Explore with Fran

Join me on the journey as I travel, eat, and drink my way around the world

Australia

Come with me to Hobart, Tasmania

by 1 Comment

A foodies paradise

I was sitting in the Landscape Restaurant, on the Hobart waterfront, thinking about what my abiding memories would be.  What I would take away from this weekend in Tasmania.  What would stick long in the memory.  As I turned the page on this brief chapter, what would stay with me, what layers would be added to the stratigraphy of my mind? 

Tasmania is famed for its food and drink.  Having just finished one of the best meals I have ever had, and I don’t say that lightly, the food and drink would be the obvious place to start.  The most apparent souvenir leaving Hobart with me would be the extra inches on my waist. Lucky that I paid for extra baggage.  Before this trip, I have to be honest, I did not fully appreciate just how good the Tasmanian wines are.  And that the whisky industry extends beyond the excellent Lark distillery.  I am leaving Hobart educated, satiated, and in proud possession of a stinking hangover.

Home for the weekend

First impressions

Flying in at lunchtime, by the time we had dropped the bags at our accommodation, the most perfect little cottage found on AirBnB, we headed to the Salamanca Markets.  Running each Saturday, through to 3pm, the markets are both a huge tourist attraction, and a great place to support local artisans.  Running the length of Salamanca Place, it would be easy to spend a couple of hours browsing the stalls, picking up some food, and maybe a cheeky bar of Tasmanian made fudge for dessert.   We seemed to have aquired a habit of collecting fudge from every place we visit.  I mean, when I say “collect”, it never usually makes it home with us.

I bought a book, which may not surprise you, from an English author now living in Hobart.  Jamie Maslin hitchhiked from Hobart to London.  800 hitchhiking rides.  18 thousand miles.  Three continents.  19 countries.  I relished the opportunity to talk to anybody crazy enough to do this.  Jamie had a stall at the markets, selling signed copies of his book, “The Long Hitch Home”, and I couldn’t resist.   I love travel, you may have heard, but I also love supporting authors, knowing the hard work that goes into writing a book.

Rest up a while

When you need to rest your legs, and have a well-earned drink, there are numerous bars in and around Salamanca Place.  A personal favourite was The Den.  With fire pits both in the bar, and on the terrace, it was a place you could, and we did, idle away a few hours sampling some delicious wines.

Fire pit at The Den
Chicken satays and a couple of bao buns

The following morning we made our way to the Pigeon Hole on Goulburn Street.  A small inner city cafe, with an unassuming little menu that exudes confidence, the breakfast we had won’t be forgotten in a hurry.   Check out the menu for yourself, it won’t take you long.  But the food they do, they do bloody well.  Baked eggs, with a slight drizzle of olive oil, served with a couple of chunks of bread, baked in-house to perfection, and a side of bacon which was honestly more akin to a gammon steak.  My mouth is watering just thinking about it.  Did I mention the coffee?  I usually do.  Excellent.

Random sights of Hobart

Landscape restaurant

Then there was Landscape Restaurant, which is an experience in itself.   I wasn’t sure of the provenance of the restaurant’s name, but it soon became clear when we were shown to our table.  The server asked us if she could tell us a little about both the restaurant, and also the numerous “landscape” pictures lining the wall.  Located in the old IXL jam factory, on Hobart’s waterfront, diners at Landscape are surrounded by the iconic art of John Glover.  There is an annual celebration of contemporary landscape paintings, with the award of the John Glover Prize.  Wander through the restaurant and you can view a selection of past winners.

Being a working harbour, Hobart has some excellent seafood.  Whilst you know my weakness for fish & chips, I thought I needed to up my seafood game for this trip.  A great evening in the Story Bar, located in Ocean Pier, allowed me the opportunity to sit around a real fire, jig my feet along with the live band, and sample oysters.  

Live music, Hobart style, at the Story Bar

What is it about oysters?

