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.

The people in the i-Site office were right about it being impossibly scenic - the never-ending wet mountain slopes plunging into the brilliant jade waters of the Whanganui River were particularly photogenic - but they were very wrong about the road being a good diversion.  After an hour of spectacular scenery the tarmac suddenly ran out.  If it hadn’t been for the prolonged overnight downpour the unsealed road may just have been passable but, in this state, there was no way that I was getting through in anything less than a Land Rover. Frustrated, I was forced to turn back.

I reached Tongariro National Park just as the visitor centre was closing for the evening and was directed to a nearby campground where, I was told, the owner would answer any questions that I had.  The campground was very primitive and a little run-down but the new owners were, quite rightly, very enthusiastic about the new surroundings in which they found themselves.  They had big plans to turn the place around and their first improvements were to open a restaurant and bar (where I spent the evening sheltering from the heavy spring rain outside) and to invite an outdoor pursuits company to set up shop on site.  I explained that I wanted to hike the famed Tongariro Alpine Crossing - “why else would you be here”, they asked - and was told that the Tongariro Expeditions Company ran a shuttle bus between their office on site and the trailheads.  I was told that I should return at 6am the following morning and they would drive me to the start of the trail and then collect me again at the end of the day once I’d completed the hike (or tramp as they call it down here.)

Unfortunately, as I learnt soon after my early alarm call, they do not guarantee to run everyday and, thanks to the continuing bad weather, Wednesday 10^th December would be one of the days that they would not offer the service.  With dire warnings not to leave your car at either of the trailheads (it was made to sound like some sort of bandit country but, on reflection, was probably a ploy to boost use of the shuttle service) I had no choice but to abandon my plans for the day.  The apologetic owner suggested a series of shorter hikes which started and ended at the main visitor centre and, with nothing better to do, I decided to tackle them all!  I was glad that I did as I was afforded the most spectacular view of Mt Ngauruhoe - Mt Doom in Lord of the Rings - as the rain finally cleared and the clouds lifted.

I did a rough tally in my head and calculated that I’d walked in the region of 30km by mid-afternoon and, having driven to the top of Mt Ruapehu - one of the world’s most active volcanoes, I decided that I’d seen enough of Tongariro.  The time had come to tackle the short drive to Lake Taupo.  On arrival the town was reminiscent of Queenstown but, despite this, I arranged to stay for two nights after chatting with the manager of the campground who reeled off a list of local attractions.

It transpired that the nearby Huka Falls were spectacular and the geysers, boiling lakes and bubbling mud pools throughout the Taupo Volcanic Zone were impressive but the thing that will likely stick in my mind will be suddenly discovering that I had two particularly dodgy looking tires on the car.  More surprising than the discovery was the knowledge that it had absolutely nothing to do with my visit to the nearby Taupo Motorsport Park!  A quick pit stop at a local tyre centre made me legal again and my journey towards the Bay of Plenty was able to continue without incurring the wrath of the local police who were conducting spot-checks less than 20km out of Taupo.

The town of Rotorua is located along the shore of the lake of the same name and in the heart of the Maori cultural heartland.   The tourist industry there is huge so I was surprised to discover that I was made to feel as unwelcome as the eggy stench of sulphur which hung over the town.   I found a campground for the night and, having finally caught up on my laundry, I went off to visit the towering Californian Redwoods in the nearby Whakarewarewa Forest.  The forest was planted around a century ago and, although it remains a working forest, offers some fantastic hiking and mountain biking trails and I spent the remainder of the day there; finally returning to the campground long after the sun had set.

I woke the following morning with just one thought in my mind: ten days until home.  I was done and ready to go home for Christmas.  I’d felt this way towards the end of my stay on the South Island and the feeling had proved difficult to shake; I’d no desire to let the feeling overwhelm me again and quickly realised that I should head for Auckland Airport where I’d arranged to collect my updated flight tickets.  Soon after leaving Rotorua I would realise that it was a Sunday and the ticket desk would be closed until the following morning but, nonetheless, the negative thoughts of that morning had passed (and wouldn’t return for the remainder of my stay in New Zealand) as a result of doing something positive.  It was an important lesson that I plan on taking home with me.

I spent the day exploring the towns of Whakatane, Athenree, Katikati and Waihi Beach which are all located along the shores of the Bay of Plenty.   The highlight of the morning would be the strenuous hike up Mt Maunganui which afforded spectacular views over the towns of Omanu Beach and Tauranga.  As the day went on I would visit the huge open-cast Martha Gold Mine before finding a campground as the sun sank lower in the sky and the hot afternoon edged towards evening.  Spending the evening exploring the nearby Karangahake Gorge in a bid to avoid the swarms of mosquitoes on the campground proved to be less than a hardship - Owharoa Falls were a highlight - and I only returned once the last twinkle of daylight had been snuffed out by the moon-free darkness of night-time.

Lured by the sight of the Sky Tower in the distance I made my way downtown the moment that I’d finished at the ticket desk at the airport.  Auckland seemed to be an interesting city but, like most others, felt impersonal and unwelcoming to an outsider and I didn’t linger long.  I found a place to park down on the waterfront and set off on foot for a whistle-stop tour around the area.  Two-hours later I was driving north once more: I’d heard great things about a road named the Twin Coast Discovery Highway which, as the name infers, takes you up one coast before returning you to the city along the other.   The scenery as I made my way up the Tasman coast was pretty but I just wasn’t into it: maybe I’d seen too many wonderful vistas over the previous months or perhaps my mind was simply elsewhere.

I spent a night in Matakohe before continuing my journey north towards Coromandel but it wasn’t until I arrived at the tiny town of Kuaotunu that my spirit started to lift.  As I rounded the corner and the road turned southward, it dawned on me that I had now passed the furthest point from the UK on this planet.  All roads were now leading me home for Christmas.

There was still a small balance showing on my treat account (kindly financed by ‘Dirk the camper van man’ back in Sydney) and it didn’t feel right to take it home with me.  I really didn’t fancy the idea of bungee jumping off the Sky Tower (I’d seen Auckland, after all) so instead drove out to Paihia - gateway to the Bay of Islands - where I planned to ride a 1600bhp jet-boat out to Cape Brett.  The weather had closed in again overnight so there was some doubt whether the trip would go ahead but I was relieved to arrive at the dock and discover supplies being loaded onboard the Excitor and the engines being steadily warmed up.  Instead of the fall-back tour of nearby Waitangi we watched a compulsory safety video, were issued with waterproofs and lifejackets and then climbed aboard for our trip.

The ride was exciting not only for the two huge CAT diesels roaring away behind us but for the huge waves which we were powering through.  There were other options for getting out into the bay - all of which, it would transpire, were cancelled due to the heavy seas - but not one of them would have been such a memorable way to end my visit to such a spectacular country.  The two islands of New Zealand really are like chalk and cheese but they have one thing in common: they prove there is so much more to the country than the haka, sheep and the Lord of the Rings.  I might be glad to be on my way home but I am sad to be leaving this amazing land of rain forests, fjords, mountains, glaciers and volcanoes.  The oft-spoken claim that it is ‘just the seventh state of Australia’ couldn’t be any further from the truth.

With my house built for the evening it was time to head out to see the penguins and I decided to take the campground manager up on his suggestion that the best way to see them would be to visit the Penguin Conservation Preserve.  At $35 it certainly wasn’t a cheap option but it was all in a good cause so I handed over my cash and boarded the rickety old bus which would drive us out to the network of hides which they had built adjacent to the beach.   I had somehow expected hundreds of penguins to be confidently strutting about the beach so was disappointed to learn that we weren’t guaranteed even to see a single penguin - a fact only explained to us after we’d paid for our ticket!  But, having waited in the cold for half an hour, we finally caught our first glimpse of one of the world’s rarest animals: the Yellow-Eyed Penguin.   It turned out that they are actually very nervous animals and we had to remain perfectly still and not make a sound in case we scared them off.   We would eventually see a couple of dozen penguins and, although they were further away than I would have expected, I was delighted to finally discover that New Zealand had some cool wildlife after all!

