Boogity, boogity, boogity...

When I was a growing I knew little of Hong Kong other than it was singularly responsible for an annual spike in house-fires as people strung up the cheap Christmas tree lights for which this distant outpost of the British Empire had become famous.  There was a very simple way of telling if a product was good quality or not and that was to simply turn it upside down and check for the words ‘Made in Hong Kong’.  If the words were missing you were in the clear.  It was some time later, as I sat and watched bemused as the TV showed the celebrations as the territory was returned to Chinese rule, that I realised there was more to Hong Kong than cheap toys and dodgy fake electronics.  Arriving in Hong Kong eleven years later, I learned something else: the heat, humidity and pollution in this thriving financial centre are oppressive.

Arriving in a new town after dark can be daunting and I felt a little apprehensive when I stepped from the plane and into the bright lights of the glittering new airport.  I’d made a hotel reservation for the next five nights in Kowloon but I’d no idea how to get there; tired from two long flights, I harboured a feeling of dread.  The speed that we passed through immigration and were reunited with our bags was bewildering and, stepping from the baggage carousel, I was delighted to discover that the Airport Express station was mere metres away.   I was impressed that the train would speed us from Chek Lap Kok Island to Kowloon in just twenty minutes but was still unsure how to get to the hotel when I got there.  I shouldn’t have worried as, with typical Asian efficiency, we were ushered from the train to a line of courtesy buses which were waiting to speed us onward to our hotel.  Just an hour after stepping from the plane I was being shown to my hotel room.  As I dropped my bag on the floor and flopped onto the bed I had to concede that my earlier anxiety had been misplaced.

Twenty hours in transit is very tiring and I slept very well; only waking when the maid came to make up the room.  After two weeks in a tent (which I’d happily donated to a fellow traveller once I’d used it for the final time) it felt quite alien to have someone looking after me so I sent her away.  The area around the hotel had looked quite glamorous and exciting the previous evening - I didn’t check but I very much doubted the classy white Christmas lights on the huge tree at the front of the hotel were stamped with the words ‘Made in Hong Kong’ - so I was surprised to throw back the curtains and discover what amounted to a slum next door.   I would later discover that it was the infamous Chungking House Mansions which, although advertised as a deluxe hotel, is in fact little more than a seedy rabbit warren of illegal gambling, prostitution and drug dealing.  It fascinated me that they would choose to build luxury hotels right next to this unsanitary fire trap but it actually summed up Hong Kong perfectly: on the one hand you have the sweat shops pouring out cheap Christmas tree lights and fake designer suits whilst, on the other, you have the wealth that comes from being one of the world’s major financial centres.

Leaving the serenity of the hotel lobby was akin to stepping into Bedlam: the heat and pollution were stifling and the noise and commotion on the street was overwhelming.  There were instantly people all around pushing everything from Folex watches and cheap suits to their sister and it took a few moments to acclimatise to this assault on the senses.  Scanning the street for a way out, I spotted a 7-Eleven and hurried inside to regroup.  Armed with a can of Red Bull and a curious excuse for a sandwich, I followed the directions that I’d just been given towards the nearby Star Ferry Terminal.

Hong Kong - since the handover in 1997, a special administrative region of the People’s Republic of China - is renowned for its expansive skyline and deep natural harbour.  With a population of 7 million people crammed into such a tiny area it is one of the most densely populated areas in the world which means that not a scrap of land is wasted.  Nor, indeed, was any space aboard the twin-decked ferry; people herded into every crevice.  As we bobbed away from the overcrowded Tsim Sha Tsui ferry terminal, the iconic mountain-backed skyline of Hong Kong Island loomed into sight across Victoria Harbour.

Quickly we arrived on Pier 7 of the Hong Kong Central ferry pier and were herded back off the boat.  I made my way, passing the incongruous sight of a wedding taking place in a corner of the terminal building, through the busy streets towards Garden Road.  Consisting of Hong Kong Island, the Kowloon Peninsular, the New Territories and over 200 offshore islands I had been confused by the geography of the area so had decided the best place to start would be the top of Victoria Peak where I hoped to look down and make sense of Hong Kong.  The Peak Tram would speed me from the sea level base station in Garden Road to the 552m summit in just a few minutes and I was soon standing on the viewing terrace atop the upper station.  Victoria Peak may have become a big tourist draw but, as I stood and surveyed the spectacular sight stretching into the distance, I couldn’t help but marvel at what lay before me.

I spent some time walking through the area; admiring the impressive colonial houses - once reserved exclusively for non-Chinese whites - and enjoying the street markets surrounding the clinical wok-shaped Peak Tower before returning to tram.  Back at street level I spent a few hours walking the streets of Central before I was finally forced to retreat to the oasis of my hotel by the oppressive air pollution.  After the cool mountain air of New Zealand it was quite a shock not to be able to breathe properly and, having skipped through five time zones since I left, I thought an afternoon nap might refresh me somewhat.  I woke just as the sun was coming down and I hurried back to the embankment of Victoria Harbour where I was able to enjoy the colour and spectacle of the skyscrapers on the opposite bank lighting up.  As the sun finally dipped behind the mountains, amidst a final flourish of brilliant oranges and reds, I couldn’t help but glance back up at Victoria Peak and make a mental note to revisit and see the sunset over the city from that vantage point.  I hoped that it would be every bit as spectacular as it was from the Avenue of the Stars where I was standing.

With the addition of the New Territories following the signing of the Second Convention of Peking in 1898, overcrowded Colonial Hong Kong exploded from 30 sq miles to almost 400 overnight.  Over the course of the 99-year lease development pushed out into this new land mass but, thanks mainly to the mountainous landscape, the majority of development remained confined to the Kowloon Peninsular and Hong Kong Island.  This left much of the new land untouched and, in recent times, much has been ceded to nature reserves which now provide a welcome place for the city-dwellers to retreat and enjoy the many miles of trails.  After a day in their city I could see why hiking has become such a popular recreational activity and, in an effort to discover the real Hong Kong, I decided that I’d follow their lead.

I took the MTR out to Tung Chung where I walked the short distance to board the Ngong Ping Skyway for the 5.7km ride across Lantau Island.  The huge gondola is an engineering masterpiece and, for the duration of the 25-minute ride, afforded us spectacular views over the South China Sea, North Lantau Country Park and the surrounding terrain as it sped us to our destination: the giant Tian Tan Buddha in the village of Ngong Ping.  As we rounded the final curve on the route at Nei Lak Shan the huge statue loomed into view causing the cabin to rock violently as my fellow passengers leapt from their seats in an effort to snap photos of the 34-metre high bronze which is the largest of its kind in the world.  I made my way through the overcrowded tourist-trap of Ngong Ping and climbed the 268 steep steps to the base of the Buddha where, as I recovered from my toil, I admired the sheer size of the thing and tried to work out how it had been constructed.

Back in Hong Kong I spent the remainder of the day travelling around the city on the MTR, stopping at random stations before emerging from beneath the ground to investigate what lay on the streets above.  From huge shopping malls full of the latest high-tech electronics to tiny backstreets full of traditional restaurants; the contrast was enthralling.  I visited Golden Bauhinia Square, named after the huge golden sculpture of the Bauhinia Blakeana which lay at its heart, where the ceremonies for the handover were held before noting the sun was getting lower in the sky and hurrying back to the top of Victoria Peak.

Once I’d watched the sun setting from atop the mountain - yes, it was every bit as memorable from the up there as I had hoped - I made my way through the streets, crowded with shoppers busy buying presents on the final Sunday before Christmas, towards my hotel.  As I made my way out of the Tsim Sha Tsui Star Ferry Terminal, a poster caught my eye and I stopped to investigate: Macau was just 40-miles and a short jetfoil ride away.  On a whim I went inside and bought a return ticket for the following morning.

I knew nothing of Macau other than it is the location of the famous Guia street circuit, home of the annual Macau Grand Prix but, for me, that was reason enough to visit.  Early the next morning I made my way to the China Ferry Terminal in Canton Road; where I boarded the boat, fastened my seat belt and prepared for the bumpy ride.  I was relieved that the journey only took 50-minutes as, buffeted by the rough seas, I was starting to feel a little queasy by the time we docked in Macau.  Making my way to the street I would quickly discover that Macau was very very different to anywhere that I had ever visited before.  I made my way past the throngs of rickshaws and tuk-tuks waiting for passengers and, drawn by what I’d seen as the ferry docked, crossed the parking lot towards the large building which was, quite clearly, the race-control building.

It may be used as a bus stand for fifty-one weeks of the year but, as I stood in the middle of the legendry Macau pitlane, I felt a little shiver run down my spine.  I wished that I’d been there during race weekend four weeks earlier, but I liked what I saw and promised myself that I would return another time and that it would coincide with the race.  By the end of the day that feeling of wanting to see more had grown to encompass the entire city.  It was, I later discovered, nine years to the day since the territory had been handed back to the Chinese and you could see why the Portuguese were so reluctant to give it up.

