Manly Beach

Sydney

If flying into Cairns was like entering Jurassic Park then landing at Sydney airport is rather like being in the opening credits of ‘Coast’, all craggy rock formations and cobalt sea. In fact there is an abundance of sea and it gets closer and closer. So close you start to think maybe you are actually in ‘Miracle on Hudson’ not ‘Coast’ and very soon Tom Hanks would be ushering you to an emergency exit where you would bounce down an inflatable slide into the arms of Charlton Heston while Shelly Winters swims underneath the plane to save the drinks trolley. But, like all good disaster movies, just in the last few seconds, as Steve McQueen staggers from the building the tarmac suddenly appears!

My first glimpse of Sydney Opera house and the bridge was from Circular Quay station where emerging from the underground you gaze straight out onto two of the most iconic structures on the planet. It’s an ooo, ahhh moment when a shiver of excitement runs through you and the hairs on your arms stand on end.

 

 

 

 

I spent my first day just wandering around the quay gawping at the majesty of the place. There is a little quarter known as ‘The Rocks’ which is a collection of cobbled streets, dock buildings, original inns and an array of artisan market stalls. It all had a familiar air but you really know you’re back in a big city when you find someone painted head to toe in gold, imagining they are a statue. Why?! Why? It made me nostalgic for mime artists, if only he pretended to climb a ladder or get stuck behind a piece of glass! As it was I kept my change safely in my purse and walked on possibly muttering ‘there’s nothing to see here’, or ‘pointless nonsense, move on morons’, something nice and polite like that. Thankfully I found Captain Cook at last, (who was at least helping people choose a harbour cruise) so that was some relief.

 

 

Woolloomooloo

One of my main reasons for visiting the harbour was for its historical interest and in my case, personal historical interest. My grandfather, Bob, greatest grandad ever, cockney charmer who taught me how to whistle with my fingers, play cards, love jazz and always to walk on the sunny side of the street. Known to everyone as Bob (real name John Francis!) he served in the Royal Navy during World War II. As the war ended Bob found himself in Australia and in his own words:

’we tied up at a place that was the dock area of Sydney, called, Woolloomooloo, once tied alongside, the passengers began to disembark. The Aussies prisoners of war were first off and there were coaches lining the dockyard to take them wherever, this took some time. When all the coaches left, up came the lorries with R.N painted on the sides and there we were on the upper deck with our kit and everything we owned at the ready. The inevitable petty officer with clipboard and usual patter called out our names down we went with our kit and into the lorries, when they were filled away went the convoy through Sydney, to another outskirts and the R.N base HMS Golden Hind.’

Bob was given a few different duties whilst at Sydney and got up to a few right old capers but keen to get back to sea he was finally drafted to H.M.S Bonaventure who used to be a depot ship for X craft (small three man submarines), but was now to run supplies from Sydney to Hong Kong. He wrote his life story for us and apart from it being a right corker of a tale he also included some old photos:

 

 

From top left: H.M.S Bonaventure in front of Sydney harbour bridge 1945-46,           Mrs Freeman (his Australian host), Vic Dugan peeping in from rear & Bob, finally  Vic Dugan and Bob in Sydney Australia.

So with old photocopied pictures in hand and the spirit of Bob at my heals I ventured off to find Woolloomooloo!

It is still there, and still in use by the Australian Navy. Full of nostalgia and lost in my own thoughts I took some pictures from various angles and stared whistfully through the gates. When stirred by my revelry I realised I was being spoken to you. ‘You can’t take pictures madam’ a stern looking naval guard was looking directly back at me through the gates. ‘You will have to move along’ adding for politeness sake ‘Can I help you?’. ‘Oh! It’s just that my grandfather’ I start rummaging around for the pictures in my bag ‘step back madam!’ I look up to see he has his arm stretched out, hand up as if to block my advances. ‘What the hell does he think I’m going to pull out of my bag I wonder?’ Attack him with wet wipes?

