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Hollywood

Hollywood has, no doubt, been the making of many a disappointment but the first time you see the iconic huge white letters on the hillside and the towering emerald palms set against the bright blue sky there is nothing disappointing about it, a shiver of excitement runs through you as you wonder in amazement and realise . . .

‘I’m in HOLLYWOOD!’

Of course you don’t really expect to be there with achy limbs a wheezy cough and enough mucus to fill the San Fernando valley! But there it is, or, there I was, stocking up at the Hollywood & Highland newsagents with water, tissues and triple strength cough sweets. I was about to go on a walking tour of Hollywood with my local tour guide Gabe.

Gabe is an unlikely Los Angelean who grew up and fell in love with the business (most locals will run a mile than be dragged into the nonsense) and while he pursues his filming work he has started to take little walking tours. (If you are here I totally recommend you find him at Air BnB experiences) As it turned out it he was my own personal guide, there were last minute cancels but not wanting to disappoint me he went ahead wandering round the streets of Hollywood with a sniffling mucus infected girl from Sussex. Lucky chap.

Gabe illucidated on all the original cinemas (owned by the studios), the spectoral visions seen in the old hotels (apparently Marilyn is still putting on her lipstick and singing in the corridors of The Roosevelt where she once lived for two years) the restaurants where the writers would pen their masterpieces, the shabby old buildings that once ran Hollywood and the use of the now de-funked cassette film reels in the Hollywood & Vine tube station.

We walked along the Hollywood Boulevard stopping here and there to unearth treasures that would otherwise be lost on me. One of the stories that I really liked was of the many stars on the Hollywood walk of Fame. Her name was Carol Burnett and she received her star for work in television (you have to have worked for five years or more in either film, tv, music or radio and are then nominated to a board that decides if you are worthy). It was the placing of Carols star that was so important. She used to work as an usherette in a busy cinema on Hollywood in the days when the films were shown on a loop (strange though it seems to us now) patrons would come in at any point in the film and watch until that part came around again so they knew they had seen everything. A particularly good thriller was showing and a couple came in ten minutes before the end so Carol advised them to go away and come back to see the film from the start. Her boss overheard this and was deliberately cruel sacking her on the spot. So when it came to having a star on the walk of fame Carol stipulated only if it could be outside that very cinema. As a reminder to all. Of how she made it!

Hollywood is a strange place. Glamorous yet shabby in equal measure. I imagine in the U.K the old historic buildings would all be national heritage sites by now with compulsory cafes and gift shop (but of course) where as here they are run down, some empty, almost derelict. The Hollywood sign itself was only saved by Hugh Hefner of all people, when the district wouldn’t pay for its upkeep anymore so he set about getting wealthy business types to sponsor it. (He owns the H)

However amidst this mis match of modern and derelict, shabby and chic, there is one jewel in the Hollywood crown:

Alright Mr DeMille I’m ready for my close up. . .

Somewhat excited Jane outside Paramount Studios

Yes! I had booked a tour behind the oldest studio gates in Hollywood. Paramount. Somewhere that definitely still holds that touch of old school Hollywood glamour. I was going to let someone golf cart me around the lot with a dripping nose and bag full of partially used snotty tissues. Class. But ‘this was my big chance and I had to grab it!’ Paramount are responsible for some of the finest feature films ever made. ‘Sunset Boulevard’ being just one. So here we go . . .

‘Jonesy hey Jonesy . . Open the gate’

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Los Angeles

Like most big cities L.A is a collection of separate villages or districts that have just become amalgamated to make one giant disgusting urban sprawl. But there is a great deal to love about the place as well as to despair (homelessness is endemic).  I wandered through the miracle mile (the museum district), La Brea and Mid-wilshire (the laid back suburbs of trendy young eateries and coffee spots). I took the bus through Beverly Hills, Bel Air (disappointingly saw no fresh prince) even went out to Santa Monica  and walked to Venice beach. Yes I took my rancid germs everywhere. The fear though, (of basically being shot) which I had anticipated was not apparent. Maybe it’s something to do with the sunshine, the wide boulevards and palm tree lined avenues but it really does have a softer laid back feeling to that of the East coast.

The Farmers Market & The Grove, Museum of Art, Museum of cars, The La Brea tar Pitts still bubbling and some of the Berlin Wall (oh the irony).

Obviously there are lots of worthy places to visit and tell you about. But let me tell you about The Grove. The Grove is an open air shopping mall (I believe they were once called towns) and in this Disney version of things there is a plaza with gardens, coffee shops and a dancing fountain. Yes. A dancing fountain, whatever music plays it dances along to (remember the dancing flower? Well think that, on a bigger, wetter, camper scale). You may want to turn your speaker level up. I give you the disco dancing fountain:

After all that exertion I needed a little snack and was delighted to find these:

Mounds! A couple of chocolate covered delicious mounds! (essentially a Bounty bar to us Brits). I can’t think why they didn’t stick with that name for the U.K market?

The Getty

So with a couple of sweet mounds safely tucked in my bag I headed off for something a little more cultured. To the stunning Getty Center (I know, centre, I think they do it to be deliberately annoying) or rather the J.Paul Getty Museum. Getty was an American – British industrialist born in 1893 who made his gazillions in oil. He was an avid collector of art and established the Getty trust in 1953, it is the worlds wealthiest art institution and operates museums, foundations, a research institute and a conservation institute. Most of which is found at the Getty Center designed by Richard Meier, opened in 1974, it is visually stunning.

It sits on a hilltop on the Santa Monica mountains and looks out across the Los Angeles landscape from the mountains down to the Pacific Ocean. The collection of European paintings, sculptures and decorative arts, is a not that exciting (well, especially if you’re a European and have been to the National or the Louvre) but there are interesting exhibitions and really for me, it was the architecture set against the blue Californian sky that was worth the visit. (Plus the cafes and gift shop, obvs)

Santa Monica & Venice Beach

From where I was staying in mid-wilshire you could get the number 7 bus all the way down to Santa Monica beach so it seemed rude not to go, especially as the buses are like the one in ‘Speed’ (so you can imagine that at any minute Keanu might jump on the bus as it hurls wildly down the freeway!) And it didn’t disappoint. How could it with miles of sand, a funfair on a pier and the original ‘Muscle Beach’ (no that doesn’t mean moules marinieres) (much funnier).

The pier is good fun I tried to get Zoltar (fortune machine like the one in the film ‘Big’) to tell my future but one machine was completely broken and the other would not accept my dollar (don’t know what that says about my fortune??!) Then I began the walk along the prom to Venice beach which is when I found the endlessly entertaining:

I had found my Nirvana.

And you can imagine how desolate I was that I had forgotten my p.e. kit. I could have joined in with these perfect specimens:

I decided that the walking the 2.9 miles to Venice beach was effort enough (oh and back! 5.8 miles + pier + high street, wandering should be the new exercise fad)

Venice Beach is a bit like Camden Market but throw in legal marijuana homelessness and a beach. Great if you want to buy a painting of a wolf with ying and yang on on its chest, or some fairly eccentric homemade craft but I wasn’t that charmed. A lot of California is still stoned and that’s okay but as they would say ‘not my bag’ anymore. I was however delighted and relieved to find the Impeach Trump stall. I had been trepidatious to ask real Americans what they thought of the 45th President but this emboldened my sensibilities. I was staying with the fantastic Mic & Leeah in LA (Leeah a retired teacher who could run for president herself she’s so awesomely competent and Mic who’s so laid back he would I’m sure be happy to watch her from his chair on the deck, very kind, very intelligent people) and they assured me that the general feeling was despair, disgust and yes, the hope of impeachment.

