Apologies...

(Michelle, Claire and Geoff, Christmas Day 2007)

...to Geoff, who we hung out with in Sydney on Christmas Day, went boarding with and spent New Year's Eve with. I referred to you as 'Jeff'. Inforgiveable, but it was a 50/50 chance, and I got it wrong. So, Geoff! It was a blast, see you again soon!

It’s not just about eating. Is it? Really?

(Waratah Beach, January 2008)

I hope everyone is enjoying these blogs. I’m a bit concerned that there is so much detail that none of you are actually reading it. Some of the basic grammatical mistakes clearly shows that I’m not reading it very well, either. Sorry about that. It is proving a bit difficult to find the time to write about all the stuff we’re doing, what with most of our time being taken up by actually doing all the stuff I have to write about. A classic miscalculation, I grant you. Still, I will try and keep up, because I know that my Mum, Dad and Nan are definitely reading every word. Hello mum! Hello Dad! Hello Nan! You weren’t supposed to open your birthday present until your birthday, but I guess we’ll let you off… and yes, I have put one or two pounds on, but I’m on day fifty something of not smoking! I’m not even counting anymore! The pounds on the scales, that is…!

Anyway, back to the plot:

We had neglected to book anywhere to stay for the coming night, so first things first, we called a backpacker hostel in Kiama. They didn’t take bookings on the phone, which should have triggered the alarm, so on our way through the town we called at the Information Centre. They gave us a couple of addresses for motels, which were way over budget, so we decided to call in at the hostel anyway. Having found the bloke who purportedly ran the place, we asked if he had a room. Normally a yes or a no would follow, but he asked if we’d seen any of the rooms. We told him we hadn’t, to which he asked how we knew we wanted one. We decided that we didn’t want one after all, and left.

Next door was the Kiama Hotel, essentially a pub with some rooms above it. We called in and asked the barman if he had any rooms for the night. He told us that the cleaner was still upstairs, and he didn’t know if he had any rooms until she came down. At this point, I expected him to ask if we’d like to have a drink and wait for him to find out, but he simply walked away. So we walked away, too.

We sat over the road with our guide-book, and Michelle suggested that we try some places further inland. We found a place called Kangeroo Valley, and being good tourists, decided to try there, because we liked the name. Within five minutes we had a cabin booked, for less than the hotel advertised their rooms, and set off to sit on the beach for a while. We felt we deserved a break after all that conflict.

Having read our books and enjoyed yet another excellent beach for a couple of hours, it was getting dark, and was time to set off for ‘Roo Valley. We stopped off at some public toilets, where I was offered drugs by a skinny bloke standing by the door to the gents, and so we got the hell out of Kiama. I’m sure the bit we didn’t get to see was very nice, but we’re in no hurry to go back…

Kangeroo Valley was a different story. 30 km inland, with most of the road being of the windy up and down variety, it is essentially a dairy farming area, with a one street town which has a Scottish-looking stone bridge, called the Hampton Bridge, at one end. Just before this bridge was our campsite, and the very friendly couple who ran the site had stayed open especially for us, ran through all the usual stuff, showed us the range of DVDs they had for guests use, with no charge, and then told us which places to eat in, drink in and buy stuff from, in the town.

The cabin itself was small, but easily the nicest we’d stayed in. As we went out to pick a DVD, we bumped into an Aussie couple with two small boys, said hello, and set off into town. We got some beer from the bottleshop, and as we left, bumped into the Aussie couple coming in. We ordered food down the road, and as we sat outside waiting for it, the Aussie couple rocked up to order theirs. We chatted while we waited, noting that the people who ran the site must have shares in the bottle shop and the food place, and then both set off back to the campsite.

Stuffed, we lay in bed watching our chosen movie, and both miss the end.

The next morning we re-packed, and as I loaded the car, spotted the bloke we had been chatting with the previous night, at the playground with the older boy. I went over and, realising that we hadn’t actually done so yet, introduced myself. Geoff and I chatted about Sydney, I found out that he and his wife, Bridget, were both Film Editors, and they lived in Belle Vue, a suburb of Sydney. They had both travelled a lot before starting a family, and we got on so well that by the time Michelle and Bridget and joined us we realised that we were late checking out again. I ran over to the office, all apologetic and out of breath, and the lady told me that she had seen us chatting and she thought we’d all get along, so there was no hurry. Geoff and Bridget gave us their numbers and address, telling us that we must call them next time we’re over. I think we definitely will.

One of the nice things about being a little inland for a change was that we were close to a couple of waterfalls, and Michelle could therefore tick these of the long list of ‘things to see in ‘stralia’. The first was Fitzroy Falls, and following a short walk we came across a rather disappointing trickle of water falling down a much more impressive cliff face. Back to the car after avoiding the hoards of Japanese and German tourists, we drove to another place called Carrington Falls, which Michelle had found on a map, and found a much better twin waterfall. We also found an empty car park, a sign that said ‘Stevo’s walk’, and an excellent little track which led to the top of the waterfall. Result. Another twenty minutes down the same road is a rain forrest walk called Minimure, which was notable for being calm, quiet and empty. We completed the 2 hour walk in 45 minutes, and rewarded ourselves with lattes at the café in the middle of the rain forest. By this time it was late afternoon, and we decided we really ought to try and find somewhere to stay for the night. The 6th place we try out of the numerous books we have collected is in Culburra Beach, and they have a cabin which we book for two nights. We get there late as it’s quite a drive down the coast, pick up Chinese food and have a moonlight walk on the beach.

