Boogity, boogity, boogity...

I don’t know what it is with us Brits - maybe there is some sort of chemical imbalance - but we do seem to have a strange desire to hire a camper van when we travelling around Australia.  I don’t like to play up to a stereotype but, here I was, Pacific Highway… in a camper van.  I wasn’t trying to be ironic or predictable - it just didn’t make sense not to.  It all started when I decided to head up to the Gold Coast for the Indy 300 race weekend at Surfers Paradise and, having booked my race tickets, I was shocked to discover the average room rate in town was running at around 500 bucks a night whilst the race was in town.  Being the tight arse that I am, I wasn’t prepared to pay that and frantically scoured the internet for alternatives.  I soon discovered that I could get a camper van for three entire weeks for less than the cost of two nights in a hotel in Surfers.  It was a no-brainer.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’d only been in Sydney for a few hours before I was heading out of town again.  It wasn’t that I had a problem with the place - far from it - I was heading three hours west to the town of Bathurst.  It wasn’t a randomly timed visit - I was heading to the Mount Panorama Circuit to see an Australian icon: the Supercheap Autos Bathurst 1000.  The race is Australian motorsports FA Cup Final, Grand National and Superbowl all rolled into one and Huge with a capital H.  Even I hadn’t appreciated just how huge until I saw the TV schedule for race day - it was simple - everything else was cancelled for the day.

My route out to Bathurst took me through the Blue Mountains National Park and I couldn’t resist stopping several times to check out the scenery.  A short while down the road I turned off the main highway and headed towards the abandoned race track of Catalina Park.   It presented an incongruous sight surrounded as it was by a school, a leisure centre and people going about their everyday life as if it had never existed.  It was a narrow track and, although it didn’t seem to offer many opportunities for overtaking, it looked like it would have been one hell of a challenge to drive.  The track fell out of favour as safety standards increased but there are rumours that plans are afoot to bring it up to date and reopen it.  Personally I think this is a pipe dream but good luck to the guys behind it if they can make it happen.  For the moment it remains a surreal experience to walk the track and imagine the cars and stars of yesteryear doing battle where now there is just a ribbon of old tarmac.  There really can’t be many places where you can just roll up, walk through a gate and step back into another age.

Much as I was enjoying the step back into time, Bathurst was an itch that needed scratching and I hurried back to the car to start the final leg of the drive.  Much like at Phillip Island the previous weekend, accommodation in Bathurst is at a premium on race weekend - some friends went a couple of years ago and thought they’d done well to find accommodation in the town of Orange: 50km further on to the west - but, once again, Leonie at Motorsport Travel in Adelaide had come up trumps for me.  It had been organised that I would stay at the Bathurst Sheep and Cattle Drome which was a short drive from the circuit.  As its name suggests, it wasn’t particularly salubrious - in fact the overcrowded dorm rooms weren’t salubrious in the slightest - but it’s all about the location and the ‘bunkhouse’, as Leonie referred to it, certainly had location going for it!

It had been a dream to attend the ‘Great Race’ since way back when I can remember watching the Walkinshaw Jaguars taking it to the locals when I was a kid so rolling into town and seeing the ‘Welcome to Bathurst sign was almost emotional.  Having made it to the opposite side of the globe I wasn’t about to waste any time and, as soon as I was checked in at the Bunkhouse, I excitedly headed down to the circuit.   Sometimes you can overhype these occasions but I wasn’t to be disappointed.

It isn’t often that I do three or more days at a circuit these days but I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to get a real taste of this place.  At 6.213 km it is a lengthy track but the real character of the place comes from the amazing public roads which make up the circuit.  For the 360 days a year that it’s not being used for racing they form a popular tourist attraction known collectively as ‘The Mount Panorama Scenic Drive’ but, to race fans worldwide, they will always be Skyline, The Chase, The Dipper, Conrod.  Or, simply: Bathurst. 

