restoration

Newcastle is a city of lads n lasses.  Black and white stripes.  Magpies and …ern, oh that’s actually the unlovely version in north-east England.  I went to Newcastle, New South Wales, with friendly warnings ringing in my ears that it wasn’t on the normal tourist trail for a reason.

As previously advertised, I was there to visit Stuart and Brad in situ and arrived in glorious sunshine, but muttering under my breath about the inadequacies of satnav.  Stuart’s hotel is located in an industrial and sleazy part of town, separated from the waterfront regeneration by a railway line that no one uses.  He’s holding out high hopes for the eventual closure of the part of the line that seemingly goes nowhere and will connect his gaff to the swanky Leith-esque development on the other side of the tracks.

They live in a very odd building.  Again, like a lot of places in Leith, it’s a redeveloped warehouse, though this one was used to store wool.  The apartments are arranged around the inside of the outside of the building – I suspect that sounds strange – with an immense void in the interior providing access to each front door.  Words can’t do justice to this odd arrangement, and with no photo it’s difficult to explain further.  Needless to say, a criminal waste of space.  Despite this, their place was lovely, enormous high ceilings and the sun streaming in.

We drank beer then headed off for a waterfront restaurant.  A short stroll I was told, feeling my rumbling belly that signalled a hunger that can only come from missing out on so many vineyards (see previous post, this was the same day). A short stroll that kept going and going and going.  See that strange pepper pot building, we’re going there I was told.  Nobody walks about in Australia, mainly because everything is so far apart.

My relief that the restaurant hadn’t given our table away when we arrived late was immense.  As was the fruity, oaked chardonnay that we managed to drink two bottles of.  Thankfully, a taxi was called to ferry us back to the apartment block of unused space, whereupon the dull headache-ensuring bottle of red I’d acquired during the afternoon’s one visit to a vineyard was swiftly dealt with.

Our plan for the next day was to travel back down to Sydney and enjoy the festivities of a Friday night in the city of blinding lights.  Stuart had to work until mid-afternoon, so Brad and I set out to see the sights of Newcastle.

Five minutes later we went to Stockton, a village across the water.

Actually, that’s unfair, we did stroll a little around town – and later went to see the police museum (because it was free) – and there is a pretty beach and some chunky waves.  But that was it.  Stockton was quite pretty too and a walk was had along the beach witnessing a kite surfer fail to get going.

There is a reason why Newcastle is not on the tourist trail.  If you surf, it’s probably ok, but there just didn’t seem to be anything else there.  Before anyone wonders, I’m not being unfair on the friends I came to see, they are well aware of this.  However, this underlined for me that my trip wasn’t just about crossing a few places off my “to see” list and having a few once-in-a-lifetime experiences, it was about catching up with a whole load of friends in a (generally) stunning location.  I don’t do normal holidays, can’t abide the idea of spending two weeks lying on the beach, and this trip was no exception.

Picking up where I left off in Sydney, I had made a hasty and possibly irresponsible decision earlier in the week to drive up to Newcastle (not the Geordie version) to see my old school friend Stuart and his partner Brad.  They had been living in Sydney until a couple of months ago, following Stuart’s emigration and Brad’s return from exile, but now moved up when Stuart got a job there after a prolonged visa application process.

Newcastle is what may be politely called an industrial city but has the added attraction of a little area called the Hunter Valley nearby, containing a number of very lovely vineyards and the original home of Ozzie Shiraz.  When I say nearby, of course I mean in Australian terms, which can actually refer to anything from across the road to across the state.  In this case, about an hour by car.  So, what would be better than hiring a sturdy vehicle in Sydney, touring a bit of the Hunter Valley and then going to Newcastle for the night, returning to Sydney with Stuart and Brad for an evening of revelry and then departing for Brisbane.