The Disappointment of Mount Disappointment

Now I have to confess that by the time Leeah found out I was trying to get to mount disappointment it was the end of my stay and she admonished me saying Mic could have taken me hiking. I suppose I want to make it clear that these lovely people would have helped out. My disappointment is my own doing, but it’s not always easy (especially with awkward-English-itous) when meeting your new air bnb host to immediately declare you are trying to find Butthole lake or Shittyknicker lane. There is always the jeopardy of being kicked out. (This nervousness  was completely blown out of the water however by my San Francisco hosts. . .but they dear reader are a whole other story!)

Of course the other excuse (I think I’ve offered before) is that planning a round the world trip by looking at google maps on your iPhone whilst lounging on the sofa watching The Lord of the Rings Trilogy is not necessarily going to be a satisfactory amount of research for ‘on the ground logistics’. But we will get to my disappointing efforts in a moment.

Mount Disappointment is in the San Gabriel mountain range just north east of LA. and the story of its disappointing name is rather sad. It seems the early surveyors had lugged their heavey equipment up to the top of the mountain thinking this was the tallest peak in the range only to reach the summit and look up to a higher peak just to the south of them. Feeling the disappointment of knowing that their efforts had been for naught they named the Mountain Disappointment. The taller mount is San Gabriel, for which the whole range also gets its name. So Mount Disappointment has always been the second best. In the 1950s the US military lowered disappointment further by flattening the top for a missile base. If it were ever possible to feel sorry for a mountain, this is it.

But how to get to Mt Disappointment? It was (of course) further out than I’d imagined. (!) It was possible to get the metro out to Pasadena but then it got tricky, maybe a bus to nearer the twisting mountain road, then my only hope was an Uber ride to the track at the start of the trail. But would they take rides into the hills? Once abandoned there would there be a signal to order a taxi back? Would there be anyone else around? Would it be just fitness boot camps or gun wielding hillbillies? Would I manage any of that with the lurgy-jet lag-snotfest?

No.

But! There is always, as Baldrick would say ‘a cunning plan’ and the Griffith Observatory was it! The observatory is up in the Hollywood hills and from there can be seen the whole of LA including the SAN Gabriel mountain range. Mount Disappointment would at least be seen. Or so I hoped.

The Griffith Observatory is wonderful. It’s an amazing spot and view but also a beautiful museum and working observatory. It is famous in recent times for being one of the locations in the film La La Land where they danced romantically in the moon light. I had misplaced my yellow girly prom dress so decided to skip the dancing and stick to the disappointing matter in hand.You can see all across LA from here on a good day, when there is not so much smog. . .

Luckily for me, once again, the municipal sign was clearly visible from the observatory. Though it proved difficult to discern the mount and the sign in the one photo.

Yes. So very clear for everyone I think. I give you Mount Disappointment (out there somewhere) a disappointment to measure, a disappointment to reach by public transport from LA, a disappointment to see through the smog from the observatory, an all round disappointment.

The Epilogue: Pity Me

In times of abject failure like this, one turns to ones friends and just as Melanie saved ‘Shag Rock’ with the delights of ‘Cocking’ my dear friend Josh may have a delight to make you smile. Josh is studying for a Masters degree in Education at Hogwarts school of witches and wizardry (Durham University as it is otherwise known). Instead of scribbling away with quill and parchment or relaxing in the Gryfindor common room he took it upon himself to venture past Hogsmeade and discover the joyously named village of:

Pity Me. Which I think we all do, what with that sad face and a dissertation to write. There is a caravan site in Pity Me and on a rainy day you can see the local bus leave from Durham, it’s passengers staring emptily out the window with the destination emboldened on the front of the bus, Pity Me, like a last cry for help.

I’m sure it’s very nice but it is in the north after all.

So thank-you Josh for saving the total disappointing ness of Mount Disappointment, next stop . . . Nob Hill

 

I’m looking for someone to share an adventure . . .

Well I am in Middle earth, it wasn’t going to be long before I found my way to The Shire. This week I’ve been staying in a place called Cambridge in the Waikato region of New Zealand’s north island and If you lean out the window of my little air bnb you could just smell the pies and cakes and second breakfasts wafting down the lanes from  Hobbiton.

My hobbit-like home in Cambridge NZ

When the location scouts for the Lord of the Rings Trilogy were searching for somewhere to be ‘The Shire’ they flew over this rural farming region with its rolling greeen fields and lush pasture. When they spotted the Alexander’s 1250 acre sheep farm with its lake, hills and valley, and they knew they had found Hobbiton.

The rolling fields of the Alexander farm Matamata

After the filming, the fake polystyrene facades of the Hobbit holes were torn down and the land left as it was found, but that didn’t stop Tolkien fans seeking out the farm and wanting to see where Hobbiton had been. The farmer obliged by doing little tours but apart from the landscape there was not much to be seen. So when The Hobbit went into production it was decided to build Hobbiton for real, so it could be a lasting legacy for the local farming community and a place everyone could visit.

So I did.

And I wasn’t disappointed. . . I joined a little tour that picks you up from Matamata information centre and drives you out to the farm, on the way the guide talks about the filming and shows short film clips on board the bus. As you enter the farm they play a greeting from Sir Peter Jackson himself, thanking you for visiting and wishing you a pleasant stay in Hobbiton. With the theme of the shire and Gandalf’s call to adventure playing in my head by the time we walked round the little lane which opens out into the Hobbit village I was fully immersed in the magic and practically in tears.

Nearly all the details are real, the vegetable gardens, fruit trees, windows, chimneys, landscaping etc… it’s like being in a book, or in this case that you’ve just climbed inside a motion picture.

I don’t think I stopped grinning.

Each Hobbit Hole was different with little props inside and out to represent the character. I decided I could have lived in any of them (well despite bumping my head the whole time) You see Hobbits live in holes in the ground:

‘Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.’

There is something quite magical walking around a Hobbiton path and turning the corner to see Bilbo (and Frodo) Baggins house Bag End. Apparently Tolkien’s Aunt Jane lived in a tiny farmhouse in Worcestershire nick named Bag End, a pun on the French cul-de-sac, literally the bottom of the bag and so he chose this for the Baggingses. The oak tree on the top of the burrow is the only ‘fake tree’ in Hobbiton and made of a steel structure. A pretty wonderful sculpture.

Bag End

From here you can look down to the lake, mill and The Green Dragon pub. For Tolkien ‘The Shire’ was meant to represent an idillyic English landscape and to help create that, extra trees and hedges had been planted on the farmland. In fact many local cattle farmers had sold entire hedges to be added to the Hobbiton hills, because as a sheep farm The Alexander’s just had simple fencing so that sheep weren’t stuck in branches and bushes. As we drove to the set you could see across the cattle fields the clear spaces where hedges had once been and then the occasional strip of hedge on its own, last hedge standing. The effect in Hobbiton however was perfect. It reminded me of the South Downs, of The Weald & Down Open Air Museum, of the view from the Earl of March across to Goodwood. It reminded me of home.

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Despite there being other tours and other groups of grinning idiots wandering round it is managed in such a way that it never felt very busy. In fact you can see from the photos despite every single grinning idiot taking a million photos each we barely got in one another’s way. Maybe because it was the last tour of the afternoon, maybe because it was Autumn but for whatever reason it was charming. Maybe more so because we got a free pint at the Green Dragon. I toasted you all.

There was no real sniggering at silly names in Hobbiton (despite Bag End and Woody End). I was glad to see on the notice board by the mill that I could ‘Fiddle Around’ with fiddle lessons from F Starpe of Midnel Delving’.