I spent the day wandering the lower part of the circuit and taking photo, getting a feel for the place and generally having a good time.  Once the last car had returned to pitlane I headed off to visit the museum which has been established on the final corner of the circuit.  As a Brit I didn’t expect to find much anything that would be relevant to the British motorsport scene but was surprised to discover a small selection of Supertouring cars of the type that had seen the BTCC rise to pre-eminence as the premier touring category for a decade.  If that wasn’t your cup of tea there was all manner of other interesting cars on display: pride of place going to Peter Brock’s famous Marlboro-sponsored #05 machine.  Oh, and my day was complete when I discovered they had one of those Jaguars that I remembered from all those years ago.

After a very poor night sleep, thanks to a couple of noisy snorers in the dorm room, I headed back to the circuit early and grabbed an hour of sleep in the car before heading back through the gates.  At 8am it was already busy and a party atmosphere was brewing amongst the crowd, many of whom had been camping at the track for several days.  I had been dissuaded from doing this as it has something of a reputation of total lawlessness - especially at the top of The Mountain - truth be told it couldn’t have been any further from the truth.  I have been to races at Talladega and at Le Mans - they can be pretty wild at times - and was expecting the same from Bathurst but, after a crackdown by Police in recent years, it was a very tame experience which I actually found to be a bit of a shame.  Half the fun of these events is the atmosphere - good and bad - but then I guess that’s the way of the world in this day and age when everything has to be PC.

The racing kicked off with a cracking Mini race which featured such ‘international superstars’ as Matt Neal and Boris Said (the programmes words… not mine!) alongside the regular field.  In fairness to Matt - who I don’t particularly rate - he was going great guns, unafraid to use his door handles to battle his way to the front of the field, where he remained - driving the widest Mini ever built - until two corners from the end where he was rudely barged onto the grass and out of the race by the regulars.  I couldn’t believe I had come all this way to watch the BTCC but it was great fun and even the local crowd, brought up on a diet of fire-breathing 5-litre V8 monsters were lapping it up.  The atmosphere increased exponentially when this was followed up with a breathtaking race for the ever-popular Utes.  I could barely wait for the main event the following day!

The climb to the top of Mount Panorama is so long and steep that must take a bus.  Even with this welcome assistance the rise seemed endless and you could be forgiven for thinking it was never ending; that perhaps you are going all the way to gates of heaven.  As I stepped from the bus I was greeted with a sight that made me think for a moment that I’d done just that.  The view from the top of The Mountain was impressive enough but add in some of the most spectacular racetrack to be found anywhere in the world and any petrol head would have been in awe.  Everywhere was a stunning photograph waiting to happen.

Having flattened the battery on my camera I spent the rest of the day at the top of The Mountain, just wandering around, taking in the scenery and chatting with many other fans; some of whom had been coming for 20 or 30 years.  They complained at the heavy-handedness of the Police this year but said they would still be back next year.  And who can blame them for putting up with a bit of authority?  If you are a race fan and you have never been to Bathurst then I plead with you now: move it right to the top of your ‘to do’ list and get yourself there next year.  Sod the expense and just do it. 

On the way out of the circuit I picked up some earplugs for back at ‘the bunkhouse’ which worked a treat and I had a far better sleeps sleep.  Nonetheless I was woken on at 430am on raceday morning by a commotion in the dorm.  It seems that some of the guys in the dorm thought this was a perfect time to leave for the circuit.  As I wandered the track all day - and never had a problem in getting a good view of the action - I have no idea why they had to be up so early but, now wide awake, I begrudgingly followed them down the road.  I parked my car in the car park before grabbing my customary hours sleep.  I don’t think I would have survived the day if I hadn’t.

The race was a breathtaking spectacle and the experience, unlike some elsewhere, felt as if it were over in no time at all.  I had a grandstand seat but spent all but the first half an hour of the race wandering the top of The Mountain, enjoying the show.  As had been the case all weekend everyone was so friendly towards me and, by the time I hopped back on the bus for the dash back to the finish line to see Craig Lowndes and Jamie Whinchup take their third straight victory.  I was glowing (I’m not talking about the sun).  I’d got some decent photos - including the moment when Mark Skaife put his car in the wall at the start of Conrod and all but confirmed his enforced retirement from the sport next year - and had loved every minute of it.

