The next day is Saturday: oh no it isn’t. I’ve lost track of the days what with all these sun-bathing ‘groundhog’ days and it’s actually Friday. This means that we’re double booked in Rio and Buzios. We manage to get a refund for a night in the former and take a taxi with our new found chauffeur buddy Elias to the latter. Buzios is charming little town 200 kms NE of Rio, made famous by Brigitte Bardot in the 60’s when she fled here from the Brazilian paparazzi. The 3hr drive is fairly uninteresting apart from the views back to Rio from the giant bridge across the Baia de Guanabara.
The Hibiscus beach hotel is aptly named, with hundreds of the eponymous plants attracting the occasional hummingbird. Our room is up a bloody great hill and I foolishly offer to help with the luggage. God I’m unfit. The views make up for it across a pretty valley to a sliver of ocean in the distance. All the roofs are tiled in the Portuguese style but with a hint of Chinese pergoda adding to the quaintness. We walk along the trademark cobbled streets to Ossos for dinner. It takes 15 minutes but 5 of those are just to get back past reception. Luckily we manage to persuade a French restaurant to open an hour early as shortly afterwards the floodgates open. We are pleasantly trapped with some good minimalist cuisine (makes a change from over-ordering with the huge Brazilian portions) and a charming French manageress who tells us all about North Brazil as we are the only customers to brave the weather that evening.
By the next morning poor Karen has caught my dreaded lurgy and stays in bed whilst I take the kids out to explore. I decide to take our lives into my hands by hiring a sports buggy for £15 a day. This is great fun to drive and the kids love it, but it is a tad scary with the bumpy cobbles and practically perpendicular roads in places. After an invigorating spin round the peninsular we pick up Karen and zoom into town. The whole place seems very safe, almost sanitised, with some good little restaurants and quaint little shops worthy of a good browse. We bump back via two of the 14 beaches with great views of the sea, islands and fishing boats.
The weather turns on Monday and Tuesday and the battery on our buggy dies. Shortly afterwards the ignition key breaks too so I upgrade to a ‘superbuggy’ with plusher seats, flashier lights and extra va va voom. We enjoy a great lunch at the popular ‘el barco’. In fact it’s so good that we’re still there at 5pm and inadvertently save on a day’s buggy hire as the rental shop is closed by the time we stagger back. We check out Orla street where Bardot’s original house still stands along with a statue of her. As Karen pointed out, they’d need a lot more metal to make a statue of her nowadays.
The weather’s still not improving and we spend one day bombing around the peninsular without really knowing where we’re going and another at the rather chilly pool next to our new upgraded family room. Things deteriorate with the weather as Karen is still a bit groggy, Harley chunders at breakfast narrowly missing our fellow diners who flee ‘en masse’ and room service is shit. The ‘chef’/receptionist is too busy chatting up her boyfriend and we end up cold chips and ‘croque monsieur’ 2 hours later.
Finally a day of sunshine and we lounge on Brava beach. We rent beach mattresses,
but the tide comes in at an alarming rate and we have to retire to the charming greensward overlooking the rocky bay we’ve just abandoned. Unfortunately the bay is North facing so the sun sets early. That evening I tuck the family into bed (Karen included) and check out the local nightlife. Sadly there isn’t any at this time of year but I do enjoy a brace of rather good lasagna pancakes and foaming ale. I’m back by ten o’clock, so who says I’m a dirty stop out?
Flights in Brazil are expensive but we manage to sort out a good deal to Salvador. We can now spend the last day relaxing on the best beach of all Jaoa Fernandez. Not only is it easy walking distance as we’ve taken the car back, it also has beautiful white sand and a protected bay for safe kiddie swimming. I enjoy a long swim followed by caipiroscas, fresh snapper and a massage while the kids splash around in the sand and the sea at a healthy distance. I’m beginning to feel that life isn’t that tough after all.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
BRAZIL
Rio de Janeiro
Karen’s found another bargain **** hotel/apart for US$100. The only drawback is that we’re soon the only ones left on our floor that is having its first refurb. for 30 years. I catch a snippet of the Champions League Final in between the hammering. You have to feel for poor old John Terry. Oh well it’s only a sport – please hold my beer Karen while I go and jump off the balcony. Man U as well and Ronaldo had just missed – maybe next year…..