It has been an inauspicious start as I realised there was no way to get from the ferry terminal to downtown Macau on foot but; with Macau re-inventing itself as the Asian version of Las Vegas since it, like Hong Kong, was returned to Chinese governance; I soon realised that I could take advantage of the free shuttle buses operated by the casinos to bring customers through their doors.  I never really liked Las Vegas and, unable to even step through the casino doors without shirt and tie, I positively detested the area of Macau where all the big ugly casinos were located.  As I stood looking up in horror at the vulgar Grand Lisboa Hotel & Casino, I pondered making my way back to the waterfront and taking the next ferry back to Hong Kong.  I am so relieved that I chose to ignore my initial impression and give the town a second chance as, very soon; it was as if I had stepped into not just another place but another world.  A world where time had stood still; where Hong Kong had changed completely under the British, the old-town of Macau had retained every bit of its grandeur from its colonial past as part of the Portuguese Empire.

I won’t begin to try and explain what is magical about the place; rather I will leave it to UNESCOs description when it designated the Historic Centre of Macau as a World Heritage Site: “with its historic street, residential, religious and public Portuguese and Chinese buildings, the historic centre of Macau provides a unique testimony to the meeting of aesthetic, cultural, architectural and technological influences from East and West, and bears witness to one of the earliest and longest-lasting encounters between China and the West, based on the vibrancy of international trade.”  I felt relieved that the heart of this amazing old city would remain out of reach of developers and free from the expansion of the casino area which blotted the landscape as you looked outwards from top of the Ruins of St. Paul’s: a magnificent cathedral destroyed by a fire during a typhoon in 1835.

As I wandered through the quiet back-streets it was as if I was stepping from a sleepy Mediterranean town into an old Chinese city market and back.  It was quite surreal.  And, to add to the confusion, I would soon find myself back at the Grand Lisboa where I hopped on the shuttle bus which would take me back to the ferry terminal.  Quickly I was on my way back to my hotel in Kowloon once again and I was relieved to learn that the waters of the Pearl River Delta had subdued and the ride home was far smoother than the outbound journey.

As I had started to do in New Zealand I woke the following morning with just one thought on my mind.  The only difference was the number involved: this morning that number was zero.  In just a few hours I was going home to the UK for Christmas.  Once I’d checked out of the hotel I was at a bit of a loss for what to do and wandered through the streets of Kowloon in a bit of a daze.  Eventually I would spend an hour or two walking through the peaceful grounds of the Kowloon Walled Garden (the area previously anything but peaceful as, prior to its demolition by the state in 1993, it was the site of the menacing triad-controlled Kowloon Walled City) before making my way back to the hotel to collect my bags and catch the shuttle bus back to Kowloon Station.

As soon as I arrived back at Kowloon Station I took advantage of the ‘in-town check-in’ facility and got rid of my bags.  Considerably lighter I made my way upstairs to the huge shopping mall, Elements, where I picked up some Christmas presents for my arrival back home.

Previously I’d been scheduled to depart early on Christmas Eve which would have seen me arrive back in London late that evening but I’d requested to be put on the stand-by list for a flight late this evening instead.  I hadn’t expected to be on the flight but had popped by the downtown ticketing office as I returned from the China Ferry Terminal the previous evening and was delighted to be told that I had a seat on the earlier flight.   I sat at the gate, with a big smile on my face, just staring at the sign: “2325 London-LHR: Boarding Soon” and thinking about everything that meant and about everything that had changed since I was last there.  As it changed to “2325 London-LHR: Now Boarding” I felt a rush of adrenaline rush through me and I strode onto the plane unable to contain my excitement.  Never has a twelve-hour flight been welcomed with such anticipation and I couldn’t wait to get home and surprise my family with my early arrival home.

Just a single night after returning to Sydney the unthinkable happened: it was time to leave.  And, this time, for good.  The atmosphere in the car was subdued as I was driven across town by my faithful chauffeur Dan.  It was horribly early, my head was a little cloudy from the previous evening’s exuberance and, frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for talking.  The only sound to be heard was the CD playing quietly in the background and the occasional screech of tyres as we sped through the empty streets.  As we passed the familiar landmarks of Woolloomoolloo Naval Yard and Harry’s Café de Wheels for the last time I had a lump in my throat.  “I’m gonna miss this”, I heard myself say as the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge slipped out of sight and we headed down into the Cross City Tunnel which would lead us out towards the airport.  As we entered the darkness of the tunnel the reality of the situation became clear: three months after I arrived, my time in Australia was over.  The CD changed to the next track: Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.  Fitting.

Seven hours later, having endured a lengthy delay at Sydney Airport, I found myself with two new stamps in my passport: an Aussie exit stamp - which I could barely bring myself to look at - and a New Zealand entry stamp which left me feeling somewhat perkier.  Who could feel bad about anything in life when they had just arrived to start a new adventure in The Land of the Long White Cloud?  It offers some of the most spectacular landscape to be found anywhere on the planet and, largely thanks to the exposure from the Lord of the Rings movies, continues to explode onto the world scene as a ‘must visit’ destination for the more adventurous traveller.  The line for immigration had been proof positive that this tiny country, thousands of miles from anywhere in the middle of the Pacific, was bucking the recent trend of falling visitor numbers.  Anywhere that can do that in the midst of the current world economy must have something going for it and I really couldn’t wait to get out and see it for myself.

My passage through the airport wasn’t as swift as I would have liked thanks to the stringent controls put in place by the snappily-titled ‘MAF Biosecurity New Zealand.’  The authorities - as they will be known from here on in an effort to retain some degree of sanity - took a particular interest in my hiking boots and camping gear and spent almost an hour going through my luggage and checking that I wasn’t bringing any unwanted friends with me.  Initially it seemed a little excessive but after the agent explained the increasing threat posed to the extraordinarily diverse ecosystem - of which 80% of the flora and fauna are endemic - it seemed only fair.  New Zealand has seen high rates of extinction as a result of inadvertently introduced pests and I am delighted that they are taking steps to preserve what they have left of the islands for the benefit of future generations.  And, besides, they took my tent away and gave it a good scrub up - I hadn’t seen it that clean since it came out of its bag for the first time - and, for that, I can forgive any delay!

My initial impression of New Zealand was of how friendly the local people were.  I had looked at Australia as an amazingly friendly place but my first days in New Zealand suggested that the Kiwis were quite possibly - unbelievably - even friendlier.  The girl who picked me up from the airport and took me to the car rental office was my best friend by the time that I’d wheelspinned off the forecourt… I hadn’t driven a manual car since I backed my car into the garage back in April, after all!  Neither had I driven without the aid of my satnav so making my way through the Christchurch rush hour - with map in hand and three pedals for my feet to play with - certainly proved a challenge.  Soon enough though I found my hotel and set off on foot to have a look around the cold and windy town of Christchurch.

I’d been told that Christchurch was particularly ‘English’ so I’d looked forward to seeing it for myself.  Sure enough it had an English feel but I put that down to all the streets being named after English towns.  There was no graffiti, vandalised phone boxes or drunk teenagers hanging around drinking Scrumpy Jack on street corners so it wasn’t that English.  Either way, whilst I’m not a massive city person, I liked Christchurch though that may have been because it didn’t feel like a city at all - it really was just a large town.

After a good night’s sleep I headed for the Banks Peninsular which - an hour or so south of Christchurch - was formed by two gigantic volcanic eruptions.  I was soon clearing the outskirts of the city and was, very quickly, out into an area of outstanding rolling green hills which reminded me of home.  Perhaps that is what they meant when they said that Christchurch was very English?  Once I was off the main highway and onto the absurdly beautiful Summit Drive there was no question that I was in New Zealand: nowhere in the UK is that visually stunning.  The Summit Drive actually followed the edge of the original crater and I couldn’t resist exploring a number of side roads - the highlight was a hair-raising 12km gravel cliff-top road leading to Menzies Bay- but eventually I found myself at my destination: Akaroa.

James Cook sighted the peninsular in 1770 and, thinking it was an island, named it after the naturalist Sir Joseph Banks but it was the French who first claimed the peninsular as their own.  Whaling captain, Jean Langlois, successfully negotiated to buy it from the local Maori in 1838 before returning home to raise funds to settle the area.   He eventually returned two years later with 63 settlers but, unfortunately for him, was pipped to the post when, having signed the Treaty of Waitangi six-months previously, British officials got wind of the approaching ship and despatched HMS Britomart from the Bay of Islands to raise the Union Flag at Greens Point.  Considering they had sailed, quite literally, halfway around the world to get there, the French accepted their fate in good spirits.  Their land claim was later sold to the British in 1850 but a lot of French descendants remained resulting in a rivalry which continues to this day.  Now, let me say now; if Christchurch is supposed to be an English town then there is no getting away from the fact that Akaroa - with its pavement cafes and Tricolours’ fluttering in the sea breeze - was truly a little piece of France transported to the South Pacific.  I loved it!

It had now been a full day since I had said my goodbyes to Sydney but I hadn’t seen the last of Dan.  A text message announced his arrival on the South Island and I set off back toward downtown Christchurch to meet up with him.  He was in town for a couple of days for work and had, rather kindly, agreed to let me to share his hotel room for the night.  When I finally tracked down his hotel I was delighted to discover that they had upgraded him to a suite and I had been promoted from the floor to a second bedroom.  Luxury and free: that’s my idea of a good deal!