Now, not my favourite seafood, I still contend that the ones I had deep-fried, in Queenstown, New Zealand, were the best I have ever had.  But, with a drizzle of lemon, I again tried food that I would not naturally gravitate to.   Did I enjoy them?  I suppose so.  This is the thing with oysters, that I find anyway, is what is there to enjoy?  Does anybody truly enjoy them?  They just kind of slip down your throat.  Do you even taste them?  If you are a lover of oysters, and I am doing it wrong, please leave me a comment below.   I would love to hear from you.

Sunday morning dawned blue.  The cloudless sky shone a colour of blue that you only see in winter.   We had come prepared, with new wooly hats, and scarves.  We are in winter, a lot further south from Sydney, and Hobart had been experiencing some cold days.   Whilst we were there, we were lucky to avoid both rain, and the worst of the cold winter days.

MONA – a must visit

Walking off the excesses of the night before, the excellent Tasmanian Cabernet Sauvignon, and nightcap(s) of Lark single malt whisky, we strolled along Sandy Bay Rd, through historic Battery Point, and down Kelly Stairs into Salamanca Place.  Did we have time to quickly pop into the esteemed Jackman & McRoss bakery?  Alas, not this time.  We had a boat to catch.

Arriving at MONA (museum of old and new art) by the museum’s dedicated catamaran, some 30 minutes from Hobart, the first thing that strikes you is the vast amount of rust.   Yes, rust.  MONA may be more famous for a lot of things, not least for its collection of 151 life-size models of vaginas, but the colours are the first thing that hits you.   Yes, you did read that right.  Not about the colours.  The other thing.  There are 151 vaginas lining one very long wall. All true to scale, with varying degrees of hirsuteness, all conveniently displayed at eye level.   The museum calls them by their rather vulgar colloquial name, but I don’t think my readers would want to be reading c****s in this family friendly blog.  I used to think, “I’ve seen one, I’ve seen them all”.  But let me tell you, I looked at all 151 of them, in the name of research, and there were some very different specimens.  All very fine specimens, but very different.

However, I am not here to speak about vaginas.   Let me get back to where I was.  Rust.  Or specifically, the colour of rust.  Built into the rock face, there is nothing much to see of MONA as you approach it from the water.  All you can see is a vast amount of stairs to climb, and vast amounts of rust.  Once you climb those stairs, all 99 of them, you are then hit with green.  At the top, just where you enter the museum, there is a life-size tennis court that was put there, by demand of the owner.  Apparently, the reason was to allow the surrounding glass to reflect the green of the court back to where people were queuing to get in.  No, I can’t make any sense of it either.  Much like the rest of MONA.

Catamaran to MONA, MR – I

Sandstone hues

The theme of colour continues as you descend the circular staircase, down the four floors into the belly of the museum.  Everything is intentionally very industrial.  The rust gives way to a colour that I associate not only with Hobart, but with my home city of Sydney too.  Sandstone.  In the same way that many of the original buildings in Sydney are made from sandstone, the same can be said of Hobart.  And can definitely be said about MONA as it is hewn from the sandstone cliff face.  Bringing light to the structure, in only the way that sandstone can, it provides a contrast to the dark rust.  Add in a very striking, modern bar, and the effect is quite amazing.

The “Void” bar, 4 floors underground, at MONA
MONA Posh Pit
The Posh Pit

In the Posh Pit

Sat in the posh pit, the “VIP” section of the MONA catamaran, returning to Hobart harbour, I was left reflecting on another great visit to the Tasmanian capital.  Over quaint little canapes, and a glass of bubbles, amongst some exuberant youngsters, a smile crept over my face.  If a town had it all, or at least most of it, Hobart does.  Great scenery, and some good treks up Mount Wellington, always hulking in the background, casting its eye on the city.  Historic little cottages.  Fabulous food, that isn’t restricted to its excellent seafood.  And the drink.  Or drinks.  The range of Tasmanian wines is truly outstanding.   Pinots and Cabernets that rival the very best that this wonderful country offers.  And I will finish on the whisky.   Which is what I did each evening.  Whilst Lark may be the distillery that first shone a light on Tassie whiskys, the baton has been well and truly picked up by others.  Of the many available, I can personally vouch for Hellyers Road, McHenry, and of course, Lark.

