Going for a walk

I cast the heavy bow howser out over the widening gap between the departing boat and the quay, so-to-speak and wave goodbye as my wife Lynne drives away in our car waving furiously, her eyes not on the road but in the rear view mirror until turning a corner and disappearing from my view. I heard no sound of collision!

Im aware I stand alone in a strange place, white cottages tumble down to huddle along the shore of an snaking estuary; muddy banks bared at low tide.
I hitch up the unaccustomed weight of my rucksack to get comfortable. Gone are the lazy, hot sunny days of the past few weeks; here on the coast the wind whips people brave enough to venture, just now licking the back of my knees; perhaps I shouldn't have chosen to wear shorts. Patches of blue in the sky came and went. My grandmother would have said ' there's enough blue up there to patch a Dutchman's trousers'. Without the wind it would be a fine day to begin a long walk along the coast of West Wales. But first i need to find my bed for the night.

I feel like John Bunyan's Pilgrim about to embark on a journey into the unknown. In my backpack the bare essentials for protection against the elements and a few nut bars and a bottle of water to quell the munches. I realise I have with me items from every room in our house: windup torch from the garage, my Swiss Army knife note book and pencils from my work work room, from the bathroom electric tooth brush and razor, even from the toilet, a few sheets, and all the rest. I strode purposely into the unknown, carrying my house on my back.

Looming sinister rain-bearing clouds begin to gather as I find an easy rhythm climbing gently up the gradient away from St Dogmaels to follow a lane carved out by a babbling brook, upward and onward. People unloading shopping, trimming hedges and walking dogs welcomed me with a cheerful hellos. Two ruff looking handlers of Engish bull terriers looked like they might bar my way so I tipped my hat and bid them,
'Ello, Bon jour.' I thought a spot of French might dissuade them from roughing me up and pinching my penknife.

The shaded dingle dell, over which trees, displaying the first vigorous growth of spring, spread across the lane throwing shadow patterns and allowing floating glimpses of blue sky, mercifully providing shelter from the increasingly strong westerlies.

Out in the open upland I stop to lean on a gate to take in the scenery; wind swept pastures and coppices nestling in the folds of vigorous rolling landscape. I knew then I had got away, i was reduced, subservient to a greater whole, one small part of many. I began to look forward to tomorrow.

B&B at a farmhouse tucked into high bank, a beech stand holding on for dear life in the gale took me into its cosy embrace; provided every creature comfort.The outdoor pool however continued to wear an overcoat. Tomorrow after breakfast my walk will begin in earnest.

I'm woken by bright sunshine at 5 am but by 7 the sky begins to grumble and by the time I'm waving goodby to my hosts the lashing begins and doesnt let up for 6 hours. The cliff-top walk was no fun in the driving rain, mist obscured much of the dramatic views; there were no birds and i was in no mood to take photographs; i just wanted to get to my destination. By the time I finally reached Newport, Pembrokeshire i was freezing, my teeth chattered, everything including my underpants where soaked; only the pilot light of optimism remained alight.

I'm now in room at the Golden Lion in Newport. My wet stuff snuggles up to the radiators and heated towel rail. I read for an hour or so this afternoon while nature continued to take its revenge upon west Wales....then suddenly the clouds disappeared, to be replaced by blue skies and a warm buffeting wind. Been out to see where I came from out of the mist and gales just hours ago. I've given up the idea of getting the bus to Fishguard tomorrow for now. I get the feeling I'm being given a lesson...

At least the forecast for Friday looks more positive.

Planning on pounding the Pembroke Coast National Park footpath

Here's hoping the recent fine weather holds while I walk the 185 miles of the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park starting on 9/05, stopping to refuel, put up my feet and lay my head down at B&Bs along the way and perhaps snatch a swim or two when no-one's around. It promises spectacular scenery and abundant wildlife. Taking my bus pass just in case.