We are perfectly positioned here for some serious tanning with Copacabana 100 metres one way and Ipanema 200 metres in the other direction. I invest in some black ‘Daniel Craig as James Bond’ swimmers and rush to check out the bevy of topless beauties. I soon discover that not everyone on the beach is a supermodel by any means. This is slightly galling from a lecherous lad’s point of view, but actually quite pleasing from a 40- year-old-plus-with-growing-gut perspective. There are plenty of interesting thongs being worn to show off many buttocks of various shapes and sizes. The ‘postage stamp’ bikini tops that barely cover the nipples also intrigue me. It seems the mainly Catholic Brazilians don’t approve of nudity but are perfectly happy for three 2 inch equilateral triangles joined by string to pass itself off as a bikini.
The kids are soon playing well in the sand and sea. Although we need to keep a constant lookout due to the dangerous rips, Harley and Ruby are well aware of the dangers from Vietnam and Australia. We can relax with our ‘ dos Caipiroscas con Smirnoff e hielo, poco azucar por favor’. The bloody language has changed from Spanish to Portuguese, just as I felt I was getting somewhere, but at least I’ve mastered one sentence. The only problem with getting a phrase off pat is that the bloody waiter thinks you can speak a bit of the lingo. He then starts chattering away for a few minutes, while I smile inanely punctuating his diatribe with the odd ‘si’ or ‘no’ and hoping not to be found out. By the second or third drink the game’s up, but at least I can then wait for my drink in peace and quiet.
Ipanema is more beautiful with misty isles out to sea and giant swallow-like birds wheeling gracefully overhead. There is a younger crowd too – crowd being the operative word. For the first few days the beaches are packed and it later transpires that this is due to a festival. The feeling of busyness is accentuated by the constant stream of hawkers chanting their way down the beach selling anything from corn on the cob to toe-rings. The good news is that you can come to the beach empty handed apart from a few Reals and your every need is catered to. Ice –creams are a bit of a rip-off at 6 Reals of £2 but who cares if they keep the kids quiet for a few more minutes. Body surfing is fun but the waves here are even bigger than at Copacabana. After getting ‘dumped’ from a ‘monster’ 3-metre wave and spending the next 30 seconds swirling around under water I’m a bit more circumspect. Karen is too after the waves cheekily pop out her left breast a couple of times.
After a few sunny days on the beach we take advantage of a more overcast morning to visit Păo Asucar (Sugar Loaf). We get a good view of Rio from the midway cable car stop, but the summit is above the level of the cloud and we see little apart from circling hawks that Karen reckons are crows. Back at the foot of the ‘loaf’ we enjoy an excellent buffet lunch. On the recommendation of the English-speaking waiter (he learnt the language picking strawberries in Herefordshire in 2000) I order a meat feast and some decent Argy Malbec (Norton 2004). The waiter even points out the holy Catholic relics on the way to the toilet, not realising that when a 3-year-old says he needs the loo, he needs it quickly.
Our Cultural appetite is whetted but not sated, so the next day we book the English-speaking driver Elias for a trip to Corcovado (Christ the Redeemer). He drives us via the Tijuca National Park, a huge rainforest, to the bus that takes us to the statue itself. We stop to admire a 3-toed sloth crossing the road. By the time this fascinating beast has made it across, stopping briefly to blink cutely at Karen, who always did attract the lazy, hairy type, there’s a 3-bus tailback behind us. I’m feeling rough but luckily there’s an elevator and escalators to take us to the top. The scale of Corcovado is impressive as are the 360-degree views of Rio far below from the Maracuna football stadium past the dwarfed Sugar Loaf round to Copacabana and Ipanema. It’s a shame Mr Whinge comes back from vacation to ruin the moment. For a moment I’m envious of a glamorous couple without a care (or kids), sipping champagne – I then realise it’s only ‘Méthode Champenoise’ and don’t feel so bad. I’m further cheered when a guide is convinced I’m a Hollywood actor who one an Oscar in 2000 (George Clooney ?!). It must be the orange floral shirt – or maybe it’s just my dashing good looks…
We have lunch in the pretty hillside suburb of Santa Teresa. The place is 300 years old with attractive buildings and quaint trams and we stay for lunch. The ½ duck in plum sauce is 75 Real, which is more expensive than in Ladbroke Grove but it is worth it and the local award winning beer is equally good. On the way back we drive past a couple of ‘favellas’ or shanty towns which look much less primitive than in Asia being mainly brick not wood. Elias tells us that they are too dangerous to visit. I’m not surprised as I’ve read that 99% of the wealth in Brazil is held by 1% of the people. Clearly those living in the ‘favellas’ are the poorest section of the 99% and they presume that strangers coming onto their turf are part of the 1% and keen to disencumber themselves of their wealth.