Culburra Beach is at the North end of Jervis Bay, and the next morning we decide to see how many beaches we can visit in one day. Jervis is a natural horse-shoe bay, with Booderee National Park at the South end, and a number of beaches along the way. We started at Huskisson, which contained way too many Man Utd shirts on pink people and cheapy ‘tat’ shops for our liking, before driving to Hyams Beach, which contained hardly any people in any type of shirts, or indeed any type of shops. The sand was white and despite the grey skies was beautiful, so we stayed for a while before having a coffee at Vincentia, staying at Green Patch for about 2 minutes because there were too many stupid people (how difficult is it to understand a sign that says “do not feed the birds or the animals, it upsets their natural diets and harms them”? As we walked past, one of the kids screamed because a bird had pecked her. Her Dad was shocked by the bird’s behaviour…) and headed for a place called Cave Beach. Cave Beach was a ten minute walk from the car park, and had very few facilities, which generally means that there will be less people around. And so it proved. A long, curved bay of sand with good waves, it seems to be popular with Surfers and local families who know how to behave in nature. We loved it and stayed until it began to get dark.

One of the nice things about staying in a cabin is that you get cooking facilities, and we had realised that, although it’s great to have the opportunity to eat out all the time, sometimes you just want to cook something simple. We had baked potatoes with beans and cheese, and it was as nice as anything we could have had in a restaurant.

Again we had to pack up, load the car and head off first thing in the morning. We had booked this evening’s destination the previous evening, at a motel in Marimbula, adding this to the list of campervan, hostel, house, and cabin. On the way we stopped off at the not so suitably named Pebbly Beach, which was another hard to find place, but brilliantly worth it. After an off-road drive of nearly half-an-hour, you reach a car-park, which in turn leads to a 15 minute walk down to the beach. It pays not to forget anything. We had brunch (made at the cabin that morning), Chelley went for a walk along the length of the beach, and we went up into the forest and found a whole bunch of kangaroos, sleeping and grazing. It was a shame too leave, but we had a long drive ahead. We swapped driving duties before finally hitting Marimbula, eating out in the town centre, and getting a bit upset with our neighbour’s parking at the motel. Well, I did. Michelle just looked embarrassed.

The next morning I checked out the view from our room, which was magnificent, while Michelle went for a run. The fact that I had such an amazing view should give you an idea of how high up we were, and even at that time of the morning, the sun is pretty strong. Just as I was starting to get worried she made it back, reporting that walking back up to the motel was hard enough, let alone after running a few miles in the wrong direction…

As we set off, we decide we really like Marimbula, but it’s crossed off the “possible places to live in” list because of the hills. Lakes Entrance is our next destination, and this time we have a room at a YHA hostel just out of the town. When we check in the woman tells us that a coach load of backpackers are expected in tonight, but they normally don’t make too much noise.

We walk the 25 minutes into the town (well, the one street of cafes and surf shops that counts as a town in most of the places we are driving through) in scorching heat, head for the beach, and run straight into the sea. It’s cold for about 10 seconds and then as the next wave crashes into you, it becomes cool. All around us kids and adults are jumping around in the surf, most with body boards, and all having a swell time. Sitting on the beach you dry off in no time, to be reminded of the one big pain in the bum problem this part of Australia suffers from – flies. They are everywhere. The action of waving your hand around in front of your face is known as the Aussie Salute. I’m not sure I could grow to accept them as the locals seem to, but we do our best.

After a while we head back to the hostel, and jump straight into the beautifully kept swimming pool before chatting with an English bloke who was the only other person near the pool. In the evening we walk back into town and eat at the healthiest fish’n’chip shop in the world, according to its owner, Guy from Belgium. His wheat and gluten free batter tastes excellent, his chips, cooked in special vegetable oil were tasty, and we were treated to the whole story of how he invented the batter while his wife cleared up around us, occasionally looking up to the heavens. I guess she’d heard the story once or twice.

The hostel was quiet when we returned, despite the presence of the promised coach outside, and we sat with coffee before finally giving in and retiring to the oven-like room.

In the morning we discuss how nice it would be to stay somewhere for more than one night as we pack up again, load the car and hit the road. We assign a brunch stop to a place called Sale, and when we arrive the only thing we can find is a shopping mall which seems to consist of lots of the Aussie equivalent of our ‘Pound Shops’. Chelle spots a café across the road, and it turns out to serve the best scrambled eggs I’ve had since the Alibi Rooms in Brisbane. Chelle enjoys her pancakes, and we look longingly at all the vegetarian options on the menu, wishing that we could take one of each with us.