But I didn’t need to entertain myself with signs that looked like ‘Puke Bakery’ this particular afternoon. I had been transported to another place. To the Shire.

I was simply enchanted.

‘Its a dangerous business Frodo, going out of your door. You step onto the road and if you don’t keep your feet there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to’

S.S.Puke

I was rather over excited at arriving in Middle Earth so Auckland was something of a disappointment. Neither green shire or the depths of Mordor, although there is a suspicious ‘Sky Tower’ strangely eye shaped that people were being regularly thrown off of (for which they had to pay, which is where I think Saruman was missing a trick). In fact people were hurling themselves off a range of buildings, it seems an abundance of extreme sports traversing their epic mountainous landscape is not quite enough for a Kiwi? Oh no, finding themselves in an urban environment any large structure is seen as an excellent opportunity for a near death experience.

I politely excused myself from such excursions, paying to jump off a bridge with an elastic band tied to my feet so my knee caps could dislocate and heart stop beating was, I decided, a little excessive (especially when I could just wait for the Russians to invade England and these activities would be free of charge). Instead I headed to the bay, walked around the quay, took a few little ferry rides and found myself at the New Zealand Maritime Museum.

 

 

I recommend a visit to the Maritime museum, it isn’t huge but really well thought out with engaging displays ranging from the original Maori canoes to round the world yacht race entries. I was there essentially because I had read about a special boat that I was very excited to see. In fact at the museum they have daily sailings of a few historic vessels which they keep in working order and take out on the harbour. The vessel I was keen to have a jaunt on was the Steam Ship Puke. Yes. That’s right, the S.S. Puke. (Locally pronounced pook-e, still, amusing to read none the less.)

Puke is reputed to be New Zealand’s oldest steamboat, built in 1870 her original purpose was for small towing jobs on the Kaipara Harbour. She was salvaged from the Tammi river in 1977, lovingly restored and has carried out a range of duties ever since. She now resides pride of place in the museums fleet. I couldn’t wait to sail in her. However my spirits dropped when I saw the sign outside:

Puke, having a rest?! My hopes dashed I bought a ticket anyway and had a wander round. Apart from, as I say, the wonderful little museum I soon became quite relieved about today’s sailings when I eventually saw the boat. Puke is very small. Really small. I mean tiny. In fact if I hadn’t already seen pictures of people in her I would have decided she was either a large model, a child’s boat or remote controlled toy. The thought of me lumbering on board and us promptly sinking fast was enough to transform any sense of disappointment to that of sheer relief.

 

 

The S.S. Puke, having a rest. . .

Auckland is large and sprawling and although I wasn’t taken with the town centre the suburbs are lovely. The whole area is interspersed with inlets, lakes, beaches, islands and old volcanoes. I was staying in the East with Air BnB host Lisa, her Uber bright daughter Caitlin and Perky (a gorgeous soppy old dogcat who would beg for crisps but took no real interest in living up to his name). Lisa was kind enough to take me on a little tour of the area and we walked up the local Mount Wellington (an old dormant volcano). The view was amazing, as Auckland sits in the narrowest part of New Zealand you could literally see to the Tasman Sea in the east and the Pacific Ocean  in the West.

 

 

View from Mt Wellington to Rangitoto, the youngest and largest of Auckland’s 48 volcanic cones.

Papamoa & Mount Maunganui

I only have two weeks in middle earth so after an introduction to Auckland I hopped on the intercity bus and headed south to the wonderfully named ‘Bay of Plenty’. Well. I don’t know what to say, but yet again on my adventures I was faced with dreary, lack lustre view after view. It’s painful to talk about but I had to spend a whole day on Papamoa Beach. Reading, swimming, sleeping. So awful.

 

 

The mountain you can see in the distance is the peek of Mt Maunganui, Mauao, which stands at the north end of the Bay of Plenty. The Maori legend of the hill is sad but beautiful. In brief the nameless hill was in love with the captivating hill, Puwhena, but her heart had already been won by Otanewainku, the great hill, so the nameless one called for his dark fairy friends (patupaiarehe) to help him die. They drew big ropes around his neck and dragged him out to sea (gorging out the Waimapu river) but before he was overcome in the waves the morning sun rose and the dark fairies retreated back to the depths of the forest. The patupaiarehe decided to name him Mauao ‘caught by the dawn’. In time he grew in prestige, marking the entrance to the harbour and he now stands as the symbol of all tribes of Tauranga Moana.

It’s a very special place and you can see why it is so important to the local Maori tribes and the people who live here. You can climb to the peek or walk the circumference, I decided for my knees sake, I’d do the latter.

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Te Puke

Te Puke is a little town at the heart of kiwi fruit growing country. It’s only 8km or so from Papamoa but getting there on public transport is like organising logistics for the entire England team to get to the Gold Coast. Buses went, but only in the afternoon (?) and then only twice. So you can get there but unless you want to stay the night you only have an hour and a half before the last bus back. It was however my only chance, so I took it.

It didn’t take long however for me to realise that an hour and a half would be more than enough time to see the place. Te Puke had seen better days. Essentially the town is a strip of shops, banks and eateries along a main highway. The shop fronts are tatty, it has that abandoned seaside town feel, rundown and weirdly quiet. A few undesirables sitting around listlessly, staring at cars passing. There was one cafe that looked decent and possibly not run by zombies, so I decided if I needed refuge, that was my safe house.

However shabby Te Puke was though, it didn’t disappoint in the immature humour stakes, as Te Puke is written on all sorts of signs across town. Again pronounced locally ‘pook-e’ it means ‘hill’, but of course to an idiot like me it reads vomit everywhere and after a while I was even amusing myself by adjusting my photos to cut off the ‘te’ on signs. So it just read Puke. Puke Food Hut being a favourite. Thus giggling quietly whilst watching out for zombies I made my way round town.

However the closer you looked the more there was to this old town, a beautiful 1930/40’s cinema, still in use, a smart looking memorial hall and a modern library.

The library looked inviting it was also the tourist information centre so I ventured in. My curiosity was immediately rewarded with the discovery of an ex library books sale. At 50 cents each quite a bargain but what delighted me more was the fact I could own a book which had Puke Library stamped inside the cover.

As I was choosing my books I could hear a fracure breaking out behind the bookcases, a great deal of swearing grew louder and more aggressive. The librarian called to a colleague ‘we might need the police’. I decided to walk slowly away from the area as it sounded like a fight might at any moment break out. Then suddenly a large workman appeared and walked straight towards the trouble. As he got closer I realised it was a woman, short grey cropped hair, but definitely female and looking determined. She reprimanded the huge Maori youth who had lost it, told him to leave but followed him out to make sure he was calm and ok, returned to check on a young female backpacker who had been stuck in the fray at a computer then cooly joked with the librarian to look after her ‘readers’ before she left out the back doors, got in her refuse truck and drove off. It was the most impressive display of cool diplomacy I think I’ve ever seen.

After that excitement I walked quickly back to the bus stop, keen not to miss the last bus out of town! Behind the shabby main street was a rather lovely park, complete with beautiful artwork and carvings.

It seemed like a completely different place, not threatening, not run down, but calm and rather beautiful. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt for being so judgemental of the old place. But I should know that appearances can be deceiving, wether you drive the bin lorry or are an old farming town if you look carefully you will find treasure everywhere. . .

 

 

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!

 

 

Or Shag Rock II. . . Or ‘incidentally’

So I spent my last day in Brisbane wandering around, google map in hand, checking street names and peering at building numbers when finally I saw this:

I did. I literally laughed out loud and was full of admiration. Nicola and I had a fine cup of coffee from the Dark side at the Canteen.

