed west. The road home was all smooth to start, taking me back – as it happened – into a land previously criss-crossed on two wheels. The second time around offered an opportunity to right some wrongs.
The first was pausing to marvel at the Kilcoy Yowie, which I had failed to note when we drove through here on the way to start our bike ride. It’s just, well, I cannot really explain. Further on, once more in Blackbutt, I called into the bakery where I scored a coffee and was confronted with the kind of display that causes indecisive cake-lovers like me to break out in a cold sweat. I think I went for sticky date fudge slice when pressed.
After the kilometre zero of Yarraman, the road led on towards Kingaroy. The extent of my knowledge about Kingaroy is absolute peanuts. Which is pretty spot on, given the area is famed for the cultivation of kernels. When in Kingaroy, Go Nuts is not the motto on the town sign, but you should at least stop by the Peanut Van. And if you want a taste of the manic, pop to the local Woolworths.
I was stocking up for the return to camping with a laser-like focus on making it as minimal effort as possible. Banana for breakfast. Packet soup for dinner, with a carrot and five frozen gyoza to add some bulk. Tent popped up, cooking by torchlight would never be so satisfying, and soup proved perfect in the cold.
At altitude in Bunya Mountains National Park it was surprising how cold things were, given I was still in Queensland. The Bunya Mountains rise up distinctly from the surrounding plains, a wild island among the productive downs. It is very much an island of biodiversity, illustrated by the large swathes of unique Bunya Pine. These giant, Monkey Puzzle type trees only grow naturally here and in a few smaller, dispersed pockets further north.
The trees yield massive cones which offered good tucker for Aboriginal Australians. When I see one in the small visitor centre, I am relieved my walking for the day has finished. Not only do you need to be wary of snakes, spiders, ticks, and stinging trees, but giant bloody cones falling on your noggin as well.
I absorbed the Bunya Mountains with a nice loop walk through dense forest, following lush gullies and creeks and occasionally peering out of the woods to see Queensland below. The gentle chirping of birds was a constant, but the dappled light and dark undergrowth made it impossible to sight any of the blighters. The forest had the becalmed air and melody of one of those meditation soundtracks cobbled together on Spotify by a bearded man wearing loose flowery pants.
Not that this led to a relaxing night. While I managed to get fairly snug, gusts of wind provoked regular rattling of canvas. With fitful rest, I rose early the next morning to discover my head in the clouds. With patience, this would rise and fall in swirls, chinks in the gloom revealing a sunny day unfolding for the Darling Downs.
Gravity would propel my car that way, rapidly plunging from the Bunya Mountains towards Dalby, where the day was indeed sunny. Dalby seems every bit a forgettable town, neither obviously appalling nor exceptionally outstanding. This is perfectly encapsulated by the popularity of a Coffee Club and Brumby’s Bakery on the high street.
Out of Dalby, large cotton fields once again spilled out towards the horizon. It is one of the regrets of the trip that I never managed to find a spot where I could brake abruptly and take a photo of them. Instead, here’s a metal yabbie at Moonie next to tennis courts and much sought after public toilets.
Moonie was little more than a junction on the way to Goondiwindi, a border town receiving attention over the past year for its checkpoints ensuring Queenslanders are kept safe from nasty viruses prior to a state election. As a border town it possesses all the essentials, retaining the chain store vibe of Dalby for passers-by who simply yearn for a bit of predictability. For lunch I grabbed some takeaway from Red Rooster, before a fuel stop and then a frozen coke from McDonalds to take me into New South Wales.
Crossing the border, one step closer to home. Yet still a million miles away. It certainly felt that way once my frozen coke had run out and I found myself on a bumpy road through endless fields of grain. The road – between Boggabilla and Warialda – was doing few favours to my left shoulder and arm, which had now developed post-cycling strain and pain.