It seems even hotter today, and the drive seems a little harder today. Foster is our destination, and another YHA place. This turns out to be the smallest place so far, catering for 10 people a night, it is essentially a small cottage with three bedrooms – our double, one with three and one with five bunks. We are the first to arrive and the very friendly host, John, shows us around. We decide to explore nearby beaches and save the big local attraction, Wilson’s Promontory, until the next day.

It’s about 3 in the afternoon, and we randomly pick Waratah Bay. Twenty minutes later we park up and walk through some green to emerge on an empty strip of white sand, some perfect looking waves, and winds which made it quite difficult to stand up. So we sat down, finding a little bit of protection from the wind in the dunes at the top of the beach. After an hour or so we had been joined by a few others, most of which turned up with body boards, some of which have dogs and one of which has a kayak. We reckon the vast majority of these are local families who head down to the beach after school and work, we are chuffed that we found the locals beach, and we enjoy being part of it.

Eventually we have to move – thanks to a mixture of being hungry, being wind-battered and being quite thirsty (unlike all the locals, we forgot to bring water with us, and there is no café on this beach), but I’m in the mood to explore. Instead of turning left to go back to the hostel, I turn the wheel right and we find another road along the coast and a sign which says ‘Neds Lookout’. Up a side road, round a corner and a short walk from a rough car-park, we climb up some stairs to be on a wooden platform overlooking miles of beach, including Waratah to our right, and Sandy Point to our left. Pictures are taken, we try to stand up straight in the increasingly wild winds, and grin at each other quite a lot.

Back down to the road, more exploring calls and as we drive along the road we find our house. It’s for sale, and it’s a four bedroom, wooden framed two story, with access to the beach and parking for loads of cars. It doesn’t say how much it is, but we enjoy the thought that we might be able to afford the shed that is at the side of the garden. With a large mortgage, of course.

When we stop at the general stores down the road to get a coffee, there is a real estate office next door, and ‘our new house’ is in the window. It’s $580,000. Which for those of you in the UK, works out to about £250,000. Michelle has to stop me going in…

Back at the hostel and we cook pasta and salad in the kitchen, before sitting outside for the rest of the evening with three German guys – Lars, Stefan and Michael – who where travelling around after working in Sydney for five months. We even had to go to the bottle shop for more beer, which just about made up for our lack of German. This is where staying in hostels wins over hotels. It’s not just about cost, although they are significantly cheaper, it’s about meeting people and exchanging ideas, and it works best in the smaller places like this one in Foster.

Oh, and we saw a wombat at last. It wandered around in the garden for a couple of minutes while we sat outside.

Tomorrow we go to Phillip Island, and eat some more food. Oh, and do some sight seeing too.

Hang on, THIS is Grey Street, right?…

(Me and Nick work on that tricky Metallica middle-eight... January 5th 2008, Wollongong)

Our time with Kirstie, Manu and Summer was coming to an end, so for our last day we all piled into the car and headed for Bobbin Head, one of Manu’s favourite running spots, as well as being one of the funnier double-entendre names around here. Michelle and I joined Manu for a walk along one of the routes, leaving Kirstie and Summer in the shade at a café. It’s a hot day. Really hot. Manu reckons it’s a bit warm, so yes, it’s really hot. There is shade along the way, and you find yourself walking just a bit slower in the shady bits. We go past a Goanna, which looks as bit like an Iguana. In fact I can’t tell the difference, and I still haven’t found anyone who can actually explain the difference…

The views of the lake and the hills are spectacular, and after half an hour we turn and go back. Manu suggests a detour, which to me looks knee threateningly steep, so I break off and head for the café. When we’ve all re-convened it’s back in the car and off through the National Park to a Wildlife reserve where more views are to be had, some kangaroos and turtles are to be seen and a colleague of Manu’s is to be met. Another trip in the car, partly on a ferry, and we get to Berowra Waters before heading back to K&Ms.

Manu and I get some take out Thai food and we all sit on the balcony, drinking beer and chatting, and finally we all go to bed.

The next morning we pack, call a cab and head for the station. It’s impossible to thank Kirstie and Manu enough for asking us to stay with them over C*****mas and New Year, for their hospitality, for sharing their friends, for driving us around, for feeding us and for, well, for being our friends. We try and convey our thanks, and look forward too seeing them in the UK later this year, when we hope they’ll stay with us.

Michelle had found us a room at a hostel in the middle of the Kings Cross area of Sydney, which if not physically, is culturally a long way away from Wahroonga. It’s backpacker central, and as we finally find the right street after finding every other wrong street in the area, we walk past about 50 backpacker places before we get to ours. The room seems ok, and there’s a fridge, a TV and three beds, and we find out that we have free Wi-Fi access – so plans for the next few days are made, places are booked and snacks from the local supermarket are snacked.