Hobart – what are you waiting for?

Whether you are visiting interstate, or are on holiday from overseas, Hobart is a place that I would highly recommend.   Just a short hop from the hubs of Sydney, Melbourne, and Adelaide, yet a world away in many respects.  A city that maintains its folksy, small town feel, whilst offering you food and drink experiences you would normally associate with the big cities.

Hobart remains on my list of favourite destinations.   What are you waiting for?

Byron Bay

by Leave a Comment

It is no secret that I like to step off the hamster wheel of city life now and again, even if only just a few days.  My trips to Mudgee will attest to this.  The 3 and half hour drive leaves enough distance between me, and the madness that is the Sydney CBD.  As we come up through the mountains, pausing in Bilpin for a slice of home made apple pie, then drop down into Lithgow, and onto the final stretch into central New South Wales, I feel an immediate sense of zen.  Something not even daily sessions of meditation with “Calm” can replicate.

Byron in all her glory

The latest decompression trip was a return to beautiful Byron Bay, last visited in 2015 at the back end of our East Coast road trip.  Memories of that last visit, those that I still have – post the marathon Sunday session we had, remain stuck in the mind as “that time in Byron we woke up amongst the detritus of the previous night’s kebab takeaway.”

This trip was to be much more civilised.  I had promised myself.  In January 2015 we had just finished a long road trip, with long stretches of driving each day.  We couldn’t allow ourselves to over indulge on the evenings before.  For what I would hope are obvious reasons, we moderated our alcohol intake.  This was, until we dropped off the campervan on the outskirts of Brisbane, on New Years Eve, and proceeded to spend the next couple of weeks rampaging through Brisbane, Surfers Paradise, and then Byron Bay, like teenagers on spring break.

To reinforce the fact that this trip was to be more sedate, we booked Airbnb accommodation in the village of Suffolk Park, some 6kms south of central Byron, and a short 25 minute mini bus transit from Ballina airport with Easy Bus Byron.  The selling points were the proximity to a wide stretch of beach, Tallows, the fact the village had a pub, a cafe with great coffee, and a couple of push bikes giving us easy access into Byron.

Quambi – The beach house

We were dropped off along Broken Head Road, and being a little early to check in, we crossed the road with our hand luggage, to the pub, the Park Hotel. Being in this part of the world, a lot of the pubs are similar, in that they are mainly outdoors.  Fully covered, as it does rain a lot, not just here, but in the whole of Australia, but the rest of the pub is open.  Byron Bay is only about 70 kilometres from Queensland, and this tells in the humidity.  Byron feels tropical.  The day we arrived felt particularly humid, and the best solution for this is always an ice cold Stone & Wood Pacific Ale.  I was now definitely on “Byron time”, and ready to kick back.

Tallows beach

Our accommodation was just what I had pictured, a small, self contained cabin, up a short drive way off the main road.  The only clue we were in the right place was the number 244, stencilled into the white, metal post box by the side of the road.  Up a steep incline, seemingly into the wilderness, we came across Quambi, our home for the next 2 nights.  We were met by Subi, a very friendly Staffordshire Bull Terrier, who often popped in to see us through our stay.

Byron is almost at the most northern part of New South Wales, and Cape Byron, hosting a wonderful lighthouse, is the most easterly point of Australia. And over the years it has become a haven for visitors.  It started off as a place the attracted those seeking an “alternative” lifestyle.  What you might call hippies.  People who chose to drop out of conventional life and live differently. Nearby Nimbin has been described as lots of things, including “an escapist sub culture”, and has always been closely associated with cannabis, which is openly traded, despite being illegal.  If Nimbim is the young upstart, Byron is the big sister.  Slightly more grown up, but still rebellious.

