As a postscript to Canberra, if anyone had said in fourteen years’ time you’ll be cycling around Canberra’s Lake Burley Griffin trying to keep up with your three granddaughters… I would have laughed. Such is life.
Back to now, and back in Sydney where the evening sustenance came in the form of pie and peas with mash and gravy at Harry’s Café de Wheels, a Sydney ‘pie and mash’ institution that has been going since the depression years of the 1930s. Good honest food to stave off hunger pangs, it’s not surprising that this concept of simple food dolled out from the window of a caravan has become an integral part of Sydney life.
Finished the day back in Yurong Street with a beer in bed! My beer calorie count must surely be exceeding the muffin tally? Just to set the record straight, I don’t typically knock back the pints with such gusto back at home (and certainly not in bed) but beer does seem to be the fuel that’s keeping me going. And of course, I’m committed to writing my journal… so a nightcap helps.
Beer and muffins – my staple diet
Tuesday 23rd April: a Sydney tourist and tears at Rabbit-Proof Fence
Awoke early and decided that as this was my penultimate day in Sydney, I would attend to housekeeping issues. Had shopping to do and films to be developed, was short of cash, wanted to buy a birthday present for Alice, clothes to be washed and car to return to Hertz. Managed the last two first and then by eleven o’clock was heading back through Hyde Park, passing by the none-too attractive scavenging straw-necked Ibis, in search of an ATM. Found one in a store and went through the keying-in process but eek no money came out. Thank heavens for the invention of mobile phones as phoned the helpline and was told that the debit had not registered so was able to find another machine (in a bank this time) and hey presto I was solvent again. Began searching for a suitable gift for Alice and finally decided upon a ‘coffret’ of L’Occitane soaps, oils, etc. and also bought Odette a perfumed candle. Not wishing to cart the gifts around, decided to retrace my steps back to the store later in the day.
Perhaps to know the nitty gritty of my shopping expedition does not make for compelling reading, but I think the sub-text relates to the way you can become suddenly fixated when travelling alone, even though staying with one’s nearest and dearest. You decide to do something knowing time is not on your side and everything else just gets elbowed out of the way, until mission accomplished And it doesn’t just relate to shopping, as I had an ‘out of character’ moment in Perth, but that comes later. And no, I didn’t feel the urge to have a body tattoo… but I can now quite understand how it happens.
After that little digression, I headed down to the aquarium where I ate a cheese and ham croissant whilst fighting off marauding pigeons, before catching the ferry round to Circular Quay. On reflection, I should have conceded defeat and fed my lunch to the mangy birds as their need seemed greater than mine. The next ferry took me to Manly where I had a quick potter around and enjoyed a cup of coffee in the sunshine – unmolested by scavenging birds. On the beach by the ferry a sign warns bathers not to go in the harbour-side sea for twenty-four hours after rain due to the high levels of pollution the run-off creates, which is such a pity because it’s a lovely spot with a real 1930s feel. Alice likens it to Brighton, but for me it has a less depressing air. For some reason, Brighton always seems to me to envelop itself in a wistful whiff of having seen better days (possibly due to the rust-inducing salty-weather battering it gets). Truly, I’m not going out of my way to offend the denizens of assorted towns… and I expect many towns only give up their secrets to those who bother to stay long enough to discover them.
A family from Malaysia befriended me on the trip to Manly – because I was carrying a small Kipling bag and their (adult) son carried a larger version. He and I were also jostling for prime photo opportunities… I so needed another shot of that rather splendid bridge. The family was very interested to hear that I was travelling alone and said that they were en route for Auckland where they would be staying for three days. I breezily said, “Don’t be too surprised if it rains.” Their crestfallen reaction signalled that this was a New Zealand concept they had not considered. Not sure how or why I managed to burst their sunny weather bubble. Just a bit of chatty conversation which backfired: I really hope they enjoyed three dry days and left NZ wondering what I had been talking about. It would have been a more productive trip if I had asked them to use my camera to photograph me, as, in those pre-selfie days, the human interest in all the wonderful sights I snapped was always the smiling faces of complete strangers.