We also book tickets for the open air movie theatre which is showing The Godfather. It’s in Centennial Park, to the east of the city and we think we know where it is having gone past it on the bus going to Bondi. We need to be there at 7.30, so we start walking, panic that we’ll be late and hail a cab. The cab goes the other way to that which we have been going, and drops us off at the gate to the park 10 minutes later. We have more snacks with us, plus some beer and as it gets dark we sit on our towels and the movie starts. Covering ourselves in mozzie spray seems to keep the little blighters at bay and, despite Chelley falling asleep about halfway through, we have a brilliant time. Trying to figure out the buses on the way home seems a little more difficult than it should, but we have a map and decide to walk. It’s 12.30am, and we walk down Oxford Street, going past signs to Liverpool Street and Charring Cross, Paddington and finally Kings Cross and it’s taken less than 40 minutes. The corridor to our room is full of backpackers drinking cheap cider, we have the stairs on one side of our room and the men’s showers on the other. Sleeping is not easy, but we manage it thanks to the walk.

The next morning, fuelled by fruit, we catch a train and then a bus to get us to Circular Quay and then walk to The Rocks, the area under the Harbour Bridge which is billed as the oldest in the city. After walking an unnecessary extra couple of kilometres around the pillars, we find the way up onto the bridge and then up inside one of the pillars. The view is amazing, and at $9 each, a lot cheaper than the walk up the actual bridge. A lot safer, too. We walk over the bridge to the North side, buy pastries and head for the North Sydney outdoor Swimming Pool. Chelle gets in for a few lengths while I get on with some snoozing, after appreciating the view – one end of the pool is at the entrance to Luna Park, the other at the foot of the Harbour Bridge. It runs alongside the water in the harbour too, giving a great contrast in colours.

We catch the ferry to Balmain, a suburb to the west of Sydney (although not in ‘West’ Sydney), get milkshakes and raisin toast in a café, get back on the ferry and shoot across the water to Darling Harbour. There’s not really much there for us - it’s mostly fish or steak restaurants along with the Aquarium, but it does have a monorail station, and we catch it back into the city. It runs up high, 2 or 3 floors above street level, and gives an unusual view, and we get off, catch a conventional train back to the hostel, picking up take out pies and salad to have in. We’re knackered.

Despite the noise in the hostel, we sleep like very sleepy people and emerge at 9.45 in the morning, along with the realisation that we have to check out at 10.00am. Quick showers are had (it’s better that way in shared facilities sometimes, as is the fact that I can’t see very much without my glasses), bags are packed, toast and coffee is had in the kitchen while making sandwiches with the left over snacks from yesterday, and we’re handing back the key by 10.30am with apologies. We lock up the bags in the back room at the hostel and head out to fill up 2 hours before picking up our hire car.

Walking the other way is always a good thing to do. We had turned left as we stepped out of the hostel for the previous two days, so this day we turned right, headed down the road, found a park and an enormous set of steps which led down to the Woolloomooloo District of Sydney. And no, I didn’t just make that name up. Across the road is Harry’s Café de Wheels, an infamous attraction in the city which has been there since 1945, is open 18 hours a day, and is covered in pictures of celebrities eating pies at the booth, which is next door to the wharf which houses a posh Hotel and, as we were told later, Russell Crowe’s Sydney pad. A short walk round the wharf and we find ourselves in The Domain, part of the Botanical Gardens and about ten minutes walk around the headland from the Opera House. The geographical jigsaw of Sydney was finally starting to make sense, and we were slowly putting the final piece in place, but first we got distracted by a modernist structure at the side of the gardens. It turned out to be the ‘Andrew ‘Boy’ Charlton’ swimming pool and café, with Olympic size salt water serious pool, full of Sydney’s citizens dutifully counting lengths, and attached café, at which we sampled some green tea while watching the swimmers. Well, I watched the swimmers, Chelle was watching the lifeguard. Of course. I promised myself that I would find out who Andrew ‘Boy’ Charlton was, which I will do. Soon. Really.

Further walking through the gardens revealed that preparations were well underway for the Sydney Festival which starts the day after we leave, quelle surprise, and we complete our loop by finding our way to car rental central – Wilson Street – and going into the Thrifty office, to be told that they had no record of our booking. If you can recall, we made our booking through an organisation called ‘Backpackers’, a couple of days ago, but had received no confirmation. In characteristic fashion, I had decided that they were probably busy, and had simply forgotten to confirm. Maybe they had been to busy to book it, too. The lady in the office asked us to give her half an hour to investigate, and sent us around the corner for a coffee. Slightly concerned but buoyed by her calmness, we followed her directions and discovered her recommendation to be just one in a street full of Italian cafes. As we sat outside, trying not to worry about not having a car, or somewhere to sleep if we couldn’t get one, we enjoyed the sun, the parade of Italian cars including an old Fiat Arbarth (one for Justin there) and the conversations of the obviously gay couple of girls on the next table.

When we returned we were relieved to hear that there had indeed been a computer based cock-up on the car-booking front, and Thrifty would indeed provide a car for us – however, we would have to give them an hour or so to get it here, along with all the others that had been booked and not made it onto the list for the day. We were in no real hurry, so headed back towards the hostel and called my friend Nick, who was going to be meeting us and providing a roof over our heads for the next couple of days.