We move swiftly on to the last part of our tour – Downtown Rio. The first stop is a weird 1960’s cathedral - a concrete monstrosity with 4 massive stained glass windows. Still it’s original and somehow appealing despite it’s ugliness. We pass the ‘Rubik’s Cube’ Petrobras building and the former Royal Palace en route to Nossa Senhora du Candelaria church. There’s no time to stop as we whizz round Praca 15 de Novembro with its old well and Aqueduct that is now a pretty cobbled street with restaurants and shops. That evening is our last in Rio (for a while anyway) and we celebrate with dinner in the excellent tapas restaurant Jobi. The fish cakes are to die for as are the spicy jumbo prawns and by the time the beers and caipiroscas have stopped flowing we’ve notched up a 300 Real bill (£100). To make matters worse they don’t take Visa, we have no cash and the kids are ready for bed. I’m trying to work out how to sort out this impasse when a friendly local metals trader called Carlos agrees to ‘cover’ my bill. I take the family back to the hotel; go to the cashpoint and return to pay the bill in cash. I try to find Carlos to buy him a beer by way of thanks, but he’s gone. The manager is happy to see me though; I’ve never seen such a huge smile so I order a Courvoisier VSOP thinking it’ll be on the house. No such luck and the bill is now 328 Reals – still I do get presented with a Jobi keying for my troubles.
Karen’s found another bargain **** hotel/apart for US$100. The only drawback is that we’re soon the only ones left on our floor that is having its first refurb. for 30 years. I catch a snippet of the Champions League Final in between the hammering. You have to feel for poor old John Terry. Oh well it’s only a sport – please hold my beer Karen while I go and jump off the balcony. Man U as well and Ronaldo had just missed – maybe next year…..
We are perfectly positioned here for some serious tanning with Copacabana 100 metres one way and Ipanema 200 metres in the other direction. I invest in some black ‘Daniel Craig as James Bond’ swimmers and rush to check out the bevy of topless beauties. I soon discover that not everyone on the beach is a supermodel by any means. This is slightly galling from a lecherous lad’s point of view, but actually quite pleasing from a 40- year-old-plus-with-growing-gut perspective. There are plenty of interesting thongs being worn to show off many buttocks of various shapes and sizes. The ‘postage stamp’ bikini tops that barely cover the nipples also intrigue me. It seems the mainly Catholic Brazilians don’t approve of nudity but are perfectly happy for three 2 inch equilateral triangles joined by string to pass itself off as a bikini.
The kids are soon playing well in the sand and sea. Although we need to keep a constant lookout due to the dangerous rips, Harley and Ruby are well aware of the dangers from Vietnam and Australia. We can relax with our ‘ dos Caipiroscas con Smirnoff e hielo, poco azucar por favor’. The bloody language has changed from Spanish to Portuguese, just as I felt I was getting somewhere, but at least I’ve mastered one sentence. The only problem with getting a phrase off pat is that the bloody waiter thinks you can speak a bit of the lingo. He then starts chattering away for a few minutes, while I smile inanely punctuating his diatribe with the odd ‘si’ or ‘no’ and hoping not to be found out. By the second or third drink the game’s up, but at least I can then wait for my drink in peace and quiet.
Ipanema is more beautiful with misty isles out to sea and giant swallow-like birds wheeling gracefully overhead. There is a younger crowd too – crowd being the operative word. For the first few days the beaches are packed and it later transpires that this is due to a festival. The feeling of busyness is accentuated by the constant stream of hawkers chanting their way down the beach selling anything from corn on the cob to toe-rings. The good news is that you can come to the beach empty handed apart from a few Reals and your every need is catered to. Ice –creams are a bit of a rip-off at 6 Reals of £2 but who cares if they keep the kids quiet for a few more minutes. Body surfing is fun but the waves here are even bigger than at Copacabana. After getting ‘dumped’ from a ‘monster’ 3-metre wave and spending the next 30 seconds swirling around under water I’m a bit more circumspect. Karen is too after the waves cheekily pop out her left breast a couple of times.
After a few sunny days on the beach we take advantage of a more overcast morning to visit Păo Asucar (Sugar Loaf). We get a good view of Rio from the midway cable car stop, but the summit is above the level of the cloud and we see little apart from circling hawks that Karen reckons are crows. Back at the foot of the ‘loaf’ we enjoy an excellent buffet lunch. On the recommendation of the English-speaking waiter (he learnt the language picking strawberries in Herefordshire in 2000) I order a meat feast and some decent Argy Malbec (Norton 2004). The waiter even points out the holy Catholic relics on the way to the toilet, not realising that when a 3-year-old says he needs the loo, he needs it quickly.