Before setting off towards Milford Sound I decided to have a look around Dunedin - a town that I liked a lot.  It boasts the World’s Steepest Street (at 35 degrees it is significantly steeper than San Francisco’s Lombard Street) and I managed to earn myself another certificate for climbing it.  Quite why I decided to climb the street was a mystery but it is far more understandable than the 19-year old student who decided to ride downthe street in a wheelie-bin in 2001.  She was killed instantly when the bin hit a parked car and, stood at the top looking down, it is hard to imagine what was going through her head (if anything) as she set off on her quest to earn herself a Darwin Award.  To be honest I felt more than a little apprehensive about the idea of going down it in a car so, naturally,  I headed back down to collect my car to find out what it would be like… the answer is it was a little scary!

The Southern Scenic Route is a heavily promoted driving route from Dunedin to Te Anau - the gateway to Fiordland National Park and Milford Sound.  It was labelled by Travel & Leisure Magazine as “one of the world’s greatest undiscovered drives” earlier this year but, apart from a few interesting stops, I was positively underwhelmed by the whole experience and was glad when I finally reached the sign announcing my arrival at the end of the route.I don’t know how many superlatives you can get away with in a single paragraph so I will hedge my bets and split my thoughts on the sublime Fiordland National Park and the exquisite Milford Sound (there are two to kick off with) into multiple paragraphs.  What can I say?  From the moment I arrived in Te Anau I was smitten.  I defy anyone to visit and not fall instantly in love with the place; even the most veteran of seasoned-travellers.  They say a picture paints a thousand words: well, I took several hundred photos and still didn’t come close to doing the place justice.  I think even David Bailey would struggle to capture the beauty of the place in a few photos - you absolutely have to experience it for yourself.

The sign on the wall of the campground office said it all: “The road from Te Anau to Milford Sound is the most dangerous in New Zealand.  You will face ice, snow, sudden flash floods, avalanches, rockslides and; most dangerous of all, visitors suddenly swerving onto your side of the road as they reach for their camera.”  I chuckled to myself but, within half an hour, I found myself on the wrong side of the road as I reached down for my camera.  Stupidity, I know, but the road is breathtaking and, particularly as you exit the Homer Tunnel, it is an impossible temptation.  The road is just 119km long yet I took six hours to drive it.  As they say, the drive to Milford is half the fun.

I went to sleep excited that, if I’d only had half the fun so far, the next day was going to be a real experience.  It was.  The three hour cruise down Milford Sound was - despite the massive amount of rain falling - one of the most memorable experiences of the past eight months.  I had considered the scenery in Glacier Bay to be awe-inspiring but it wasn’t a patch on Milford Sound.  The low cloud and heavy rain possibly added to the experience by creating innumerable waterfalls seemingly cascading water down straight from the clouds.  Awesome is an overused word but one which is entirely justified when describing Milford Sound.

After a stop at the Milford Deep underwater observatory we re-boarded our boat and headed out towards the open sea.   With the rain stopping and the clouds miraculously being replaced by sun the mood on board changed and people were to be seen strutting around the deck in shorts and T shirts… something that they would live to regret shortly after when the boat lurched sharply to the right and headed straight towards the huge sheer rock face.  There were a number of panicked faces onboard but those of us who had read the literature knew exactly what was coming when they announced our arrival at Stirling Falls.  Rather than slowing down the captain opened the throttles and, as we rushed out on deck to get a better view, forced the bow of the boat right into the base of the falls.  I had donned my waterproofs once again but it made little difference: with water plunging straight down onto the bow of our boat (and onto those of us mad enough to be stood on it!) I guess it wouldn’t!  The noise was insane and the feeling of the cold water falling from 150m above our heads was invigorating to say the least. 

With the doors back into the cabin securely locked, those of us out on the front of the boat started to wonder if we might drown but, with perfect timing, the engines re-fired and we found ourselves backing away from the torrent of water.  As we made our way back into the warm of the cabin we were welcomed back by smiling members of crew who handed us warm dry towels and invited us to tuck in to a tasty buffet which had been laid out for us.  Whilst we ate the boat continued on its merry way out into the Tasman Sea and we didn’t need an announcement from the commentary to notify us of our arrival when the ride suddenly became incredibly choppy.  No-one was in any hurry to leave the free food and drink in the warm cabin but some of us felt we should.  Which was lucky as, having arrived on deck, a shout went up: “dolphins to the left!”   With these sightings a daily occurrence for the crew it was obvious to see why they loved their job.

The return journey could easily have been an anti-climax seeing that we should have seen all the sights on our journey out but, once again, the low lingering cloud had done us a favour and we were able to see another side of the fiord: where before it had felt sinister and menacing, it was now friendly and welcoming.  The imposing Mitre Peak was now clearly visible and Fairy Falls were bettered only by Bowen Falls as we approached our berth back at Milford Wharf once again.   It seemed a shame to rush off and leave the new friends that I’d made onboard but I was determined to beat the tour buses out of the car park for the long drive back to Te Anau.  Once again the drive along Milford Road was quite amazing and I couldn’t resist stopping numerous times for photos: getting stuck behind the slow-moving tour buses in the process!

After another night in one of the cheap cabins offered at the Fiordland Great Views Holiday Park it was time to head off to the fabled town of Queenstown.  As I skirted Lake Wakatipu and approached the town along the road known as the Devil’s Staircase I couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive.  Queenstown has invented itself as the destination in the southern hemisphere for adventure tourism: it is Queenstown where many of those previously mentioned stupidities - such as bungee jumping, zorbing, canyon swinging, jetboat canyoning and blo-karting - originated.  Add its raucous nightlife to the mix and it was going to be a real change of scene from the beauty and serenity of Milford. 

In the end I spent just a few short hours in Queenstown.  Maybe I was on a downer before I arrived but, having parked my car and wandered towards the centre of town, I saw a young girl throwing up in the gutter within a couple of hundred metres of my parking space.  This did nothing to sell the place to me but everywhere I went all I saw were hostels and bars offering cheap booze.  It was Darwin all over again and, with it being apparent that drinking here is a very competitive business, I decided on the spot that it wasn’t for me.  I stopped at the Shotover Jet office to try and rescheduled my  ride on their jet boat through the narrow Shotover Canyon but was out of luck so I pressed onwards across the Crown Ranges towards Lake Wanaka.  This is the highest road in the whole of New Zealand and offers some memorable driving and unforgettable vistas.   Until a couple of years ago it was still unpaved for much of its length and, although it is now covered in lovely smooth tarmac along its entirety, I felt a little sad that it was: compared to all the hype of Queenstown that road would have been the one true adrenaline rush available to visitors.

Having covered such a large amount of ground I wasn’t in the mood to stop when I reached Wanaka.  I restocked with food and supplies and then hit the road once again as I made my way towards Haast Pass which would lead me through Mount Aspiring National Park to the tiny fishing town of Jackson Bay where I would set up camp for the evening.  Such is the nature of the South Island that I was just a hundred kilometres or so north of Milford Sound yet it had taken me a full day of hard driving to get there.  It had been worth it though as, apart from my Queenstown folly, it had been an enjoyable and rewarding trip.  Mount Aspiring in particular was memorable for its numerous short hikes off the main highway.  I personally think that it should be renamed Mount Inspiring.

The plan for the following day was to head north up the coast to the Westland Tai Poutini National Park where I hoped to organise a heli-hiking trip to one of the two glaciers within the park.   Of course I had seen many glaciers on my trip but everywhere I had been people had raved about these two and, well, there was another certificate on offer…!   One thing that I have learned on this trip is that if you plan too much you will end up disappointed so it was only to be expected that my day would be thrown into chaos somehow.  It turned out to be the weather gods who were against me this time following a night of torrential rain. 

I passed rivers which had broken their banks, drove through flood waters and struggled to see where I was going through heavy rain and low cloud but finally arrived at Fox Glacier to discover that it was inaccessible due to flooding and washed out roads.  I had heard rumours of problems before my arrival so, unperturbed, I confidently pressed on to the Franz Josef township, where I felt sure I would be able to get myself onto a heli-hiking trip out on to the nearby glacier of the same name.  On my arrival, much to my disappointment, I would discover that there would be no flights that day due to the inclement weather.  I had to decide whether to wait around for a day or so in the hope that the weather would clear or head onwards towards Abel Tasman National Park.  With no guarantee of a change in the weather I decided to head north; spending the night in a warm dry motel in Greymouth with a bottle of wine, fish & chips and live Premiership football on the TV.  After roughing it in a tent for the past week it was pure bliss to be reminded of home in this way.