Originally inspired by the Eddie Izzard sketch of the same name ‘the Death Star Canteen’ where he muses what it would be like for Darth to order penne. The two chaps who run it thought that would be a cool idea for a cafe, and it is, mostly patronised by local office workers (sorry I mean stormtroopers) they do fab looking burgers and great coffee and honestly if you’re in Brisbane just go, try to find it so you too can be amused when you spot the sign. It was indeed the cafe I was looking for.

Now some of you may be feeling a little short changed recently with the disappointing lack of place signage. I realise that neither Chunda Bay or Shag Rock were the most triumphant successes (despite all efforts entailed). But do not despair because best friend Melanie (mother of three,Sky transmission controller so you’d think quite responsible) once again has saved me! Mel is practising long long hikes and walks at the moment as in the summer she is attempting the South Downs Way to raise money for Cancer care. Yet on her travels she still had time to send this (which I have permission to post)

Cocking West Sussex.

Thank-you Mel. Is it any wonder that growing up near Cocking I would eventually find myself on such an adventure?!

Next stop ‘Manly Beach’ . . .

I had a frizzon of excitement arriving in Brisbane, as to my delight there was actual public transport! Public transport that connected the airport to the city! What modern thinking Brisbane?! (Now I’m saying this because up to now you had to get a cab, or mule or walk 5km to the nearest homestead where they might, if you’re lucky be going in to market and give you a lift on the tractor). But Brisbane has the excitingly named ‘Air Train’, I had visions of Blade Runner, flying cars, but essentially it’s an overground train. A relief nonetheless and a strange sort of comfort as something familiar to a Londoner. I got my Go Card (oyster equivalent) got the train to the city, hopped on a bus (well ok, not hopped so much as clambered) and set off for my new Air BnB.

The city again had that buzzy familiar feel, high rises mixed with old architecture, busy people, people in suits, people wearing black (!) (for the first time I wasn’t being stared at for wearing long trousers) and then we crossed the river to see this:

Large concrete buildings, promenades and a huge Ferris wheel, I had to blink, were my powers of teleporting kicking in? Was I looking at the South Bank? Well, yes, I was as it turns out. This is Brisbane’s south bank and cultural district. But it’s almost like the sort of fantasy south bank that Londoners might dream of on a balmy summers eve. It has the usual Art Galleries, theatres and eateries but then has a rain forest walk, parklands, playgrounds, out door amphitheatres, pagodas and a beach complete with lifeguards (no sharks, crocs or stingers, even better!).

Now I have been very blessed in the people I have met so far on my travels (well apart from Tony, I’m still waiting for the court order to take effect). But this week I have really felt like I was at home and that has been down to the wonderful extended Grace family in particular my new veryseriousadventure buddy Nicola. Nicola is the sister in law of my lovely friend (and dentist!) Penny Grace (Fyfield) and Auntie to the amazing Ophelia and super talented Jemima. (Hello girls!) A Yorkshire lass from Sheffield now living in Australia Nicola has been the most generous and hilarious companion and guide. (Ugh that’s enough niceitties she’s actually a pint wielding blithering idiot who is probably a huge embarrassment to the entire family) (so we were well matched)!

Very bravely I was invited to join in Nicolas team for the local pub quiz, (known as trivia quizzes here) where the only help I offered was (ironically) remembering Lewis Hamilton’s name but I enjoyed it thoroughly and had my first really Australian meal in the Parmigiana or Parmy as its fondly referred to. A sort of large findus crispy pancake, with more cheese on top and sat on a small mountain of chips with salad garnish. Pub food genius:

My next adventure with Nicola saw us on the City Cat, a catamaran service that carries passengers up and down the Brisbane river, from Bulimba to the South Bank for a shuffle about and lunch. I LOVE the City Cat! With a climate like this taking to the water to get from suburbs to the city seems like commuter heaven to me. (They can also go really fast and if you stand at the front it’s like being on a fair ride and you feel like even your sunglasses might be whooshed off!). We people watched, (which included spotting a man who looked incongruously like Father Christmas and a white Rastafarian garden gnome).We had a fine lunch and I apparently had the biggest pint in the world. Yes, the glass is bigger than my head.

Surfers Paradise

Now Nicola does have a husband (James), two teenage girls, a part time job and a Labrador so she very selfishly couldn’t spend every single day with me. And so it was I found myself on a rather exciting trip down to The Gold Coast. Brisbane is flanked by The Sunshine Coast to the north and The Gold Coast to the south. (It made me wonder what we would call our coasts at home? The Cloudy Coast, The ‘its looking a bit brighter over there’ Coast and The Fresh-air-is-good-for-you-now-do-you-want-the-cheese-and-pickle-or-the-shipphams-paste-Coast?)

The Gold Coast is a stretch of white sandy beach that runs from31km -70km (depending on what you’re reading) but is essentially miles of beautiful beach and blue surf that when you first glimpse it, almost takes your breath away. It is home to the wonderfully named Surfers Paradise and somewhere I felt immediately drawn to with my natural surfing ability and extreme sports passion.

The area used to be called Elston and was originally farm land until it was sold to Johann Meyer in the 1880s who opened the first Main Beach Hotel as a tourist destination. The name was changed however by the fantastically entrepreneurial Jim Cavill who in 1925 had the first Surfers Paradise Hotel built and then began lobbying to change the name of the town and so in 1933 it was renamed Surfers Paradise. It wasn’t Until the 1950s that the first high rise was built and a huge development boom took place seeing the whole area turn from sleepy coastal town to major tourist hot spot. In 1959 it was named The Gold Coast and this year it comes of age by hosting The 2018 Commonwealth Games.

I honestly thought I would hate the place but all my preconceived ideas of posing body beautifuls and testosterone induced machismo soon faded. The beach is just beautiful, the pounding waves majestic and soothing. The atmosphere very laid back with all sorts of bodies on show and every sort of person accepted. There are shops full of tat, cheap eats and sun tans everywhere but there are also smart shops, lovely sea front restaurants, families making sandcastles, kids paddling and all under the watchful eye of the lifeguards.

The life guarding presence is impressive. When I first started strolling down the prom I thought there must be a gymkana on because I could here shouting over a loud speaker except it wasn’t for the Brownies to meet in the tea tent it was to get young teenagers to swim between the flags. There was a helicopter occasionally sweeping the beach, stationed lookout towers, life boat dinghies and lifeguards at regular intervals along the stretch of sand. Here you can see me in my bikini as I sat and chatted to some of them:

Welllllll. Maybe not. But I was wearing flip flops and had no scarf on so a veritable summer outfit I’m sure you’ll agree annnnd I even paddled!

I had an unexpected fabulous day at Surfers Paradise which was the made truly brilliant when I went to buy myself an ice cream on the way home. Now I know I’ve addressed this particular Australian consumable before but I had no idea of the incredible range. And so it was I finished my day on the Gold Coast by enjoying my first Gaynetto, albeit sadly on my own!

Shag Rock

The journey to find Shag Rock began with me thrusting my phone in Nicolas face and saying ‘of course it’s a real name! It’s a real place! look it’s on google maps!’ Once the point was conceded and acknowledged it turned out shag rock was on her favourite isle; North Stradbrooke Island, or Straddie to the locals. In fact not only was there a shag rock but a shag lagoon! Double jeopardy I was quite excited.

One thing I’ve learnt though on my travels is you need to be organised. You need to book in advance. I missed out on trips to the reef because of cyclones, floods, bad weather and the fact I hadn’t booked in advance to get myself on a waiting list. (Although I managed once and it was cancelled due to bad weather)! So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found all snorkelling trips to shag rock were booked up. Mmmm, research further showed you could kayak round it, that sounded fun(!) until I read you had to be advanced or confident at sea kayaking mmmmmm couldn’t really pretend I was either and Nicola was from Sheffield, not known for its water sports so that was out.