As in Singapore I was one of the first onto the track as the chequered flag dropped but that was where things changed.  There was no respect for the law here - people had come equipped with wire cutters and knives to aid their quest for souvenirs - and by the time I made it to the start of pitlane the first of the souvenir hunters was making their way out again with a huge 4 metre long sign.  One of the teams had been slow to pack away their pitlane equipment and they literally had to lever people off of the refuelling rig to stop them thieving it.  As one team member I spoke to later in the day said, “If it ain’t bolted down… steal it.  That’s what Bathurst is all about for these animals.”  It was absolutely crazy but, at last, I was beginning to see a little of that old Bathurst spirit shining through. 

I hung around the paddock for a couple of hours after the race before heading again for the delights of the bunkhouse.  Unable to face the anticipated noise and commotion back at the dorm I stopped off in town for a couple of hours but was pleased, when I finally headed for ‘home, to finally get to meet Leonie who was every bit as crazy as I hoped she would be!  I equally pleased to learn that a large group of group of guys from the dorm had made a break for home but, when I headed for bed, I would learn that ‘the snorers’ were unfortunately not amongst them.  I slept well regardless - it had been one hell of a long and tiring weekend - and dreamt of a long lie-in the following morning.  It wasn’t to be as another group of guys who were about to head home insisted on clattering and shouting their way around the dorm in an apparent attempt to piss off those of us who were still sleeping.  It worked.  If it hadn’t been for someone else beating me to it I would have given them some serious verbal.  Unfortunately, after all the excitement, I was now wide awake and found myself heading off again as the sun came up.  It had been an unforgettable weekend but I really wasn’t sorry to see the back of the Bunkhouse.

I’d been told that the circuit would revert to being the Mount Panorama Scenic Drive overnight and I rather fancied putting the rental car through its paces so I headed back up there before heading off.  Unfortunately - or, for the car, fortunately - it remained closed to the public and, no matter how hard I tried, there was no way that I could find a way on so I drove to the top of The Mountain once again, parked up in the aftermath of what yesterday had been the campground, and headed off on foot instead.  If it had appeared spectacular from the spectator side of the fence then, from the drivers side, the narrow canyon plunging downhill between two unforgiving concrete walls was utterly insane.  It was a good workout to hike down (more precisely back up) the hill but I thoroughly enjoyed imagining what it must be like to race a fire breathing monster car flat out through there for 1000km.  Subconsciously I was quite relieved that I couldn’t get the car out there as I feel sure that I would have, at the very least, knocked a mirror off as I attempted the perfect line over Brocks Skyline and down through The Dipper.

Having lost several hours waiting for an engineer in a Laundromat in town, after a power outage had seen a machine ‘eat’ my clothes, I headed out of Bathurst one last time.  It was a sad moment but I left with a smile on my face as, not for the first time, I marvelled at the difference between Australian and British people.  Back home there would have been a riot; the door of the machine would have been stoved in and, very probably, the Laundromat torched for good measure.  In Australia the other guys whose clothes had been temporarily incarcerated simply shrugged their shoulders and settled in for the arrival of the engineer.  It turned into a full-on social event and I left with a dozen new friends and tips on an interesting route back to Sydney…  I am seriously dreading going ‘home’.

Traffic out of town was a little busy but nothing to stress over and, after being briefly detained at a rest area where Police were conducting roadside breath tests,  I was soon on my way towards Lithgow.  From there I was to take the back road through the Blue Mountains NP to Windsor and then cut down to Glenbrook before spending the afternoon exploring that area of the park at great length.  It was a memorable afternoon as, having visited numerous beautiful vistas, I decided - seeing I was unable to put the car through its paces on the circuit that morning - to conduct some off-road handling tests instead.  The unpaved roads within the park were decidedly bumpier than expected but, putting aside the occasional grinding or groaning noise from under the car, she passed with flying colours.

As the sun set I arrived, once again, back amidst the bright lights of Sydney.  I took a little bit of a drive around town - marvelling that just 90 minutes earlier I had been enjoying the serenity of being 25-km down a dirt road in the middle of a remote national park - before heading back, past the famous Coca Cola sign of Kings Cross, to Dan’s apartment.  On my arrival there was a very large Jim Beam and Coke waiting for me - the perfect end to a fantastic few days - this truly was living the dream!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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