The 30th of January

The day after the 30th of January, the 68th year of my life,
I woke suddenly and early as is my habit in this strangely familiar place, Sydney, Australia. I'm woken by a pair of Lorikeets, their ratcheting call like the intermittent flaring of two welding torches; a neighbour across the road feeds these green, red, blue and yellow birds on her window sill. I listen for a while, then, without moving, my body tells me it aches from the exertion of yesterday's swimming at Bondi Beach.

The sun returned to Sydney yesterday after a long absence as it often does following a holiday weekend, this time, Australia Day 26/01/2013. Five us piled into the ever willing Honda Jazz and set off south from Killara to cross The Bridge and venture to the South Shore with one specific destination in mind. As a diversion we stopped off at Cooper Warf to stroll along Finger Quay, skilfully transformed into a marina, apartments and restaurants; the surrounding area, gentrified to provide yet more of the same. Conservation is rampant. The lesson learned almost too late, is that historic buildings and their setting remain a priceless legacy to be kept intact, used and reused according to some present and future function; for the moment eating drinking and sleeping is in high demand in this city with so much to offer: no use a game reserve with no animals.

Next stop Paddington, a once wild and inhospitable neighbourhood south of the of the inlet of Port Jackson. In the second half of the 1800's when the army barracks were removed to a site on Paddington Ridge, the area was parcelled up into lots and sold to small developers to build houses for the construction workers; terraced house for maximum profit. These garden-less, cramped, dark little houses didn't appeal to the upwardly mobile and by the 50-60's the area was ripe for renewal. Now an area of steep street after street lined with beautifully embellished terraces, the famous 'iron lace' balconies, barge boards and brackets, glimpses of Port Jackson Sound, soon attracted galleries, restaurants, cafes and fashion boutiques.
We decided a future visit on foot was necessary, even mandatory. Temperature increasing and Bondi Beach was next and final destination.
Some months ago I had torn from a life-style magazine in my doctor's waiting room of a picture of a restaurant called Ice-cube; a gleaming white glass cube over-looking the expanse breathtaking sweep of Bondi Bay.
Bondi is an Aborigine word meaning 'sound of waves crashing over rocks'.
We feasted on excellent 'fish and chips' (banish all images of 'fish'n chips' from your mind, immediately) watching the breakers sweep into the bay, spewing over retaining walls, flooding the 50m pool fashioned from the blackrocks of Mackenzies Point. Here is the The Ice-cube Swimming Club established in 1906 in order to train Bindi's famous life-savers. As a quaint but necessary requirement, diners dippers and lolligaggers alike are are required to produce ID in return for membership; it'll look good on my CV alongside my FBI record.
Yesterday was my birthday and I was about to realise a dream I always thought of as unattainable, but thanks to my hosts, JGW and CP I was about to swim in the surf on Bondi Beach.
I won't bore you with the details save to say the water was deliciously cool, the surf bullish and boisterish.
Fitness fanatics, bronzed body-beautifuls walked, ran, jumped and gender bent, cavorted on the promenade and lay gently cooking on the beach in significant numbers. In the blinding bright light and against a backdrop of houses and small hotels coloured like pastel fancies on a patisserie counter Bondi bloomed. In common with much of the city, Bondi is shaking off its working class. Blackpool of the Southern Hemisphere image to become an egalitarian resort.
Fabulous and what a birthday present!
On the way home we stopped off and clambered up on a narrow path through rough scrub to South Head, together with its sister sentry North Head, stand guard at the mouth of Port Jackson Sound and the Port of Sydney. One hundred foot of towering rock edifice, on this day pounded by the mighty ocean. Out in the Sound, a distinct line separated darker freshwater tide from the lighter more saline sea, emphasised by a bead of tiny white sparkling specks stretching into the distance, were sea birds feasting on food caught in maelstrom.
So the story goes, Captain Cook recommended Botany Bay to be the site of the first settlement. He had noted but not explored the inlet now named Port Jackson. When the First Fleet of 11 ships containing 1530 persons, soldiers, convicts and settlers arrived in 1787 under the command of Captain Arthur Phillip, Botany Bay was thought unsuitable for moorings. The following year, 1788, January 26th, a settlement was established at a point in Port Jackson Sound called Sydney Point in preference to Botany Bay, proclaimed Australia Day and the rest they say is History.

You can tell I'm suppressing the guilt...