Shag lagoon was promising, but only part of the island had roads, some parts had track, some of it was protected land. The 4WD excursions only went as far as brown lake (such an unenticing name?) you could hire bikes but the likelihood of there being any track as far as shag lagoon was not looking good. Maybe we could hire a boat to sail round shag rock, mmmmmm we needed a boat license. Maybe we could charter one? Mmmm if we had $1500 to burn. So it looked set to be a self propelled excursion onto the island to see if we could at least see the rock from Point Lookout. The odds seeemed very good, if like us, you studied the advanced ordnance survey map (as above). Excellent.

So with true generosity Nicola invited me to stay over at theirs the night as the ferry to the island was much nearer to them. After being spoilt with a sunset at wellington point, family supper, befriending Barclay (Berkeley?) the gorgeous Labrador and a fine nights sleep we set off for the Straddie Ferry terminal at Cleveland.

Once again I am stuck for superlatives for North Stradbrooke island. The sun was out, water calm we had a fine little 20 minute crossing passing other small uninhabited islands where yachts were moored up so people could fish or have picnics on the beach. It was very swallows and Amazon’s, gentle, blue sky, green islands, warm sun, a good day. We jumped on the one island bus, known as the Straddie Flyer’ and as it hurtled towards Point Lookout we could see why! After a coffee we began the Gorge walk, which is just that, around the gorges, well maintained but treacherously near the edge at times and about one zillion steps. The views however. . . Well the views:

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Now after lots of gazing at turqoiuse sea, spotting a sea turtle and some dolphins we put our minds to the holy grail of Shag Rock and it’s possible location. (It might be important to point out here it was about 31C by now, nearly midday and we’d dragged arthritic knees up a lot of steps). I checked our map. Mmmm it should be there, I point out and we squint across the horizon. There is nothing, literally nothing of any shape, even a boat like, on the blue horizon. Gosh, am suddenly very glad we didn’t pretend we were advanced kayakers. Where is it??

Aha! Then suddenly like a small miraculous, (almost handmade and fashioned out of a bit of leaflet & a biro?) miracle of miracles we spot the sign! Thank goodness for Queensland Council sign management, it seems magnificent that all the tourist spots, however impenetrably faraway, or hard to find are thankfully clearly marked.

So you can imagine our surprise when around the next headland we saw another clearly marked Shag Rock. It is almost as if the authorities were confused as to the real location of said outpost, (or two crazed heat affected women had become slightly delirious with mirth and nonsense). So I leave it to you, dear reader, to have the final say on the real. . .  Shag Rock.

I am glad to say after possible heat stroke we did manage to drag ourselves to a nearby eating establishment where standing next to a man ordering a watermelon spritzer Nicola managed to confuse the management by asking for ‘any beer on tap’. Ahhhh . . . You can take the girl out of Yorkshire but not Yorkshire out of the girl.

I was so proud.

There may be an ‘incidentally’ to add to this post as tomorrow we’re on a little trip to find The Death Star Canteen. May the forks be with us . . .

Townsville

I travelled to Townsville by train on ‘The Spirit of Queensland’ and it certainly lived up to the name. After track repairs and the prospect of spending three years on a rail replacementI bus I changed the date of departure only for Queensland to experience a week of heavy tropical rain and substantial floods. Queensland rail got in touch, the train was running at the moment but there was no guarantee it would make the whole journey to Townsville. (Or to the outskirts of Cairns)! I decided to be adventurous and throw caution to the wind by travelling across the great nowhere on a train that couldn’t guarantee it would get to anywhere! How Australian.

But it turned out that the modern day Australian had decided to fly so I practically had the whole carriage to myself apart from two old chaps who looked like they would have preferred we were on a wagon train. We were warned again we might not make it to our destination and advised we were the first train through after the floods. Pioneering stuff I decided! However three hours out of Cairns and (obviously) in the middle of nowhere we stutter to a hault. Ominous. I wonder if we’ll be told we have to camp or someone will be sent off for some mules. The train was on a slight bend so if you pressed your cheek against the window you could see the front. We seemed to have hit a tree that had fallen across the tracks. The conductor (who looked fantastically like Ronnie Barker ) and a few men in high visibility vests were scratching their heads and much pointing was going on. The train slowly moved backwards, I held my breath, ready for the announcement of doom.

But just as the name implies the spirit of Queensland won out and Ronnie and his Ealing comedy crew began hauling twigs, branches and the whole tree off the tracks. Like watching a scene from the railway children we cheered them on from the comfort of our air conditioning. Then a very charming announcement was made saying ‘sorry for the delay but there had been a technical problem we would soon be under way’ as if ‘we’re just dragging a tree off the tracks folks has anyone got a chainsaw?’ would be too alarming. All clear and we chug onwards, remarkably. I ponder how different the outcome would be in England, obviously this tree had the right sort of leaves?

(What was left of the offending tree)

 

The lush countryside through northern Queensland  and flood damage outside Townsville.

In Cairns they refer to Townsville as Brownsville as it is so dry and there is (an almost)! friendly rivalry between the two cities. It made me feel rather sorry for the place before I arrived but of course after all the rain all I got to see was greenandpleasantville. Good on ya I thought.

My first visit was to Reef HQ, the Great Barrier Reef aquarium in Townsville. It is remarkable, with the largest natural living reef in an aquarium, onsite sea turtle hospital and occasional mermaids.

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The most compelling experience was a talk on sea turtles and a visit to the sea turtle hospital to see how the marine keepers and vets look after and rehabilitate them. The main problem for sea turtles it seems is us. It’s sobering. Even the tiniest bit of plastic once swallowed will kill a turtle, there are displays of the different detritus that has been found in side sea turtles. Sea turtles cannot survive anaesthetic so there is no surgery that can save them. It’s tragic. It’s something we can do something about and the reef are running a campaign #Lovethereef@reefhqaquarium to help raise awareness of the amount of plastic we use. People are being asked to make a pledge, however small, to make a difference.

 

My favourite turtle by far though was ‘Monday’. He had been brought in for fear he was undernourished and had problems with floating which means the turtles rise up to the top of the water and can’t swim or feed properly. After some care, medication and physio the marine biologists were confused. When it was feeding time Monday would swim normally, when he was secretly watched he would swim normally around his tank but when humans were near he would basically put on his ‘I’m poorly sick routine’ and display all the worrying signs of illness. He did it for us, but I’m afraid for Monday his games up, there is nothing wrong with him. He’s had all the tests. He’s either very wise to an easy life or imagines he’s on Casualty. ( I liked to think this, that he is the Larry Olivier of the sea turtle world, no one can do the floating sickness like Monday darling!).

 

 

Billabong Sanctuary

Now I’m not sure in the rules of ‘how to be an Air BnB host’ it suggests taking your guest out for a trip to the local animal sanctuary on your day off? But this week I have not just been staying with any old Air BnB hosts, I’ve been staying with Ben, Mara and their totally cute dog Louis. And so it was that with huge generous spirit, kindness and mild insanity (which will be clearer later) Mara drove me the 17km out of town to the perfectly wonderful Billabong sanctuary. It works very much to educate people about the local wildlife by specialised talks and hands on experiences. The sanctuary takes in animals, birds and reptiles that have been injured, orphaned or in the case of crocodiles labelled ‘most wanted’.

I decided it was best to wear my Indiana Jones meets Crocodile Dundee outfit but as was woefully apparent from the outset had neither the gile nor the experience when it came to feeding, handling and generally being around the local critters.

