Blog

Come with me to Koh Phangan, Thailand

July 22, 2018 by Fran 2 Comments

The flight from Bangkok (BKK) to Koh Samui (USM), only a short hop of just over an hour, was uneventful but for one thing. Following the serving of a snack, I erroneously accepted the offer of a coffee. Well, I say “coffee”. As it was passed to me I immediately realised the gravity of my mistake, as the unmistakable aroma of instant coffee hit my nostrils. Instant coffee, people! What was I thinking? That I was back in Business Class? This was economy. I wasn’t flying flat. It was cattle class. On Bangkok Airways. What did I think? That I was going to be served a cup of Toby’s Estate Single Origin? Oh lord, what was I to do now? Drink it I suppose. I even tried the first sip without holding my nose. It was like a challenge on that turgid tv show, set in the jungle somewhere, where z list “celebrities” are asked to eat a kangaroo scrotum. In fact, I’d posit my challenge was even worse. I had a whole cup of instant coffee to contend with. I doubt that I’ll ever be the same again. Possibly the worst 15 minutes of my life. (I could be exaggerating a little here, but this is how I felt in the moment.)

The last time I had visited the island of Koh Phangan was back on that round the world backpacking trip in 1999. Travelling overland, from Bangkok, and south through Thailand, I visited Koh Samui, Koh Phangan and Koh Tao, three islands in the Gulf of Thailand, that get smaller in that order. That original trip, almost 20 years earlier, had me docking at Thong Sala pier on the west coast of Koh Phangan. This was pre the internet, pre mobile phones. Can any of my younger readers even understand that. That we lived in a world where we weren’t just a couple of clicks from everything. In the days when you lived and died by the Lonely Planet (other guide books are available) that you carried everywhere. Clambering off the boat, slightly seasick from the choppy crossing, with lots of other unwashed, and dirty looking backpackers, to be greeted by hordes of ute driving bungalow owners. Jumping in one that at least looked trustworthy, although from my rather hazy memory, they all looked as untrustworthy as each other. It is fair to say I was a very inexperienced traveller in those days. Very wet behind the ears. I had a brand new, too big, backpack from the local Eurohike store in Halifax, and a pocketful of travellers cheques. Yeah, you heard that right. I had actual travellers cheques. My god, I AM old.

This was the year that I realised that in general, people of the world can be trusted. All they wanted was the same as we all want. Enough money to be able to put food on the table and provide for their loved ones. This was the year I realised we are all the same, regardless of race, or background. In all the years I have travelled, both then, and subsequently, I have to say that I have not suffered anything worse than a bit of scamming. The usual taxi ride, or tuk tuk ride, that you work out cost you the price of a week’s accommodation. Yes, there was that time in the jungle in Colombia, when I was marched off a bus at gun point, and interrogated by the side of the road in Spanish by around four heavily armed, fatigue clad army officers. But apart from my bad Spanish being my only offence, after lots of frantic discussions between the soldiers, on the fact that I didn’t have an identity card, like everybody else on the bus, but solo un pasaporte, I was free to go.

Thai Beachside restaurant — Typical island beachside restaurant

No such excitement on that first trip, and I can’t remember too much, other than the accommodation, which was a very basic wood and bamboo bungalow. And please understand me when I say basic. The shower was a pipe outside, out of which dripped some cold water. But, like all the best bungalows in Thailand, it was right on the beach. Serenaded to sleep by the sound of crashing waves. A bungalow “resort” that was powered by a generator, meaning the only light beyond 9pm was that coming out of my head torch. Which usually meant that this became the enforced bedtime. Well, I had to save the head torch batteries for an emergency. Or in case I ever had to go mining.

As the island was very undeveloped in those days, it was a lazy stay. Moving between the bungalow, the beach, and the only restaurant, which had a very limited menu. The only dish I can remember having was crab fried rice. And I had a lot of it. Perhaps that was the only dish. And this was before I had discovered e-readers. Meaning the only reading material I had were the left over books at the bungalows. Would I have ever picked up “Memoirs of a Geisha” otherwise? For the record, it is a good read.