We called into a second-hand bookstore which had previously caught our eye, and I found a couple of Clive James books I had been looking for as well as wandering into a room at the back which was full of interesting vinyl records. As I walked in, the guy behind the counter put the first Crosby Stills & Nash album on the turntable, and the first book I spotted in the music section was Colchester’s own Giles Smith’s Lost In Music. It was turning into a splendid day, despite the car thing, and we sat in a park, eating our sandwiches, reading our newly purchased books waiting for a call from the Thrifty Woman.

By 3.30pm we were finally on our way, having called at the hostel to get our bags, and navigated our way out of the centre of Sydney and headed south to Wollongong, home of my friend Nick.

An easy drive means we arrive in North Wollongong by about 5 in the afternoon, and we find a beach café, watch the massive waves, and call Nick. I met Nick in LA over three years ago. We were both staying at the Orbit hostel, and ended up hanging out with Darren (from the Gold Coast, getting married – come on, keep up!), Gary (who we went out with, along with Nick, on our first night in LA on this trip…), and Fiona, who we will be meeting up with in Melbourne…Look, it makes sense to me, alright?

Anyway, Nick arrives and we have coffee and watch with a mixture of fear and excitement, as the Lifeguards rescue a guy who was stuck out in the huge waves that have been relentlessly pounding the beach since we arrived. In the most impressive piece of work I’ve ever seen, the Lifeguard paddled out on a board, through 16 foot high waves, got the bloke onto the board, and then paddled both of them back. The whole thing took over 20 minutes. A round of applause broke out across the beach and the café as they got to the beach, and if I had been the rescued, I would have felt indebted to the rescuer for the rest of my life.

We follow Nick back to his house, meet his mum who makes us feel very welcome, before heading into the CBD to eat Thai food, drink beer, and sample The ‘Gong. It seems to be a similar in size to Ipswich, there are a couple of night clubs, a few bars, a smattering of restaurants and, as it is Friday night, a fair amount of locals looking for a good time. The most obvious thing is that The ‘Gong is not a tourist place and its lack of pretension is obvious having spent the last few days in Sydney. As we sit in the bar after eating, the similarities with our home town are cemented when it starts to pour with rain. Back at Nick’s we watch the highlights of the 2nd test between Australia and India, which seemed simply like an intense international sporting event at that time, before the whole series was put in jeopardy by name calling and accusations of un-gentlemanly behaviour.

The next day it’s still raining as Nick cooks up a storm in the kitchen, before taking us up Mount Keira, part of the Illawarra Escarpment, which rears up behind the city, and provides breath-taking views across to the sea as well as up and down the coastline. It’s still steadily raining, so we go to the movies and watch National Treasure 2, which I had high hopes of being featured in having been an extra on the shoot in London about 6 months ago. Within the first five minutes it’s clear they didn’t use any of the shots I was in, so I hide the disappointment by pretending to not enjoy the film.

We have coffee and cookies, watch some more cricket and then head out to Napoli pizzas – Nick’s favourite restaurant. Like a huge number of places in Australia, this is a BYO place, meaning you bring your own wine or beer, and some places charge you a nominal fee to open it (called ‘corkage’), so we stop off at a ‘bottle stop’ on the way and get some Coopers Pale Ale.

The pizzas are excellent, the beer is good, and we finish the evening off at The ‘Gong’s micro-Brewery, down by the south beach, sampling a few of their own beers. Back at Nick’s Chelle leaves us to watch one of the worst films in the world, about Nazi’s bringing some Gargoyles to life, before I retire to bed too. As I drift off to sleep I hear some whist-full a'capella singing coming from outside somewhere, but feel too tired to investigate, and fall asleep.

Nick had also heard the singing, thankfully for my sanity, but we’re at a loss as to where it had come from. His mum cooks us a beautiful breakfast, we pack up and do the difficult good bye bit again. I don’t think we will ever get used to this, but at least this particular one is only temporary, as luckily, Nick will be in Melbourne next week, the same time as us, for the tennis. Plans are made for meeting up.

Here’s a thing. When Michelle was young, she used to hang out with her family’s friend’s children Andrew and Trevor. Andrew had, during his travelling days, met an Aussie girl called Penny, and eventually moved over and settled down with her. So far so normal, but it happens that they had settled in Wollongong, and his parents had suggested we call in and see them, as we would be visiting Nick in the same city. It’s a big place, the World, and Australia is a pretty big part of it, so the fact that one of Michelle’s childhood friends should move to the same city as a friend of mine, that I met in LA, is a bit of a coincidence. The fact that, once we had checked his address, Andrew lived less than 30 yards down the same road, Grey Street, as Nick, was a bit more freaky.