In my ideal version of today I was reaching Bingara by two, allowing time for a relaxing nap before a potter around. But I’ve continued to underestimate Australia and the quest of driving across it. It was pretty much four when I checked into a motel – cheap, basic but welcoming in a countrified beige blanket kind of way. And not camping. One of the two double beds still looked good for a nap.
I vaguely remember passing through Bingara on another trip back from Queensland, the town now an intersection with the past. That time around I had come through Inverell and Myall Creek on my way to Narrabri and the Warrumbungles. Again attempting to cover a million miles in a day, I didn’t even stop here, but remember it conveyed a surprising rustic charm.
In the remaining light of day I therefore walked down to the Gwydir River and back into town where clusters of tradie and caravanning couples were gathering for Friday night dinner outside the pub. Along the high street, trees turned auburn signalled the passage of time and place that had gone on since I left home. And with the sun dipping over the hills, there was a tangible chill in the air. And plenty of chilli on my pizza.
Bingara enjoys a fine setting, nestled in a valley backed by rolling ranges. It’s technically in New England and feels that little bit closer to civilisation, if civilisation is Tamworth. I took in the surrounds from a lookout high upon one of many hills, wondering if I could see my destination. But that was still a long way off.
The road between Bingara and Narrabri must surely rank as a hidden gem. In between the two towns, the crazy volcanic landscape of Mount Kaputar National Park infiltrates, regularly revealing golden panoramas and rugged lumps thrust upward from the horizon. It’s one of those landscapes that makes you want to stop at regular intervals, eating yet again into your estimated journey time.
With a lunch date in the diary, I didn’t really have time to pause. I was in two minds whether to stop at Sawn Rocks, but being only a few hundred metres walk from the car park I figured I could squeeze such spectacle in. This is one of Australia’s best ‘organ-pipe’ rock formations, created in geological tumult and chaos. An experience I’m sure my car was feeling for the rest of the day.
I am not going to profess to taking it any faster than 110kph of course as I progressed towards Narrabri. The sacrifice for Sawn Rocks was no coffee in Narrabri and no wee in Wee Waa. By time I reached the small settlement of Pilliga I was more than ready to pause for some brief relief.
Pilliga is – shock horror – in the heart of The Pilliga, a vast, largely flat plain of sprawling dry forest and sandy soil. At one point – and I may have been hallucinating by that stage – I passed three camels. There was no chance to stop, and I’m not entirely sure if they were on a large farm or simply roaming wild. But the fact that you can easily imagine them roaming wild here says everything about the type of environment you are in.
Talking of wildlife, did I expect to find myself in Coonamble again? Well, yes, but I never expected I would be so ecstatic at reaching the place. Oh, there’s that spot I got chased by rabid dogs. Over there, the only café open on Sunday. There’s the river, languid and brown. The supermarket with the chemical mice killer aroma. The partly constructed public toilets embroiled in drama. And the home just out of town where I can again feel at home.
My plans were vague and uncertain and once pork belly was mentioned for dinner I knew this would be my spot for the night. Before dinner, lunch, a mere 45 minutes out of town. The Armatree Hotel is the best pub in town, the only pub in town, practically the only building in town. It has character and authenticity soaking through the wooden floorboards, corrugated iron bar, and XXXX on tap. Out back, the outback. And a beer garden, lively with get togethers and celebration of another week fulfilled.
I like the fact that I can come away from the Armatree Hotel having chatted to an old codger in a ten gallon cowboy hat while we both emptied the contents of our bladders. “Great place out here, hey”. Sure is mate, sure is.
After a restorative night, it finally was time for a homecoming. Coonamble to Canberra in one hit is a pretty lengthy affair but once through Dubbo (and a much-needed stop for coffee), the drive was pretty enjoyable. The weather had closed in and rain was falling as I reached Molong, giving the place an added autumnal melancholy. All across the Central West, trees were exploding crimson and gold in small towns like Cudal and on toward Cowra.