It had been a welcome bit of luxury but, when I woke the following morning, something had changed inside.  My first thought when I woke was ‘19 days til home.’  This was quickly overtaken with a second:  that I really shouldn’t drink so much wine on my own.  And finally a third: ‘I’m done, I want to go home.  I’m finished with life on the road.’  But, of course, I wasn’t finished.  I had another couple of weeks in one of the most picturesque countries on the planet (not to mention five days in China).  I was just not sure I wanted it - with thousands of people being put out of work all over the world each day, talk about ungrateful!  I figured I would try and get through this feeling by keeping busy and spent the day visiting not one but four national parks.   First I backtracked to Arthurs Pass NP, then headed north to Paparoa NP on the west coast and then back inland once again to Kahurangi NP and, just in time for sunset;  Nelson Lakes NP.   But the feeling wouldn’t pass.  My first thoughts the next morning?  ‘18 days…’  Oh, dear.

To those of you reading this that’ve never been to New Zealand, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the South Island is full of national parks.  It isn’t.  But there was one final park to visit to complete the set: Abel Tasman NP.  Many people would say that I’d saved the best til last.  I’d arrived in NZ not really knowing too much about where I wanted to go and what I wanted to see but there were three recurring pieces of advice that I’d bought with me: sail Milford Sound, hike the glaciers and kayak Abel Tasman.   I arrived at the park planning to sign myself up for one of the ferries which takes you out into the park but, as with my other plans previously, it would never happen.  There was no space onboard that day - nor the next -and I didn’t have time to hang around until the next opening.  I had another ferry to catch… the ferry to take me across the Cook Straight from Picton to Wellington.  The North Island beckoned.

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!

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.

The Great Ocean Road is a 273km long stretch of road which runs - as I now discovered - from Torquay in the east to Warmambool in the west.  It was constructed just after the end of the Great War by 3,000 returned servicemen as a living memorial to those who were left behind.  When I visited Canberra on Sunday I had been disappointed to learn that there was no Remembrance Sunday parade and, for a short time, I considered hanging around for a couple of days until Armistice Day to pay my respects but, as eleven o’clock came around, I was pleased that I hadn’t.  Sitting atop a cliff enjoying a spectacular view that all those brave men, left behind in Europe, would never get to see again seemed far more poignant and I couldn’t help but shed a small tear. 

Running through vast areas of steep coastal mountains, it is a miracle that the road was ever finished and it is a true testament to the determination of those who built it.  Of course, given it was built by men freshly returned from the battlefields of Europe, it must have seemed like a holiday camp even though they were working with nothing more than pick and shovel.  It was intended to stand as a ‘living memorial’ to those who didn’t make it home and as I headed west, breathing in the fresh sea air mixed with the lingering smell of the dense forest to my right, it was clear to see they’d done each and every one of them proud.

I stopped for lunch at Aireys Inlet and found myself joining a tour of the Split Point Lighthouse - which was fun and offered some fantastic views of the stunning coastline - before heading up into the Great Otway National Park.  This was a huge park, full of waterfalls and wonderful short to medium length hikes: I was in heaven.  I ended the day racing to reach the Kennett River Campground before the sun set and arrived with impeccable timing.   Watched by a colony of koalas in the eucalyptus trees overlooking me, I quickly built my tent before forging a path through the undergrowth towards the sound of crashing waves.  Within ten or twenty metres I found myself stood in a sandy bay looking out over the Southern Ocean towards a spectacular fiery red sunset.  As I explored the nearby rocky headland by moonlight I realised I was smiling as I mentally replayed a perfect day.  Progress had been slow - it had taken me 12 hours to drive the 68km from Torquay - and I had taken far too many photos but I now realised why everyone I had met had been so excited when talking about the Great Ocean Road.  It is truly spectacular.

After a restful night, lulled to sleep by those crashing ocean waves, it was back into the car to continue my exploration of the Otway Ranges.  After enjoying a wander through the giant ferns and huge old trees of the Maits Rest Rainforest Trail I headed out to visit the Cape Otway Lightstation but, after a long drive along an unpaved road, I was saddened to arrive and be confronted by bus loads of visitors.  After a mooch along a couple of trails which started from the parking lot I decided that I couldn’t face the crowds so instead set off to find some peace.  After a couple of false starts I soon found that peace as I found myself stood on a beautifully secluded stretch of beach - located a short drive along a random unsigned side road - where I celebrated my good fortune by having lunch.

Having returned the esky safely to the boot of the car it was onwards towards Port Campbell National Park.  The limestone coast made for an interesting change of scene after the mountains & surf and, once again, I started to feel my progress slowing as I regularly found myself stopping for photos or to explore an intriguingly named roadside attraction.   The highlight, of course, would be the internationally recognised Twelve Apostles which proved to be striking even though a count would ultimately prove that just nine of the limestone stacks remained!  A short drive from there lay the Blowhole - which left me positively underwhelmed - and the historic (and very beautiful) Loch Ard Gorge.

I stopped one final time - at the formation known as London Arch (it was known previously as London Bridge until one of the arches collapsed into the sea) - before realising I’d seen enough limestone formations to last me for the rest of eternity and decided to press on and get some miles behind me.  I finally reached the end of the Great Ocean Road outside the town of Warrnambool and was sad to realise that a wonderful adventure had drawn to a close.  Worse than that, there was no certificate for having driven the road and survived: these Australians have a lot to learn!

A night in Narrawong was followed by a day of national parks.  I managed a nice hike in Mount Richmond National Park but Lower Glenelg National Park proved to be a washout as I’d managed to pass it before I found the entrance.  My next stop - Canunda, across the border in South Australia - was like many of the national parks in Australia in that there really isn’t a whole lot to see.  In fact my only reward for a long detour down a rough dirt road was a mouth full of particularly unforgiving flies; so much for the ‘spectacular dunes’ promised by my guidebook!   This seemed to me to be the perfect example of the differences between national parks here and those in North America; whilst here they are created to preserve the natural environment, in North America they are created with recreation in mind.  Whilst what they do here is probably more worthy, it really isn’t so much fun!

I would soon reach the town of Mount Gambier and set off to look for its famous Blue Lake.  Being right on the edge of town it wasn’t hard to find, nor was it hard to understand where it got its name.  The brilliant cobalt blue water instantly took me back to Crater Lake National Park in Oregon but the location of the two couldn’t be any different.  Whilst the Blue Lake is on the edge of a town, Crater Lake is miles from anywhere.  Both have their attractions and, whilst Crater Lake was more visually stimulating, I have to admit that the fact I could walk to town and buy a McDonalds if I so desired held some appeal too! 

And so, having climbed the steep 192 metre track to visit the (closed) Centenary Tower, I did.  The town was an interesting little place, full of characters.  Whilst chatting with a local, I learned that the lake is quite unique in that it actually changes colour throughout the year: no-one is exactly sure why but it only retains its signature blue for three months of the year.  Neither is anyone too sure when the volcano last erupted - estimates range between 28,000 and 4,000 years ago - and it struck me, given how little is known about the crater, is it really such a great idea that the entire town’s water supply comes from the lake?  Maybe it went some way to explaining the strange people that I’d met over lunch.

By now it was becoming obvious that I was falling behind and, if I was to make it to Adelaide before my onward flight, I would have to speed up.  I continued my journey west along the Princes Highway, stopping mid-afternoon in the fascinating little fishing port and the town of Robe, but otherwise pushing on, pushing on.  Several times I thought about stopping but now, maintaining an average speed somewhere in excess of 100km/h (no comment in case it’s incriminating!), I just blew on past before I reached the outskirts of the town of Kingston SE where I absolutely positively had to stop. 

Australia is known for its oversize roadside art: everyone knows Coffs Harbour for the giant banana alongside the highway and then there’s big pineapples, big apples, big chickens, big guitars, big wine bottles… even a big boxing crocodile!  But Kingston SE (no, I don’t know what the SE is there for either: South East of South Australia, maybe?) has what, to me at least, must be the amazing! I don’t know when the fad for these huge monstrosities caught on, nor where they were all made - I like to imagine they all came from one (very large) factory somewhere - but you can be sure that whoever made ‘Larry the Lobster’, as he is known, is no longer in the business of making big things.  Seems they misread the plans which clearly showed a big fibreglass lobster in feet and inches and went ahead and made him in metres.  Now that, to me, seems to have been one very big mistake! 