So, having packed the car up, waved goodbye out of the car window, we went over the hill and pulled up on the other side of the same road. Andrew and Penny had, after 15 years of living together, finally done the decent thing and got married just before Christmas. A lot of Andrew’s family had come over for the wedding, and some had stayed for Christmas and new year, but the final lot had left the day before we called, so they were feeling a bit empty. We were concerned that, having had a houseful for a month, they would want some time to themselves, but they were incredibly welcoming, with snacks, drinks and wedding photos, and we chatted for a couple of hours before heading off, this time driving a little bit further down the coast to Kiama, with a lot of useful information from Andrew and Penny in our heads.

So, which one is the Harbour Bridge again?

(l to r: Manu, Kirstie, Michelle, Stephen, Claire, Jeff, Julia, Clayton. Behind the camera, Dean. Sydney, just after midnight, January 1st 2008.)

For someone who supposedly dislikes C*****mas so much, I seem to have written about it quite a lot so far. And there seems to be no reason to stop now, because this year Michelle and I spent the 25th December on a beach!

First things first – a few presents are to be opened. We have a couple of pictures of Sydney from Kirstie and Manu, they have a few family presents plus our gifts, and Summer sleeps through it all. I doubt whether she will in the future. We have coffee and toast before gathering some towels and boardshorts and heading to the beach. Unfortunately, the one thing we won’t be needing is sun-screen – although warm, the sky is grey and there will be no sun peeping through. Still, it’s 25 degrees, and by the time we’ve walked the 20 minutes down some steep tracks, we are all very warm.

There is no-one else on Flint & Steel Beach, Michelle and Kirstie stay on the beach while Manu, Summer (in a papoose type thing called a ‘babybjorn’) and I go off investigating caves and rock pools. By the time we get back, we have been joined by Claire and Jeff, friends of K&M, and also poms. Claire had recently celebrated passing her citizenship test, while Jeff was contemplating going back to the UK to finish a stint in the Police Force, having taken a couple of years off.

After a glass of wine, Michelle, Claire and Jeff decide to go swimming, while the more sensible of us decide to watch. And finish the wine. I get to spend some quality time with Summer, and before long we’re heading back up the trail, saying goodbye to Claire and Jeff, and back to Wahroonga for dinner.

Manu disappears into the kitchen, refusing any offers of help, and we have some more wine. Christmas Dinner appears on the table in the form of a veggie risotto, asparagus, lobster and scallops, and I am now a confirmed pescatarian, keen to try more seafood. Late in the evening we both call home and my insistence that I’m not missing anything crumbles when I speak to my mum, dad, nanna and sister in quick succession. They all tell me it’s cold and raining, but for a while I wish I was there sharing it with them.

What do you do on public holidays when it’s warm? You spend hours on buses, that’s what. We had decided to give K&M a day on their own as Manu had generously saved all his holiday for when we were around, and we thought he might like some family time. The sun had returned to it’s normal place, so we decided to take the train into Sydney and the ferry out to Manly Beach to watch the start of the annual Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. Which was a good plan, apart from the fact that the trains weren’t actually running. Still, we figured that we were in no big hurry, and clutching instructions we boarded the replacement bus service into the city. In the UK the streets seem pretty empty on boxing day, but here it seems like everyone is out in their car. Consequently, buses take a rather long time, and instead of the 40 minute train ride, we have an hour and a half in a hot bus before arriving at Wynard Station. As we get off, we realise that at no point had we bought tickets, and at no point had anyone asked to see any tickets. From there it’s a 10 minute walk down to Circular Quay and the ferries, and we arrive just in time to be told that the last ferry for three hours had gone. Apparently, there’s some kind of race starting in the harbour, and ferries would just get in the way…

Still undeterred, a patient ferry man tells us where the get the bus to Manly, and so we join the long queue of people who had also planned the same ferry trip as us. Three buses come and go before we get anywhere near the front of the queue, and as we board we realise nobody is showing tickets or paying the driver, so we just walk past too. It’s another 30 minutes before we get off the bus in Manly, and also about 40 minutes since the race started. As we arrive at Manly Wharf we see about 5 stragglers leaving the bay.

Manly is busy. The Wharf is at one end of a long pedestrianised street, with the beach being at the other, and everywhere is awash with people. We buy sandwiches and drinks near the Wharf and head towards the beach, finding a shady area of grass to sit and picnic. Then we reach the beach. Remember those pictures that the English tabloids print on the first sunny day of summer, showing Bournmouth or Brighton beach covered with people? It looks like that, only with less pink blobby people and many more surf boards taking up space. Obviously this far into the trip Michelle looks like a local, so I up the number of pink blobby people by one as we find a space near the shady back wall and start the ritual of changing, slopping sun screen on and getting comfortable.

I have a new book on the go, and so fall into my own little world, while Michelle tests out the water and falls asleep. When we both look up again, it’s gone 6.00pm and the beach is emptying. We call K&M to say we won’t be back for dinner, and start the ‘wandering around looking for suitable food’ ritual. I’m sure you’ve all done the same thing. We find a very posh looking place by the wharf and neither of us considers it as a possible, thanks to our self imposed budget restraints, but when we have a look at the menu it’s more affordable than we first thought. Safely ensconced inside we feel a bit grubby compared to the cool crowd surrounding us, we get a beer, some fish and chips and have a great time. The ferries are running and we get on just as the sun is going down. The views of Sydney, the Bridge and the Opera House as the ferry rounds the corner and heads into Circular Quay are breathtaking. The bus back to Waroongha takes less time than earlier that day and the 20 minute walk from the station back to K&M’s means that we sleep very soundly.