But by now I am fully invested in awkward English gibberish mode and I blather on jabbing at the photocopies with my finger as if they will certainly prove I am neither terrorist or spy. His manner barely alters, he looks rather sceptically at the photos. ‘You can’t take photos from here madam’ he repeats and grabs the camera from my hands pulling out the casing and reams of film fall out like streamers in a parade. I’m surrounded by armed guards, police, some Royal Marines, guard dogs and a dolphin with a voice box machine who demands I put my hands up. . . He actually explains that I should go to Garden Island where the navy heritage site is and then watches me move away, his face riddled with disappointment at not being able to just taser me through the bars.

 

A little mystified and thoroughly reprimanded I shuffled on but my spirits were immediately lifted when I saw this:

Harry’s Famous Pies is an old small hot food stand, in an iconic silver diner style. The truly exciting fact for me (not just the enticement of ‘pies’) was that it had been there since 1945! All over the outside of the van were old photos of sailors and trilby wearing gents standing outside the van enjoying their mushy peas.

 

The photo above is Harry himself, the stall is now something of a landmark and the van was also plastered with photos of famous celebrities enjoying Harry’s pies including Chris Hemsworth (Thor himself!) Harry’s famous recipes were steak pie with mushy peas on top and a chilli hot dog (hot dog with chilli con carne & chilli sauce for good measure!) Despite it being 11:30 am, about 31C the van was a busy hubbub of Chinese tourists and naval officers. I felt it would be rude not to partake, I tried the chilli dog. Hot and tricky to eat without throwing most of it down your chin  it was however pretty delicious! I don’t know for sure if Bob ever had one of Harry’s pies he’s not with us anymore to ask, but the likelihood is fairly high given the circumstances. I could imagine him rubbing his hands together saying ‘corr this is the life!’ And indeed it is I thought.

It seems right that the only way to the naval heritage museum is by boat. Garden island isn’t so much an island but a headland and the northern tip of the current naval base. The place itself though was something of a let down, a few well displayed items from ensigns to warheads, but not a soul around. I had a romantic notion that an old historian chap would seize upon my story, look up Bobs rank and file, dust down some old ledgers to find pictures of his crew like in a marvellous Spielberg yarn. But no. There was no one even on the entry desk, no volunteers dressed as eighteenth century commanders, no cleaners polishing brass and no other visitors. There was another man who had got off the ferry with me but even the two of us had managed to avoid each other. The only other soul there turned out to be Mackenzie Crook who it seems runs the cafe and was chirpily whistling through his teeth. He almost fell over with excitement when he saw me.

 

I looked around everything possible and picked up a leaflet from the still deserted welcome desk, it was for naval heritage, and said they had their offices in the boatyard building. This was it I thought! The old man will be in there! There were no signs to the building but I wandered about and found it, desolate and very much an old 1888 boat shed. It was full of exhibits but as I walked around I noticed they were all covered in dust, as was the floor, it seemed the boat shed was the curators store house.

Then I started to realise that I might not actually be allowed in this building. Yes the door was open, but there was no sign outside saying ‘this way to the old historian chap’. What if after being moved on from taking photos through the front gate I was now found poking around the naval storage facility? I hurriedly went for the door and pushed. No. No it didn’t move. Headlines flashed across my mind ‘inept spy found suffocated in boat shed’. Sweat furiously pouring from my brow I started to panic and like any idiot who is faced with something that is not opening the first time I just tried exactly the same method again and again and again until something clicked in my over heated brain. If push doesn’t work? Try pulling Jane. oh.

 

Views from Garden Island of a naval frigate and more war ships.

I walked later through the botanic gardens, which are stunning, and ironically the lady at the information booth (after bombarding me with questions about my travels) was enthralled at the story of Bob. She took the photocopied sheets from me

wanting to know all the details and became quite moved, ‘well isn’t that something’ she murmured tearfully. I explained that I had been reprimanded for taking photos of the present docks. Suddenly concerned she told me how the same thing had happened to her husband in China and he was arrested at the airport. She looked at me forlornly ‘oh we’re not becoming China are we?’ Well let’s hope not . . .

 

 

Manly Beach

After my recent failures to find elusive but humorously named  places Manly’ was something of a relief. A thirty minute ferry ride from Circular quay, Manly is the start of the Northern beaches of Sydney.

Everything ‘Manly’ is here and I have to admit, it is all a bit gorgeous. In fact Manly beach has recently been named Australia’s best beach by a Trip Adviser poll.