After my brief visit to Manly, well only the Manly by the landing stage as there is still much more to see, I set off again on a ferry bound for Circular Quay and was entertained on the journey by the antics of a seagull balancing on the flagpole. As the boat rolled and swayed across the waves, he shifted his weight from one leg to two as he effortlessly maintained his balance. He kept up his balletic antics for a good twenty minutes, looking left and right at the views just as the passengers were doing, until he caught sight of a passing fishing boat and then was gone – off in search of his supper. The ferries were probably his preferred way of getting around the harbour.
Back on the wrong side of Darling Harbour, I again trudged over the Pyrmont Bridge and retraced my steps to collect another batch of mediocre photos plus the presents for Alice and Odette. I then wended my way back across Hyde Park keeping an eye open for a bottle-shop. Phoned Matt for advice who told me to turn through 180 degrees and walk two steps forwards and bingo bottle-shop, plus chemist to replenish my toothpaste supply and grocer’s to replace their soft-rinse for the washing machine. Back to the house and the usual struggle with the keys at the outer gate and then a quick dash to get ready before walking back down to Circular Quay to meet my hosts at the cinema… (my legs worked hard that day and I guess I burnt off a few of those liquid calories).
Phoned to say that I was on my way as I was cutting it a bit fine, well, they hadn’t told me about the venue or timing until I was having the bottle-shop conversation; finally arrived at the cinema, slightly warm, with two minutes to spare. Superb comfy cinema and the emotionally draining but not-to-be-missed Rabbit-Proof Fence: tears, tissues (my personal stash handed out to sobbing strangers up and down our row)… boo hoo.
The film was taken from the book written by Nugi Garimara, which describes events which led to Australia’s lost generation of (usually) mixed race European-Aboriginal children being taken by force from their Aboriginal mothers. The story is Molly’s story, Nugi’s mother, who with her sister and cousin, Daisy and Gracie, escaped from the institution they had been taken to and walked the entire 1,600km home, across barren and remote tracts of Western Australia, avoiding police and Aboriginal trackers. The girls were aged eight, eleven and fourteen. Loud sobs echoed around the cinema
Bleary-eyed, teary-eyed, we held our usual pavement discussion about what to eat and where and finally settled on a pizza in The Rocks area which nestles in the shadow of the bridge, without the tiniest hint of its bubonic plague history. The location was handy as it gave me an idea of where I should head the following day. My choice of pumpkin pizza was as odd as it sounds and I doubt that I’ll be in a hurry to have one again, but you have to try these things. A few beers led to a deep and meaningful family ‘discussion’ which happily no one could remember (or would admit to remembering) the following day. Thankfully a taxi home and then my weary little legs were snugly tucked up in bed. My thoughts inevitably drifted back to the film and the epic journey undertaken by those three young girls. Why was I grumbling about aching limbs?
As my slumbering thoughts drifted to what I had seen at the cinema, I determined to read the book. Then, having seen the film and read the book I knew that my choice of dissertation subject was right. See, travel was still broadening my mind…
Wednesday 24th April: sunny day for my Sydney Harbour Bridge Climb
Christmas present day! Once again up e
arly and back down into town across the now familiar territory of Hyde Park to The Rocks, where I undertook my usual circumnavigation of a new area as I struggled to locate the entrance to the Bridge Climb. Finally found it and discovered I was thirty minutes early so had time to cool down. Obviously you don’t just saunter out onto the bridge so a fairly lengthy induction process had to be gone through, including pulling on an attractive grey navvies overall and making sure that nothing was going to fall off my person or be spat out of my mouth. Twelve people every ten minutes go though a similar routine: every year thousands of small, grey crawling ants make the journey.