Manu’s work means that he has a few calls to make the next morning, so we relax with Kirstie and Summer before heading off in their car to Balmoral Bay for brunch. We pay in a small attempt to start repaying K&M’s generosity, and are secretly pleased that the day is a little overcast, giving us a break from all that sunny-ness. Not. It’s an odd day, warm and muggy but grey and cloudy, and we decide to go and check out the local mall while Manu does a bit of food shopping. We manage to pay for the groceries too, which goes another small way towards thanking our hosts.

While Manu slaves in the kitchen, again refusing any offers of help, the rest of us snooze through ‘Love Actually’, and then Manu presents a special treat for me – seared tuna. In my new role as fish eater, this has to be my favourite so far, but Michelle still can’t be talked round.

Manu needs to work the next day, so we take ourselves off to catch the bus again, using yesterday’s knowledge to find the right bus stop to get to Bondi Beach. Before we know it (well, 2 hours later) we get off the right bus, walk round the corner and see the famous Bondi Beach. It’s a good looking beach certainly, and in this holiday season it seems very popular, but, well, it doesn’t really live up to it’s billing. I suppose it couldn’t really.

Still, we have a splendid afternoon in the sun on the beach, hearing mostly American and English accents, and it’s only when I turn round and spot some graffiti on a wall that I get an idea of how the locals feel. It says “f**k off backpackers”.

We eat late in town and get back to our hosts an hour before Kirstie, who has been out on the town with friends for the first time since Summer was born. Summer slept the whole time, missing out on this momentous occasion.

We’re on our own again the next day, and decide to head for the Northern Beaches. More long bus journeys are only lightened by chatting with people, and the memory of Manu’s fantastic pancake breakfast. Palm Beach is our first target, having read about it as the playground of Sydney’s rich, so clearly the right place for us to be. We couldn’t see Elle McPherson, Layton Hewitt or Nicole Kidman on the beach, but apparently Sting was there the next day. He could have called us.

Claire and Jeff, K&M’s friends with whom we spent Christmas Day, did call us and we arranged to meet in Avalon. They lived just down the road in Colloroy, and had been out walking, so coffee and snacks were on the menu for us both, before they invited us to go body boarding with them at their local beach. We jumped at the chance and were soon wading into the surf just north of Dee Why. I was dreadful, managing to catch just the one wave properly, Michelle – of course – was much better, but mostly we watched C&J show us how it’s done. After a quick shower back at theirs we went out for food, and then they gave us a lift, a good half hour drive, all the way back to K&M’s in Wahroonga. Again, the generosity of these people is fantastic, and we feebly offer them a place to sleep if they’re ever in, er, Ipswich… Kirstie had stayed up to let us in, but also to let us know that plans had been made for tomorrow.

We had some toast and coffee in the morning before piling into Manu’s VW Golf to head for the Central Coast. We had plans to meet the ‘Two Shays’. Shay number one was a former rugby-playing colleague of Kirstie’s, and Shay number two was her chosen life partner. They lived in a place called Sarratoga, but we were to meet them at Hardie’s Bay, about an hour’s drive from K&M’s. Well, I say an hour – Michelle and Manu were in charge as Kirstie, Summer, Summer’s chair, and me were squeezed in the back. Not much fun for Kirstie, being sandwiched between me and a baby seat, although Summer looked quite comfy. After turning the map around three times and finally deciding we were not in the right place, the navigators found the bridge they had been looking for and we arrived in the most beautiful bay we’d ever seen. Fantastic looking houses faced the bay from three sides, while the fourth carried the bridge we had just driven across. Expensive looking boats floated on the water, waiting for someone from one of the expensive houses to sail them, and just in front of us, on the harbour wall under the shade of one of the expansive trees, Summer was having her nappy changed.

The venue for lunch was an unlikely looking shack on a T-junction overlooking the bay. We had a reserved table outside, and sat down just as our ‘hosts’ came walking down the road. About as far from any cliché you care to name, both girls are attractive, have long hair, wear nice shoes and don’t hate men. Shay one is tall, blonde, and training to be a doctor having been in the Navy for 9 years, and Shay two is shorter, dark, and works for the Australian Alzheimer's Association, travelling around Australia raising awareness. She was also very keen to ‘have a go’ of Summer, and wrestled her from Kirsties arms before sitting down to say hello. We ordered, ate, and went for a walk along the bay before S&S offered to show K&M the house they had recently bought, and have huge plans for. On the way we stopped at Pretty Beach, which was pretty, and Cabana Beach, which was pricey. To give Kirstie a bit of room, I rode in the back of the Two Shay’s Subaru on the way back to theirs, and got a sneaky look at their lovely classic Ute – a ’63 Holden, which they plan to spend money on once the house is underway, and Shay one is qualified and earning a fortune.