The rain had stopped and things were brighter by time I reached fairly familiar territory in Cowra. Not so long to go now. Just need a final country coffee to push me on, eclipsed by a delicious treat…because I am still on holiday after all. Just about. Down the road, Boorowa. Then Yass. Murrumbateman. Hall. And at last, home.
I had entered the point of no return. Doors closing behind me, confronted by a depleted selection of pre-cooked yellow food. A smoky, greasy vapour emanated from behind the counter. Around one of the square Formica tables, a trio of young people huddled around a carton of chips.
I had rolled into Injune desperate for a pick-me-up to push me on to the end of the road. For coffee this was the last outpost. And like a rabbit in headlights I was now captive. I had to order. Miraculously, I spotted a handwritten note on one of those fluorescent orange stars. Iced latte for $5.50. Coffee, ice, and milk which surely wouldn’t turn into a complete hash. Relief. A safer proposition than the risk of first degree burns.
Happily – should you find yourself in the situation – you’ll find iced latte and a pack of 39 cent custard creams from Aldi a winning combination on the Carnarvon Highway between Injune and Rolleston. It propels you into a more interesting landscape with plateaus rising up to the east and west. The road, finally, allows a speed limit of 110kph. And then you turn off, to fulfil a few goals and dreams.
I remember when Carnarvon National Park first piqued my interest. It was in a Qantas magazine, back when flying was more of a thing. I was probably on the last plane out of Sydney after some stupid meeting, feasting on two crackers and a vomit-coloured dip. A double-page photograph of intricately textured sandstone, a dark narrow fissure, vibrant green ferns, and the dizzying perspective provided by a human figure felt a long way away.
It’s a credit to that Qantas magazine that they managed to condense Carnarvon National Park into a few glossy pages. It’s also a credit to the professional photographers who managed to fit it all in. The vast, monotone plains in the surrounding landscape truly situate this as an oasis. The solitude required to get there leads to stimulus galore.
Hyper-stimulation first emerges a few kilometres outside the park. People and Hiluxes amass, caravans are adorned with satellite dishes, trailers, awnings and everything including the kitchen sink. There may even be – in the middle of Queensland – a large boat or two. Instantly I know this is not my type of campground. But there is little other choice and I set up home for two nights, conscious of beady eyes judging my unfolding canvas.
Many of the people I talk to are here for a week, maybe two. They can afford to spend whole days sitting in a fold-up chair playing candy crush. I have one complete day to head into the gorge, go as far as I can, and turn back again. One whole day that is immense in so many ways.
My phone tells me it was a 41,397 step kind of day, taking me along 29.1 kilometres. It was a day that started around six in the morning, when I parked up near the visitor centre. There was an orderly-looking campground here but for some reason it is only open during school holidays. Still, I took advantage of one of the many tables to make a cuppa and eat some breakfast, free from the guilt of disturbing the old folk getting their beauty sleep.
The walk starts with a sign of things to come: a crossing of Carnarvon Creek via a series of stepping stones. The first crossing is easy, reassuring everyone who finds themselves on this path to strike out further into the wilderness. Others later on require a bit more planning and a touch of blind faith. But don’t let this put you off. Just grab a big stick and think of the reward.
The gorge is said to extend for 30 kilometres, but the day walk goes as far as Big Bend, where there is a carry-in campground for those intrepid enough to explore further. Along the way, nature has created a series of incredible rock features, shady pools, and slot canyons, while original inhabitants have left their own mark. It is these spectacles – reached via shortish detours from the main trail – that create a natural itinerary to the walk, numbered like stops on a coach tour. Only here, self-propulsion is the required vehicle, and the only souvenir stands are those that assemble within your mind. And do they sure etch their way into it…
Moss Garden
Reaching the first stop seems to take forever, but I think that comes down to an eagerness to get there. It’s akin to sitting in the back of the car as a child, heading for a day at the beach. The side track also requires a little creek crossing and climbing of steps, penetrating into a small, fern-filled gully.