As I left Kingston SE, still smiling and shaking my head, I was quickly coming to the conclusion that something was going to have to give.  Dropping my trip to Kangaroo Island was the obvious answer but I’d heard great things about the place and I was desperate to see it for myself.  I pondered it as far as Meningie, on the outskirts of Coorong National Park, where local enquiries suggested a price of $160 for the ferry crossing.  The decision was made: Kangaroo Island would remain on my ‘must see’ list for a future visit.

I found a campground on the outskirts of Meningie where I spent the evening with a couple from the Netherlands who were about to embark on their own journey along the Great Ocean Road.  I was quite jealous and, if I wasn’t flying to Tasmania in a couple of days, would happily have turned around and gone with them.   It had taken four very busy days to make it over from Melbourne but I had missed out a lot of stops and I could easily have taken three times as long and still been busy.  The change in landscape - from the steep coastal mountains of the Great Ocean Road to the limestone cliffs of eastern Victoria to the sand dunes of South Australia - was surpassed only by the consistency of the people along the route who, without fail, were supremely friendly and welcoming. 

The drive along the coast from Melbourne to Adelaide must surely rank amongst the best in the world.  People rave about the Pacific Coast Highway in California but, and I know this is a bold statement, I would suggest that the Great Ocean Road is superior to a factor of ten and I can’t understand why it isn’t more popular with the army of Brits who visit Australia each year.  The few Wicked Campers - the brightly coloured vehicle of choice for the backpacker - to be found along the route were almost exclusively driven by Germans or the Dutch which, looking back, probably goes some way to explaining the plethora of signs reminding you of the need to drive on the left.

As if unable to let go of the coast I decided to extend my options by heading out around the Fleurieu Peninsular on the promise that Victor Harbour is the Australian version of Blackpool complete with kitsch attractions and volatile locals who enjoy nothing more than a good punch-up after a couple of shandys.  I couldn’t resist but I didn’t hang around there for long and left, shortly afterwards; cold, windswept and disappointed.   It was time for Adelaide. 

To get a grasp on the city I went first to the Mount Lofty Lookout which provides a panoramic vantage point from which you look down on the grid of streets below.  The talk around me was ‘ooh, isn’t it small’ and ‘now I see why it only takes twenty minutes to walk across town’ but, I have to be honest, it actually looked bigger than I expected and I felt a little daunted by it all and decided, before I tried to tackle the mean streets of Adelaide, I needed a little more scenery.  I was in luck there as I was in one of the most green and picturesque areas in the country and I headed off on a fun drive along windy country lanes, passing vineyard after vineyard, towards the National Motor Museum in the small town of Birdwood.

Although, or perhaps because, the museum focused on the Australian automotive industry, I found enough to keep me riveted for a good few hours before I was finally kicked out when they closed the doors for the evening.   I celebrated my arrival in Adelaide by leaving my tent in the car and splashing out on a cabin at a campground on the outskirts of the city.  To have such luxuries as electric lights and heating was a real luxury; especially as the night turned out to be cold, windy and completely unseasonal.  Money very well spent!

Early the following morning, unsure where to start my exploration of the city, I headed first to the home of cricket in the city: the Adelaide Oval. What I found was in stark contrast to the MCG in Melbourne but I found myself liking it a lot.  As I stood beneath the old fashioned scoring tower I could sense the history of the place and could almost see the ghost of Bradman & Co. fending off the English attack in that infamous ‘Bodyline’ test whose legacy still resonates.   It says everything that even Adelaide - the city of churches and all that is good - was almost turned upside down as a full-blown riot threatened to break out.  It remains one of the darkest moments in relations between the two nations; which says a lot given what we have done over the years!

Whilst the steel and glass of the towering MCG was impressive, the unspoilt grandeur and the greenery of the Adelaide Oval offered real charm and atmosphere.  After the magnificent English victory in the 2005 Ashes series in England I had so very nearly made it down to Australia to watch the return and Adelaide was one of the two tests that I would have seen.   At the time I wasn’t sad to miss out as we got a thorough spanking but now I felt desperately sad that I missed out - the atmosphere in that ground would have been fantastic.  In many ways I found the two grounds a good metaphor for the two cities: Melbourne big, bold and trying to impress the world with its modernity, whilst Adelaide remains proud of its history and unembarrassed by its country-town origins.  Both have their place of course but, in this modern world, I found Adelaide refreshing in so many ways.

It proved true: you could walk from one side to the other in twenty minutes, but what a fine twenty minutes they were.  The green of the parks and trees through the city sat easy on the eye alongside the intriguing mix of classic and contemporary architecture where, until Melbourne poached the race, Formula One cars would scream annually.  The simple grid layout of the city was a contrast to the windy roads in the hills above and I found myself wishing that I had more time to explore.  Alas -although managing to squeeze in a visit to the excellent Maritime Museum and a wander through the rejuvenated port area - my time in mainland Australia had come to its end.  It was a sad moment but, as I made my way to the home of Leonie and Micky Falzon who would be my hosts for my final evening, I couldn’t help but look back over the past three months and smile.  It had been one hell of a ride and, whilst I was sad to be leaving, I did so with very happy memories and a real desire to return soon.

I woke a little later than planned in my motel room in Antill Street (what a rather lovely name for a street!) in Queenbeyan.  Suddenly it dawned on me: it was Remembrance Sunday and I was within spitting distance of one of the world’s capital cities.  I have always liked to pay my respects and the opportunity to visit the Remembrance Day Parade in a country which suffered such great loss in wartime was too much to pass up.  Hurriedly I checked out and sped through the deserted streets of Canberra - I swear I saw tumbleweed rolling past at one point - before finally arriving at the bottom end of Anzac Parade.  I was expecting huge crowds, road blocks and high security as you get in London but, as I turned left and headed up towards the Australian War Memorial, I was shocked to see… nothing.  Nothing at all.  Had I missed it?  Had I got the dates wrong; was it only Saturday? 

I was bemused and, passing the lines of memorial sculptures lining the grand old boulevard, I headed up to the memorial proper to find out what was going on.  Or, more to the point, what wasn’t.  It was politely explained to me that Australia doesn’t have a Remembrance Sunday; rather they remember their dead on Armistice Day and ANZAC Day in April.  Ooops.

I decided to have another look around the memorial’s galleries whilst I was there and, realising that I’d missed whole areas of the museum on my previous visit, I was rather glad that I did.   I found myself particularly moved whilst looking at photos and mementoes from the Great War in France as, with me being so far from home, it really hit home the tragedy of those brave young soldiers being cut down in a conflict that, literally, couldn’t have been further from their own homeland.  It was a tragedy in Europe too, of course, but at least it was on our doorstep and there was a reason to fight. 

I spent several hours exploring the exhibits but eventually had to drag myself away as I was only in town for one day and I had a whole list of other destinations to visit.  My first stop was Regatta Point on the shores of Lake Burley Griffin for the Captain Cook Memorial.  The memorial takes the form of a huge water jet sending water shooting 147m into the air which sounded impressive enough that I felt the need to visit.  If you aren’t impressed with that stat then let me give you a couple more facts: the exit velocity of water leaving the nozzle is 260 km/h and, at any one time, there is in excess of six tonnes of water in the air.  Here is one more fact - it is switched off from midday until 2pm daily - so, having fought my way through the Free Tibet and Chinese Human Rights protests, I was disappointed to discover that it was now five minutes after twelve.  

At a lose end and, realising I was stood next to the National Capital Exhibition, I decided that it would be silly not to pop in.  The exhibition told the fascinating story of how Canberra came to be: how the fierce rivalry between Melbourne - then the largest city in Australia - and Sydney - the oldest - meant that neither would ever be fully accepted as the capital city of the newly federated Commonwealth of Australia.  A compromise had to be found and, after much discussion, it was decided that Melbourne would become the capital on a temporary basis whilst a new permanent capital was built between the two cities.  A competition to decide the location was held and the rules stated that the winner would be located in New South Wales but at least 100 miles from Sydney. 