The house, essentially a small box, was falling apart, leaking, and mostly built using asbestos sheets. But the plot of land was magnificent. They have plans to build a series of pods, joined together to form a Japanese inspired house and they explained the plans to us while we all gasped collectively at the view over the lake. Shay one is learning the guitar, and lent me her acoustic to have a strum on. I hadn’t touched one since leaving the UK, and it was very nice of her to let me have a play with hers while everyone else wittered on about something or other… As we left they made a genuine offer of letting us stay at the new guest pod. We just have to give them 3 or 4 years. We booked.

We headed home and after thanking Manu for driving a couple of hundred kilometres, retired to the balcony for a couple of beers and some snacks. It’s New Years Eve Tomorrow.

Having realised that we haven’t checked our mail for a few days, we walk into nearby Hornsby and head for the internet café. No Wi-Fi is available, so I head off to Starbucks which has expensive Wi-Fi to allow me to upload the next couple of instalments on the blog quickly, and Chelley stays and does her email at the café. We get some supplies for Manu – it’s our job to take the starter to the party tonight – and walk back to help with the fancy dips he has planned. Kirstie calls to tell us not to buy the beer we had planned to take, as our host has called to tell her that the police aren’t letting anyone down to the Point, where his apartment is, with alcohol. All we needed to do was contribute and he would get all the beer in for us. Less for us to carry, too.

Late afternoon, we walk to the train station, carrying various dips, chips, bread in bags, and Summer is in her baby bjorn, and are relieved to find that the trains are running again. The journey to North Sydney station is a whole lot quicker then the buses have been all week, and the train is full of people carrying picnics, making their way to various vantage points around the Harbour. When we get out of the station, it’s like we’re going to a Millwall Football match, policed by the SAS. There are concrete barriers herding us across the street, a few hundred police telling you which way to go (luckily the way we actually want to go) and we seem to be accompanied by most of the teenagers in Sydney, all making high-pitched “OH MA GOD!!!” noises while sucking back alchopops.

Collective noun time again. A ‘screetch of teenagers’? a ‘flimsy of teenagers’? Most of these ones have peaked a little too early, and seem destined to be throwing up and saying “Oh my God, my head hurts” way before the fireworks actually start, but that’s not our problem. It is our problem however to make it through this pre-pubescent warzone, get through the police checkpoint and get hold of Dean, our host, to come down to the gate and let us get to the safety of his 16th floor apartment. Of course the networks are on overload, and by the time we get through to him we have been joined at the gate by his sister, Tracy, and her partner Wayne, who are also invited.

The apartment block at Blue Point is the only one for miles, and is surrounded by a small park at the bottom of a long gradual hill from North Sydney station. It’s an amazing view from both Dean’s lounge and bedroom balconies, and we can see the Harbour Bridge pretty much head on, with the Opera House just beyond, Sydney CBD (Central Business District) with it’s skyscrapers across the water and a parade of boats all taking their positions in the water. Dean, and his partner Julia, are incredibly welcoming, and we are handed beers as we arrive. I get to have a chat with Wayne, who drives an excavator and used to be a fisherman, and can’t understand why anyone travels. I tell him we’re off to Melbourne, and he tells me it’s full of poofs. Not that he’s been there of course. He used to build exhibition stands for all these designy w***ers from Melbourne, but they don’t know anything. Luckily there isn’t time for me to tell him that I used to design exhibition stands and was quite looking forward to the cultural aspects of Melbourne and, oh, we’re travelling right now and it’s great, actually!

Wayne and Tracy stay for the 9.00pm fireworks, but are needed elsewhere soon afterwards, leaving Michelle and I, Kirstie and Manu, Claire and Jeff, our hosts Dean and Julia, and a guy called Clayton, who had just come second in a national Iron-Man competition, but even so seemed like a really nice bloke and quite level headed. Despite the swimming/cycling/running madness thing.

Food was had, beers were drunk and a board game played before the giant egg-timer on the bridge (you had to be there) turned for the final time and the countdown began. Those of you that know me well will remember that I’ve never really cared for fireworks too much, but these ones are, well, outstanding. It’s clearly pointless trying to write a description of a fireworks display, but I can say that even I had the biggest grin slapped across my face. Summer found her first New Year’s Eve just a bit too much and managed to sleep right through all 18 minutes of thundering explosions, bangs and fizzes, which justified the reputation this event now has worldwide.

Half way through the display I allowed myself a minute to reflect on the fact that all our friends and family back in the UK were right now having their lunch on New Year’s Eve, and still had 11 hours to wait to welcome in the new year. Everyone in the apartment hugged and kissed and wished everyone else a happy new year, and I realised that Michelle and I already had a head start. We eventually began to pick our way home through the debris in the streets back to the station, and after a walk back to K&M’s, fell into bed at about 3.30am.

Hugs and kisses to all our friends, all over the world, and we would like to wish you all a belated, but very heartfelt Happy New Year.