Fast forward to 2018, and another very peaceful stay by the water. Panviman Resort advertises itself as “paradise”. And it was. For the first week. All I had to worry about was had I put enough sunscreen on, and was it 1pm yet? I had quickly developed a pavlovian response to the clock ticking over to the magic hour. Happy hour. Cold beer, good book, and relax. You don’t realise how quiet it is. Quite how peaceful. Until a family of 4 turn up and start splashing in the pool like a herd of elephants at feeding time. Then another family. And another. I came to the dreaded realisation that we seemed to have crossed over with the school holidays of some country. Our peaceful paradise had become infested with little brats intent on making as much noise as possible. If I heard “Marco Polo” one more time I was in danger of throwing an alligator into the pool to make light of them.

Thankfully, I had the refuge of the spa, and my facial to look forward to. To maintain my zen. I would also mention the excellent, if somewhat painful Thai massage I got, but the memory of those disposable, fishnet like string undies I was given to wear, still brings me out in cold shivers.

This 2018 trip was a little different from that much earlier one. Greeted at the airport by an air-conditioned minibus, with a direct transfer to the pier in Fisherman’s Wharf in Koh Samui. Home for the next 8 nights was to be the Panviman resort, located on the north-east side of Koh Phangan, reached by direct speedboat from Koh Samui. With around 8 other guests we were whisked across the Gulf of Thailand, a short 40 minute boat ride, to be greeted by the banging of a Thai drum, and the many smiling faces of the very obliging hotel staff. Not for nothing is Thailand known as “the land of smiles”.

Over the course of the intervening 20 years I had upgraded from that tiny fan “cooled”, gecko, and ant infested bungalow, to an air conditioned hotel room, with spacious balcony, and a large tv on which to watch the World Cup. I did get a taste of that original trip, one day hiring a scooter to tour the island. Only 250 baht for the whole day, approx $10AUD, we visited the stretch of coastline I had previously stayed at. As was to be expected, I recognised nothing. The coastline remains the same, but development in the years since means that it is in effect a different place altogether.

We visited Secret Beach, Thong Sala, and had a beer at Freeway Bar, perhaps one of the most chilled bars you could visit. Being the only visitors we had to break up an animated discussion amongst the staff (well, I assumed they were staff as they were all just lounging around) to check the bar was actually open, and request our first cold Singha of the day. I don’t remember distinctly checking, but I am pretty sure it was 5 o’clock somewhere.

Negotiating the very steep hills on our return to Thong Nai Pan Noi beach, we called in at the Than Sadet waterfalls. I say “waterfalls”, but having been to Iguazu Falls, what we saw this day was probably better described as a small stream.

The beaches and coastline of Koh Phangan are just as you would picture them. Wide swathes of beach. Water as warm as an evening bath that is just starting to lose its heat. And green as far as the eye can see. All development is low-rise, so as you look out, across the island, you see nothing spoiling the natural beauty. The blue of both the sea and the sky, forming a green sandwich of the hills and trees in between.

People come to Thailand for many different reasons. Many different reasons. I come for the amazing natural beauty. The smiles from the locals. And the excellent food. Our hotel was a short walk from the village of Thong Nai Pan Noi, where we spent each evening, trying out somewhere new for dinner. Half of the places look as though they have never had a hygiene inspection. And they probably haven’t. But the many busy tables every night tell you something about the food they are pumping out. All your favourite Thai dishes from home are here, at a fraction of the cost. We had fabulous massamans. Excellent penangs. Delicious green curries. And from a roadside vendor, serving up food from the side of his scooter, an amazing banana roti. At the hotel we even got a serving of a very large fly, wok fried in the middle of our fried rice. I am not sure he was supposed to be there, although the eating of insects is nothing new amongst the cuisine of South East Asia.

Buggy rice aside, Thailand is a place that I could keep returning to. But then again, don’t I say that about most places I go?

Bangkok – The City of Angels

June 30, 2018 by Fran 4 Comments

He wasn’t sure what caused him to look up. A noise perhaps. A light. It wasn’t the evening symphony of cicadas. Or the regular chorus of the boats coming into, and out of, the nearby jetty. “Oriental pier…Oriental pier. This stop, Oriental pier”. He had become immune to these noises by now. As unobtrusive as having The Archers on the radio in the background. No, this was something different.