The site was eventually chosen in 1908 and two years later the government of New South Wales ceded the area now known as the Australian Capital Territory to the Commonwealth Government.   A further competition was held to select a design for the new city and, eventually, the American architect Walter Burney Griffin was appointed to design the still nameless city in 1913.   Progress was painfully slow - admittedly the First World War didn’t help matters - and it wasn’t until 1927 that the original Parliament House opened.   One of the very first items of legislation dealt with in the new parliament was an act to repeal O’Malley’s prohibition laws which had meant that the ACT was dry.  I liked that a lot and I hoped that the politicians toasted their achievements with a cold beer.  Very Australian!.   

I’ve never really been much of a person for museums but I had been utterly enthralled by two in a single day - it was time for something different.   The National Carillion was a short drive away and, although it was entirely different in that it wasn’t a museum, it was precisely the same in that I had cocked up my timings and arrived to find everyone else leaving.  I had arrived right at the end of a recital which, initially, frustrated me but I soon realised that it was actually a blessing as I sat beneath a shady tree and admired the view across Lake Burley Griffin undisturbed by anyone.   On the shores people could be seen, randomly milling around, as if looking for somewhere they should be.  Clearly this was where the locals would spend their Sundays; picnicking, walking, jogging, soaking up the sun.  I found the whole thing rather intriguing and sat there trying to decide whether I could live there or not.  It wasn’t just an idle daydream - back in the seventies my parents had come close to emigrating to Canberra - but, although I loved the place, I just couldn’t imagine living in such a clinically clean and ordered place.  And, with that, the Captain Cook Memorial started up in the distance.

Back at the giant fountain I was disappointed to discover that the spectacle didn’t quite match up its impressive stats and, against such a large background canvas, 147m wasn’t actually so high.  Maybe I was being a little uncharitable (or maybe it was the fact I was wet through after the wind changed direction and blew six tonnes of airborne water right across those of us who were trying to take photos) but I decided not to dwell on it and headed off to Black Mountain which sits imposingly above the CBD.  The ascent to the summit was steep and winding but the view across the city proved to be rewarding.  I paid an exorbitant $7.50 to climb to the observation deck of the 195.2m Telstra Tower which sits proudly atop the mountain and, on reaching the top and realising the view was no different to that from the ground, promptly returned to my car and headed off out of town.

The drive from Canberra to Melbourne is 660km of particularly uninteresting tarmac so I had already decided to break the journey in the country town of Albury which lay roughly equidistant between the two.   It is the favoured place to break the journey for most people but I had a friend who lived in the town so it was a no-brainer for me.  Unfortunately, as I headed out of Canberra after a busy day, it was starting to get dark and I had no choice but to stop at the first motel I came across.  If you’ve never driven in Australia let me explain: unless you have a death wish (or a road train) you don’t drive after dark as the wildlife - and Australia has a lot of wildlife - has a tendency to come out and try to ruin your day.  Hitting a roo is sure to cause serious damage to your car and, if you are unlucky, yourself as it rolls up your bonnet and through your windscreen.  It is such a problem that rental car insurance is void for accidents after dark.

Continuing my drive the following morning I decided to stop off and visit Calder Raceway which was located just off the main highway.  Until that point I hadn’t encountered anyone who was truly unhelpful during my entire stay in Australia but the security guard on the gate at Calder made up for that in spades.   At one point I was unsure if he was going to set his dog on me (he was too fat and lazy to do anything himself) but eventually he settled on a verbal attack.  I have been thrown out of many places in my time but never by someone with a bigger attitude!

When I reached Melbourne I knew exactly where I was heading: the Immigration Museum which is located in the Old Customs House just along from Flinders Street Station.  What I didn’t know was where I was parking and, having circled the area half a dozen times looking for a parking spot (and carefully dodging the trams), I settled on an expensive private parking lot.  The museum proved to be fascinating; living up to the hype and well worth the expense (though, if you plan on going yourself, take the train!)  I found myself particularly touched by the stories of those who’d left everything they knew to spend six weeks on a disease ridden ship in search of a better life.  Being so far from home myself I couldn’t help but feel a connection to them but I knew I could be home in 24 hours if I decided I had to go.  They would more than likely never see home soil again after sailing out of Southampton.   It hit home what a huge deal it would be in those days to leave everything you have ever known - and everyone - to head off to a new life in a new land.

Strangely this started me thinking of what awaits me back at home and, for the first time in a long time, I started to feel confused: worried about what awaits me back home whilst, at the same time, feeling terribly homesick and alone.  It was apparent that a change of scene was what was needed and I headed off, a lot earlier than planned, towards Geelong where I am spending this evening before I head out on to the fabled Great Ocean Road tomorrow.  I can’t wait!

We arrived on the island with the engine running, as if arriving in France in 1944, and roared off the barge-the moment the ramp was down.  Throwing up plumes of sand as tore across the beach, we made straight for a gap in the mangroves and lurched onto a narrow track.  With trees rubbing along both sides of the truck we headed off through the wetlands, past an American wartime folly where they repeatedly attempted to construct an airstrip (they finally gave up three years after the war ended) and out to the shores of Lake Allom.   Fraser Island may be the world’s biggest sand island but the diverse ecology took us through a quickly changing landscape of wetland, sand dune and rain forest.  Despite the constant rolling and pitching of the truck - which was making me feel a little queasy - I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the place and smile at Henning’s amusing, self-effacing commentary.

The drive from the beach to Lake Allom was the longest (and toughest) piece of driving that we would do all day so it was great to be rewarded with the sight of dozens of freshwater turtles swimming in its red waters on our arrival.  The lake takes its colour from the trees growing around its shore and the entire scene, like much of the island, painted an other-worldly picture.  A couple of the guys decided to go for a dip but I preferred to keep my feet on dry land and, a few photos in the bag, I wandered back to the truck to discover that Henning had laid on tea, coffee and muffins to welcome us back.  As we awaited the return of the swimmers, the rest of the group excitedly chatted about what they’d seen already but Henning, knowing there was much more to come, simply smiled before wandering back to the truck and re-firing the engine - our signal that it was time to move on.

You can cross to Fraser Island from several points on the mainland but we soon learnt that, having crossed on the Urangan - Moon Point barge, we would have to cross the island at its widest point.  We would have to content with many miles of slow and trying sand roads before we would reach ‘the widest highway in the world’ - Seventy-Five Mile Beach.  I initially greeted this news with disappointment but, in the end, I actually think the crossing of inland Fraser Island was vital in offering us an insight into the real insight into the diversity of the island.  That’s not to say that our arrival on the soft sand of Cathedral Beach wasn’t a welcome moment and it was a real luxury to be able to tear along at 100km/hr.

After a stop at The Pinnacles - a section of coloured sand cliffs where many photos were taken - we turned into Dundubara where a feast of steak, fish and other goodies was being prepared for our lunch.  Henning finished this on the barbeque whilst we tucked into nibbles, drank beer and wine and got to know each other better.  It was a good group and the conversation flowed but soon our lunch was ready and we all tucked in with abandon.  To round off the meal a number of kangaroo steaks were cooked, cut into strips and passed around.  For the first time there was no-one turning their nose up and trying to make you feel guilty about enjoying the taste and I’m pretty sure everyone tucked in. 

After dinner was wrapped up and packed up we all hopped back onboard the truck and headed back through the dunes towards the highway (or, should I say; beach).  Our path back through the dunes was blocked by an embarrassed driver who had got his car bogged in the sand and we were forced to use the truck to put an end to our temporary incarceration.  As we watched his girlfriend gave him a serious ear-bashing from the passenger seat we all concluded that they could only have been English.  A very amusing moment but one which, according to Henning, is becoming a real nuisance on the island as it becomes more popular and visitor numbers increase. 