My impressions are that, reassuringly, not too much has changed on the surface of Byron since my first ever visit in 1994.  Cheeky Monkeys still regularly entertains drunken backpackers late into the evening.  The Beach Hotel still holds its piece of prime real estate, over looking, yes, you guessed it, the beach.  And walking down Johnson Street, you can still get your cold beers from the Northern, and the Friendly Railway Hotel, pubs which don’t seem to have changed with the years.  Byron still feels like Byron.  People care about each other.  Hitchhiking is still a thing.  I saw a few by the side of the road, thumb stuck out, successfully getting rides.  And I was given a guilt trip in the pub when I had the temerity to ask for a plastic bottle of water.  Byron has been waging a war on plastic well before the current global push to minimise our use of it.  And rightfully so.

But what is obvious, is that there is now a lot more money in Byron.  It no longer caters just to hippies.  With local residents such as the actor Chris Hemsworth, his reported new neighbour Matt Damon, and Aussie singer Natalie Imbruglia, all calling Byron home, the bars and restaurants have had to up their game.  Porsches and Audis share the streets with decades old campervans.  Boutique hotels rub shoulders with the many backpacker hostels.  And the Balcony Bar does a “Bottomless Bellini Breakfast”.  A far cry from the vegemite on toast of my backpacking days.

Drinks in the Balcony bar

It is 5 o’clock somewhere

Beautiful Byron is a place where you can’t fail to immediately relax.  You sense the slower pace of life as soon as you disembark the plane.  The three days we had there felt like much longer.  We packed our days with long bikes rides, along the many, flat, bike lanes in and around Byron.  We had some great food out at The Three Blue Ducks, on The Farm.  Cycling the 13kms back we called into the excellent Stone & Wood brewery, sharing a paddle of their finest beers.  To walk off the excellent lunch we had at Mez Club, the margaritas, mai tais, and mango pina coladas, we took longs walks on the amazing, wide expanses of beaches that line the northern, and eastern coast of the town.

Waking on the third day, to the sound of tropical rain pattering on the roof of cabin, we looked at each other and said, “shall we just stay”.

Top 9 things to learn before coming to Australia…(from the archives)

by 1 Comment

This is an old post, but a good one to revisit.

About living in Sydney…

Having just passed my 4 year anniversary of living in Australia, I thought it very timely to write about the things they don’t tell you in the glossy brochures.  Or at the fancy work expos for working down under.  Or that you don’t find out from other friends living here.

Australia is a fantastic place to live.  I love Sydney.  Every day I am reminded of how lucky I am to be here, passing the glorious Opera House on my daily commute, the sun reflecting off the harbour, with the famous green and gold ferries bringing in commuters to the city. But you know me well enough now to realise I can also find something to gripe about.  Find the cloud in the silver lining.  And here are my top gripes.  At least for this month.

1.  Having to do your personal tax return every year.  By law.  And for the last couple of years, still getting a hefty tax bill.  Despite paying (what you think is the right levels of tax) each month direct from your employer.  How do you work that one out?  Medicare levies.  Surcharges.  Blah blah blah.  Stop.  It is not going to change anything.  But I can still complain about it.

2.  Despite a country renowned for its weather, and love of the outdoors, there a surprisingly few (very few) beer gardens.  How disappointing is that?  Mr Sunshine comes out on another glorious summers day, and you want to have a refreshing cold pint of beer, al fresco.  I still look back very fondly on such sunny days, sat out the back of Dicey’s bar in Dublin, having a few ice cold Magners.  Instead, you are stuck indoors, the sounds of pokies ringing in your ear, and being blasted by sub zero temperature air conditioner units.  Or so it feels.

3.  Football.  Oh god.  Now you have got me started.  You have to either give up your love of the beautiful game, or resign yourself to very late nights, And/or very early mornings.  And going to work bleary eyed after a mid week feature, yet again putting the scousers to the sword.  Ok, ok, less so in recent years.  But now we have the Special One, teamed up again with the Special Juan.  And the good times are coming back.  I can just feel it.

4.  They call “rugby” football.  And also, some other game, played by men in vests and shorts that were fashionable in the 1980s, in Melbourne, gets called football.  It is very confusing.  The world game is football.  The one actually played with your feet.  The one with the egg, the niche sport, is played with the hands.  And is rugby.  Or Aussie Rules.  Or League.  Strewth.  I can’t keep up.