He screwed the lid of his pen back on, and gently laid it down on the desk. He walked slowly, barefoot, on to the balcony. There was the unmistakable whiff of citronella in the still night air. A smell as associated with Thailand as lemongrass. The citronella being part of the futile attempt to ward off the army of mosquitoes that descend when the sun goes down. He looked out across the Chao Phraya river. Watched the boats put putting up and down. It was too dark to see, but he knew from the smell that they were pumping out diesel fumes.

Bangkok Mandarin Oriental — The Mandarin Oriental

This is how I imagined Graham Greene, or maybe Somerset Maugham would spend their evenings, on the deck of the Mandarin Oriental. Midway through their latest creation. Using the solitude to help shape their stories. A haven of calm, in the fast and frenetic city of Bangkok, The Mandarin Oriental has long since had an association with writers, even having its own “Authors Wing”. Since 1876, the hotel has graced the shores of the dark brown river that snakes through Bangkok, the Chao Phraya.

Banyan Tree - Bangkok — Cocktails in the sky – Vertigo and Moon Bar

I was last in Bangkok, the capital of Thailand, in 1999, some 5 years after my first ever visit. With each visit the city skyline gets ever more dramatic. The hotels vie for the title of the highest, and most vertiginous rooftop bar. We had cocktails at the aptly named Vertigo, at the Banyan Tree hotel. 61 floors up, and totally exposed to the outside world, Vertigo claims a place amongst the highest outdoor bars in the world. I had to remain firmly seated, and only tentatively glance over the edge. The edge that was only protected by a waist-high barrier. You know that feeling when you are at the edge of something very high, such as on top of a 61 floor hotel, or in a hot air balloon over the vineyards of the Hunter Valley, when, inextricably, your only thought is throwing yourself over the edge? Yeah, I was getting these thoughts again. That I was sat on flight QF23, 21.10 from Singapore to Sydney, at the time of writing is proof that I resisted this self-destructive urge. And also proof that we survived a tuk tuk ride through the scary Bangkok traffic. Going at breakneck speed, for a tuk tuk, we had to ensure we made our dinner reservation at the excellent Scarlett Restaurant (where I had the BEST. APPLE. PIE. EVER), in the Hotel Pullman G. For the uninitiated, a tuk tuk is a converted scooter, with a seat behind the driver, that zips in and out of traffic. The most fun you can have for a few dollars.

Bangkok is a very large, sprawling city, dissected by the Chao Phraya river. The very brown, and very murky looking river that carries locals and tourists up and down its length all day long. Serviced by a number of boats, with their distinctive ragged flags flying behind them in the wind, denoting which boat service is which. A flash of blue, or orange catches the eye as they go past. And then there is the “tourist boat”, of the hop-on, hop-off variety, easily identified by having no locals aboard. Just a mix of holiday makers and travellers. Themselves easily identified by what they carry and wear. Those with money had their big cameras. Those without, in their “Beer Chang” vests, recently bought close by on Khao San Road. A long time favourite haunt of backpackers.

Hop on Hop off boat on Chao Phraya — All aboard

Chao Phraya river boat stops — All the stops

The boats are the easiest, and most convenient way to get to all the must see sights in Bangkok. Jumping on and off the boats, at the pier that is closest to where you need to be, a day is easily filled with visits to places such as The Grand Temple and Wat Arun. Across the water to Wat Pho, a cheap 4 baht (17 cents) ferry, with hordes of overheating tourists, the Reclining Buddha has to be seen to be believed. 15 metres high, and 46 metres long, it is one of the largest Buddha statues in Thailand.

Back on the river, waiting for the next boat, watching the pigeons perched atop the piers. Piers that creak and crack in the water like the legs of an old man getting out of bed in the morning. The detritus of this mornings flower market, that started at 2am, swirling around, back and forth in the foamy wash from the boats. Large fish, dancing in the water, putting on a show for the tourists who delight in throwing them bread.