Once settled in to our new home for the night, we decided to head out towards the nearby port town of Lyttleton to put his rental car through its paces.  There were two routes between the towns: a 1.9km long tunnel under the mountain and a far longer road that snaked its way spectacularly over the top.  Naturally we opted for the latter and were rewarded with the stunning vista of Lyttleton Harbour - a flooded volcanic crater - to our right and the city of Christchurch - with the backdrop of the Southern Alps beyond - to our left.  After a near-miss, having hit some loose gravel midway through a bend, we decided that it was time to head back to the safety of the city and made it back just in time to meet his work colleague for a meal and a few beers in town.

The following morning it was finally time to say goodbye to Dan when he headed north for work and I headed south to start my exploration of the fabled South Island.  Up until now I’d heard the odd whisper of the unfolding economic doom and gloom at home but had largely been able to ignore it as something that I could worry about in the future.  Now, as I set off on the last big adventure of my trip, the reality was starting to dawn on me: inside a month I would be back home and the idea of being unable to find work was starting to pray on my mind.  Over time I had come to realise that there is one sure way to get something out of my head and that is to get in a car and drive it as quickly as it will go so.  Inspired by our little run out the previous evening I headed back to the road that led over the mountains to Lyttleton and proceeded to give the car a thoroughly good thrashing.  After so long in American cars it felt good to get back behind the wheel of a car that handled something like a car is supposed to handle and I was soon starting to relax.

The previous day I’d taken myself along to the local the i-Site (the excellent chain of visitor information centres operated by the NZ government) located in the shadows of Christchurch’s cathedral to discuss the options for my stay in the country.  It had been apparent from quite early on in our chat that I hadn’t allowed enough time to do the place any justice in my exploration and, having slept on it, I had now decided to make a few changes to the final weeks of my trip.  Initially I had allowed 18 days in NZ followed by stops in Hong Kong, Dubai and Cairo on my way back home for Christmas.  Those final three stops were proving to be as troublesome to organise from the road as they were expensive so it made sense to can them and use the extra time to explore NZ before taking a flight from Auckland to Hong Kong and then another directly back to London.  Whilst booking my original flight ticket, my travel agent had advised that any changes would be easy and, if I wanted to make a change, would entail a quick phone call to get me ticketed on another flight.  When I finally found a pay phone which would accept coins it soon became apparent that it would not be so easy. 

I’d been advised by said travel agent to speak to Cathay Pacific in Auckland but they insisted that I needed to speak to BA in London as it was a BA-issued ticket.  BA in turn insisted that any amendments would need to be done by Qantas as their local agent.  Although they knew there was a Qantas office in Christchurch they didn’t know the address so, thinking on my feet, I found a local travel agent who furnished me not only with the address of the local Qantas office but also with directions.  I made my way to where the office was supposed to be but, after 30 minutes of stomping up and down the street, I made enquires with another travel agent to discover that the office which I was looking for had closed six months previously.  She gave me the direct number for Qantas and pointed me in the direction of another payphone.   The only problem was that this office was in Perth - an eight-hour flight away on the other side of Australia - and they insisted that I returned the tickets in person for re-issue.  

This farce would continue for more than a week before my travel agent back in London - the fantastic Katherine of Travelmood - kindly stepped in; banged some heads together and arranged for me to exchange my tickets for new ones at Auckland Airport.  The new plan was to stay in NZ for 25 days before flying to Hong Kong where I would stay for four nights and then fly back to London on Christmas Eve.

Frustrated by the dramas involved in something seemingly so simple I left town and headed south. I made it as far as the seaside town of Timaru before feeling the urge to stop and, spying a nice hotel, checked myself in for the night.  The view from the balcony was great and the en-suite Jacuzzi went some way to calming down my blood pressure but I was well aware that I couldn’t afford to go on sleeping in hotels and decided that it was time to start camping once again.

  

Cutting back inland towards Mount Cook National Park I was instantly hit by the unprecedented scale of New Zealand’s beauty and couldn’t help myself.  Every few kilometres I found myself stopping to take photos and to breathe in the crisp fresh air.   The highlight of the drive was most definitely in the Lake Tekapo area where fields of colourful Lupins combined with the impossibly aqua blue waters of the lake and the mountains on the horizon to paint a picture which, if it had been committed to canvas, would have seemed almost too perfect.  This one image alone was worth the cost of a flight and, as I sat on the bench alongside the Church of the Good Shepherd on the banks of the lake, I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I tried to make sense of it all.  I may have been counting down the days til I headed home, but scenes like this had to be savoured. 

 

Refreshed and inspired, it was back into the car and onwards towards Mount Cook.  Many breathtaking kilometres later I finally arrived and, well, what can I say?   Somehow, despite the magnificence of the drive inland, New Zealand’s highest mountain managed to eclipse everything that had gone before.   In something of a daze I made a quick stop at the visitor centre before heading to the campground to pitch my tent for the night.   The high snow covered mountains looming imposingly over the campground may have starved it of sun, the showers may have been out of service and the ground may have been - thanks to the debris left by receding glaciers -impossible to bang tent pegs into; but it was up there with the most scenic campgrounds to be found anywhere.   It also had the added benefit of a cosy bar and restaurant - complete with internet access - a short walk away.  I found that most agreeable.

Despite all the luxuries and easy day hikes, Mount Cook is a primarily a place for serious endeavours: something rammed home to me as I set off on a four hour hike (or tramp, as they seem to be referred to down here) along the Hooker Valley.  Off to the left of the trail I saw something which had a strange draw: the Alpine Memorial.  I couldn’t help but stand and read all the memorials to the fallen climbers - I found it strangely fascinating.  I couldn’t explain why I felt this way but, as I would later discover, two climbers were at that very moment starting their ascent of Mount Cook and, days later, having been stranded on the mountain for days in terrible weather, just one of them would return.  A week later another rescue mission was launched and another climber was dead.

My hike proved rewarding but, as I made my way back to the trailhead, I was looking forward to getting back to my tent for a rest.   Unfortunately, as well as blocking out the sunlight, the high mountains had funnelled a storm straight through the campground and I returned to find that, much to the amusement of my neighbours, my tent had all but blown away.  It took me some time to rebuild it - collecting a number of heavy rocks from the vicinity in an effort to increase the effectiveness of the guy ropes - but ultimately I would be wasting my time as I was woken numerous times in the night with the tent blown flat against my face.  I would have relocated to the car but I was afraid that the tent would blow away without me in it.

It certainly was a slow burner to start off but, once lit, my love for the scenery of New Zealand burnt with an intense flame.   Somehow though it still didn’t burn quite as brightly as my love for Alaska; I am not sure why but I think it has something to do with the ‘adventure’ of Alaska.  NZ is just too accessible.   And Alaska had the midnight sun.  And wildlife.  Yes, that’s what was missing; where are the bears, wolves, crocodiles, snakes and deadly spiders to keep you awake at night?  The only thing that’s likely to kill you in NZ is the mass of ridiculous extreme sports. I mentioned this thought casually to a fellow camper as I surveyed the wreckage of my tent the following morning.  “I hear where you’re coming from but, well, have you seen any penguins on your travels yet?”, before expanding, “You must visit the Otago Peninsula”, giving me a knowing nod and heading back to his own tent.  I had never heard of the Otago Peninsula but a quick check of my Lonely Planet confirmed that it was a short drive from my next destination - Dunedin - and, sure enough, was famous for its penguins.    I am there!

 

Mention Tasmania and a million different images - some good, some not so good - will fill your mind so I was excited to finally be boarding a plane in my quest to find out what the real Tasmania was and whether it bore any resemblance to those images.  I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect of a place with such contrasting history but, as I glanced out of the window as we started our approach to Hobart Airport, I was starting to wonder if we ourselves would become part of history.  That runway looked mighty short for such a large plane and, well, I couldn’t help but notice there was a lake at one end and the Tasman Sea at the other…

As you’re reading this after the event you will, no doubt, have guessed that we made it back down to earth safe and sound (albeit with an almighty thud).  After an interminable delay at the baggage carousel I picked up my rental car and headed off to find somewhere to camp for the night.  Virgin Blue’s tiny baggage allowance meant that I had travelled light and, before I could start thinking of a place to stay, I faced a race against time to buy the camping gear that I needed before the shops closed for the evening.  Yes, that’s right; unlike most of the mainland, the shops in Tassie actually close up at 6pm. 

Freshly armed with food, an esky to put it in and a mat to sleep on, I made my way to the campground on Seven Mile Beach where I enjoyed a breathtaking sunset.  Back at my tent I sat down to ponder Tasmania.  Since the start of my trip in May I had enjoyed the luxury of (and, on occasion, endured the restrictions of) a daily schedule - or, at the very least, some idea of which route I was to follow - it was something that I had worked out between booking my trip and actually setting off.  Unfortunately I had run out of time and figured I’d work it out later but, of course, that never happened and I had arrived in Tassie with absolutely no clue what to do, or where to go, next. 