Australia Day, first day upside down

First full day upside down
I breakfasted outside in the gem of an urban garden, under a milehigh marbled sky like finger marks on a steamed-up shower screen. The sun was already doing its business sucking moisture from every surface.
Above the sounds of urban life happening at the top of the road are hardly audible, crickets hiss, 'Things that can't be Seen' scrape, whistle, coo, and natter in and under a giant maple tree providing cover to the garden. A large black bird with white rear undercarriage flops into the tree branch like a brick landing on a cushion. He looked around not sure if he should be here and remembering, takes off, giving me a sidelong glance. I too feel I'm not yet in the right place; there's something I need to do, like clocking into work or signing the visitors book to establish myself as legitimate in this inquiringly near-paradise.
Sydney reminds me in a way of Seattle or San Francisco, glimpses of salt water inlets, wooded hills speckled with glimpses of houses with amazing views, marinas and open channel berths abound, roads switchback through wooded hills and valleys. Self conscious local shopping centres frozen in the decades between the fifties and the nineties act as landmarks. It's not hard to imagine what the area looked like a couple of centuries ago. There's a grace and charm about the place. It comes as a surprise to learn that Sydney's only 7th in the list of the best cities on earth to live.
Today's Australia Day, a three day jamboree to reaffirm membership of a recent multi-cultural brother/sisterhood and an excuse to make connection with earth and sky by disrobing, setting fire and devouring dead animals and throwing, hitting and catching a wide range of missiles under a clear blue sky while they gentle roasting in the hot sun; a celebration, if you like, of Health and Efficiency.
A hot sunny day beckoned and we transported ourselves to share the day of tradition with assembled Brits and Yanks and a single Ozzie; you got it, that's the one. At the house of a Westpoint alumni overlooking a saline lagoon, we huddled in garden shade, ate traditional AD food in the form of large meat pies with mashies and mushies, horse radish and tomato sauce, while gently sipping beers and confirmed our various disparate origins.
The garden we sat in fronted a wide sweep of grassed foreshore to the lagoon which gradually gave way to be-flagged and bunting-decked encampments gradually filling with the contents of several 'utes' and family saloons; BBQ's as big as a small cars, sofas, plastic floatable devises of all shapes and sizes, folding loungers, camping chairs, cooler boxes, 'slabs' of beer, bright yellow Taiwanese cricket bats and stumps, various balls and a general festoon of flags and buntings closely moored to the trunks of gum trees. Archipelagos of outdoor kitchen-diners in a sea of grass-green. Neon bright beachwear, tattoos, blond body beautifuls with infant replicas, gradually colonised the view.
A stream of endless comings and goings. Adventurous lads retired to stand in circles in the shallow benign lagoon, water up to their waists as they sipped beer from bottles and chatted about children and cars. Partners formed folding chair circles and nattered about husbands and nail implants while children did their best to distract mums. Dads ensured their privacy by distance and deep draught.
Later, to reverse roles, the lads had the kids under instruction while the women went for a walk. They set up stumps to enjoy some banter, batting and bowling and more beers while the babies were piled in the middle of the pitch, balls whizz ing about their ears; the dads were looking after the kids!
Some of our crew retired to the Pacific beach for a dip just a couple of blocks and one highway away. The water was intoxicating, fresh and foaming while a stiff breeze whipped up the waves. Life guards positioned themselves between two flags 50 m apart to be ready to rescue anyone who found the going too demanding. A chalked warning on the board advised of dangerous conditions, unexpected rips and heavy rollers. It was all of that and more; we swimmers deserted the beach in haste as a rash of 'blue bottles' blitzed the foreshore. New to me, these tiny blue jelly fish trailing a two metre tentacle armed with vicious stings got tangled in several ankles.One of our small group, Blanch, from the shores of Lake Michigan, got stung and was delighted to be whisked off the beach on a quadbike by a lithesome life guard to boil a kettle and defuse the pain in her ankle from the pesky Blue Bottle.
Later in the evening we decamped by bus to the Olympic stadium to watch Australia verses Sri Lanka 20/20 cricket match. 42 thousand Ozzies were stoical in defeat (it's a young team mate). More enjoyment was to be had by the crowd lobbing keep-up beach balls around the terraces, hissing and booing the security guard who viciously stabbed any ball that landing on the outfield with a pen-knife.Tens of balls died a tragic death as the subplot of the night lasted all of the 4 hours of the game.
Quite a first day in Sydney. We got back home at midnight; that night it started to rain!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AeKimjRIn0
Clancy Brothers

The sun has got his hat on, hip hip hurray.....