Although the climb is not strenuous, I was concerned that the dull hazy start to the day was not heralding ideal conditions for taking in the view. Off we set, in a line, and I was no longer looking at the sky but focussing on the solid structure as we temporarily disappeared from view. The first wow moment came as we emerged from one of the four enormous concrete supporting ‘skewbacks’ or piers and stepped out onto the steel frame of the bridge with traffic whizzing by rather close to my shoulder. As the climb progressed the sun obligingly burnt off the haze and we crested the summit in brilliant sunshine and what a breathtaking view! The harbour stretched out in all directions and the sea twinkled below us as tiny ferries ploughed backwards and forwards from bay to bay. For fear that someone might drop something onto the heads passing below, cameras are not permitted but of course the Bridge Climb has taken care of that by allowing the guides, Lance in our case, to photograph us solo and as a group. I did buy a couple – one because of the fabulous view of the harbour skyline and one of me beaming happily… which is in sharp contrast to the few others of me all of which portray a large lady frowning, and in need of a more supportive brassiere. At the summit, Lance told us the anecdote of how they had found a supermarket trolley up there one day. They get everywhere!
The climb experience takes three hours and as I had already decided that I should see live koalas and kangaroos, followed the ‘Christmas present’ with a trip to the zoo. As soon as I was re-attired in my civvies it was back down to the quay and off to Taronga Zoo, last visited by me circa 1962. From memory, it was a time when no one who cared anything about social standing would have dreamt of venturing into Sydney unless be-hatted, be-stockinged and be-gloved: the passing of those days is unlikely to have been mourned by many.
Today it was a quick zap over the water I had so recently been looking down upon followed by a cable car ride to the top of the hill on which the zoo is built, giving the giraffes the best view in Sydney. On such a steep site, it makes sense to start at the top and meander down. So down I meandered, wondering if the bridge climb had been more strenuous that I’d thought. Possibly the heat of the day was sapping my energy as I was beginning to skirt past any enclosures that seemed depressingly small, where the inmates were panting listlessly. Hordes of small noisome children, again around my ankles, struck me as being on the wrong side of the fence. Am I beginning to sound a bit jaded? The hazy day having turned into a scorcher, I was panting as visibly as the animals. The kinks in my meandering route straightened out as I opted for a more direct descent, still ensuring that I saw live versions of native Australian wildlife. However, the nocturnal animals were, unsurprisingly, a bit difficult to see but could be heard scrabbling around in the very dark, dark. Thanks to New Zealand’s Lost World, I know the feeling chaps!
Back to the quay and into a scrum which left me defeated and waiting for the next ferry – never a chore when there is so much watery activity to help wile away the minutes. Finally disembarking at Circular Quay I walked home as if retracing my daily commute. A final stint of ironing awaited me, followed by a cooling shower, a change of outfit and a taxi ride with Matt to the ANA hotel where Alice was waiting for us. Then it was up to the Blu Bar on 36 (as in the floor number) to sample the best cocktails in town whilst taking in the magical view of night-time Sydney. Having been ushered into pole panoramic window position by a kindly waitress, who obviously recognised the dynamics created by a visiting mum, this was certainly ‘a room with a view’. Whilst the red, white and blue neon lights flickered across the night skyline (the only colours permitted), I sipped my Moscow Mule in utter contentment and chatted away about my wonderful morning treat of a birds-eye view of the city and harbour.
No time to relax, back down to the pavement and a taxi ride to the Boathouse restaurant on Blackwattle Bay for oysters, crab and swordfish. Didn’t think that oysters were my thing, but the tiny Claire de Lune Sydney Rock oysters were a gastronomic revelation: creamy and moreish. I followed these petit morsels with a mud crab that was “big enough to saddle up and ride round the room” (thank you, waiter). It was a messy treat but oh, so sweet.
A truly memorable meal marked the end of a sublime stay in Sydney – I had loved every moment and my hosts had been generous and fun. Packing was a bit of a weepy affair.