What can I say about the Moss Garden? It’s mossy and moist, fed by a narrow creek spilling into several clear pools. It’s the kind of garden that might be constructed at some expense in a billionaire megalomaniac’s estate, funded by worker exploitation and home shopping. Or constructed in the airport of some oil rich emirate to show off to the world. But nothing contrived here, just thousands and thousands of years of nature. Water, rock, vegetation. Gathering in blissful harmony.
Amphitheatre
If the Moss Garden was beautiful in a serene kind of way, the Amphitheatre is, fittingly, all head-shaking drama. I think this is the setting for that double-page spread in the Qantas magazine many years back and you would need to be a professional photographer with a mega-wide angle lens and tripod and hours of patience waiting for the right light to come anywhere close to evoking the feeling of being in this place.
At first, you wouldn’t expect much. Nothing to see here. But walking towards giant luminous sandstone walls you notice a small doorway at their foot. And a series of metal steps up to the entrance. It is a crack perhaps little more than a metre, a corridor into a cavernous courtyard of wonder. Above, a small window to the sky, afoot a delicate display of vibrant ferns. It cries out for a massive “COOEE!” but somehow feels too reverential for that. A handful of people, myself included, just sit and soak it all in.
Art Gallery
The National Gallery of Australia is much more accessible and has a better café than the Art Gallery in Carnarvon Gorge. But you won’t find a 62 metre natural sandstone wall featuring over 2,000 engravings, ochre stencils, and free-hand paintings. The stencilling is considered to be some of the finest and most-sophisticated of its kind in their world.
This sacred spot serves a reminder that this is the land of the Bidjara and Karingbal People, and you are lucky enough to be here for a fleeting moment in time.
Cathedral Cave
Many people culminate their walk at the Art Gallery fulfilled, turning around and heading back home for an afternoon rest. The next stop up the gorge is four kilometres distant, and the track grading increases a notch on the scale. There are more stones to traverse and one creek crossing in particular requires a degree in trigonometry and dose of good fortune.
I’m glad I pushed on though, for this section is perhaps the most scenic. The main trail sticks closer to the rocky course of Carnarvon Creek, and sheer-sided multicoloured outcrops begin to press in on both sides. Palms and ferns and eucalyptus gather in the valley, nurturing colourful butterfly and chirpy birds, while emerald pools attract fast-moving dragonfly.
As a destination, Cathedral Cave undoubtedly has a spiritual quality, hosting further displays of Aboriginal art. It also possesses that echoey ambience formed from the hollow of a massive rock overhang. A chamber of secrets. Peaceful and shady, the benches situated opposite the walls encourage lingering. A rest before the return journey.
Boowinda Gorge
But don’t turn around! After Cathedral Cave, it’s a kilometre or so on to the end of the trail at Big Bend, but I neither had the energy nor the desire to visit a camping area. Just 200 metres on from Cathedral Cave, however, another dry creek cuts in from the west. At first, it’s nothing special, just an unending collection of large pebbles that make walking a little more taxing. But pursue further and you enter Boowinda Gorge.
This I found the most staggering spectacle of the day. I can’t really explain. Nature has formed something that engineering genius and billions of dollars would struggle to replicate. Curving walls, pebble paths, ferns and trees flourishing where chinks of light again emerge. And I had it all to myself.
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I’m all for saving the best to last, especially when it comes to roast dinners. But what goes up must come down and, as much as I tried to conjure up a helicopter taxi from Big Bend, the return journey needed to be undertaken. On the plus side, things were still incredibly scenic the second time around, stepping stone confidence was sky-high, and I had a few Aldi custard creams to perk me up when needed.
There was also Wards Canyon, one of the stops between the Amphitheatre and Art Gallery which I had saved for the journey home. As lovely as this was – think more small cascades and rocky walled gullies – I can’t help but think my impression was overshadowed by weariness and the wonders that had gone before. It also took a bit of a climb and used up the last custard cream.