I'm bound for South Australia.

I read recently a story by Australia writer David Malouf about a boy reaching manhood in a small town in the Outback, west of Brisbane.
Comparisons with the settling of the US are unavoidable. It could easily have been a tale of growing up in a town, coughed up by the railroad, in back-of-beyond Montana around-about the middle of the 19th century; life clinging on by slender roots carved out of a wilderness, though not entirely without hope....but I couldn't get my head round the fact that Malouf was writing about Australia, in the 1960's.
It seems Australia may have more surprises for me as I venture south of the Equator for the first time.

Ready to go now, though my spirit has already gone on ahead; the price of anticipation. Tomorrow I'll fold up my body, turn the pilot light down and endure the journey in a state of near hibernation locked into a confined space, patiently watching the ticking of a clock in stop-overs until welcomed by friends and the bright light of Down Under.

The sun has got his hat and he's coming out to play...

Listen carefully to this familiar song by Tom Waits.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XrkThaBWa5c
Tom Waits

I suspect I will have to listen intently in order to 'see' the real Australia....


 

Winter Walking

Freezing Fog on Bredon Hill.
I could see the freezing fog turning its back against the gusty wind, teasing the beech hangings and the sentry-like scots pines near Sundial Farm. I hurried my pace to get closer for an atmospheric shot but the mist saw me closing in. Word spread and the elusive, impish mist made its escape.
I just managed to catch its tails before they tumbled over the hill and disappeared.
I love winter walking…

Mountains and molehills

New Year Resolution on top of Bredon Hill

http://2far2shout.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=383&action=edit

 There is a New Post in Wordpress.......

http://2far2shout.wordpress.com/2012/12/19/my-weekly-photo-reflection/
 

Born before 1940

Thank you so much to all friends family and followers who have got your hands on a copy of Hero on a Honda...

or Honda under a Hindi.

I'm quite chuffed to be the centre of attention for a little while.

 

 

Yesterday, a sheet of lined foolscap paper with red margin fell out of an album belonging to my Aunt Muriel who died several years ago in her nineties. It’s written with typewriter and ribbon, where the ‘a’ is black in the middle. The paper is brittle with age, like parchment; folded creases beginning to crumble and split.

The origin of the piece (at the end) is curious.

I’d like to share it with you. It’s entitled:

 WE ARE SURVIVORS – for those born before 1940

We were born before for television, before penicillin, polio, frozen foods, Xerox, plastic, contact lenses, videos, Frisbees and the pill. We were before Radar, credit cards, split atoms, laser beams and ball point pens, before dishwashers, tumble driers, electric blankets, air conditioners, drip-dry clothes and before man walked on the moon.

We got married first then lived together (how quaint can you be?)

We thought ‘fast food’ was what we ate at Lent, a Big Mac was an over sized raincoat and a ‘crumpet’ we had for tea. We existed before househusbands, computer dating, dual careers and when ‘meaningful relationship’ meant getting together along with cousins and ‘sheltered’ accommodation was where you waited for a bus.

We were born before care centres, group homes and disposable nappies. We never heard of FM radio, tape decks, and electric type-writers, artificial hearts, word processors, yogurt and young men wearing earrings. For us ‘time share’ meant togetherness, a chip was a piece of wood or fried potato, hardware meant nuts and bolts. Software was a wholly jumper, made in Japan meant ‘junk’, ‘making out’ meant how you did in your exams, stud was something you fastened a collar to your shirt and ‘going all the way’ meant staying on the bus to the bus depot. Pizzas, McDonald's and instant coffee were unheard of.

In our day smoking was fashionable, grass was mown, coke was kept in the coalhouse, a joint was a piece of meat you had on Sundays and pot was something you cooked in. ‘Rock’ music was a Grandmother’s lullaby; ‘Eldorado’ was an ice-cream. A ‘gay’ was the life and soul of the party and nothing more, whilst ‘aids’ meant beauty treatment or help for someone in trouble.

We who were born before 1940 must be a hardy bunch when you think of the ways in which the world has changed and the adjustments we have had to make. No wonder we are so confused.

(From the Arctic Lookout Magazine of the Russian Convoy Club)

 

Each successive generation could write its own piece.

Change happens, and gets faster and faster.

I wonder what Muriel might have made of a ‘black hole’