Feeding Ash the black Cockatoo, making friends with Bruno the Koala and Wanda the Wombat.

Very nonchalantly holding a baby croc, blue tongue lizard (called Kevin) and feeding the kangaroos. The rangers were amazing, full of knowledge, enthusiasm and sheer bravery. They are not teasing the animals but getting them to move like they would in the wild. Crocs can’t digest food if they are too cold so the wriggling about warms them and the having to fight for food is obviously like catching prey. It was the most amazing day.

Now, Ben and Mara. As I have suggested are not your average hosts and because of their great sense of humour (they seemed to be laughing at my jokes)! I decided when they asked on the first night why I was travelling, to be honest and explain the woollybuttness. Thankfully I wasn’t asked to leave the house but they laughed and were at once keen to know ‘what was the place that brought me here then?’ And so it was the story of Chunda Bay began.

Now Chunda bay (and maybe shag lagoon) was always going to be my nemesis. Even on google maps a chimp like me could see it was well out of town and surrounded by nothing apart from the ominous ‘crocodile creek’. At first Ben and Mara hadn’t even heard of it until I showed them on the map, so it was clear again there might not be a gift shop. However Ben seemed to think it was near A.I.M.S (Australian institute of Marine Science) (or SPECTRE as it turned out) so it was decided we would all go (this time on Bens day off, I know amazing kindness, or maybe just pity for the eccentric old lady?!) and discover this local wonder.

So off we set and once out of town (but not quite in Brisbane) we turned off down this long mysterious road. (Now at this point you need to know we were driving in a white Kia saloon type car) (well Ben was) (I was doing good sitting in the back) (tricky). The road was deserted apart from one car who passed us in the other direction and did a little finger wave of acknowledgement to Ben which he reciprocated, as you do, politely, not knowing who the blazes it was. Ben laughed ‘oh I’ve got a new friend!?’ We decided it was such a lonely stretch of road maybe it was the first car he’d seen in twenty years and carried on.

After about three weeks without any sign of a turn off road or sign saying Chunda Bay experience this way we came to a set of impressive gates.

Yes you’re right. The sign does say authorised visitors only, but we were visitors and the gates were open . . . and our only other option was hiking through croc infested swampy forest. We venture further. No flashing lights, no sirens, so far so good! Then we get to the inner sanctum.

We weren’t getting past these gates without our matching spectre overalls, nasa lanyards or a few living fish organs to deliver. The road to Chunda bay seemed to be at an end. But one thing had been made clear, our ease of entry, our nod from AIMS employees . . . because nearly every car in the car park was a white Kia saloon! Unbeknownst to us we had cloaked ourselves in the perfect camouflage, the spectre company car!

However, not ones to give up, we do have photographic evidence that I think clearly proves we were successful in our mission, (my mission) to see the allusive Chunda Bay:

Such a success! And to think we didn’t see the Chunda Bay sign from the outset??What with it being so local-council-roads-dept-official looking (and so large!)? But I think for sheer effort and audacity Chunda Bay will take some beating in the collection of silly places and wonderful ridiculous memories.

with grateful thanks to my two new, lovely (and somewhat suggest-able friends)!

 

Cairns

Flying in to Cairns is like arriving on the set of Jurassic Park. Blue skies punctuated by  wisps of cloud, mountains of lush tropical rain forest and a vast turquoise sea. I honestly expected dinosaurs to be roaming majestically across the landscape. But probably best not, as there are already enough strange, exotic creatures and sounds to keep you in almost permanent flinch mode.

When I first rode into town on the local bus (one an hour, makes Chichester seem positively metropolitan) I hopped off at the city bus stop on lake street to be greeted with what I thought must be chattering cockatoos only to look up in the trees to realise no, no not at all, they were bats, huge big black bats. Hundreds if thousands of flying foxes hanging upside down from every available branch like the welcome gates of a Hammer Horror theme park.

My initial reaction to this perceived terror was very English in that I simply quickly crossed the road and pretended the whole thing never happened. However at twilight they fly over the gardens of suburbia and into the forest to forage and as they sleep right by the bus stops it was clear I was not going to avoid my new vampire pals and after a few days I grew quite fond of the furry beasts. My photos aren’t natural geographic standard but you are not allowed to get too close as they are having babies right now, also you will get bat poo on your head but I did my worst.

Cairns and my little garden studio (highly recommended Marita’s air bnb) continued to be a succession of miserable view after miserable view with dingy weather, crowds and nothing to look at:

I explored the Botanic gardens which are a bit like being in the glasshouse at Kew, without the glass. It is glorious, and even more like a velociraptor may greet you round any corner. I did see a small wallaby – or macropod – in the woods, when it saw me it froze and we had a lengthy stare off, but by the time I got my camera out of my pocket, the little fella had vanished. I did however get shots of the Orange footed scrub fowl and the Australian bush turkey not as glamorous maybe but unusual enough. The bush turkey I could honestly have plucked and roasted, it was that bothered.

It was a particularly wet day, when it rains here, it is rather show biz rain, dramatic, over the top and impossible to ignore rain. I was wearing my pac a mac for the first time which meant I was basted in sweat and slowly roasted. It did add to the jungle atmosphere but you can imagine my disappointment when I saw this sign at the rainforest boardwalk:

With a good jog out of the question I called it a day.

The real rainforest was what I wanted to see so on a clear morning I found myself heading off to Karunda, a rainforest village in the mountains outside Cairns. I was travelling up the mountain on the Karunda scenic railway a historical and marvellous piece of engineering from the days of the gold rush. Work commenced to build the line in 1887 and apart from repairs much of it remains the original track which is slightly terrifying as you go over ‘stoney creek falls’ on a 1890’s wrought iron bridge with a sheer drop one side and waterfall the other. The train slows to a almost imperceptible speed and you hear every creek of the iron lattice work grown under the strain of the carriages.

It was a very special treat and I know Dad would have absolutely loved it, as I’m sure he did.

Now I don’t know what you would expect to find in a rain forest village? I had some idea as I’d seen the pictures, a sort of bright colourful market, indigenous art and displays, maybe a cafe or two. Well. After disembarking the train at the beautiful original 1800’s station, I wandered up the lane to be greeted almost immediately by:

Which obviously raised an eyebrow and a titter as I quickly grabbed my camera. 20% off as well! What a spunky bargain.

However at this point I still could not of imagined (and I’m quite good at that) what delight I would find in the central Karunda rainforest village market. In fact if you’ve not seen the photo yet, close your eyes and imagine perhaps the most unlikely of stalls that you might encounter here. Imagined? Well I can almost bet that none of you thought you might find this:

Yes. A Scottish fudge shop. And not just that! You could also buy sporrans, kilts, tartan key rings, fridge magnets, inflatable tartan bins (honest). You could sit with the bizarre dusty tam ‘o’ shanter wearing teddies and have your teee and fudge. There was also a corner display of all things Scott’s which had the feel of the sort of tourist attraction you’d get dragged round in the 70’s as a kid with crude wax work figures in unfortunate poses. It also had a bit about the history of the family and why on earth they were here. I’m not suggesting it wasn’t fascinating (I was so fascinated my jaw was open most of the time, until I realised and shut it politely) of course men from all over had got caught up in the gold rush and built the train line. It wasn’t an extraordinary story, just an unexpected treat, made all the more delightful by the fact screaming over the shops tannoy was a bagpipe version of ‘Fat bottomed girls’ I was in kitsch tropical paradise.