5.  It rains.  It rains a lot.  More than London.  Here is an actual fact.  Well, if you can believe what you read on Wikipedia.  I didn’t get time to get to the State Library to check the official records from the Bureau of Meteorology.  The annual rainfall in Sydney through 2015 was 1337mm.  This compared to London of 594mm.  There should be a salary supplement just to buy umbrellas as they seem to blow inside out so often in the gales that whip through Sydney CBD.  And woe betide if you don’t wear the right footwear to work, or you will be sitting with wet feet all day.

6.  People are always “looking after you”.  Despite making it to adulthood in one piece, it seems you can’t be trusted to look after yourself in Sydney.  So people are employed to do it for you.  Take a trip to the football as an example.  You and your mates want a beer?  Let’s hope there are not more than four of you.  Otherwise you will need a chaperone to go and actually buy the drinks.  The thing is, you can only buy four drinks at once.  So no buying in rounds.  This is to protect you from getting drunk.  Yes, just like when you were back in school, and the teachers were looking out for you.  Sydney is so kind to continue this service well into adulthood.  Even if the bar person can see your 5, or 6, or 7 other mates.  Right besides you.  Oh no no no.  Far too dangerous.  You have to get one of your other mates to stand at the side of you, get their own money out, and buy any beers that exceed your quota.  I kid you not.  This has actually happened.

7.  Whilst I am on drink, as it’s a good subject, Sydney seems to be regressing in to a nanny state.  Lots has been written about Sydney lock out laws, and how they are having a negative affect on the city’s nighttime vibrancy, so I won’t touch on that.  But, just try and order a whisky past a certain time.  Neat you say?  You want your whisky neat?  Oh no.  We can’t be having you behaving like a lout.  You are likely to get drunk and punch the nearest person if you do that.  A much better idea would be to spoil your 16 year old Lagavulin single malt with a dash of cola.  And not just any old cola, but roller cola.  Surely.  There’s a good boy.

8.  Bouncers.  All of this is if you can even get past the bouncers, who are a different breed in Sydney.  On a night out, you will be stopped and asked, “have you been drinking tonight?”.  How do you answer that ludicrous question?  With a straight face?  “Oh no, we have all just come out tonight, round all these busy, noisy pubs, drinking water.  It seemed the most fun thing to do.”  What you actually do is quickly, mentally make a decision on what is the “right” number of drinks to have had by 10pm.  Apparently “four” is the wrong answer.  As I have found out to my detriment.  Things reached the nadir when one pal was asked to leave 3 pubs in one night, for being inebriated.  Funny thing was, he looked markedly sober compared to some of the other people in the pub.  But, we were in an Irish bar I suppose.  Imagine the ignominy of being asked to leave an Irish bar for being drunk.

9.  This last one is not a gripe.  It’s a labor of love.  Burgers, and the analysis of.  Yes.  There really is a spreadsheet.  It all started as a Burger Off, with colleagues.  A bit of fun, with fellow burger loving friends.  Until Sydney took over, and burger loving became very hip and fashionable.  So typical of Sydney.  Now, there are probably as many places selling all varieties of burgers, as there are Facebook groups extolling the virtues of each.  Something I saw last week just captured the zeitgeist perfectly.  Ladies and gentlemen, I leave you with the Pokeman burger.  I am out of words.

 