Onto the Avis website goes I, finding a convenient Sydney office and thinking to myself…hmmm, vineyards, tricky country roads, how about a 4WD.  Not the most politically correct thing, but necessary I thought and selected the name of a familiar sounding vehicle (all of the others referred to something called Holden, which turns out to be Vauxhall/GM) and arranged a pick up at noon on Thursday 13th at the Marriott Hotel near Circular Quay.

The day arrives and I catch the bus/ferry from Ian’s place to Circular Quay, have a spot of breakfast and do a couple of short, touristy things.  Rocking up to the Avis office, everything goes fine and I pay an extra $10 for satnav, thinking this will save me a whole load of bother.  Then two things happened..

The 4WD turns out to be biggest car known to man.

And I found out that satnav is rubbish.

I got lost.  Well, not exactly lost per se.  The satnav (eventually) knew where we were and thought it was directing me properly.  It wasn’t.  I ended up in the Lane Cove Tunnel, for which I had to eventually pay a toll, and lost about an hour or so from my afternoon.  Rather than getting to the Hunter Valley in time to visit a good few vineyards, carefully identified in advance, I finally arrived at my first stop at about 3.30pm.

Three quick tastes, one bottle purchased and a couple of photos of some grapes, I set off for the “home of Shiraz” I was excited to see.  My trusty Lonely Planet guide said that it closed at 4.30pm so it was going to be tight.  The satnav was useless, given that the vineyard didn’t really have an address, more just a spot on the map that I was heading for.

Eventually I spotted a sign triumphantly pointing the way and sped off in the direction of the big arrow.  After reaching a crossroads most decidedly not on the map, I realised I might have gone wrong somewhere and doubled back looking for the sign again.

Here we go, now 4.15pm, maybe there’s just time.  Surely they won’t close the door on someone who wants to buy some wine?  The pedal goes to the metal as I flash past the sign pointing towards this holy grail, but something catches my eye.

Open Saturday and Sunday.

The justification for hiring the biggest car in the world got me to one solitary vineyard.  I will need to plant a lot of trees to make up for this (sorry Mum!).

I am actually writing this from the departure lounge at Brisbane airport, about to board my flight to Singapore, then onward to London.  It didn’t actually get posted until I was back at my folks’ place in Chelmsford due to the rubbishness of allegedly free airport wifi.  Anyone paying attention may have noticed that I have just got on with having my holiday rather than endlessly writing about writing.  It has been ace and I will fill in the blanks in the next few weeks.

This post was written at the end of last week and reflects my thoughts on the first few days in Sydney (9th – 13th November).

After my chilled out weekend in Wagga, I was ready again for the bright lights of the big city, the improbably diverse Sydney.  Even now – 5 days later – I’m not quite sure what to think of this kaleidoscope of brash Australiana and subtle culture.

My arrival in Sydney is a story that Ian has told, for it was more his drama than mine.  Nevertheless, I eventually arrived at his flat in Mosman around 8pm on Sunday night, with Ian out at work.  I took a walk down to the beach (which wasn’t far) and took in the brisk, yet warm, ocean breeze.  Disappointingly, all the cafes had closed up so I didn’t get the longed-for glass of punchy Shiraz while getting into a new book.

Monday morning arrived and glorious sunshine and a clear blue sky awaited.  Having now rediscovered my appetite, after the stuttering eating in Melbourne last week, we enjoyed a mountainous breakfast at the local café then headed off for my first taste of Sydney.

Taronga Zoo is one of the jewel’s in the city’s crown, a glorious sunblessed hillside of tropical fauna (plus a few out of place penguins).  We were joined by a couple of Ian’s work friends and pottered around for a few hours before finally getting lunch – I was impressed that Ian managed to go a full 4 hours without eating..  As the zoo is on a hillside, and we had started at the top, we got the cable car back up the slope to finish with before I needed to crash.  All that walking in the heat exhausted me, though it did turn out I was a bit of a sucker for this concept, given what the rest of the week held.