See me at 2far2shout.wordpress.com

Kiama, Illawarra, New South Wales

God's Waitingroom

By eight thirty on any morning, the residents of this little seaside of Kiama, two and a half hours by train south of Sydney, who can walk, are out in the bright sunshine.They walk alone, sometimes in twos, a few with purpose, most with exaggerated arm movements. Otherwise they wander aimlessly across the lush green sports fields, paths that zigzag over the headlands capped with Norfolk Island Pines, around the several bays, up to the lighthouse and along the beaches. Those who dont walk, gather and natter in groups at the ATM, sit outside at the Pie Shop, and numerous coffee shops on Terralong Street, Kiama's 'cosmopolitan' high street. Here the shops have a hint of thrift about them. Window dressing is checking how your sarong looks with sling-backs in a shop window; 'cosmopolitan' because every other shop is an Asian take-away. There's a heavy hint of Brit about the place; they're almost exclusively 'flat white' like the coffee.
I was told by an old stager that there's a little place down the coast that's known as 'God's Waiting Room', but I suspect he's talking about Kiama. The biggest development in town is an imposing health centre just back from the beach. There's every possible 'ology' available and Bingo twice a week. There can't be many places as lovely as this to while away final days. The early morning scattered walking reminds me of birds circling before migration.
I chatted to Liam, Manager of the Kiama Shed Project while a group of 4 men watched another man plane a piece of wood clearly imparting a sense of manly well-being and providing a place to retreat from loneliness and domestic routine.
Im being unfair...
Kiama is a beautiful little town; a little nostalgic with a lacy edge of promise. How can it go wrong with a breathtaking coastal walks, four sandy coves, one black, two rock pools for those who like to swim, one in a spectacular location close to the BlowHole and the lighthouse that looks perfectly natural. The busy little fishing harbour lands excellent fish and offers deep sea fishing experiences; the sea bream fish and chips at the restaurant/takeaway on the quay was as good as it gets.
The Patrolled Surf Beach is choice of young men who might have attended the local primary school behind the Lifesaving centre where children runaround energetically in maroon floppy hats chasing balls on the green field by the beach, with an eye on the brand new secondary school high in the hills behind the town, offering the 'best in Comprehensive Education'. There's no swimming or golden sand at Black Beach. Other more gentle beaches are dotted with a few locals, otherwise empty now schools are back. Ladies in flimsy floral dresses can be seen in numbers on Terralong Street walking sometimes with bandy-legged consorts enjoying coffee and ice cream, topping up their tan; their skin already as tough as old boots.
Up on the dramatic promontories, public land is close cropped, paths neatly chiseled and helpfully signed for dog walkers and lovers of fauna and flora. Several Norfolk Pine tree topped Promontories nose out into the ocean and provide spectacular views for the 'haves' in their horizontal glass and block eyries muscling the clapboard, tin roofed, extended verandas of homes of earlier arrivals. Pretty little cabins in lush planted shady heights can be rented for by the week year round at an extortionate price; theres more than one kind of high roller in town. It's a place to do nothing in.
For excitement there are two blow holes out on the rocky reaches of Lighthouse Point, which made me jump the first time I heard it. A small group of Chinese visitors were unmoved. The jester who dives into the hole and gets blown skyward was away on his holidays in New Zealand. This is a proud little town, well managed and spotlessly clean: a smart resort attracts smart people with time on their hands.
Nothing much happens in Kiama. Headlines in the local paper shows a picture of Ivy Burgess (93) who won her first ever 'ribbon' at the 165th Kiama Show this year. She entered her three-piece infant set made for her Great Grandson. 'This is the first time I've won anything!'
Corralled in a circular picket fence in the deep shade of the overhead railway track I found a curious remembrance. George Weighman, one of 4 ill-fated leaders of the Pentrich Revolution in London in 1817 is remembered for his part in encouraging uprising in England against the extravagant war taxes needed to shore up the Napoleonic Wars. He was found guilty and sentenced to hanging later commuted to transported for life. He settled in Kiama and by all accounts was a model citizen and died in 1865 aged 68. I bet a firebrand like George would have been a leading light in The Shed Project.
The morning I left to return to Sydney I was woken by the blood curdling screech of big black birds in a pine nearby, for all the world sounding like children being tortured in their beds. While i'm here I wish to note that birds on this continent do not sing, but hurl insults. However, the sun was shining brightly, rollers crashed and swept up the beaches and the good people of Kiama walked the headlands on neat sweeping pathways of this earthly paradise.

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....