I sat there for a while flicking from my guide book to my map and back again before, like an angel, the owner of the campground popped by on her daily rounds to say hello to new guests and ask if there was anything she could do to help.  “As a matter of fact… yes!”  A full hour later I waved my lovely host goodbye and opened a bottle of Coopers.  I, somewhat belatedly, had a plan.   The first stop would be the nearby Port Arthur Historic Site on the Tasman Peninsula (named - like the entire state - after the Dutch explorer, Abel Tasman.)  I would then do an about turn and head back, passing through Hobart, and start what roughly equated to a very large figure-of-eight.  I had just over a week to explore and, already, I was beginning to realise that I needed far longer.  

Next morning, having been kept awake much of the night by a Tasmanian Devil in the undergrowth behind my tent, I headed off on the first leg of my latest journey: my drive out to Port Arthur.   On my way I stopped off to visit the Tessellated Pavement before crossing over the narrow isthmus of Eaglehawk Neck onto the Tasman Peninsula and very soon spotted the sign announcing my arrival at Port Arthur.  My Lonely Planet had warned me that I would find a sombre, haunting atmosphere waiting for me but I didn’t really pay it much attention until I turned in to the car park when a cold shiver suddenly shot down up spine.  I can’t explain it but there was a strong sense of foreboding hanging over the place.

I presumed that the menacing feeling was due to its history as Australia’s largest penal station and as I wandered through the interpretive centre - reading stories of the shocking history of transportation and the harsh conditions that awaited the convicts - that feeling was firmly reinforced.  With the tragic stories of men shipped to the other side of the world for crimes as serious as stealing a loaf of bread fresh in my mind I headed down the stairs and outside.  Awaiting me were the derelict ruins of a small hamlet, set against a backdrop of stark beauty, with a very dark past.

 

 

I wandered around taking dozens of photos until I found myself in the waterfront area just after lunch.  It was then that I saw something that looked so incongruous that I was compelled to go and investigate.  Behind the remains of a small building was a large pool and a simple memorial listing 35 names and the date 28^th April 1996.  It made little sense - at least to someone from the other side of the world who knew little of the history - but I discovered a small information board titled ‘what happened here?’ which outlined the basics.  I was stunned and, as I stood there trying to take in the horrors of what had happened there, it became very clear why I’d been feeling so uneasy about the place since the moment I arrived.   I wanted to ask more but it didn’t feel right so I searched online later and discovered that a deranged gunman - having already killed two people at a nearby property - made his way to the site, calmly parked his car, and went on the rampage.  In an attack which mirrored the one in Dunblane the previous month he murdered a total of 35 people and injured a further 37.   It remains Australia’s deadliest mass killing spree and casts a dark shadow over an area with an already dubious history.  

It was quite shocking to realise that, not only was I stood on the very site of this horrific crime, but it was a crime of which I had never heard.  But then that sums up Tasmania.  If Australia is on the other side of the world then Tasmania may as well be on another Planet.  Indeed that is largely the attitude of those in Australia itself so what chance was there that we’d have received word back in Europe.   If it seemed remote in these days of 24 hour news TV, email and mobile telephones then you just cannot do justice to the idea of spending months on board a disease-ridden ship to reach a destination from which you would never return.  All for stealing a loaf of bread to feed your hungry family.  The injustice of transportation suddenly hit home even harder.  Shortly after I decided that I’d seen enough and left.  As I pulled out of the car park my mood lightened and, quite literally, the sun came out.  I found the whole place most depressing and even now, a week later, the atmosphere makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. 

As I headed back towards Hobart I broke my journey by visiting the coastal spectacle of the wonderful Tasman National Park where the high sea cliffs and rock formations finally added something positive to my frame of mind.  Soon though I had to head off as, worried that a ranger might arrive to check the car park for vehicles not displaying a valid pass, I was unable to leave my car for more than a few minutes at a time.  I had passes for the national parks of Queensland, Victoria and New South Wales but, in Tasmania, you can only buy a pass at an office in the centre of Hobart or from a small number of the parks of which Tasman wasn’t one.  How clever is that?

I had intended to spend the evening in Hobart but, when I drove into town, I couldn’t face it.  I am not known for my love of cities and, with my mind heavy from my experiences earlier in the day, I decided that I wanted some peace and quiet to contemplate things and so I found myself heading for the campground in Mount Field National Park instead.   Once I’d set up camp I set off up the steep unpaved road to the top of the mountain.  The car really wasn’t the tool for the job but it bumped and rattled its way right to the top and, more importantly, back down again without breaking itself.  There wasn’t a whole lot to see up there so I soon returned to the campground and went in search of an evening hike.  I am pleased to say Mount Field offered a number of excellent short hikes and I spent the final couple of hours daylight checking out a number of majestic waterfalls.  

 

The following morning I did a couple more hikes and then hopped back in the car and headed off towards the Southwest National Park.  The 6,052 square Kilometres of pristine wilderness manages to rival Alaska in terms of stunning scenic beauty but there is one ugly scar: the abomination that is the Gordon Power Scheme.   The controversial 1970s scheme comprises a hydro-electric power station and a huge ugly canal linking the two huge artificial lakes of Lake Pedder and Lake Gordon which were created by the construction of a number of dams.  There was a huge public outcry when the scheme was unveiled in 1967 but, although the Commonwealth Government offered to fund a less damaging alternative, the Tasmanian Government pressed on regardless; unbelievably removing the protected status and disbanding Lake Pedder National Park.  This led to the creation of the modern-day green movement and the formation of the world’s first Green Party in 1972 and the party today continues to lobby for the draining of the lakes and reinstatement of the natural environment.

 

There is just one road leading into the depths of the park - built by the construction crews building the dams - with the rest accessible only on foot, by boat or by float plane.  With just half a day to get a feel for the place I obviously didn’t have time to be adventurous and decided to head just an hour or two along the road and see what I found.  The roadside scenery was astonishing and I couldn’t quite bring myself to turn the car around so decided to press on down the lonely highway right the way to the Gordon River Dam at the end of the road.    

The impact that the dams have had on the landscape became shockingly apparent as I passed the tiny hamlet of Strathgordon - the town which sprung up to house the construction crews - and reached the shores of Lake Gordon.  The water is far lower than it used to be (some reports suggest a difference of 20m) and this revealed a desolate landscape of thousands of dead and twisted trees which had quite literally drowned as the waters rose.  Everything was covered in a thick layer of silt and it was quite apparent that the suggestion of draining the water and returning the area to its former glory would have to be a very long term project indeed.  Gordon Dam itself was an impressive construction and one, if it hadn’t been for the damage that its construction had caused, that could be looked upon with pride by the people of Tasmania as it provides around 40% of the states energy requirements.  After a slightly nerve wracking descent along a rickety skeletal walkway to the top of the 140m high structure I decided that I’d seen enough.

Every time that I start to feel a connection with Tasmania something pops up which leaves a sour taste in the mouth.  First it was the horrors of Port Arthur, then the damage caused (to both nature and trust in the political process) by the construction of the Gordon Dam and then, as I made my way back towards the main highway, I stopped at a lonely tent camp whose inhabitants were protesting the imminent logging of a magnificent old growth forest in the name of wood chips.  Yes, that’s right; wood chips.   Tasmania has a legacy of destroying its old growth forests to supply a seemingly insatiable desire for wood chips and the fact that these trees were in the middle of a national park, like the Gordon Power Scheme before it, wasn’t seen as a problem.  It made me feel quite sick.

I was just telling myself that I had to ignore these things if I was going to enjoy my last days in Australia when, as I approached the Lake St Clair entrance for the Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park, the driver of the car in front of me, spotting a Tasmanian Devil crossing the road, swerved towards it, tossing the defenceless critter two metres in the air as he hit it.  I stopped and took the animal to the park ranger’s house in the park but it was obvious that he was dead on arrival.  Very sad and unnecessary - I wish that I’d got the licence plate number as he sped off. 

In an attempt to cheer myself up I headed out to do a hike as the sun set and ended up doing three!  It was very therapeutic and managed to take my mind off all the negativity for a couple of hours.  I didn’t sleep well and was awake early the next morning.  I hadn’t planned to do any more hiking but, when I called at the visitor centre, the ranger that I had met the previous evening talked me into a 15km hike.  There wasn’t much of a reward at the end but the walk itself was a bit of a workout and, having been a couple of weeks since I had any real exercise, it felt good to be physically tired again.  It is not so long before I will be back in England again and I really hope that I get a job that leaves me physically rather than mentally tired at the end of the day - there’ll be no sleepless nights then!

 

The drive to the northern section of the park - the famed and much photographed Cradle Mountain - took me out through the spectacular mountain scenery of Franklin Gordon Wild Rivers National Park and along some challenging driving roads which saw the contents of the back seat being thrown from left to right and back again.  It was fun whilst it lasted but soon I was arriving in the small town of Queenstown.  And then, predictably, Tasmania let itself down once again as I rounded a corner and the town came into sight, along with the huge open cast mine which had, quite literally, removed two huge mountains from the landscape and replaced them with something akin to the surface of the moon.