Also increasing on the island is the size of the dingo population.  This is something which, following the death of a nine-year old Brisbane boy at Waddy Point in 2001, has been worrying parents and park rangers alike.  After the fatal mauling, the rangers overreacted and panicked; going on the warpath - as if they were playing a part in a dodgy Hollywood movie - and massacring a large part of dingo population.  Eventually, after an uproar, they saw sense and admitted their mistake but it was too late for the poor dingoes that had been on the island for thousands of years.  It is always a sad event when someone dies - more so when it is a child - but, at the end of the day, they are wild animals and, when we go into their domain, you must take adequate precautions such as keeping your kids under direct supervision.  In the case of the poor lad on Fraser he had been left to play on his own and, when the dingoes approached he panicked, ran and then tripped.  The natural instincts of the animals kicked in and the result was never in doubt.  I don’t buy in to the ‘dangerous dingoes’ tag which flashed up on news bulletins around the country - if I’d have been the editor I would have run with ‘irresponsible parents’ - what the hell were they thinking?  I wonder if, on a visit to an environment inhabited by bears, would those parents still let their children run loose?  Sadly they probably would.

It’s not just kids that can come to grief on Fraser.  The passenger liner S.S Maheno was once said to be more luxurious than Titanic but, in the period following the Great Depression, there was a lack of passengers for the crossing of the Tasman Sea where she plied her trade.  Her owners, in an attempt to stave off financial difficulties, placed her up for sale.   There was just one interested party - a Japanese scrap yard - and she was decommissioned and the keys handed over.  As she was being towed to her final resting place a huge cyclone suddenly blew up, the tow line broke and she was washed ashore on the east coast of Fraser.  A party of salvagers arrived from Japan with the intention to refloat her but they took one look and declared that she wasn’t going anywhere.  They removed anything that had any salvageable value - holding an auction right there on the beach - and then left.  In the war years she was used for target practice by the Australian air force (not their finest moment as, if rumours are to be believed, 200 bombs were dropped with just two actually being on target) but she was left in peace afterwards to slowly rust away.  The rangers estimate that there are another five or ten years left before the once great liner is gone.  Whilst she survives she makes a striking sight sat on the beautiful white sand whilst trucks straight from the Paris - Dakar Rally roar past at 100 km/h and flightseeing planes take off mere metres away.

Eli Creek - a fast-moving crystal-clear torrent delivering millions of litres of freshwater each hour into the ocean - was our next stop and, after a paddle down it’s fast moving (and icy cold) waters we headed to nearby Happy Valley for tea and cakes and to warm up.  It was then time for the long trudge back across the island which we break halfway with a walk through the rainforest area.  Everyone is fascinated by the contradiction of rainforest and sand dunes within such a small distance but Henning does a fine job at explaining how this could happen.  Of course, with so many different nationalities within the group, it took a little time to explain such a complex situation and, by the time that he had, we were pushed for time if we were to make the 5pm deadline for us to board the barge which would return us to the mainland. 

Confident that it will not go without us - there are three trucks from the Fraser Island Company going back to the mainland and only one of them had successfully arrive back at the barge - and we carried on at a sensible but not particularly urgent pace.  Suddenly the situation changed and, as we were passing through the wetland area, Henning pulled the truck to an abrupt stop.  He handed back a bottle of insect repellent - surrounded by swamp, we couldn’t have stopped in a worse place for bugs - before jumping down from his cab and leaping into action.  Losing a tyre wasn’t a rare occurrence, he explained as he worked furiously to remedy the situation, but it usually happened at a more opportune moment.  It was obvious from the way he was going at his task - he wouldn’t have looked out of place if he was wearing Prodrive Subaru overalls - that he had done this a hundred times before but, despite digging down, he just couldn’t get a patch of ground which would support the weight of the truck.

A huge roar could be heard approaching from behind - it was the third and final truck heading for the barge - causing the passengers milling around in the road to jump out of the way.  As he pulled to a stop behind us, the other driver was already calling back to base on his satellite phone to alert them and then he too leapt from his cab and started working furiously beneath our truck.  It may have been a nervous moment for some - talk was turning to missed dinner reservations that evening - but it was fantastic to see these two guys working as a team to get us back home. 

We eventually made the barge - arriving twenty minutes late - but the vehicle ramp was already up and we had to abandon both trucks on the beach and run onboard.  Once we were all aboard, and the boat was backing off the beach, we asked Henning what would have happened if we’d missed the barge.  He explained, when they’d missed it in the past, the company had chartered the 100km/hr whale watching boat ‘Awesome’ to get everyone back home in time for tea and, on one memorable occasion, had three planes land on the beach to ferry the passengers home.  Our expressions must have turned from relief to have made the boat to downright disappointment right there but then, if we’d been sped back to the mainland, we’d have missed out on the fantastic sunset to which we bore witness: a beautiful end to an amazing and thoroughly memorable day.  The Fraser Island Company is a small family concern but their attention to detail and customer care was second to none - I only wish that I’d signed up for the two or three day trips so that I could have spent more time with them.

My final day in Hervey Bay saw me heading back to Urangan Harbour to meet up with the Perry family who would be taking us out on ‘Awesome’ - the insanely fast boat that we almost got to ride the previous evening - to go find some whales.  Everyone had been telling us that the whales had gone but the Perry’s insisted they could find us some; or they would give us a full refund.  Despite this guarantee there were just nine of us on board as we slipped out of the harbour and opened up the four 300bhp engines.  We were soon tearing past the two big green 4wd trucks that we’d abandoned on the beach and pressed on into deeper waters as went in search of the Humpback whales.  The whales stop off annually in the sheltered waters of Hervey Bay whilst returning home from their annual migration to the warm waters of Northern Australian waters where they mate and calve.  I don’t know about you but if I was halfway through an 11,000km swim back home to the Antarctic I would probably fancy stopping off for a rest too.

Around twenty minutes out of the harbour we spotted something in the distance and Sarah - our skipper for the day - swung the boat round to the left.  Within seconds we were upon them.  She cut the engines and we sat there, bobbing up and down in the water, wondering what was going to happen next.  We would soon find out as a whale leapt clean out of the water - scaring the life out of most of the passengers who leapt backwards from the side of the boat - before it spun around and crashed down with huge splash just metres away from the boat.  It had been one hell of an entrance and everyone was waiting for the next act: but nothing happened!  Sarah explained that the pod was beneath the boat and turned up the sound on the hydrophone so that we could hear them singing.  It was a magical sound but one which was suddenly interrupted by another pod of Humpbacks fifty metres away. 

Suddenly, as if trying to outdo each other, the two pods put on a stunning performance - one which was worthy of an Oscar at the very least.  After almost an hour of tail slapping, breaching and singing under the boat, it was one which no-one on board will forget in a hurry.  That included a beaming Sarah who, despite shrugging it off as being ‘all in a day’s work’, was as excited as the rest of us.  She may not have been hanging over the side, camera firing away like a machine gun, but she was as moved as everyone else at the amazing show.  We would eventually see five pods before our time was up and we had to head back to the harbour.   Just after we sighted the mainland Sarah came forward and asked “is everyone up for a bit of fun?”  We weren’t quite sure what she had in mind but we agreed anyway. 

We were instructed to hold on tight and this was followed by a 1200bhp roar from the engines as the throttles were thrown wide open.  We thought that we’d been travelling pretty fast up until then but instantly we were flying along at what seemed like an impossible speed, passing everything on the water.  Once we’d cleared all the other boats she started to pitch the boat from left to right to demonstrate just how stable it was but then, suddenly, the noise stopped and we sunk back into the water.  Surprised - thinking she’d broken the boat - we turned round to discover that someone hadn’t been holding on very well at all: he’d banged his head on the side of the boat and almost toppled overboard!  He’d scared himself (and Sarah) silly and it put a sudden end to our fun but it was a memorable (and somewhat amusing) end to an amazing morning.  As we were returned to our accommodation our driver - Sarah’s mum, Jill enquired with a straight face, “so, everyone’s been telling me the whales have all gone…?”  If they really believed that then they must have had a bang to the head.

I spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the sun on the campground and reading my Lonely Planet.  Originally I’d planned to spend just one or maybe two nights in Hervey Bay but, by the time I checked out the following morning, I had been there for four.  It was just one of those places which somehow drag you in. 

Way back when I was planning the trip from the comfort of my armchair I had nonchalantly decided to drive all the way up to Cairns (according to my trusty UBD Atlas of Australia Cairns is 2395 km from Sydney).  I knew that it would be a push to get there and back in the time that I had available to me but I was determined to give it a go.   I wasn’t helped by losing those four days to mechanical breakdown but the reality of it was that, in the end, I just didn’t see the point - my attitude had changed from a tourist - intent on zooming around seeing everything - to a traveller happy to go with the flow.  I made it just about halfway but wasn’t too fazed.  It simply gave me another reason to come back again!