Grand Palace - Bangkok — Guarding the Grand Palace

A sensory overload, Bangkok continually assaults all of them. At times all at once. The smells are unavoidable. And can be ranked in the order that you would prefer to have to endure them. All you can hope for is to have a day when you get more of the sizzling satays from the street stalls, than the fetid fish laid out to dry in the oppressive Bangkok sun. When it is not food, it is the pungent cigarettes everyone in Asia seems to smoke. Even that is better than the ineffectual drains that cause you to get a very unpleasant whiff of the sewerage from deep below you as you negotiate the crowded sidewalks. Such as the sidewalks in Chinatown that are barely wide enough for pedestrians, let alone the many stalls crowded onto every available inch of pathway, causing unending bottlenecks with the continuous foot traffic. On the street, with the hundreds of scooters and tuk tuks, your ears are continually besieged with a constant cacophony of honking horns. And on the river, with boats of all shapes and sizes, you can’t escape the smell of petrol and diesel. It permeates everything, and clings to you until you wash it all away with your evening shower.

Walking is something you will do a lot of in Bangkok. We were walking off a lunch we had just eaten at a restaurant in Chinatown. Not really sure what we were getting, but deducing from the pictures we pointed to that we were getting the best of what liked a very dodgy offering. That definitely looks like rice. And that looked like duck. I wasn’t sure what was covering the duck, but hey, I was hungry.

As we walked, the afternoon heat dissipated slowly. The sun was long since gone, now hidden behind a curtain of clouds. This gives Bangkok the colour that paints the city in the late afternoon. Between the bright morning sun, and the neon lit nights, everything turns a dull beige. Like a thin blanket that mutes everything. Making all your photographs look aged. Slightly sepia tinged.

Bangkok SkyTrain — The SkyTrain at Phrom Phong

Sights having been seen, we made our way to the Skytrain. Another development since my last visit. Rising above the clogged city traffic, like the monorail of my childhood at Butlins theme parks, the Skytrain is the easiest way of crossing the vast expanse of the city. There is even a link to the airport, if your budget won’t stretch to a taxi. Several lines intersect, and like an above ground London tube, you just need to work out where to change stations. Having a station at the end of the road where we were staying was very convenient. I said it earlier, but it is worth emphasising, Bangkok is a big city. And it takes time to get anywhere across city. But when you do, it is worth it.

Making the trip home on the Skytrain, and taking a slight detour on foot back to the hotel, we innocuously found ourselves on a street that, at first, looked like a row of restaurants and bars. Upon closer inspection there are few restaurants. There are no bars. What there is are many massage parlours. Walking past a few of them, (well, it was on the WAY home, don’t judge me) what I could see through the window was lines of girls parading before a prospective customer. I suspected exactly what kind of massage was on offer. The last time I had a massage the masseuse wasn’t in her best underwear and 8 inch heels. Honest.

City lights of Bangkok — Bangkok by night

At night Bangkok feels a different place again. Transformed. Leaving behind the chaos of the daytime. When the sun goes down, the chilled music starts. And the rooftop bars open. Sat up there, feeling as high as the planes in the sky, you look across the city, and it is as though there is a sea of red lights dancing. The top of every building appears to be blinking red, warning anybody that flies too close, that a city lies below. A city waking from the slumber of the late afternoon, ready to party long into the night. Happy hours everywhere offering great deals on cocktails and beer. A few pina coladas in and you feel like everything has slowed down, and the pace of life is exactly where you want it to be.

Bangkok is a great city. The only disappointment was that we didn’t have longer. But now it was time to slow things down. It was time for the island of Koh Phangan. First we had to get to the airport in Bangkok. Alive. Our taxi driver had either a personal best to achieve, or the hotel had told him we were in a rush. I suspected the latter, even though we had plenty of time. The supposed 45 minute journey was done in little over 30 minutes. Most of it with my heart in my mouth. Sat in the back, with no seatbelt fitted on my side of the car, we lane swapped at great speed. We tailgated in a way that I have only ever seen in Formula 1. And all this whilst the roads seemed to be patrolled by lots of police.

Arriving with very sweaty palms, and shaking legs, I have never been so happy to see an airport terminal. And the bar!