Thankfully the area between Queenstown and Cradle Mountain was largely untouched (save a small dam or two) and, had it not been for the intense rain (oh, yes, I haven’t mentioned the depressing Tasmanian weather at this time of the year, have I?), I would have got some awesome photos.  By the time I reached the northern section of the snappily titled Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park the weather had cleared and, inspired by the return of the sunshine, I took the long drive out to Lake Dove.  After the obligatory photos I set off on a hike but, shortly after signing the walker registration book, the weather turned foul again and I gave up on the idea and headed back to the campground instead.

 

Having paid for a campground I didn’t expect to be sleeping in the car but, having abandoned my flooded tent in a huge downpour just after midnight, that is exactly where I spent the rest of the night.  I wasn’t in the mood to undertake a 2 hour hike in the pouring rain the next morning so took the opportunity to try and make up some of the time I had fallen behind.  I headed north to Wynard and stopped in the local visitor centre where I was told that the weather was set for the next three or four days.  Whilst I was pleased that they were finally getting the rain that they’d been so desperate for, it was definitely bad news for me.  In a bad frame of mind I headed west to the Rocky Cape National Park where, thanks to the low thick cloud, I could see precisely nothing and I decided instead to make a detour to the Narawntapu National Park.  The only good thing about this sixty kilometre detour was the fun I had along the slick access road where I amused myself with the goal of getting mud on the roof of the car as I drove.  Oh, and the rain miraculously stopped.

 

Somewhat adventurously I decided I had plenty of time to press on and make it all the way out to Coles Bay in Freycinet National Park.  Reality suggests that this was far further than any sane person would drive in a single day but, after the disappointing and frustrating day I had endured, I was fired up (and the two cans of Red Bull helped too).  I arrived shortly before sunset and, initially, it looked like my depressing day would continue when I found there was no room on the campground.  Not quite sure what to do other than backtrack 40km to the small town of Biceno I followed a sign towards the charmingly named Friendly Beaches where, after sitting on the rocky beach watching the sun come down, I decided I would spend the night there.  Two nights in the car is not usually my idea of a good time but a more beautiful or secluded place you could not hope to find.  It was majestic.

 

The following day was a revelation - I woke from a comfortable nights sleep to be greeted with a sight that I’d not seen for a while: the sun was out!   Things got better when I stopped in a bakery for breakfast and unexpectedly found myself reconnected to the outside world (at the cost of $5) when I discovered they had an internet kiosk.   But I hadn’t come to Freycinet to use the internet - I had come to hike the renowned Wineglass Bay Trail and I hurriedly replied to a couple of emails and set off.  The stories of a seriously tough-going trail were a little wide of the mark and, although it offered a thorough work-out, it was something that everyone who visits should at least attempt.  The trail offered some fantastic scenery which couldn’t fail to lift even the most deflated spirit whilst the reward at the end was utterly breathtaking and worth any hardship in getting there.  I would have to say that it was in the top five of my favourite destinations in the whole of my trip.

 

The drive up the coast on the Tasman Highway was enjoyable and the opportunity to stop in the small towns along the way proved fun.  Realising that I was now back on schedule I decided to end the day early by checking myself into a cabin overlooking George’s Bay outside the small town of St Helens.  After two days sleeping in my car this was unheard of luxury and, after a hot shower, I moved the TV outside and sat for some time in the sun watching New Zealand giving Australia a pasting in the cricket.  Could life get any better?  Well, yes, it could.  Whilst I would normally be somewhat irritated by the trading of the sun for heavy rain clouds I will forgive the weather gods this time as I decided to head out to give up on the cricket and explore the nearby Bay of Fires instead.   The decision proved to be inspired as the area was deserted and I was able to enjoy the spectacle of the large electrical storm on my own.  When the lightening moved off I sat on the white sand beach and watched as huge rainbows appeared in the sky before returning to my cabin to down a couple of Jim Beam and Cokes.   A perfect end to a perfect day.

  

After another night of poor sleep - this time it was the incessant pounding of the night-long torrential downpour on the tin roof of the cabin - I headed off, as planned, towards the Mount William National Park.  As I headed through the town of St Helens I stopped at the visitor centre to seek advice on the route I was planning to take and was advised that it would be fine despite the continuing torrential rain outside.  Initially the road was fine but, around halfway down the seventy kilometres of unpaved road leading to the park, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the guy at the visitor centre was either insane or having a laugh at my expense.  It is fair to say that I do enjoy a bit of a lark behind the wheel but, as the rain continued and the car started sliding left and right on the ice-like surface, my mind started to race with how I could explain to the rental car company how I came to be parked backwards in the scenery.  When I started having to ford raging torrents of water as they flowed over the top of bridges I decided that I needed to get the hell out of the park - quickly - with big 4wds sliding around as they headed towards me it was obvious that it wasn’t the place to be in a lightweight fwd saloon.

Somehow I made it off of the forest roads in one piece and when I reached the town of Scottsdale and rejoined the tarmac I celebrated my survival by stopping for lunch at a local bakery.  When they asked where I had come from and I told them about my route through the National Park they shook their head and refused to believe that I had made it through in a front wheel drive car until I pointed to the mud covered car outside.  Then they just shook their head some more.  I couldn’t disagree with them - it had been sheer lunacy.

The road from Scottsdale to Launceston was fantastic fun and I wished that I’d been driving a Lotus rather than my dreadful rental car but Launceston itself, I was sad to discover, was a bit of a dive.  There was nothing much of any interest there and I would have pressed on towards Hobart had it not been for the fact that I would be visiting the nearby Symmons Plains Raceway the following morning.  I checked myself in to a cheap caravan site on the outskirts of town - the caravan being a far cry from the luxury cabin of the previous evening - and, having explored the local area on foot, settled in to watch the TV until it was time to sleep. 

It was then that I experienced something that I never expected to experience: I found myself looking forward to going home.  The more I thought about it the more it made sense.  I had been away from home for a long time and, although I had loved (almost) every minute of it, I was growing tired of being constantly on the move and having to find a place to stay every night.  I wanted normality.  Maybe that was why I’d been so down on Tasmania until that point?  I decided to try and find a new outlook on things the next morning but, when I woke, the first thing I thought was ‘oooh, one month today and I’ll be on that plane home.’  It wasn’t a good start!

  

The raceday was enjoyable and the local people, as I had found everywhere, were welcoming and friendly.  I thoroughly enjoyed my day there and was starting to think that I was over my enthusiasm for home before I made my way to my pre-booked accommodation in Richmond but, having arrived to discover it was a self-contained apartment with all the conveniences of home, well, you can imagine..!

  

My final day in Tasmania was largely uneventful with a lie-in followed by a slow drive back to Hobart.  I crossed the Derwent River over the impressive Tasman Bridge which, on the night of 5^th January 1975, had been the scene of yet another Tasmanian Disaster.  The bulk carrier Lake Illawarra collided with the bridge, bringing down two piers and 127m of roadway: killing 12 people and cutting the city in two.   30% of the population lived on the Eastern Shores but relied on the bridge to get to the schools, hospitals, cinemas, restaurants and employment which lay, almost exclusively, on the other side of the river: without the bridge they were completely isolated.  Ferries were hurriedly bought to the area and pressed into service but, for the two years that the bridge was being rebuilt, this meant a 90-minute increase in journey time from one side of the city to the other.   Resentment on the Eastern Shores grew and an ‘us and them’ mentality developed which, sadly, endures to varying degrees to this day.

My final stop before I headed back to the airport for my flight back to Sydney was the impressive Mount Wellington which looms over the Central Business District.  Known previously as Table Mountain (due to it’s similarity in appearance to Table Mountain in Cape Town), Mount Wellington plays a significant part in determining Hobart’s weather and enjoys a weather system all of it’s own at its summit.  I have never experienced anything quite as changeable as the weather up there - something I thought a fitting metaphor for my experience of Tasmania as a whole.

Tasmania has long been the butt of jokes from those on the mainland as a result of its isolation and its convict history but, with typical ‘Tassie’ resilience, they have turned it on its head and built a huge tourism industry.   It is an island that has it all: vast, uninhabited areas of wilderness, bountiful wildlife and the laid-back charm of the locals.  With the fight against the Lake Pedder hydroelectric scheme it was also the birthplace of Green Politics so it only natural that it should be so revered by those who enjoy the outdoors.

Of course that is all tempered with a grim history: the arrival of the Europeans in the early 1800s saw savage wars rage between the Aborigines and the British.  In 1828 martial law was declared and Aboriginal tribes were systematically murdered, incarcerated or ejected from the island by white settlers.  Others died of unheard of diseases carried by the European colonists and, by 1872; the entire Tasmanian Aboriginal community had been displaced or destroyed.  If that wasn’t shocking enough in itself, then there is the small matter of convict transportation.  In the 1850s every second islander was a convict and both Hobart and Launceston festered with disease, prostitution and drunken lawlessness.