The journey down the mountain I can only describe as majestic and terrifying in equal measure. I was travelling back on the ‘Sky rail’, essentially a ski lift on a wire high above the rain forest. What could possibly be frightening about that? Well the views were indeed truly mind blowing, the sort that take your breath away and make you wonder, in awe, at the beautiful and completely amazing planet we are living on. I forgot I’m not great with heights. It wasn’t busy so I got my own car which was fine because I could see it all but possibly a scarier experience. I spent most of the time holding on to the seat and talking to myself continually like a deranged Woody Allen ‘you’ve got this Jane!’ ‘Look out the side, look out the side, not down, not up, it’s fine!!’ ‘The worst thing that can happen is you’ll plummet to your death, but hey! At least you were doing something amazing!’ And it was. Amazing.

Ther were two stop off points on the way down, one Barron Falls (or as I liked to think the Reichenbach falls) and then red, red something?! I was at that point a bit delerius and I’m pretty sure muttering continually and audibly. The beauty was we got to see the rainforest from the base as well as the top. It was magic.

Woollybutt St & Yorkey’s Knob

Now at a quick glance on the map Woolly Butt street didn’t look too far from where I was staying, I might cycle I thought! ( oh I have cycled here, 1km to the local shops, only beeped at once but it was literally all uphill on return and I looked like I’d been in a Sahara fun run). I mentioned it during a chat with Marita (my landlady). First of all I had to explain the woolly butt st appeal, which made her laugh (a good sign I thought) then I explained it was in Red Lynch (a local suburb) and I thought I might cycle. Suddenly her face altered and she looked at me as if I was in a care home and she’d come to give me my medication. ‘Oh’ I could see she was struggling to be polite ‘um I don’t think so Jane, there are a fair few mountains between here and red Lynch’.  So cycling was out.

Buses it was. So three buses a walk through a local park and up road later and I had made it, the now infamous Woolly Butt st. Firstly I must apologise for my previous spelling, which it turns out is wrong, secondly I must explain that yet again it was searing heat and full sunlight so it was with some sense of triumph I found a suburban street sign. I’m glad to report it was an under visited landmark (that day, who knows how busy it gets!?) so I didn’t have to elbow my way through Chinese tourists or raise my teachers eyebrows at any Americans but I was rather disappointed there was no cafe and gift shop. The area though as you will see is neither woolly or butt like but rather pleasant, green, safe and ordered. In fact I decided I could easily live on Woollybutt st.

But onwards and upwards (so to speak) we had a knob to find. I must say here that if you’re ever in Cairns don’t spend loads on coach tours, get a weekly bus ticket! The journey out to Yorkeys Knob is the BBC Natural History department at their finest, and if you imagine David Attenborough doing a little voice over in your head, it’s even more magnificent. Acres of sugar cane fields that drift down to the azure sea to the south and rainforest mountains to the north. ( Almost as epic as the number 57)

I arrived at Yorkeys Knob seafront and set about taking the obligatory photos of the signs and (in this case) the knob itself. Then I began to stroll along the esplanade with its cooling breeze and shady trees (oh I’m Dr Zeuss!) when simply by chance ( although some would argue there are no coincidences) I meet the most wonderful local resident Mr Maurice Milliner. Now Maurice, I feel, should be made town major, or suburb major or an honorary citizen (if he isn’t already) because within a matter of moments he had welcomed me to the area, made me feel at ease and we were sat down having a good old chin wag.

Maurice explained that the area was named after a George Lawson ( not Mr Yorkey, or Mr York at all!)  BUT! George was from Yorkshire and as a Yorkshire man the nickname Yorkey stuck. It seems he was a successful fisherman, making money from catching the sea cucumbers (Beche-de-mer) that were abundant in the coral sea. He was a well liked and respected man who gained the land rites to the whole foreshore and would refer to the rocky promontory as his ‘nab’, a term used in the north of England for an outcrop. This being Australia and full of good humour, his Yorkey’s Nab soon got turned into Yorkey’s Knob and the name just stuck.

I really liked Maurice, the fact he had time for strangers, a delightful almost Irish eloquence and enough sense not to take himself or the Yorkeys Knob name too seriously. But what I got most excited about was when Maurice told me they actually had a ‘Festival of the Knob’! Can you imagine my delight?! It seems it all began when locals had to fight in the courts against developers. The hearing ran for three days until finally the judge ruled in their favour, a victory for ‘the people’ he noted. This was a fantastic achievement but of course a very expensive one for many locals who had funded the case. After some deliberation on what to do to scrape back some money they decided upon a festival, to celebrate everything Yorkeys Knob, a Festival of the Knob!

The problem was at first, how to entice people to the festival? Did they have any famous names that could open the event? Heads were scratched then someone said, we have an English girl teaching at the local school called Julie Andrews and there is Kris Kristofferson a local busker. So it was, at the first ever Festival of the Knob Julie Andrews and Kris Kristofferson were crowned King and Queen of the knob! And being Aussies no one was bothered that long for the cheeky roose. How marvellous. After hearing this I felt emboldened to explain to Maurice my own very serious adventure and that I’d literally just come from Woollybutt street. Maurice laughed and I got an Aussie ‘good on ya!’ At last someone who could wholeheartedly appreciate a bit of tongue in cheek nonsense!

After our delightful chat and explaining to Maurice I was looking for somewhere to eat he directed me to Yorkeys Cafe. ‘Oh Tim will do you proud, tell him I sent you!’ he exclaimed. So I set off, I did wonder why Maurice had offered to drive it didn’t seem too far but under the midday sun by the time I arrived at Yorkeys Cafe I looked like an extra from Lawrence of Arabia ( albeit an oddly dressed one) now 90% sweat like a watery mirage. I asked the young man behind the counter if he was Tim and declared I had been sent from Maurice (as if this were some secret spy word which would see him press a button and me to suddenly slip through the door of the fridge into some fabulously cool speakeasy).

Thankfully Tim took this odd English girl in his stride and his cafe and food were as lovely as Maurice had suggested. I had a mouth watering peri chicken wrap washed down with a deliriously good watermelon and mint juice. If you find yourself out this way I whole heartedly recommend. Emboldened by Maurice’s reaction and also having to explain my new connection I told Tim the whole silly butt thing too. He laughed. Then he showed me his menu, ‘ we have a big knob breakfast’ he chuckled then said I should also see the sign over the shops next door, they hadn’t even bothered with the Yorkeys.

I found a picture on the local notice board of the last King and Queen of the knob! I’m quite jealous, I don’t think you could find a more tranquil, tropical paradise to reign over!

Arriving in Darwin was bitter sweet as I didn’t want to leave the train but was excited to be in the tropics. Tony was also staying in Darwin for a few days so we planned to annoy each other by meeting up later in the week. The rail terminus is 20km outside Darwin so you are driven by coaches into the city. If you look to the left there are acres and acres of savannah forest and in the distance amidst this sea of green is Darwin popping up like a Dallas of the north with a sky scraping skyline. It all looks a bit sci-fi and the nearer you get the forest turns to mangrove swamp so it gets even more like you’ve just landed on a planet from Star Wars. I seriously expected to see Ewoks or a selection of creatures from the Eisley Cantina just wandering about.

I was staying at The Argus Hotel, pretty generic but clean and with a truly tropical city view.

There are lots of things to do in the ‘Top End’ (as they like to call it) from outback trails to river cruises with amazing waterfalls and leaping crocodile displays but what I could literally not wait to do was find (the now infamous in my own little mind) Fannie Bay!