Berowra Waters Inn

April 7, 2018 by Fran Leave a Comment

I was trying to remember whether I had heard of this place. I have eaten at a lot of great restaurants in Sydney, but somehow, I found it hard to recall any memory of Berowra Waters Inn. If I am totally honest, which I like to think is my default position, I don’t think I had heard of Berowra, or, as it turns out, its very pretty cousin, Berowra Waters. I feel I should have read of it, being so close to home, and housing a restaurant that gets glowing reviews all over the world in various travel and food publications. I do have a vague recollection of being passed a magazine article, whilst on holiday in the UK. Somewhere I was told I would enjoy. Of a restaurant in Sydney that you get to by seaplane.

Now, there can’t be many restaurants in Sydney, fitting this description, even though I do know that the seaplane, based out of Rose Bay, does serve several restaurants up in the Northern Beaches area. At over $600 a trip, it is somewhat of a luxury. As we were staying on the water for the weekend, our arrival was a little less dramatic, yet still highly memorable. At 1.30pm, a full hour after we were initially told to be ready (river time, apparently), we spotted Andy, our water taxi, in his little boat, coasting towards our mooring.

At least we guessed it was Andy. With each house having its own private mooring, if somebody was heading in your direction, there was only one place they could park. Outside our house.

A bit of a character, sporting a bedraggled pony tail, and a shaggy, somewhat out of control beard, Andy had the air of a man who has never had to don a suit for a work interview. Quite a romantic notion for me, who has spent all his adult working life in this manner, toiling at various large, faceless corporate organisations, to earn the funds that feed my insatiable travel appetite. A kind of modern troubadour, signing for my supper, to anybody kind enough to listen.

Transferring to the Berowra Waters Inn took us all of 5 minutes, quite an improvement on the 20 or so minutes it had been taking us to pass it when out, bobbing on the water, in our own little tinnie. For the uninitiated, as I was before this weekend, a tinnie is a small boat that you can drive without a boat licence. That turned out to be an adventure in itself. Today’s journey, in a much faster boat, consisted of Andy regaling us of tales of life on the river, and the various occupants, which include no other than Cate Blanchett and Paul Keating. In different houses. Obviously.

Other than the 3 private moorings the restaurant has, one of which was currently housing a boat that would set you back a cool $2m, and cost up to $20k to fill up with fuel, the Berowra Waters Inn is a very unprepossessing place. No signage giving any hint to what is behind the floor to ceiling windows that stretch the length of the restaurant. It is the smartly dressed guests sat at smartly laid tables, drinking flutes of champagne, that hint of the wonders inside.

We were greeted on the pontoon of the restaurant by the manager, and whisked through a very large brown wooden door, up the 12 or so stone steps, and into the restaurant. With today’s lunch service only doing 16 covers there felt a kind of serenity that you don’t usually associate with restaurants that have a very open plan kitchen, as the Inn has. The chefs appeared almost graceful, perfecting their works of art, before sending them out to hungry diners.

Our menu, as was everyone else’s, was a set 7 course degustation menu, and was presented like a little origami puzzle, so perfect that it felt wrong to open it. As we were perusing the food we were about to experience, and that is the right word, experience, we reflected on degustation menus. Different to the a la carte type of dining, the degustation menu forces you, if force is the right word when discussing world class food, it forces you to try things you probably wouldn’t ordinarily order. I know for a fact, one of our party of two, and it wasn’t me, wouldn’t have ordered oysters, even though it was an amuse bouche, and definitely would not have ordered the “hapuka, mussels & herbs”, not being much of a fan of mussels. What she wouldn’t have known beforehand, was that this would be her favourite course of the whole afternoon, and the “mussels” were dehydrated, if you can get your head around what that is.

Even before we had a morsel of food, we had our first drinks. And it might possibly have changed my life. The restaurant sells a selection of 3, custom made signature cocktails, in little inviting bottles that are hard to resist. It was even harder to resist, nay, it was futile, once I discovered that one of the 3 cocktails was made on a base of single malt whisky, aged in Pinot casks. Adding some lemon, and paperbark, (I still don’t know if this is an actual thing. I would appreciate your input), a drink was produced that I will remember for a very long time. The whisky was subtle, yet distinctive. And whether it was the lemon, or the paperbark, or the combination of the two, I need to know how to make this drink. My afternoon was made, and we hadn’t yet started on the food.