To get back to the car, I started to concentrate more on the little things. Some of the butterflies that would never settle. The blur of small birds flitting between shrubs. The red and blue dragonflies hovering above water. The people passing me by, saying G’day and inquiring just how much further it was to so and so. Push on, I encouraged, and don’t miss Boowinda Gorge.
In all honesty though, the last hour turned into a bit of a drag. There were a surprising number of steps and undulations that I didn’t notice in my excited state on the way out. The light was now brighter, the heat of the day well and truly upon us. Creek crossings were less an adventure, more a chore. My feet hurt.
Towards the end I was pretty much walking at the same pace as a man a hundred metres in front of me. It came as no great surprise when he let out a thank feck kind of “yahoo” upon sighting the visitor centre. I didn’t need empathy training to totally get it.
And so my walk in Carnarvon Gorge, years in the making, had reached its conclusion. I felt happy and fulfilled and in desperate need of a shower, cup of tea, slice of Christmas cake and a nap. Unfortunately, Takarakka ‘Bush Resort’ had other ideas. I returned to find I had neighbours, sat outside their caravan under the awning, playing candy crush and listening to the radio. Other neighbours were setting up with a clink of a camp kitchen here and a thud of a mallet there. Four-by-fours rocked up every few minutes, engines idling as they checked in at reception. The shower, tea and cake were divine. The nap non-existent.
At least I slept well that night. Very well, for tenting. Still, I was awake before sunrise so made a bit of noise and headed up a track to a nearby hill. A few other people were there, including a dad with a wide-awake baby and a couple of what I would say are younger boomers. The sunrise was – fleetingly – dramatic, while the younger boomers were lovely.
We chatted for a good while. They had arrived yesterday and were staying for a week. I was off to 1770 today. I passed on my tips and wished them a wonderful stay. They wished me well for my big bike ride. We parted, me feeling a little more favourable towards caravanning boomers, and them possibly thinking he is never going to manage that bike ride. Maybe.
Keen to get moving, and also keen to avoid the amenities block that was always dirty whenever I had to use it, I passed up the opportunity of a shower and hit the road. Yet instead of turning left, back to the highway, I veered right. I had come so far and something was bugging me. This had been years in the making, and when would I ever be here again?
When I arrived in Carnarvon National Park on Tuesday afternoon, I used the last of the daylight to explore a short walking trail along Mickey Creek. It was a simple and – in hindsight – relatively undramatic stroll. But that is only until the formed trail ends.
A bag left on a rock signalled I wouldn’t be the only one transitioning from a gentle amble to a rock-hopping adventure. Beyond the stones and the ferns, an entrance led into a narrowing gap. Walls closing in, the sound of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ travelling down the chasm encouraged further exploration.
There was only really one spot that was a little challenging – in that I might get my feet wet. But I could do it. And so could my sunrise friends who I met again on the way out. So much better than just sitting outside your caravan playing candy crush. We both agreed, and I felt envious of the wondrous discoveries that still awaited them.
Farewell friends, and farewell finally this most magnificent oasis.
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That could have been a good ending, but the road never ends. Neither does this blog post but all I can say if you are labouring is just imagine living and breathing it as opposed to a mere skim-read in your PJs.
After endeavours at Carnarvon, I planned a bit of R&R on the Queensland coast, 550km away. Worryingly I was desperate for a coffee by time I reached Rolleston, only a hundred clicks in. Even more worryingly, Rolleston didn’t look up to much. But beside the public toilets in a park, a cute caravan had popped up selling coffee and a few light snacks. The owner was charming and chatty, and I really really really wanted her coffee to be good. But scalding hot country ways are always difficult to cast off.
There is little to note between Rolleston and Biloela. The road, almost arrow straight, offers frequent car stopping bays and I realise these are essentially unofficial toilet stops as I recycle my coffee in a hedge. The highlight of this section of the road should really be the town of Banana, in Banana Shire. Yet, there is no comedy sized fibro banana or Banana World Theme Park incorporating Mango Village. A large sign erected for losers like me actually informs the world that Banana was named after a big bullock. Surrounded by coalfields, this is peak QLD.