Our Cultural appetite is whetted but not sated, so the next day we book the English-speaking driver Elias for a trip to Corcovado (Christ the Redeemer). He drives us via the Tijuca National Park, a huge rainforest, to the bus that takes us to the statue itself. We stop to admire a 3-toed sloth crossing the road. By the time this fascinating beast has made it across, stopping briefly to blink cutely at Karen, who always did attract the lazy, hairy type, there’s a 3-bus tailback behind us. I’m feeling rough but luckily there’s an elevator and escalators to take us to the top. The scale of Corcovado is impressive as are the 360-degree views of Rio far below from the Maracuna football stadium past the dwarfed Sugar Loaf round to Copacabana and Ipanema. It’s a shame Mr Whinge comes back from vacation to ruin the moment. For a moment I’m envious of a glamorous couple without a care (or kids), sipping champagne – I then realise it’s only ‘Méthode Champenoise’ and don’t feel so bad. I’m further cheered when a guide is convinced I’m a Hollywood actor who one an Oscar in 2000 (George Clooney ?!). It must be the orange floral shirt – or maybe it’s just my dashing good looks…
We have lunch in the pretty hillside suburb of Santa Teresa. The place is 300 years old with attractive buildings and quaint trams and we stay for lunch. The ½ duck in plum sauce is 75 Real, which is more expensive than in Ladbroke Grove but it is worth it and the local award winning beer is equally good. On the way back we drive past a couple of ‘favellas’ or shanty towns which look much less primitive than in Asia being mainly brick not wood. Elias tells us that they are too dangerous to visit. I’m not surprised as I’ve read that 99% of the wealth in Brazil is held by 1% of the people. Clearly those living in the ‘favellas’ are the poorest section of the 99% and they presume that strangers coming onto their turf are part of the 1% and keen to disencumber themselves of their wealth.
We move swiftly on to the last part of our tour – Downtown Rio. The first stop is a weird 1960’s cathedral - a concrete monstrosity with 4 massive stained glass windows. Still it’s original and somehow appealing despite it’s ugliness. We pass the ‘Rubik’s Cube’ Petrobras building and the former Royal Palace en route to Nossa Senhora du Candelaria church. There’s no time to stop as we whizz round Praca 15 de Novembro with its old well and Aqueduct that is now a pretty cobbled street with restaurants and shops. That evening is our last in Rio (for a while anyway) and we celebrate with dinner in the excellent tapas restaurant Jobi. The fish cakes are to die for as are the spicy jumbo prawns and by the time the beers and caipiroscas have stopped flowing we’ve notched up a 300 Real bill (£100). To make matters worse they don’t take Visa, we have no cash and the kids are ready for bed. I’m trying to work out how to sort out this impasse when a friendly local metals trader called Carlos agrees to ‘cover’ my bill. I take the family back to the hotel; go to the cashpoint and return to pay the bill in cash. I try to find Carlos to buy him a beer by way of thanks, but he’s gone. The manager is happy to see me though; I’ve never seen such a huge smile so I order a Courvoisier VSOP thinking it’ll be on the house. No such luck and the bill is now 328 Reals – still I do get presented with a Jobi keying for my troubles.
Santiago the Second
Back at the good old Vittoria we try to sort out a Brazilian Airpass but to no avail. I drown my sorrows at the Chilean equivalent of a lap-dancing bar called a ‘café con piernas’ or ‘bar with legs’. Unlike in the UK the girls are actually middle aged ladies with decent pins who, instead of dancing round poles and fetching beers, serve coffee for 3x the price of Starbucks. So this is what the Chileans do for kicks – no wonder they’re so grumpy.
While Karen sorts out accommodation in Rio, I take the kids up the Cerro St Lucia. We climb up a steep rocky ‘staircase’ that is scarily slippery in places and dotted with treacherously spiky cacti. We are rewarded with a 360-degree panorama of the city and mountains behind, and even the smog seems to have lifted a bit. I cheekily set the camera to sunset mode at 1pm, as I may not get another chance of a clear shot.
That night Karen dons eye-mask and earplugs to protect against the TV and my snoring respectively. ‘I feel like Helen Keller’ she complains. It takes me a while to realize that she’s not talking about Profumo’s sexy lover, but rather the deaf and blind girl from Blue Peter. Karen may not be about to start sitting on chairs the wrong way round in the buff, but at least she’s sorted out flights and accommodation for our next stop in sunny Rio.
While Karen sorts out accommodation in Rio, I take the kids up the Cerro St Lucia. We climb up a steep rocky ‘staircase’ that is scarily slippery in places and dotted with treacherously spiky cacti. We are rewarded with a 360-degree panorama of the city and mountains behind, and even the smog seems to have lifted a bit. I cheekily set the camera to sunset mode at 1pm, as I may not get another chance of a clear shot.