 

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Manly it turns out was named by Captain Arthur Phillip after the indigenous Guringai people living there, he said ‘their confidence and manly behaviour made me give the name of Manly Cove to this place’. This seems to still be evident if you consider outdoor sports to be ‘manly’, debateable I know, but certainly very Australian. And in this spirit of seaside pursuits I signed up for an eco walk and snorkelling adventure in the equally charmingly named Cabbage Tree Aquatic reserve which surrounds the southerly point of Manly at Shelly beach.

I have never snorkelled before (I know hard to imagine what with my endless sporting achievements) so I was very apprehensive to say the least. I needn’t have been. The area is a protected reserve so no fishing allowed and divers/snorkellers require special permits. There is a small locally run tour by a chap called Damien and if you find yourself there, book it!

We began with a walk around the headland and Damien explaining about the local wildlife. Our group was only about ten in total and as a diverse collection of folks as you could ever assemble; a family from Las Vegas, father and son from Hongkong, headteacher from Canada, a chiropractor from Edinburgh and me! After a comical trying on of flippers, masks, wetsuits and snorkels we all shuffled down to the beach. Now I would usually go in to spasms of panic having to squeeze into strange sports clothing but in anticipation of the event I had my own ‘rashies’ (UV protective, stinger protective etc swimwear) and to my delight you could actually be fully clothed as a snorkeller without anyone raising so much as an eyebrow. I admit that I looked like something out of a James Bond film (baddies henchmen not Halle Berry) but at least mine weren’t fluorescent green like the rest of the group. Smug.

I wish, for your sake, there was a film of us (me) wobbling backwards into the sea in flippers, clutching mask, snorkel and noodle. But alas, you’ll have to imagine the struggling into flippers, slightly falling over, not managing to be on the ramp but on the beach and sinking gracelessly into the sand dressed head to toe in Lycra. My buddy was Lora-Lai a Canadian headteacher of a small one form entry primary school in Edmonton Alberta. Over on a convention she had decided she needed a break from the lecture hall. I love teachers.

 

Now I had purchased a special cover for my phone which made it waterproof so these are my efforts! But I want you to imagine treading water in flippers, looking through goggles at a heavily plastic covered phone which you have forgotten has a pin lock still on so trying to unlock the phone, point the camera in the right direction and press is a Herculean task. In fact after giving up and just enjoying myself it seemed I had accidentally turned the function to video, pressed pause, then pressed it on again as I was changing in the loos afterward. I have a 2 minute video of a loo roll holder, flip flops and various angles of public toilet tiling. Genius.

It was however one of the highlights of my journey so far. Like being in an actual fish tank we saw stingrays, a squid, zillions of little tropical fish, a big blue groper (remember Blue Planet II? The large blue male fish, bit ugly, females a coral colour and when the male dies the female hides away and literally turns into the male fish?) annnnd basking sharks. Yes! I swam with sharks! Albeit, gentle and very small juvenile basking sharks (about 1-2 metres) . . . but still! It was intoxicating and strangely not frightening at all.

After the excitement of the afternoon I went with Vicky Pittman (Edinburgh chiropractor) for a celebratory drink. It turned out that Vicky was in Australia because her sister (identical twin sister) is about to compete in the up coming Commonwealth Games on the Gold Coast. Her name is Faye Pittman and she is a weight lifter, competing for Wales where she has been living for some time. (Look her up, cheer her on!) Vicky is lovely, funny and fierless (she was booked to climb Sydney Bridge the next day). We got chatting to a charming couple from Durham who were on honeymoon and soon the cocktail turned into cocktails:

Then a slap up meal at the fine seafood restaurant Garfish. (Entrance to which surprised both Vicky and myself as apart from straggly salty hair scraped up in a heap and red suction marks round my eyes from my mask I had also kept my wet rashie leggings on and thrown a shirt over so I looked permanently like my waters had just broken) But this is when coming from Sussex really pays off, I put my finest ‘Julie Andrews’ voice on and was immediately the poshest person there! It was a great end to a super day and I really do wish Vicky’s sister the very best.

Come on Faye!