restoration

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.

Three years as an idea.

One year as a project.

Ten months in planning.

Three days of panicking.

One frantic night of packing.

Here it is, Edinburgh Airport aty 6.30pm on Friday 31st October 2008.  I am sitting in the departure lounge waiting for the first of 10 flights in an epic Australian adventure.

I’m quite excited.  If only the first flight wasn’t delayed by 13 minutes (apparently).

Check back later for more riveting tales of Matthew in an airport.