The Elephant in the room…

by 8 Comments

The topic that all expats avoid.  The one taboo.  I’m about to break it and point to the rather large elephant sat in the corner.  This is a post I wasn’t going to write, then decided it would be cathartic to.  And so it has proven.  I’m feeling much perkier and have my spring back in my step.  I believe writing this and acknowledging it has helped.
Mum, if you are reading, you may want to look away now.  I know how upset you get reading about anything where I suggest I am anything but happy.  But I am happy, yet have fluctuating emotions.
Homesickness.  Why am I still having such bouts of homesickness after being here almost 7 months?  How can I be?  Surely I am living the dream.  In the promised land.  Sun, sea and endless throwing of shrimps onto never ending BBQs.  Great hats with corks to keep all the flies at bay.  Where men wear thongs with pride.  No snow.  No need to put my favourite North Face coat and boots on for a weekend walk.  Am I insane?  
And because I thought I was odd, having such thoughts curiosity drove me to the web site, www.pomsinoz.comto read of others experiences.
And what did I find?  It was like reading my mind.  My jumble of thoughts and emotions all laid out.  But written by other people.  Lots of other people, all feeling the same.  In fact, many feeling a lot worse than me.  I can’t recount how many posts I read where people were going home within the first 12 months.  Not that I am in a state of mind that I want to return home.  Just yet.  But reading about the experience of others just reaffirmed that I wasn’t in fact going mad. 
I am just going through what lots of expats before me have, and continue to go through.  Especially expats from the UK.  Reading a lot of posts from people who returned to the UK, saying how they finally felt at home.  How you realise what an amazing country we have, given the experience of living elsewhere for a period.
For a lot of people, home will always be home, no matter where you live in the world.  And home is a lot of different things to different people.  For some, it’s family life.  Others it’s the history and culture of the UK.  Some even claim to miss the weather (yes, I’m in that camp).  One of my happiest days last week was spent playing football in the pouring rain.  But for me, it is based on a lot of intangible feelings that lurk around in the pit of your stomach and start infiltrating your brain.  Things that wouldn’t make a lot of sense to people if you said them out loud.  Which I’ve tried.
Football.  There, my number 1 of “things I miss”.  And not just going to football, which I always knew would be like a large hole that I would never fill, but living in a culture where football is so ingrained.  Like a religion.  Countries in Europe, and through Central and South America are like this.  People live and breathe football.  With a passion.  Stadiums are their temples, places of worship.  Football here is little more than a 3rd rate sport, with genuine attempts to raise its profile such as the signing by Sydney FC of Allesandro del Piero.  But even del Piero can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear.  
I did go and watch a game, and vowed never to return due to the laughable standard of football and the terribly plastic atmosphere.  We have yet to see whether the great man himself will renew his contract for a second year or whether the lure of home, and Italia, will draw him back.
Surely, you can watch the football from England people ask.  Not if I want to hold down a job.  As a result of the 11 hour time difference, most of the games are on at between 2am and 4am.  I’ve watched a couple of “early” kick offs, specifically the victories against Liverpool and City, but to function at work, I do need slightly longer sleep time.  I’m not getting any younger you know.
The homogeneity.  One that will surely raise the rankles of any Australian readers, but Australia all looks the same.  Within reason of course.  I could write a whole post about how different the Great Barrier Reef is to the Red Centre of Uluru.  Spill hundreds of words about the contrast between the Blue Mountains (when you can see them through the mist) and the glorious coastline around Sydney.
But, in general, transport me to a high street in Cairns, or a street in Perth, or drive through a suburb anywhere, and it all looks the same.  Which gets kinda dreary.  The beaches are glorious.  But aren’t 90% of all beaches, anywhere in the world?  Have you travelled around the beaches of Cornwall through a glorious English summer?  A beach is a beach, is a beach, is a beach.   
Not that I want to sound ungrateful, although I probably do, but when you have crappy beaches like we do in the UK (aforementioned Cornwall aside), going to a good beach, usually on holiday is a highlight that usually gives you months of subsequent smiles, just thinking about sitting there, listening to the waves, sipping your cocktails, listening to the strains of “bolinhas”, from the local Portuguese doughnut seller.
When you can go to the beach everyday, it loses a lot of its allure, its sparkle, it ability to invigorate.  How many of you would like to celebrate Christmas every week?  Aside from the fact that I would be about 383 years old.  Think it would feel as magical not having waited the whole year for it and endured the endless Christmas carols played in Next since September?
I started this post ruminating on homesickness.  I have slightly digressed but hopefully given you an insight into my feelings in the meantime.  I am not jumping on Expedia to book a flight.  I am not packing up the apartment.  I am not checking out the Lloyds Banking Group job site.  But I am sharing this with you so I can try to better understand how I feel.  And to let myself know that there is no right and wrong decisions per se, just decisions that are right for me at the time I make them.
I often read about the mythical “2 year rule”, in that you should give yourself 2 years before deciding what to do as an expat.  I don’t buy this.  
Firstly, who came up with such an arbitrary number?  What is this based on?  Maybe on the old immigration rules that you had to be here 2 years before applying for citizenship.  That’s now 4 years, so blows that out of the water.  
And secondly, for people who really do decide to go home, why should they sit out their time here being unhappy, counting down the days, ticking them off the calendar until all 730 have passed?  If their gut tells them it is time to go home, then home they should go.
Me, I still have 537 days to go.
Until the next time folks in the life of an expat.