On Tuesday, I took the decision to go and be a tourist whore for the day.  There are few more instantly recognisable city features than the Opera House and Harbour Bridge.  So I went to see them, they were cool.  I took some pictures.  That was it really.  Ticked off my list of things to see in the world, yet I felt distinctly under whelmed.  Was it the hundreds of jostling tour parties?  The rampant commercialisation of iconic buildings in a beautiful, historic setting?  I’m just not sure.  I liked it, just wasn’t blown away as I’d expected.

The rest of the day were spent rambling around the Rocks, Darling Harbour and the CBD, before catching the last ferry back to Taronga Zoo, where a bus connected me with Mosman and back to Ian’s place.  Was this all Sydney had to offer?  I didn’t think so, but I needed to find it myself rather than off a tourist map aimed at the quick stopper, the if-its-Tuesday-it-must-be-Belgium crowd.

Sydney’s salvation, in my eyes at least, came on Wednesday.  I am a sucker for Lonely Planet guidebooks and usually try and follow one of the city walks they put in the books.  I did this in Melbourne and, memorably, did so in Florence last year.  There was something odd about the walk in Sydney.  It wasn’t around the sprawling city centre, but a coastal walk from Spit Bridge to Manly.

Intrigued, I set off from Mosman early on Wednesday.  The additional few kilometers on the route, by not getting the bus to Spit Bridge, warmed me up for what was to come.  Don’t get me wrong, this walk was tough – about 12km in blazing sunshine – but so much worth it.  I saw the Sydney of cliff top houses, glorious secluded beaches, stunning views out to the jaws of the heads that guard the harbour and multitudes of mini-flotillas awaiting the leisure crews of the weekend.

This wasn’t the Sydney of bright lights and big attitude.  This was Sydney where you squint your eyes and look past the source of the light.  Real Sydney.  Every corner I turned brought a new vista or curiosity and not a few scenes of the locals enjoying the sunshine and surf.  Arrival in Manly provided me with my first glimpse of the real ocean, with rolling waves crashing on a crowded sandy beach.  The beautiful people were out in force, making me feel ever more the chubby, pale Scot.

I set this thought aside and , after 4 hours of walking, this sweaty pilgrim enjoyed some fine German beer (in case I forget to mention, Ozzie beer is, on the whole, terrible), reflecting on a good days exploring.  I came, I saw, I found.

Normal service will resume shortly (when I can get a connection on my laptop).

Friday morning.  Melbourne.  Southern Cross railway station.

A train that looks suspiciously like an old British Rail 125 waits at the platform.

Breakfast is bought, coffee is drunk and we are off.  Destination (for me): Wagga Wagga.  Ian was on his way back to Sydney, a full 12 hours on Ivor’s big brother.

One thing that had struck me wandering around Melbourne – it didn’t feel like a city of 3.5 million people.  It felt a little like Edinburgh.  A reasonably small, compact city centre that’s a dichotomy of the old and the new, bursting with cultural pride despite the suspicion that there was a little seediness just around the corner.

The train out of the city changed my perception.  Endless suburbs, rail yards, industrial precincts rolled by, until we burst out into, well, the brown countryside.  Then there was some more brown countryside.  A brief respite for the occasional town then some more brown countryside.  I had been warned that Australia didn’t have a lot of locally diverse geography, though it is punctuated by some moments of serene beauty, but was surprised none the less.

We rolled into Wagga Wagga and a knot of excitement grew in my stomach.  I was there to visit David & Jennifer Read and their-now-very-extended family, who I hadn’t seen for 18 years.  They left Edinburgh in 1990 after a three-year stint, taking new born son James home with them.  Over the years I’ve had updates through my own folks but truly never imagined I would see them again.

Then Mum & Dad came to Oz in early 2007, mainly to see the Reads en route for New Zealand, and the photos, memories and stories lead me to see that there was no way I could plan my own trip to Australia without a detour to Wagga Wagga (pronounced wogga wogga not waagga waagga).