Uluru: the Red Centre
Thursday 25th April: pop goes the pension pot – staying at the embarrassingly plush Desert Gardens
This would be the highlight within a trip full of highlights. My itinerary included a visit to the Red Centre to enjoy the Kata Tjuta Gorge Walk; watch Uluru (Ayer’s Rock) change colour at sunset; walk around the base of this magnificently memorable monolith; feel a bit of a gooseberry (unplanned) at the romantic Sounds of Silence dinner under the stars, and finally watch Uluru change colour at sunrise. Trailfinders does have some very persuasive staff!
The day dawned with a sad goodbye to Matt and Alice and then a taxi to the airport, where it was absolute bedlam. The 25th is ANZAC day and a public holiday. The day commences at four-thirty with a dawn service held at the Cenotaph in St Martin’s Place in Sydney. After the solemnity comes the revelry which begins and ends in the pubs where ‘two up’ (heads or tails) a gambling game, illegal for the rest of the year, is played. Everyone gets totally blotto and it would have been fun to have taken part although I wouldn’t have been able to keep apace with the hardened Sydney drinkers and would probably have disgraced myself in some alcoholic way. Complete strangers would not want to hear an earnestly slurred version of my life story. So instead of working towards a hangover, I was soberly heading off to the Red Centre and Uluru – hard to stay sad for long under such circumstances.
Having elbowed my way through the milling crowds, the flight was comfortable and by one o’clock I was checked into a decidedly non-backpackers’ accommodation suffering from another severe attack of guilt… the room and the jaw-dropping view across to Uluru should really have been shared with my husband. Stoically, I sorted myself out and sallied forth on a trip to watch Uluru change colour as the sun sunk lower and lower chased by the ever-darkening sky. The Red Centre, home of this brooding sandstone formation, is really as red as it looks in photographs: stunning. My initial reaction upon seeing Uluru was that I wanted to get close to it and touch the surface; how warm was it – was it warm – surely anything that colour would be warm? But I would be coming back, so tonight I contented myself with just staring. It didn’t take much imagination to understand why this landmark was sacred to the Anangu people. Uluru together with Kata Tjuta are owned by the Anangu who lease the area in which they stand to the National Park.
The trip also included a visit to Kata Tjuta, an awe-inspiring many-domed rock formation which is just as spell-binding as its more famous neighbour. We walked through the first section of the Valley of the Winds, where I think the daytime temperature can frequently soar above 36 degrees, making it unsafe for the average day-tripper tourist. Chatted to a fellow traveller who was from Mosman and had eaten at Lisa’s, where I too had eaten. Here’s a small puzzle, how did that connection get into our brief conversation? Irrespective of any commonality, he proceeded to make me a tad envious when describing his rather lovely job editing the 48 hours in… publications which cover various parts of the world. Blithely, he added that not all his editorial efforts were confined to being desk-bound: lucky man!
Back at the hotel, I took stock of my surroundings and then pottered to a nearby supermarket where I bought a few bits and pieces to munch in my very luxurious, coolly green, room. There was no need to go ‘out’ for dinner my room was too comfortable to abandon.
Early to bed because…
Friday 26th April: an early start for a sunrise trip to Uluru
The early morning has a muffled quality and can feel quite chilly. Due to the dawn hour there was not much banter to be heard on the coach, as we were ferried out towards a viewing platform positioned far enough away from Uluru to allow us to scan the whole enormous bulk without craning our necks. We took up our positions and waited as the first rays of the sun began to creep above the horizon. Although yesterday I recorded the stunning red colour of Uluru, I’m not sure if on some days the changing colour as the sun rises (or sets) is more dramatic than on other days and whilst ‘yes’ the colour did this morning change from deep ochre to increasingly lighter ochre it wasn’t quite as dramatic as I was expecting. Irrespective of my colour expectations, Uluru’s sheer bulk at a height of 340 metres and a circumference of approximately 9.5km, creates a mightily awesome sight… and one which exerts an emotional tug that is hard to fathom. Simply, it’s something visceral.
Travels with George Page 13