Drinks, art, football and drinks

by Leave a Comment

As I promised in my last blog, there are a few things that I was going to update you on.  Things I had been up to since my last dispatch.  Not that much of it has been overly exciting but my mum seems to enjoy reading about it.  And it saves me the cost of a stamp, sending her a real letter.  So mum, this is for you, but you may be sharing it with many of my other friends.
A couple of weekends ago saw me attending the annual beer festival at the Australian Hotel (pub, remember) in the Rocks.  I met up with a mate from England who was over here with work.  Budget constraints within Lloyds Banking Group means that they can no longer afford to provide biscuits for team meetings.  However, they can fly a couple of people business class to the other end of the world for beer festivals.  I was assured by Steve that he was also here to work on some other stuff, but I’m not so sure.  I think Steve thought I wanted to meet up with him as we had not seen each other for a while.  Actually, the real reason was that I was hoping he was going to return the box of Lapsang Souchong tea that I lent him in 2003.  I ended up very disappointed.  That said, we had an excellent day that seamlessly segued into an evening bar crawl around some of Sydney’s less touristy pubs.
With a head that was as tender as a heavily worked over steak, I again met up with Steve and Andy on the Sunday, to do the Bondi to Coogee coastal walk, along with Scott and Kelly.  It was like “Yorkshire’s day out”.  All we needed was for one of the cafes along the way to start selling Yorkshire Puddings.  It didn’t happen.  We picked a good weekend for the walk as it was the “Sculptures by the Sea” event.  A random collection of art pieces placed along the walk; some better than others in my humble opinion.  But then, I’m no art critic.  I can’t tell a Manet from a Monet.
Tuesday of the following week saw me attending my first ever Spanish class.  Something that I have been threatening to do for years.  For a long time I have been dipping in and out of Spanish language books, listening to Spanish language podcasts, and even immersed myself in Spanish for 3 months last year whilst travelling around South America.  For the first time I am now formalizing my learning and have started an 8 week, level 1 course.  I have grand intentions of continuing post this course and taking my learning to a level where I could actually have a conversation in Spanish.  Some cynics have suggested that it is my way of trying to meet dark haired, buxom senoritas.  Me? 
My weeks really are beginning to develop a structure, and this continues on Thursday nights with me signing up to an outdoor 5 a-side futsal league.  Futsal is an extremely popular sport around the world, just not so in the UK.  It is essentially “normal” 5 a-side but with a small, less bouncy ball, large goals, and mainly no contact.  The no contact thing is the hardest to get used to, especially with a referee as fastidious on the rules as the one we have each week.  That aside, it is great fun and I’ve met another bunch of lads, both European and Australian.
Two other events of note have been Balmoral Uncorked and the Air BnB party.  Balmoral Uncorked is an annual event at my local beach.  Various wineries of the Hunter Valley set up stall and allow you to taste, and subsequently purchase their many fine drops.  Complemented by stalls selling cheeses, olive oils and various other foods, you had everything you could need for a fabulous Sunday afternoon.
For those not familiar with Air BnB, it is a global website whereby people advertise rooms in their homes to give traveller’s a more authentic experience than staying in a faceless hotel.  I used the site for my first month in Australia, which is where I was unfortunate lucky enough to have met Steph.  Based in San Francisco, the founders of Air BnB held a party on Cockatoo Island in Sydney for hosts and their guests.  So I went along with Steph, together with Darrol and Claire, two more guests that have stayed with Steph.
Not knowing what to expect I have to admit I was blown away.  Ferries were laid on every 30 minutes to shuttle us to the island from Circular Quay.  The bar was free all night.  It was, I kept checking!  And with a great selection of bottled beers, wines and cocktails.  There was free food served up from the excellent food trucks that have been doing the rounds of Sydney recently.  And once the guests were suitably inebriated, there was a DJ spinning some quality tunes, allowing us all to make idiots of ourselves on the dance floor.  Brilliant.  Oh, I did I mention the beautiful actress, Mila Kunis, was there too?  And her eyes are even more captivating real life.  She was with some fella called Ashton Kutcher who is mates of the website founders and did a little speech on their behalf.  
The last couple of weekends have been very quiet and tame in comparison, but judging by the number of shops getting in the festive spirit, I guess Xmas is just around the corner.  That being the case, I better start consolidating my finances and make sure I have enough to celebrate Xmas in style, have a rocking New Year’s Eve and usher in 2013 and all it holds.