Sadly, the only thing I knew of Biloela was the Australian Government’s really tough posturing to lock up a couple with two young children who were seeking asylum here. They now sit festering on an offshore island. The #hometobilo movement made me feel warm towards Biloela. The family in question had become part of the community, and the community part of them. They simply want their community back.
I didn’t find out much more about Biloela in my brief stop there. It didn’t seem the most appealing place, but then it is far more appealing than – say – a war zone or dictatorship inclined to ethnic-cleansing. Petrol was cheaper here, and I was surprised at the quality of coffee and a slice from the bakery – this is more like it. Road trip essentials.
Almost as Australian-sounding as locking up dark-skinned people seeking protection is the Bruce Highway. For me, it was a bit of a milestone, a sign that I had reached the Queensland coast. But like most highways along the east coast, the ocean is still miles away. And, hitting the highway south of Gladstone, the Towns of Agnes Water and Seventeen-Seventy were still 90 minutes away.
A sign that I was pretty much over the drive came when I didn’t even stop for a ‘big crab’ at Miriam Vale. It wasn’t that big, looking more like an elaborate shop sign than anything. And I don’t really like crab, stemming I think from my brother taunting me with crab claws as a kid. The same can be said for peanut butter, but I did at least stab his hand with a fork when he tried to steal some of my chips.
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1770 clearly stands out from the crowd just by being a number. That was some good marketing by Lieutenant Cook and Joe Banks when they decided to make their second stop in Australia at this spot; I think Joe had seen some plants that took his fancy. If you look on the map, you will see a marker for the 1770 toilets, which you can only hope have been updated since they visited.
Confusingly 1770 has the postcode of 4667. So – in a remarkable turnaround for Australian abbreviation – it is often spelled out as Seventeen-Seventy. It also typically gets lumped together with its southern neighbour, Agnes Water. And I was staying on a campground between the two. Let me tell you the joy of driving past tents and awnings and trailers to take up home in a cabin with a double bed and kitchen and bathroom. The closest I will ever get to feeling all North Shore Sydney.
And so, with good rest, I had a lovely day in the Towns of Agnes Water and Seventeen-Seventy. In preparation for what is to come, I decided to explore it by bike. There were beaches and lookouts and a lovely coffee in some lovely gardens, embellished with sweet baklava. It was the best coffee in a long while, a clear indication this is a coastal location on the up.
Beyond the coffee stop, I was delighted by the Paperbark Forest Boardwalk. It wasn’t especially long but well worth the additional cycle up a small incline. Among the stands of paperbark, butterflies frequently floated and birds sang with joy. A nice way to get off the two wheels and stretch the legs.
Being beside the coast I had long targeted fish and chips during my stay here, which I gorged on beside the water on the wharf in 1770. Gorging again. The downside to this was that it required an uphill climb back to my cabin and a post-lunch nap. Later in the day, I returned to 1770 by car, and walked out to the headland, hopeful, like many others, that sundown would put on a decent show.
Now Saturday morning, I had been travelling for little over a week. I’d be leaving the ocean today and in memory of this I felt that getting a takeaway coffee first thing and sipping it on the beach would be a perfect moment. Situated next to a waterfront campground, the coffee took an age but when it came it was everything I had hoped for. Order and civilisation were being restored.
And so, next up Caloundra and then the Brisbane Valley Rail Trail. Heading south, I briefly paused in Bundaberg, picking up some provisions and a gift for my cycling buddy, Jason. Never would a $16 bike rack from Kmart prove so popular.
My final stop was in Childers, one last pause before hitting the elongated development of the Sunshine Coast. I had arrived, it would seem, in a town of coffee extremism. Ten minutes out of town, billboards implored me to stop at The Drunk Bean or Insane Caffeine. Nine hundred kilometres after Injune, the sound of coffee insanity appealed. It had largely been madness the whole way.
gbpilgrim 