Tasmania has everything going for it but, for some reason, I just couldn’t fall in love with the place.  In the end I wasn’t overly sad to be leaving Tasmania and heading off on the next leg of my adventure.   For an island with so much natural beauty it was hard to see the scars that we have inflicted on it over the years.  But that boils down to its seemingly infinite supply of natural resources which have been ravaged in the name of logging, mining and general profit making.  In a lot of ways Tasmania reminded me of Alaska but I desperately hope that the Americans learn from the mistakes that have been made in Tasmania. 

Don’t get me wrong… Tasmania has a huge amount going for it in every regard but I just couldn’t see beyond the abomination that was Lake Pedder and the shameful mining legacy of Queenstown.  Thankfully some lessons are being slowly learned and over 1.4 million hectares of Tasmania (something like 20% of its land area) has now been designated as national parks.  I find it incredibly sad that this is the only way to keep our greed under control.

Having a car was great but the city of Sydney - particularly the area around Potts Point and Kings Cross where I was staying - is decidedly unfriendly to the motorist and, unless you want to spend big bucks to park in the private car park, you have no choice but to take your chances with the on-street parking lottery.  This usually involves driving round and round in circles in the vain hope of finding a vacant space where you can park for a couple of hours before having to return to move it to a different zone.  The process is time consuming, frustrating and, if you are hoping to spend your day exploring the city, a royal pain in the arse.  I decided that, to save stress, the best thing would be to return the car early or make use of it by heading out of the city for the day so, early on a cold Tuesday morning; I set off across town to visit the nearby Royal National Park.  Established in 1879, Royal National Park was Australia’s - indeed the world’s (Yellowstone was originally a described as Yellowstone Recreation Area) - very first National Park and I figured it had to be worth the trip.

It may have been a cold and dark morning - very English, I thought - but I had convinced myself that the weather gods were gonna smile on me.  As I emerged from the visitor centre, clutching my day permit, I realised they weren’t smiling on me but having a laugh at my expense: by adding strong wind and heavy rain to the equation.  Much to my annoyance it simply wasn’t the weather that I had been banking on so I settled for exploring the park from the questionable comfort of my car.  Whilst the secluded beaches, lush rainforest and waterfalls were undoubtedly a pretty and interesting place to spend a day I couldn’t enjoy it in its weather-challenged state and I eventually gave up and continued south along the Lawrence Hargrave Drive to visit the dramatic Sea Cliff Bridge. 

 

In August 2005 the existing road from Coalcliff to Clifton - part of the famed Grand Pacific Drive - was lost to the sea due to a huge embankment slip. It was a regular occurrence and they NSW Government had decided enough was enough and had closed the road indefinitely causing a fierce public outcry.  They would eventually back down and invited tenders for a replacement.  Just two years later the Sea Cliff Bridge was completed and, to much acclaim within the community, the Great Pacific Drive was once again complete.  It was an amazing feat to design, finance and construct a project of that scale in that timescale - a process that, anywhere else in the world, would surely drag on for many years. 

I had first seen the bridge on that classic Shell advert - the one where they race various Ferrari F1 cars through, around and past some of the world’s most recognisable cities and landmarks - and I had been keen to visit and see this striking example of spectacular form meeting everyday function ever since.

The weather was still antisocial when I reached the bridge but the sight presented as you approach - much like the Millau Bridge in France - somehow manages to lift your spirit and take your breath away.  I couldn’t help but park my car and walk its length in an effort to get my head around its scale and to appreciate its beauty.  Part-way across I met a couple from Tokyo who were also braving the elements.  They had also seen that commercial and had decided that it might be nice to travel to each location and grab a photo of them standing there holding a large photo grab from the commercial.  I wish I had their time and money and, even though they seemed excited enough to be there, I really wish that they’d had better weather for their photo. 

I headed back to Sydney with no choice but to play the parking lottery game and was lucky to only have to move the car twice before the restrictions ended in the daily 10pm free-for-all.  Later that evening Dan suggested that we head out for a few hours and we ended up visiting the Sydney Olympic Park on the outskirts of town.  I have been lucky enough to have visited various other Olympic sites on my travels (including Montreal and Atlanta as well as the Winter Olympic sites at Lillehammer and Vancouver) but Sydney was in a league of its own.  The entire site was very impressive and it had clearly been a lovingly maintained facility since the Olympians packed their bags and left town after one of the most successful games of all time.  Given the propensity for each host city to try and outdo the last (Beijing was said to have offered facilities which were superior even to Sydney) I look forward to seeing what London can offer in 2012.  I suspect that, once again, we’ll see low goals set and have to sit and watch as we fail in our efforts to meet even them.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Wembley Stadium, the Millennium Dome, the… oh, you get the idea.

Early the next morning saw me taking another cross-city dash as I headed off to the airport for my flight to Ayers Rock where I would join a three-day tour of Uluru, Kata Tjuta (The Olgas) and Watarrka (Kings Canyon).  Ayers Rock Airport is, like Gustavus in Alaska, one of those small airports where every landing turns into an emergency landing.  Given the recent regularity at which Qantas has tried to kill it’s passengers it was surprising that there was no real panic as we slammed into the tarmac and screeched to a rather exciting halt. Just three hours after leaving the cold and rain of Sydney I stepped out of the cabin and into 36 degrees of blistering heat.  I could have kissed the tarmac!

We were ushered onto buses and ferried the short distance to our various hotels in the nearby Yulara Resort.  I was staying in the Outback Pioneer Hotel which was very nice indeed but, given the cost of the tour that I’d signed up for, I would have expected no less.  I figured that, having slummed it at Bathurst, I deserved a little bit of luxury and, much as it went against the grain, I decided to splash a little cash.  Sometimes in this life you get what you pay for and this was definitely one of those times.  Despite the cost the entire tour was excellent and, after previous experiences, it was a real treat to be on a bus that didn’t rain inside, which was immaculately maintained and driven by a competent driver who offered interesting and informative commentary whilst delivering us to some glorious locations.  It was also a treat to spend each evening in quality accommodations rather than sleeping in the open in a swag. 

Having had time to check in and grab lunch - a kangaroo wrap washed down with a pint of Guinness - the tour commenced with a drive out to Kata Tjuta.  We stopped for photos at alookout before heading the short distance to Walpa Gorge.  I had expected that the average age of passengers travelling with APT to be significantly higher than those who would travel with a company such as Western Xposure and had been concerned that the whole thing may be slowed down by a bunch of old women with pacemakers.  Our next stop dispelled that preconception and, although the spread of ages and fitness levels was greater than I was used to, the level of personal determination was far higher.  Everyone made it to the end of the Olga Gorge hike relatively quickly and without any heart attacks: a successful afternoon all-round then. 

  

By the time that we headed to Uluru to watch the sunset the group had already started to gel but it really took off when, with typical APT style, the spectacular sunset was marked with a huge table full of snacks, nibbles and some very nice wine.  It was very civilised indeed and pretty surreal to be standing in such beautiful surroundings, drinking wine and making new friends.  I could get used to that life.  There was certainly something to be said for spending that little extra money and, whilst I can’t afford to do it very often, I was certainly gonna make the most of it whilst I was there.   

  

The following morning - with a slight hangover from the wine; including an extra bottle of red that I had liberated from the table at the end of the previous evening - we had to pack our bags, check out of the hotel and meet the bus at the ungodly hour of 4am.  We were then driven out to see the sun rising over Uluru (hot food and drinks provided, naturally) before we were led on the guided Mala Walk.  The commentary was fascinating and, along with the stunning scenery, I don’t think that there was one person on the tour who didn’t leave with a love and respect for the place and the Anangu people.

After a couple of hours to be spent at our leisure, we hopped back onboard the coach and headed off on the 279 km drive to Wattarka National Park.  Known to most people simply as Kings Canyon, Wattarka was declared a national park as late as 1983, the land being handed back to the local Luritja people at the same time.  Today the Luritja are now heavily involved in the management of the spectacular sandstone gorge and the surrounding areas.

  

After 150km or so we stopped for a rest break at the Mount Conner Lookout which would normally present an excellent photo opportunity.  Such a great photo opportunity, in fact, that it is said to be the outback’s greatest red herring as, on first sighting, many mistake it for Uluru itself and start snapping away!  Regardless, due to the huge dust storms blowing through the area on that day, we could see next to nothing of the 350m high mesa.  In frustration I wandered across the Lasseter Highway where I clambered to the top of the huge sand dune and was surprised to discover that the vantage point presented a great view of the salt lake which was previously Lake Amadeus.  Even our driver hadn’t realised previously that it was there.  In reality it wasn’t much of a discovery but I was excited.  You can only imagine what went through the mind of W.E Gosse when he ‘discovered’ Uluru in 1873.

At the junction of the Luritja Road and Lasseter Highway we stopped again to rendezvous with another APT tour bus for a passenger transfer.  We had a 10-15 minute wait which could have been frustrating but, 48 hours after being amongst the hubbub of Sydney, it was surreal to sit (literally) in the middle of the main north-south arterial road (it runs from Darwin to Adelaide - a distance of over 3,000km) and be passed by a single.  Eventually the other bus pulled up and, with passengers and luggage cross-loaded, we turned off the main road and headed out through the spectacular George Gill Range towards Watarkka National Park.