Til the next time amigos…

Let the countdown begin…

by Leave a Comment

Month 4 folks.  I’ll just repeat that, month 4.  Already.  Don’t know how it feels for you, but for me, it feels like it has just flown by.  Wasn’t it just a few days ago that I was languidly sipping cappuccinos in Fremantle?  Exploring Perth and Kings Park by bicycle?  How many laundry days is that?  Ah, laundry day…
Well, it must have been longer than I think because today saw the arrival of November.  With only 7 weeks til Xmas.  I could do the whole “where has the year gone?” bit, but we can save that and do it to death on or around New Years Eve.  Or maybe New Year’s Day as we sober up on the ferry to Manly to recover.
New Year’s Eve.  Now that is going to be fun.  It’s always a great time in Sydney due to the world-renowned firework display.  But over the years it has become so expensive that I was resigning myself to sitting out with a pic-nic and watching them from a spot of grass.  That was if I could find said spot of grass amongst the hundreds and thousands of people who throng the Harbour and all the available vantage points along the various shores and bays.


Many people have essentially been priced out of a lot of the ways to see the fireworks.  Just getting entry to a place like the Opera Bar (where I watched the fireworks for free in 2001) is now costing in excess of $300.  And that is without drinks.  I think you get a couple of peanuts on entry, but I may have misread the small print.  A popular way of enjoying them is by boat, bobbing around the Harbour, but this is now in excess of $500.  But you get a complimentary lifejacket.
So it was with great joy that I stumbled upon the fact that Luna Park was having a New Year’s Eve party, headlined by a winner of the Australian version of the X-Factor.  Don’t ask me, I didn’t even watch the UK version.  Well, Ricki Lee’s presence is not why I booked the tickets.  The fact that they were only $99 each was the reason.  And when you realise the venue of Luna Park is virtually under the bridge, then you get a sense of what a bargain these tickets are.  Luna Park is the Coney Island of Sydney.  A 1930s theme park, which has been around since, well, the 1930s actually.  I think some of the rides may have been updated since then, or at least mechanically maintained, as these are also open to use on the night.  And the great thing is, it’s over 18s only.  So big kids can play little kids, without the inconvenience of little kids getting in the way.


Just 59 days to get through.  And this will fly by I’m sure.  Since we last spoke I have now started work and been there 3 weeks already.  Where does the time g… ha ha.  Working has brought a little structure back into my life.  Without a little ballast I always find myself drifting a wee bit.  I need anchoring to something just to keep me in one place.  And anchored I am, doing the 9 to 5, and enjoying the novelty (for me) of getting paid fortnightly.  It seems to be a feature for many Australian employers to pay fortnightly, for reasons I can’t seem to fathom.  All I know is that I am now nearly skint, yet another payday is just around the corner.  This works for me.  I can even put up with going into one of the ugliest buildings in Sydney each day to earn my corn.


I have other things to update you on but feel I have taken up enough of your time already.  One reader recently accused me of waffling!  How very rude. 
With that, I will say adios, y hasta leugo.  Till the next time…