Stepping off the train, my eyes peered through the crowed platform searching for any members of the Read family.  Just as a fellow passenger stepped aside, I saw someone sitting on a bench turn their head and look straight at me.  It was Jennifer.  Sitting next to her was a striking looking young man, this was James, a little bigger than the last time I had seen him.  The surprise of the reunion was not just my own, as I’m sure I’ve changed a little from the awkward and shy 15-year old that Jennifer remembered.

For the rest of the weekend, I managed to simultaneously catch up on 18 missed years of life and get to know the children: James, William, Elizabeth, Andrew and Catherine.  All each distinct personalities, yet fascinating to see elements of their parents flowing through.

James has just finished his HSC – Australian equivalent to A Levels/Highers – and was experiencing the joy of release and freedom, yet being pragmatic about his next step. William is a complex character, but shows all the signs of having the kind of depth associated with the voice of James Earl Jones.  Elizabeth is the delicate flower, poised to break hearts in the years to come, finding her own song as the middle child.  Andrew the part-hyperactive, part-sloth like, 8 year old, happy to play and happy to find his own amusement, a creative spark awaits.  Catherine, the youngest at 6, a cheerful soul, full of fun and joy, yet poised at the fork in the road between dependence and independence.

They’ve bought a new house recently.  When I say new house, what I mean is they have acquired a ramshackle, labyrinth of a building, the greatest fulfilment of the phrase “needs renovation”.  The desire is to create a place of gathering and welcoming, where people in need can come and just be.  I can confirm that this ethos already pervades the home, providing me with rest and relaxation.  No great desire to see the sights and rush around, just to “be” for a while.

My family got to know the Reads while they were in Edinburgh through a mutual connection to St Martin of Tours Episcopal Church in Gorgie.  The years that have passed have dimmed the memory of the strong people of God that they are.  I was inspired, challenged and cheered during my time in Wagga; more than I have been in some time.  Maybe this was the beginning of my own rediscovery of fervour, considered absent while work stress has been the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last thing on my mind at night.  This was not what I expected from a couple of days in deepest, rural, New South Wales.

Thanks David, Jennifer, James, William, Elizabeth, Andrew, Catherine and the menagerie of dogs, rabbits and geese.  I loved seeing you, sharing life with you and being with you.  My only regret is that it was too short, so I’ll need to come back.

Australia is full of beautiful beaches, but I chose to feel the sand between my toes for the first time since I arrived here on the long stretch that runs from St Kilda to Station Pier.  Enough was enough, 4 days in and I hadn’t even come close to dabbing my toes in the water.

We had stumbled down to St Kilda last night, after a chance sighting of a poster advertising a Tim Finn gig at legendary venue the Espy.  This occurred over breakfast as Ian once again polished off an enormous mini-banquet and I struggled to get through half of mine (still not adjusted to eating meals at certain times, let alone actually having breakfast).  Ian had wanted to catch a show by a local band called My Friend The Chocolate Cake, but it was sold out and we hopped on the tram down to the seaside.

The gig was the launch party for a new TV show, with the absence of actual TV cameras and 15-seconds-of-fame possibilities a disappointment.  Nevertheless, after a cracking support set from some lass called Katy Steele, then 20 minutes of comedic genius from some random dude Frank Woodley (“so, talking of poo…”), Tim came on stage.

I’ve seen Crowded House, led by his wee bro Neil a few times – Tim featured on the Woodface album, which got me into the band originally.  He did a set of mainly new material but finished off with Weather With You (cue mass singalong) and encored with Split Enz’ classic Six Months In a Leaky Boat.  It was a good way to finish off a historic day.

A random gig experience in a random place following a random sighting.  Hopefully, this won’t be the only random experience of this month.

We headed back to St Kilda earlier today to enjoy a bit of sunshine and chilling out.  Ian misunderstood my desire to walk along the beach and, as I sat down to take my shoes and sock off, he announced he was wussing out and would toddle along the road.  Not before taking my camera and ensuring that Matthew on the beach was captured for posterity.