So my first trip out was expedition Fannie. I had to walk round the block to find the bus stops (outside Woolworths – yes! They still have Woolies! Albeit a sort of Tesco version, more supermarket than . . .umm crockery and pic and mix?!) and who should I see in the distance dithering around the bus stops peering at the timetables with a huge neon sign above him saying ‘I am a tourist’ , yes, Tony. He was off on a Botanic Gardens expedition and couldn’t be persuaded to join in the Fannie Bay hunt. (In fact I’m not sure he really approved or approves of my infantile adventures) But a short drive out of town, in fact it’s the next Bay round, found me stepping off the bus at the sign posted Fannie Bay shops.

I obviously spent a certain amount of time smirking and giggling in a very carry-on manner and taking pictures of my favourite Fannie signs.

I had a pleasant coffee in Fannie Bays famous cool spot and I can affirm it is thankfully very cool (with air conditioning) because the rest of the time the place is seriously hot and seriously humid. It seems to be the Beverly Hills of Darwin though, with manicured lawns, huge mansions, palm tree lined drives and I’m sure it would be a pleasant if it weren’t so sweaty. (Or I wasn’t so sweaty?!)

I’m sort of sorry to say I didn’t stay long in Fannie Bay. I was going to have a look round Fannie gaol (there is also a Fannie Bay aerodrome and race course) but I had literally melted, like the wicked witch, and now dripping somewhat, was pretty sure it also looked like I’d wet myself. Best get to the safety of air con, time to stop Fannying around.

So I visited the Northern Territory Museum and Art Gallery. Which I cannot praise highly enough. I loved it. Not too big, great layout, fascinating exhibitions especially one on immigration and the terrifying Cyclone Tracey that decimated Darwin at Christmas in 1974. There are beautiful natural history exhibits, like the enchanting ‘ Splendid Fairy Wren’ ( what a great name?!?) and some stunning original aboriginal art.

Despite all this I spent most of my time trying to make it look like I was being attacked by the huge crocodile exhibit ‘sweetheart’ who at over 5 metres long became famous in Australia after he kept attacking dinghies at a popular Darwin fishing spot. He never hurt anyone but safety concerns raised they decided to catch him but after being caught and anaesthetised he became entangled with a sunken log and drowned. So he was stuffed. Now everyone can come and see him at the museum and if they have the time spend a while making, let’s face it, embarrassing selfies.

The rest of the week continued hot, steamy and migraine filled unfortunately (possibly the excitement of finding Fannie Bay?). Tony and I had a little trip out to Darwin National Park which is a sort of country park affair with walks and cycle paths, the obligatory bbq spots and loos. Not much else. Apart from us, wandering aimlessly, trying to be upbeat and not thoroughly underwhelmed (!) but there are an inordinate amount of old WWII bunkers. In fact Darwin is quite obsessed with its Second World War heritage, everywhere you go there is a plaque of some kind, or just old remnants left to rust. It was coming up to the anniversary of the bombing of Darwin by the Japanese on February 19th 1942 and as the only place in Australia to see such a bombardment you can kind of see why it still resonates. The park does have some epic views back across to Darwin which I tried to capture. (!)

Despite the constant clouds and huge rain, we had no big thunder clapping or tropical lightening but I did try to film some of the rain.

I spent quite a lot of time amusing myself in Woolies as there are quite a few brand names of food that, (well how to put it?) Well brand names that don’t travel well, most of them I’ve sort of decided to self edit (don’t want the site shut down!) but let’s leave Darwin with some 1950’s sunniness!

Next stop Woolley Butt Street!!!

 

After a week in Adelaide riding the free bus, buying appropriate clothing (including a proper Aussie/Indiana Jones/Crocodile Dundee hat) and cruising the backstairs passage I headed for the train terminal and the start of a truly epic adventure on The Ghan.

The Ghan is a train, almost a kilometre long that runs from Adelaide to Darwin right up through the middle of the country. It’s name harks back to the camel riders of old, mostly from Afghanistan who rode trains of camels across the country. It now travels with first class passengers on an orient express style adventure through the desert complete with cabins, bar and a dining car.

it is a grand affair, you are greeted with champagne as you check in and gasp at the sheer size of the train. (It stands at first on two separate platforms so everyone can get onboard) I was in coach K room 13, which turned out to be lucky for me. The single cabins are an ikea dream of compact efficiency, seats and table by day, bed by night.

 

Your journey comes complete with in cabin radio, slippers, magazine, reference book and journey map so you can see where about in the middle of nowhere you actually are. The beginning of the journey starts in the sunny south with golden fields and blue skies, then gradually the landscape changes to scorched red earth with tufts of blue saltbushes reaching out to the horizon. It is mesmerising.

I had books to read and maps to follow but honestly I spent probably hours just transfixed at the unfolding show before me. When I did prise myself from the window I had the slightly grown up task of having dinner, in the dining car, with Hercule Poirot (unfortunately not) and a selection of wealthy retired Australians.

It is fair to say that I was at least two decades younger than the rest of the travellers, the only Brit (in my dining car) and possibly the silliest person there. At least I thought I was, until I met my fellow cabin traveller Mr Oliver-Dearman. Tony will be reading this and starting to throw things at his computer screen or phone citizens advice for ‘slander & libel cases’ (good luck my friend). The truth is Tony is as slightly eccentric as I am, and within a few hours we were already closing ranks, taking the mickey out of each other and generally being a bit silly amongst a group of well to do grown ups. (Tony is, I hasten to add, at least a hundred and fifty years old, so I am still right about being younger than the other travellers)!

As well as travelling through some of the most amazing scenery in the world The Ghan arranges little tours, a break to stretch your legs and peel your face off the window pane. Our first stop was to see the dawn rise over the outback, at a place called Marla (or Middle-o-nowhere’s-ville). We were woken before six to stumble out of the coach in the darkness with the sight of two bonfires alight and a warm mug of coffee waiting for us. It’s difficult to find any more superlatives to describe this unworldly sight but it was magical, let’s leave it at that.

We carried on to the real and original middle-of-nowhere ‘Alice Springs’. It was 42C in Alice. I’d signed up for a camel ride but there was not enough room due to a camel having twisted his ankle. (Some excuse!) So  somewhat dejected I headed to The Alice Springs Desert Park, which turned out to be where Tony was going, so I could annoy him all day and suddenly things were looking up!

It was hot. And very bright. But a landscape and nature like none I’d seen before.

After a not too surprising migraine I took to my cabin like a true witheringly sick Edwardian lady. The cool darkness and ham sandwich from the restaurant car was just what I needed to reboot. Unfortunately Tony had been left to survive the chit chat of the grown ups on his own so spent the evening cursing me inwardly whilst seeming interested in Pam and Trevs last cruise.

The next morning was a trip out to Katherine’s gorge. I’m sure not many people have visited Katherine’s gorge in the wet season. The terrain had changed greatly since Alice, now out the window were lush forests of green and no longer the huge skies. The river was high so only part of the gorge could be reached. It was a bit like being in an Indiana Jones film, I expected at any minute for us to be hurled down into the rapids chased by indigenous tribes.

In reality Tony got over excited, wandering around the boat taking lots of photos, I had another migraine and then we both hobbled slowly across the rocks with our individual knee complaints like a couple of octogenarians. We were en route to see some 8,000 year old indigenous rock art. It was stunning. I tried my best to look like an explorer. I hope you appreciate the hat. I’m glad to say we fought off the salties (salt water crocs) (most dangerous kind) rode the rapids and survived the waterfall all in time to be back for lunch in the dining car.

It was with real sadness that we left the Ghan. I had just got used to the restful chug and rattle at night, the excellent service of the very hard working staff, the awesome landscapes and the frisson of excitement that at any moment there may be a murder!  But we had to leave and arrived at a soggy tropical Darwin, end of the line.

Next stop, Fannie Bay.