Over the course of the next few hours we had spanner crab, the afore mentioned hapuka and mussels, pork with apple and bacon, wagyu beef, goats cheese, and a frangipani sponge that took my breath away. A 2015 Walsh & Sons Cabernet Sauvignon from the Margaret River in Western Australia was an excellent accompaniment.

Whilst time had been passing blissfully, the sudden arrival of the seaplane, coasting down the river, to the restaurant’s pontoon, brought into sharp relief that it must now be past 4pm, and almost the end of lunch service. A lunch service that I was very lucky, and very grateful to have experienced. Sadly, it was time for us to leave

As Andy whisked us home we were left reflecting on an experience that will live long in the memory, and long on the waistline.

Byron Bay

March 8, 2018 by Fran 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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

When it comes to travel, it’s the business

June 21, 2017 by Fran 1 Comment

Whilst not quite having the romance of train travel, getting to the UK any way other that jet propulsion would be quite an undertaking. As much as I love riding the rails, the distance between Sydney and Manchester might be too much even for me.

So, an airplane it is, and all the associated rigmarole this brings. Checking in online. Getting to the airport hours before you are due to fly. The pain that is airport security. Not that I think we should reduce this security, not for a moment, but, you have to admit, it is a bloody painful process.

Working your way through lines that snake around those mobile barriers. All the while, some little kid is lifting up the spring loaded barrier and unclipping it, throwing the queuing system into disarray.

Once you have negotiated this, you then have the screening. Ensuring you have no liquids in your bag. Scratching your head and wondering of this is one of the airports that make you remove your iPad from your carry on, remove your shoes, belt, or even your watch. You then go through the scanner yourself, only to beep and suddenly remember the erroneous 10 cent coins rattling around deep in your pocket.

Survive all this, and you still have to negotiate the retail hell that has become all but the tiniest airports. You are deposited into the duty free stores, which are harder to navigate than IKEA on a Sunday morning. With thirteen after shave samples, on those little cardboard strips, in your pocket, all you want is a cold beer. Where has the pub gone? It has been given a facelift, a very modern name, and is now a gastro-wine-artisanal-microbrew-resto-eating establishment.

By the time you eventually get your beer, you have to down it rapidly, as the announcements start that your gate is open, and plane ready for boarding. So you skull your beer, and run to the other side of the airport, where your gate is located, only to find that your plane isn’t in fact boarding. Yet every passenger has decided to start queuing in anticipation, even though everybody has a seat booking, and a boarding card that proves it, and will all get on the plane. Eventually.

You know you are going nowhere fast. You would have had time for a few more ice cold pints, a burger with hand cut chips, and a bag of pork scratchings. Now you are going to have to settle for a dry bread roll, and a little aluminium tray with a scrawny chicken sausage and a cheese omelette with a splash of brown water in a plastic cup, masquerading as coffee, whilst having yourself elbowed from both sides, and trying to drown out the screaming child in row 44. Oh the joys.

Unless. You accept the airlines very generous email offer to upgrade to business class. And so this is what we did. I have never before been offered a reduced rate upgrade. Having had the opportunity to experience the delights of business class previously, with Singapore Airlines, I wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. No sir.

Whilst the above describes the Sydney to Doha flight (15 plus hours), what followed, for the Doha to Manchester flight (approx 8 hours) could not have been more different. Champagne upon boarding. An a la carte menu. From which food is served on demand. On a crisp white table cloth. With wines expertly matched. And a seat that fully reclines into a flat bed for your post lunch nap, with a real pillow, and thin duvet. Not that I did much sleeping. I was far too excited to sleep.

As I finished off the last of the cheese board, I totally forgot that I had flown around the world, over the last 24 hours, as we slowly descended into Manchester. Going home, in economy, just won’t be the same. All suggestions of best way to snag an upgrade are most welcome.

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

August 27, 2016 by Fran 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.