I was supposed to visit Brisbane ‘on the way up’ and plans were afoot to meet up with Dan and his parents for a meal but I never made it due to the mechanical gremlins.  I made it this time around but didn’t arrive until late in the afternoon and, having spent two hours driving from campground to campground in a vain attempt to find one with a TV room (where I could watch the Grand Prix that night), I ran out of time to do any sight-seeing. Eventually I checked myself into a cheap motel for the night and vowed to check out the city the following morning.

I got some odd looks from the other guests at the motel when I drove up in a camper van but I wasn’t gonna miss seeing the race just to save a bunch of curtain-twitchers from having to put on their best confused look.  As we all know now, Lewis finally (that sounds insane being it was only his second year in the job) became World Champion.  It was worth getting up at 3am to see him achieve his dream and become the youngest champion in history (did you see the look on Alonso’s face?) and the fact that it was all decided at the final corner of the final lap of the final race of the season made it all the sweeter.  I am sure those confused faces were in evidence again when, just before 6am, I could surely be heard throughout the block jumping up and down on my bed and shouting at the top of my voice.  Sorry guys.

Early on the Tuesday morning, proudly wearing my McLaren shirt, I could be found heading south to the workshops of Dick Johnson Racing where Cam had kindly offered to give me a tour of the facility.  Unfortunately, some time before I arrived, the team and cars had departed for their next race in Bahrain which was most inconsiderate of them, I have to say. I had to console myself with checking out the team’s small museum instead before heading inland to the renowned Lamington National Park where I had arranged to camp for the night.  The drive up the mountain would have been a spectacular drive if it had not been for slow campervan what I was driving so I had to content myself with admiring the view as I rose up into the clouds.

I did a number of hikes before - in the middle of the rain forest, would you believe - the heavens opened and I had to don full waterproofs and make my way back to the camper as quickly as I could to avoid being washed out to sea.  I spent the remainder of the afternoon huddled inside the campervan before emerging, when the rain had finally subsided, to go and admire one of the most abundant collections of wildlife to be found anywhere in Australia.  Wallabies were to be found hopping around in huge numbers whilst flocks of rare and colourful birds flapped overhead.  It made quite a spectacle.

Once the sun went down I was able to spend time admiring the clear night sky - Lamington NP is one of those rare places unaffected by light pollution from our towns and cities - and marvel at the stars on display.  The following morning I was surprised to awake to heavy clouds which stopped you from  seeing more than a couple of metres and, with it looking set for the day, it pretty much brought a premature end to my visit to Lamington and Tamborine National Parks.  I decided to head instead for Byron Bay but, as I got closer, the weather was still poor and I carried on driving instead before I finally stopped for the night just outside of Coffs Harbour.

Now ahead of schedule I found myself driving off the campground the next morning with no idea of where I was going.  I stopped for petrol and got chatting to a bunch of guys who were heading north who recommended a campground where they’d spent the previous evening.  It was about five hours away which meant a nice short day and about the same amount of time to kill before I needed to arrive.  Nothing jumped out at me on my map as a likely place to stop - even my trusty Lonely Planet failed to come up trumps - so I figured I’d just drive and see what happened.

Halfway between Coffs Harbour and Port Macquarie I spotted a sign pointing off the highway to the wonderfully named Hat Head National Park.  Before I had time to digest the name - or what it may mean - my indicator had come on and I was turning off the main road.  I blindly followed the road for 20km with no idea where it would take me before I eventually emerged at an area known locally as The Gap.  There were beautiful views of the ocean and I knew that I had to explore.  First I trudged down to Conners Beach then, 50 photographs later, I decided to try the 3.2km Korogoro Walking Track.  It was very ‘up-and-downy’ so you had to sing for your supper but, footstep for footstep, it had to be the most rewarding hike that I have done in Australia; maybe even on my entire trip.  It was utterly beautiful and worth every drop of sweat which, given the changeable east coast weather had swung back to 30-degree plus mode, was a lot. 

It was rewarding too to realise that, even when you have no idea what direction you are heading, things have a habit of working out for the best if you keep your eyes open and go with the flow.  I will try very hard to remember that when I am back in the UK; cold, fed-up and jobless!  As someone very wise once said: everything happens for a reason!

Despite all of the problems in the early part of the trip I was really gonna miss the freedom of the camper van and it was a sad moment when I handed the keys back to Dirk and made my way back to the station for my trip back into Sydney.  It had been a disastrous start but, against all odds, it turned out to be one of the most memorable parts of the whole of my trip.  It also marked the end of my pre-planned itinerary so, for the final 45 days of my trip (how did that happen?), I’ll be winging it like a proper backpacker… watch this space!

I was keen to end my first day on the road nice and early so that I could get used to the evening set-up routine whilst it was still light.  After brief photo stops at the Observatory, on the Northern Shore and at St Kilda’s Luna Park, I found myself heading towards Wyrrabalong National Park out on the coast.  It wasn’t that there was anything in particular there that I wanted to visit - in fact I don’t think that there actually was anything to visit - it was simply the right distance out of town and, well, I had to stop somewhere.  I decided to forego the tempting prospect of a visit to the Australian Reptile Park and instead headed straight to Dunleith Tourist Park in the wonderfully named town of The Entrance.  I was sure glad not to be sleeping in my tent that night as the most spectacular electrical storm blew up  and I have no doubt that both me and the tent would have floated off into the sea in the rain which followed.

It had been suggested that an inland route along the New England Highway was the best route to take up to Surfers Paradise - it was said to be far more scenic than the Pacific Highway - and the following morning saw me heading out through Singleton and Muswellbrook to Tamworth where I had planned on spending the night.  For some reason, having arrived in the self-proclaimed Nashville of Australia, I felt compelled to press on a little further and ended up in the small country town of Armidale.  It was a pleasant evening - I cooked a nice meal and had good neighbours in the form of Brad and Pammy from Coffs Harbour who suggested a couple of places to check out as I made my way north - and I went to bed happy.

All that changed the next day when, just a couple of kilometres out of the campground, the camper ground to a sudden and abrupt halt and refused to restart.  After trying everything that I could think of - including swearing at it - I decided that I really had to phone for some assistance and called Dirk at Keen As Campers.  He apologised profusely and called out the NRMA (the Australian version of the RAC) who arrived quickly and broke the news that the problem wasn’t fixable by the roadside.  Soon a wrecker arrived and towed me off to a nearby workshop which was staffed by the most disinterested bunch of monkeys that I ever had the displeasure to deal with.

It took the entire day for them to diagnose the problem but the news wasn’t too bad: it was a simple matter of replacing the ignition coil.  The problem was, due to the remote location, a replacement would take another 48 hours to arrive.  Now Armidale wasn’t a bad town - I had walked right around it, twice - but I really didn’t want to be stuck there any longer than I absolutely had to be.  Especially as it was bitterly cold and, unseasonably, snowing (the TV news reported that it was the coldest October day for 45 years) but I didn’t seem to be in much of a position to argue.  It wasn’t all bad news though: Dirk had bought the ‘Gold’ option when joining the NRMA and I found myself with a rental car and put up in a nice local hotel for a couple of nights.  I’d much rather have been on my way to Surfers Paradise but as I sat in my nice warm room, with the miserable weather outside, I did wonder if being confined to barracks wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Determined to make the most of my ‘lost’ day I headed off to check out a few local national parks the following morning.  When I say a few what I really mean to say is, well, five!  Oxley Wild Rivers NP, New England NP, Cathedral Rock NP, Guy Fawkes River NP and Cunnawarra NP were very scenic but, in reality, they would be called State Parks in any other country (later that evening I discovered that New South Wales has over 200 National Parks within its borders!) so they were pretty limited in options and were quickly ticked off the list.  I headed back to the workshop just before it closed and was delighted to discover that a new coil had been sourced from elsewhere and we were back in business.  I dropped the rental car back, collected the camper and headed for my second night in the hotel.  I could have headed off a couple of hours down the road and in any other country I would have done just that but this isn’t any other country.  In Australia it is not advisable to drive at night as the local wildlife has a penchant for wandering (well, hopping) into your path as drive along minding your own business.  And that is really going to ruin your day - just as much as theirs - when they are quite as bulky and unpredictable as they are.