There was yet another rest stop at the Kings Creek Station, where I sampled a camel burger for lunch, before we finally arrived in Watarkka.  Our options for the following day were explained and we were offered the choice of two different hikes before we were driven out to inspect the route.  The Kings Creek Walk was not only shorter and easier than the Kings Canyon Rim Walk - which was described as tough - but it also missed out on all the good stuff such as the Garden of Eden (a lush pocket of cycads around a natural pool), fossilised jellyfish in the rocks, ripple marks from an ancient sea which went out one day and never returned and, of course, those 100m sheer canyon walls.  The climb certainly looked tough - it started with a steep climb up ‘Heart Attack Hill’ - but I didn’t see the point in coming all this way and not doing it.

Decisions made, we were driven to our hotel in the nearby Kings Canyon Resort, where we had the remainder of the afternoon to do as we pleased.  Time was getting on and - with some choosing to go to the bar and others choosing to go for a meal - I decided to sit on my balcony and enjoy the baking sun until it finally disappeared into the horizon amidst a spectacular display of colour.  There may not have been the wine or company of the previous evening but it was every bit as spectacular as the Uluru sunset.

 

The good news, as our guide had put it, was that we weren’t meeting at 4am on the final day of the tour.  No, we had a lie-in… Until 6am.  There were no plans for watching the sunrise today - we were up early to avoid the heat of the day as we set off on our walk and, as we headed off up Heart Attack Hill, I was certainly pleased that we’d sacrificed a little of our precious sleep.  Our driver was leading the group doing the Kings Creek Walk so those of us who were man enough (!) to tackle the Kings Canyon Rim Walk were with a ranger by the name of Helen. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, Australia is huge.  Vast.  If you’re not sure how huge, it is comparable in size to the entire continent of Europe or the ‘Lower 48′.  So you can imagine my amazement when Ranger Helen turned out to be none other than the Helen who I’d spent some time chatting with when we met a month previously in faraway El Questro.  Let’s think about that for a moment: it’s about as likely as me meeting someone in a bar in Prague and then, one month later, opening my front door to find them stood there trying to sell me double glazing.  (If you’re reading this - which you obviously are - and you’re in the double glazing business - which hopefully you’re not - don’t even think about it: I’ve already got nice shiny new windows thanks. 

It turned out to be one of those mornings as one of the couples on the walk with us turned out to be from a small town in Nova Scotia named Mahone Bay.  The very same Mahone Bay where I’d stayed back in May.  They lived about five houses along from the Bed and Breakfast where I stayed and know the owners - who in turn emigrated from my home town - quite well.   Bizarre… truly bizarre.

 

 

The walk wasn’t that tough even though, once again, it forced me to confront just how unfit I had become recently, and was definitely well worth the effort.  The views were to die for but, sadly, the end of the walk also signalled the end of the tour.  All that was left was the long drive up to Alice Springs where I would catch my flight back to Sydney.  The company on the tour had been excellent, the operators were thoroughly professional and it had been thoroughly enjoyable.  I would definitely recommend travelling with APT and hope that I can travel with them again in the future.  On the route into Alice we stopped at a roadhouse where we shared the forecourt with a tour bus full of backpackers.  After the luxury of the past few days it looked horrendous.  I knew there and then that I was getting very old.

Back in Sydney I was surprised to be greeted at the airport by Dan who took me back to his apartment to freshen up before we headed out to Penrith to meet up with a friend of his for a meal.  It wasn’t much of a meal - we went for the easy option of a McDonalds in the end - but afterwards we had a grand old time doing our best to destroy the local bowling alley.  I can’t believe that we didn’t get thrown out for holding an impromptu ‘let’s see how far we can throw the ball down the alley’ competition but somehow they let it slide.  A couple of games later, the sound of that ‘thud’ as the ball would hit the floor firmly etched on my mind for eternity, we went our own separate ways.  After a tiring few days I sure slept very well that evening.

  

One of the problems with having used Sydney as a hub was that, with just one full day left before I was due to collect a camper van and head up the east coast, I suddenly realised just how little I’d actually seen of it.  I figured there are times to do your own thing and times to play the tourist and, with time running out, this was most definitely tourist time.  I took myself off to the nearby bus stop and, having handed over forty bucks, I got to ride the ‘Sydney Explorer’ - a hop on-hop off service which takes you to all the highlights - for the remainder of the day.  It was surprisingly good but, having ‘hopped off’ at half the stops I then ran out of time and had no choice but to ‘hop on’ the final bus of the day having seen just a fraction of what was available.  The entire city of Sydney is majestic  but, even though I managed a bite to eat at the institution that is Harry’s Cafe de Wheels - as well as having shopped at Paddy’s Market, explored Chinatown, eaten at the Fish Market, sat in Mrs Macquaries Chair and enjoyed a couple of pints on the banks of Darling Harbour - I can’t believe that I didn’t get to visit the Opera House, The Rocks, Circular Quay or the Maritime Museum.  Not to mention the lack of a tick in the ‘climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge’ box.  If I needed one, I think I just discovered an excuse to come back again soon!

 

 

The overnight flight from Singapore had been thoroughly miserable - ruined by a group of drunk shouty passengers who refused to shut up despite repeated requests and, on occasion, threats of violence from another passenger.  Even the cabin crew weren’t in the mood to calm them down… not when they could be selling them more alcohol (and presumably boosting their Christmas bonus.)  Yet, as I stood and waited for my bag to come off the plane, I couldn’t help but smile for, despite the reality of the freezing Melbourne morning; I was back in Australia once again.  Life really wasn’t that bad, was it.I picked up my rental car - if car is a word that can be used for anything built by Kia - and headed off into the Melbourne rush hour without the faintest idea of where I was heading.  I really needed a map but, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find anywhere that could sell me one: a sign of the times where we all use GPS navigation systems, perhaps?  After an hour of getting increasingly frustrated at going round in circles, I finally realised that that phone book that had randomly been left in the passenger footwell wasn’t actually a phone book at all; but a very detailed map of Melbourne.  It was the kind of morning where even a couple of cans of Red Bull couldn’t compensate for my lack of sleep and I decided that it was time to head hopefully for my hotel.

Check-in time was the usual 3pm but the clerk wasn’t fazed in the slightest when I arrived at 10am with a smile and bags under my eyes.  When he said he could have the room ready for me in an hour I could have kissed him on his shiny bald head but I chose not to as I suspect he wouldn’t have appreciated it!  Instead I headed off to the nearby supermarket to stock up with food and to pick up some beer and was reminded once again of the friendly easy-going nature of Australia.  I started to feel at home once again - even the weather was thoroughly English.  The clincher though was when I headed to the local Bunnings store to pick up a cooler (or Esky as they are known here) and discovered that they sold Rainbow Play Systems - something that I had not seen since I left my job with them way back in April.  I am not sure why but I couldn’t help but stand there in the rain, staring at the display model and laughing to myself which got me a very strange look from one of the salespeople!

It turned out that my hotel room wasn’t a hotel room at all but a serviced apartment complete with DVD player, stereo, full kitchen and an en-suite laundry.  With no reason to leave the apartment for the rest of the day I had one of those down days which are so valuable on these extended trips and spent the day catching up on my email, catching up on my sleep and catching up on my laundry.  It’s not that this travelling business is hard work, or anything, but sometimes you need a ‘weekend’ where you take time off and do ‘normal stuff’.

Later that day I pulled out that map and discovered that I was just a few kilometres from Pin Oak Court - better known as Ramsey Street - and decided that I would take Dan over there later in the week.  He’s Australian; he’d like that, right?  Here’s the deal: he didn’t like it.  He didn’t like it at all! Oh the irony when he talks about us Brits being whinging poms!

I hadn’t seen Dan for over seven years but, when I met him at the airport, it seemed more like seven minutes.  After popping into town and then visiting a friend of his for a bit we headed back to the apartment and managed to stay up chatting - and putting a fairly big dent in the bottle of Jack that I bought earlier - until 3am that morning.  I guess it must have been some time, after all.  

The following day was spent - when we finally found the bothered to leave the apartment - driving round the Melbourne Grand Prix track before driving round and round downtown Melbourne searching desperately for a parking space.  Eventually, with Paul Kelly blaring out of the radio, we spotted a parking space and set off on foot to explore the city.  I have news for you, Paul; every ****ing city ain’t the same, my old son!  I really rather like this one - Melbourne is a very cool city indeed.

After another night in the apartment it was time to hit the road once more and head south to Phillip Island for the Moto GP.  It is tough to find accommodation on ‘The Island’ at any time but it is simply impossible around race weekend so we were incredibly lucky to get in touch with Leonie Falzon at Motorsport Travel who offered us a homestay option.  She hooked us up with John and Kaye Boreham who live near the circuit and would be looking after us for the three nights of the race meeting.  I don’t know why but I am always a tad nervous about B&Bs or this sort of homestay scheme but, as soon as we arrived, we knew we’d landed on our feet.  The house was beautiful; spotlessly clean and our hosts were magnificent.  If I go home at Christmas and get that welcome from my folks I will be flabbergasted!

Once we’d unpacked we headed straight off to the circuit.  Despite the rain doing its best to ruin the occasion, we were both suitably impressed; walking the perimeter of the circuit to find the best places to take photos.  This is a very important ritual when visiting any circuit for the first time as these opportunities are usually few and far between but Phillip Island, much to our delight, was one huge photo opportunity and we had a ball taking advantage of that before heading off for a look around the island. 

 

Our second day on The Island was a strange one in as much as we were leaving early and heading back up to Melbourne!  Dan had a photo shoot in the city and was planning on dropping me at the circuit then driving up but, when I looked out of the window to be greeted by rain, I decided to head up with him to spend another day exploring Melbourne.  It was a fair drive back but one which was enlivened by a huge procession of motorcycles heading south onto The Island.  The procession was huge and went on for miles: official estimates put the number of bikers at something over 10,000 so you can be sure that there were many more than that!

When we reached the city I dropped Dan off and then started my tour by tagging on to a fascinating tour of the hugely impressive M.C.G (Melbourne Cricket Ground - or ‘The G’ for short) before heading into the city and stumbling across an arts and music festival on the riverside.  Before I knew it I was heading back to collect Dan and then south once again to The Island.  The drive back seemed even longer but that was down to having to go slow to reduce the likelihood of hitting a kangaroo: a real danger down here after sunset - and one which would your day just as much as the poor ‘roos!

  

Raceday taught me two things - 1) bike racers are absolutely insane and 2) I prefer cars - but, even though I was seriously tired and suffering from a nasty cold, I was very happy that evening as we joined John and Kaye for a meal.  It had been a fantastic few days and that was rounded off when I got to speak with Kristina on the phone.  These are crazy days and I love being away but it was dawning on me - there is a hell of a lot to go back to Europe for too!

 

It was a case of déjà vu the following day when, having just dropped Dan at the airport, I found myself driving away with no idea where I was heading.  Ultimately I had three days to drive to Sydney but I had no idea of which route to take.  I pulled in to a gas station, pulled out the map and, after five minutes of studying it blankly, I decided to head south again and follow the South Gippsland Highway to the Wilsons Promontory National Park.  From there I would head along the coast road to the settlement at Cann River and then turn to the north along the Monaro Highway to the Australian Capital of Canberra.  It turned out to be an excellent choice of route and one full of contrasts - much like Australia as a whole.

The Prom, as it is known to Victorians, is a beautiful park located at the very southern tip of mainland Australia.  It features 130km of stunning coastline, mountains and a fantastic campground at Tidal River where I would spend the first night in my new tent.  Typically, a huge storm blew up as the sun went down producing a spectacular light show followed by gale force winds and torrential rain for the rest of the night.  Despite its cost ($34 from Kmart) I am pleased to report the new tent passed the test with flying colours and I emerged dry and warm the following morning.  The rain stopped as the sun came up but the high winds persisted: not ideal conditions for my early morning 14km hike out along the coast to Oberon Bay.  I put this to the back of my mind, wrapped up warm, and headed off anyway which I was glad I did as I was rewarded with some simply stunning ocean scenery. 

Whilst I sat there - at the southernmost point of the southernmost country on my trip - I couldn’t help but reflect on where I had been and wonder how this one small corner of Australia could instantly take me back to so many different places that I had visited along the way.  The rain forest reminded me of the Pacific North-Western USA, the mountains of the Canadian Rockies, the white sand beaches of Hawaii and the rugged coastline of Nova Scotia.  It crossed my mind that I should just have spent the past six months here in Australia but, as all manner of memories came flooding back, I was pleased that I hadn’t.  This trip wouldn’t have been anything without the people I had met along the way. One thing was beyond doubt, though: I was falling truly in love with this remarkable country.

 

I spent that night in a motel in Bairnsdale before embarking on a long day in the saddle the following day.  I lost a little time nosing around Cape Conran but soon decided that I had to press on if I were to achieve my goal of reaching Canberra that day and turned the car to the north.  Shortly after Chandlers Creek I crossed the border into New South Wales and, much as it had done as I entered California, the weather changed instantly for the better. 

 

Having stopped for lunch in the small town of Cooma, I left New South Wales again - but only for a short time - as I entered the tiny area known as the Australian Capital Territory.  I had read and heard that Canberra is a place that you either love or hate and I figured that it deserved my full attention if I were to get a true feel for the place.  I wouldn’t be doing it any justice at all if I was tired so, having found a motel, I took the rest of the day off to chill out, stock up on groceries and get my hair cut. 

Suitably rested and prepared for a full day of exploring I woke early, scraped the ice from the window of the car (seriously!), and fired up the TomTom.  Canberra is a strange city in that it doesn’t really have a ‘downtown’ area as such so, unable to decide between the huge lists of landmarks (many of them starting with the word National… Gallery, Library, Museum, Zoo, etc.) I went for the big one and headed straight to the Australian Parliament Building.

 

On my arrival I parked quickly and easily right near the parliament building and wandered through the immaculately manicured parkland for a look: it was about as far removed from the Houses of Parliament in London as it could possibly be.  When I learned there were tours available I instantly signed myself up and, whilst I waited for my tour group to assemble I decided to explore on my own.  The very fact that I was able to do this was refreshing: it is something that would never be allowed in the modern-day UK which I find an incredibly sad state of affairs.  I would face a stark reminder of this a couple of hours later when passing row upon row of embassy buildings.  Each was open and welcoming - until I reached the British embassy, which was surrounded by a three metre high steel fence with barbed wire on top, surveillance cameras every two metres along the pavement, huge ‘prison-style’ airlock gates and a small army of guards armed with semi-automatic weapons.  I guess that is the price you pay when you go sticking your nose into other people’s business around the world.

Modern Australia is a young nation but Canberra is even younger - once little more than a sheep station, it was planned in 1908 as the new seat of federal parliament to end rivalry between Sydney and Melbourne.  It is perhaps a unique way for a capital city to be established but it did present one unique opportunity - to design the ideal capital city - a competition was held and this was won by architect Walter Burley Griffin.  As I stood on top of the modern Parliament House I was able to marvel at the architecture not only of the Parliament building itself but of the entire city.  My view from the roof of the building presented a stunning unimpeded view straight down to Old Parliament House, across Lake Burley Griffin and along Anzac Parade to the imposing Australian War Memorial beyond.  Compared to the cluttered and haphazard streets of European cities, it was inspired and quite beautiful.

 

The tour itself, despite Parliament not being in session until the following week, was fascinating and, I was very pleased to learn, did not gloss over the whole situation pertaining to the indigenous people as is so often the case in Australia.  In fact the guide made a point of explaining the huge significance of ‘Sorry Day’ and suggested that everyone should take time to visit the Aboriginal Tent Embassy which, since January 26^th 1972 (Australia Day), has been located on the front lawn of Old Parliament House as a protest against the denial of land rights and self-determination.  I did just that but, if I’m honest, felt a little intimidated by the welcome that I received.  Maybe it was the English accent - if it was then I can completely forgive the welcome - after all we did treat them appallingly bad when we came and colonised their country.  It made me sad, thinking back to the current fortress-like state of the nearby British Embassy, that we are still marauding around the globe as if we owned it 220 years later.

  

As I made my way to the War Memorial I had one eye on the time - I was set to drive to Sydney that evening to meet up with Dan once again - and I really wish it hadn’t been that way.  I was expecting a memorial in the style of the Cenotaph in London but was amazed to discover the sheer scale of the place - it was simply stunning and, quite literally, brought a tear to the eye.  Not for Australia would a simple plaque or bronze statue suffice; not even a list of war-dead etched on a wall.  It had these, of course, but it also had a huge museum and gallery of war-art that put the Imperial War Museum to shame and every effort had been made to make the reality of war come alive to visitors and demonstrate to them the bravery shown by those lost to it.  It was fantastic and horrendous all at once but it was a truly, truly memorable experience and I can only imagine how it would be to be there on Anzac Day.  I was sad to have to get back in the car and head off to Sydney without having seen even a fraction of the city and I promised myself that I would try and make it back later on in my trip.  I guess I was one of those people who loved Canberra…

The drive to Sydney was quick, easy and uninteresting - typical motorway driving - but was suddenly livened up when I reached the outskirts of the city and had to negotiate the labyrinth of roads that all seem intent on depositing you on the toll road for which I had no permit.  Finally though I made it across town to Potts Point and, having finally found somewhere to park the car, it finally began to sink in that I had just driven into one of the world’s great cities.  Any doubt about that was removed several hours later with Dan’s whistle-stop (and Steve McQueen Bullitt-style) tour of the sights.  We ended the evening  crossing the Sydney Harbour Bridge and standing on a pontoon on the opposite site of the harbour looking back at that famous landscape of the Sydney skyline bookended by the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House.  Glorious.  It was a very different city to Canberra and it reconfirmed that whole image of Australia: contrast and contradiction.  If there had been any doubt that I was in love with the country then that was removed right there and then.  It is a truly amazing place.  If you’ve not been then, as the adverts say: “Where the bloody hell are ya?!”