The drive to Surfers Paradise was around 500 km and would take much of the day so I checked out and headed off early on Friday morning.  My route took me back along the Waterfall Way (the route that I’d travelled the previous day) before turning on to the 106km back route from Ebor to Grafton.  I hadn’t realised just what a tricky proposition this section would present - particularly the section through Nimboi-Binderay National Park - and would have given anything to be in a well prepared Lotus rather than the lumbering beast that I was driving!  But I made it to the end and turned on to the Pacific Highway to complete my journey north.

Shortly after passing Byron Bay the exhaust note started to deepen and sound a little more ‘manly’.  But there was no stopping me now - I had to get up to Surfers Paradise before the end of day (I had missed two days of the meeting already) - and I’d worry about this new problem in a couple of hours once I’d arrived.  Life is never that simple, of course, and it would take me more than a couple of hours to get there as going up a hill, with huge road trains bearing down on me, the van started to misfire and the engine died.  I managed to re-fire it for long enough to drag it to the top of the hill from where I was able to coast down the other side and roll into a rest area before it died again.  My attempts to re-fire the van were starting to draw a crowd and, realising I wasn’t going anywhere quickly; I hit the steering wheel with my head.  It didn’t help.  One of the spectators wandered up - smoking something which in most countries will get you arrested - and lent me his mobile phone to call Dirk again.  He suggested a couple of things to try but we had no choice but to resort to calling the NRMA. 

The guy arrived quickly enough but his attitude wasn’t helpful in the least: when the van re-fired on the first turn of the key he shrugged his shoulders before announcing, “seeing there’s nothing for me to fix I might as well get going.”  Gee, fella, thanks.   I pressed him for suggestions and he eventually settled on the idea that the hot gasses from the leaking manifold were causing the fuel in the system to evaporate and the engine to cut out.  It seemed plausible - especially as I was now underway again - and I headed off with the passenger seat (which doubles as the engine cover) cranked open to aid airflow to the engine.  The noise and the heat were pretty much unbearable but I eventually made it to my destination.  The looks from pedestrians were mildly amusing but the looks from the police as I drove through the centre of Surfers Paradise were less so.  I think I was quite lucky to get away with that one! 

I finally pulled into my home for the next four nights - Broadwater Tourist Park - around four hours later than planned.  To celebrate, I headed to the liquor store across the street to pick up a bottle of Jack.  In deference to the sponsors of the DJR team, I decided to change the habit of a lifetime and picked up a bottle of Jim Beam instead.   After such an epic effort to get there, it went down an absolute treat!

Raceday came and I was somehow less than excited about the prospect.  I’d spent the previous day up at the circuit and I was soon to learn that it was no Bathurst when it came to viewing possibilities.  I was relieved that I‘d booked a grandstand seat - something that I very rarely do as I like to roam around the circuit - otherwise I wouldn’t have stood a chance of getting so much as a sniff of the cars much less actually being able to see them.  Of course, if I hadn’t been able to see them, I wouldn’t have been so disappointed in the procession that played out in front of my eyes.  Still, after such a run of great racing experiences, I shouldn’t be complaining. And, despite the lack of action on-track, we did get the odd bit of entertainment such as Fabien Coulthard running off the road in front of us and causing a log jam of cars whilst the officials did a laughable job of sorting the problem out. 

The best bit of the day?  It was tough to decide between the unbelievable pre-race air display, the crazy Red Bull motorbike stunt team and the lump-in-the-throat when they sang the national anthems.  But the winner was… the return to what I would know as Australian weather - and it was about time after the cold, rain and snow of recent days!

The weather just got better and better for the next couple of days which is more than can be said for my mood.   Dirk had booked the van in to a local garage for 8am on Monday morning to have the manifold fixed but I didn’t get it back until 4pm that afternoon.  I’d decided that morning, as I drove across town to drop the camper off, that I would take the bike that I had rented and explore town but, having done a couple of laps of the Indy circuit - now re-opened to traffic - the wheels came off that idea.  Actually, it wasn’t the wheels; it was the pedals.  Yes, believe it or not, the bloody pedals fell off the bike and I was forced to walk back to the garage and wait it out.   Eventually I managed to persuade the Neanderthal that was charged with fixing it to, erm, fix it and I headed back across town to the campground in blissful silence and sat on the beach to soak up the sun for the last few hours of the day.

When I woke on Tuesday morning I was in a far better frame of mind and hurriedly packed up the van and headed north towards my next destination: Australia Zoo.  This was one of the first places on my ‘must visit’ list when I decided to come to Australia so I was happy to put the mechanical disasters behind me and be finally heading in that direction.  Besides, overnight I had received an email from Dirk apologising again for all the problems and offering a $500 discount on the rental.  I was very happy with that - he didn’t have to offer anything at all - but he was really looking after me as he had all along.  I admire that.  As I said in my reply to him, “the true mark of a company is not that these problems never happen, it is how they are dealt with”, and he dealt with them admirably every time.  

20km down the road the unbelievable happened: I broke down again!  Dirk called out the RACQ and, sensing my frustration, he also sent a mobile mechanic to make sure the problem was fixed once and for all.  The guy from the RACQ determined that the problem lay with an intermittent spark and, as the guy0 from the NRMA had before, announced that there was nothing that could be done at the roadside and that I would have to be towed in to the workshop again.  I could have cried.  With that - like a knight in shining armour - the mobile mechanic arrived and quickly spotted the problem.  Unbelievably it went back to the cretins who fitted the replacement parts back in Armidale who, despite having the thing for two days, neglected to tighten two electrical terminals properly.  My heartfelt thanks must go to Graham Betts Holden of Armidale for making such a tits arse of what should have been a simple job and ruining four days of my holiday.  Regardless, I was now on the road, and I felt mighty relief at that. 

As I hit the road again, with the van now running better than ever, I suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of freedom.  I continued north but, as it was now too late in the day to head for Australia Zoo, I stopped at a visitor centre to seek their advice on what I could do for the rest of the day.  A visit to Glasshouse Mountains National Park was suggested and, although never having heard of it, I was suitably intrigued to go and visit.  I was very pleased that I did as the collection of 20 million year old volcanic cones presented a stunning sight emerging as they did, Jurassic Park style, from the flat green surroundings. I was able to get a little bit of proper hiking in and it felt good to take out my pent up aggression on the hill!

 I am sure that we’ve all seen Steve Irwin’s appearances on TV and most of us will have felt that we knew him to some degree - me included - so it was a fantastic feeling to finally drive through the gates of Australia Zoo.  The Irwin family have built up an amazing facility and, even though I don’t normally like zoos (I don’t like to see animals caged up), this one was very well done.  All of the animals were very well cared for and had plenty of room to roam around and live as natural a life as possible.  Some of the enclosures - though not the ones containing the Bengal tigers or crocs, for obvious reasons - were open for the public to wander through at their leisure.  Push through a big metal gate and you suddenly find yourself in kangaroo country.  I thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience; even though I kept imagining I might bump into Steve as he went about his business.  I felt sad in the realisation that it was something that was never gonna happen and I only wish that I had been able to visit a couple of years ago.  Wherever you are, Steve, you did those animals proud.

Before I headed off from Australia Zoo I sat in the car park for some time looking at my travel guide and my road atlas.  I really wanted to push on north to visit the Great Barrier Reef but the reality was starting to sink in: with the lost days, it was simply too far.  I couldn’t make my mind up which direction to head and, eventually, settled on closing my eyes and pointing to a random point on the map.  When I opened them again, my finger was sat right in the middle of Hervey Bay - four hours away - so off I went.  Energised by my day with the animals I completed the drive in one sitting and arrived on the Happy Wander Campground just as the office was closing for the evening.  Even though I had delayed his departure for the evening the guy was happy to stop and chat as he checked me in.  When I mentioned that I fancied heading over to Fraser Island, he even offered to call and book me a slot. His enthusiasm was infectious and I knew then that I was gonna enjoy my stay in Hervey Bay.

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!