That night Karen dons eye-mask and earplugs to protect against the TV and my snoring respectively. ‘I feel like Helen Keller’ she complains. It takes me a while to realize that she’s not talking about Profumo’s sexy lover, but rather the deaf and blind girl from Blue Peter. Karen may not be about to start sitting on chairs the wrong way round in the buff, but at least she’s sorted out flights and accommodation for our next stop in sunny Rio.
Valparaiso and Viña del Mar
The culture and shopping capitals of Chile respectively, lie on the coast about 2 hrs drive away. Sadly we have no map, no language, no petrol and no money and we’re heading due north instead of North West – talk about well prepared. Luckily we find a garage with a cashpoint, some air and a map and I realize my error. We can’t take the map away or buy one, so I attempt to memorize directions on windy ‘b’ roads whilst trying to explain in my fledgling Spanish, to an increasingly confused assistant, that the tap won’t turn off in the ladies loo!
We manage to find the way up twisting foothills and down again. There are no signposts, but I convince Karen that all we need to do is follow the setting sun. This just about works but the bloody sun is setting by the time we find a reasonably priced hotel. It has taken 5 hours instead of 2, but at least we’ve seen a bit of the Chilean countryside at last which makes a pleasant change from a smoggy metropolis.
We’re in Viña del Mar at the Best Western as we couldn’t find anything in the more attractive Valparaiso. There’s not much here apart from Italian restaurants and shopping malls so we indulge in both. We even invest in some cold weather gear for the kids as not only is it chilly in Chile, but also we are hoping to hit the slopes at some stage.
It’s May 15th and Ruby’s birthday. Unfortunately for her she’s already had her main present: a helicopter ride to the Franz Josep Glacier. Still she is indulged further with High School Musical paraphernalia, including the sought after ‘Wildcats’ outfit; a horse and cart ride that costs 5x the price of a taxi; her favourite sashimi for lunch; a pig cake; another restaurant for dinner where the whole place sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in Spanish and a room full of balloons to add to the festive cheer.
Next we check out Valparaiso that is very pretty in a bohemian way. Houses and shacks decorate the hillsides with a variety of pastel shades. Driving is treacherous with steep gradients, potholes and a 6-point turn when we reach a dead end in front of a rather scary prison. Time for a bit of the old ‘shank’s pony’. Having enjoyed the Chilean version of Morris dancing with hankies instead of batons, we ascend the 48- degree funicular to the old historic centre. I enjoy the food here, especially the delicious wild boar and continued excellence of the locally popular Carmenère. Karen struggles more as the vegetarian option always seems to include bacon, ham or at the very least meat stock.
It’s time to head back to smogsville. Incredibly it only takes 1¼ hours as we find the quick Ruta 68 at the first attempt. We take a detour south to the recommended Pirque, but there’s not much there apart from a closed Concha y Toro HQ and some pleasant cow filled countryside where we stop for a picnic.
We manage to find the way up twisting foothills and down again. There are no signposts, but I convince Karen that all we need to do is follow the setting sun. This just about works but the bloody sun is setting by the time we find a reasonably priced hotel. It has taken 5 hours instead of 2, but at least we’ve seen a bit of the Chilean countryside at last which makes a pleasant change from a smoggy metropolis.
We’re in Viña del Mar at the Best Western as we couldn’t find anything in the more attractive Valparaiso. There’s not much here apart from Italian restaurants and shopping malls so we indulge in both. We even invest in some cold weather gear for the kids as not only is it chilly in Chile, but also we are hoping to hit the slopes at some stage.
It’s May 15th and Ruby’s birthday. Unfortunately for her she’s already had her main present: a helicopter ride to the Franz Josep Glacier. Still she is indulged further with High School Musical paraphernalia, including the sought after ‘Wildcats’ outfit; a horse and cart ride that costs 5x the price of a taxi; her favourite sashimi for lunch; a pig cake; another restaurant for dinner where the whole place sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in Spanish and a room full of balloons to add to the festive cheer.
Next we check out Valparaiso that is very pretty in a bohemian way. Houses and shacks decorate the hillsides with a variety of pastel shades. Driving is treacherous with steep gradients, potholes and a 6-point turn when we reach a dead end in front of a rather scary prison. Time for a bit of the old ‘shank’s pony’. Having enjoyed the Chilean version of Morris dancing with hankies instead of batons, we ascend the 48- degree funicular to the old historic centre. I enjoy the food here, especially the delicious wild boar and continued excellence of the locally popular Carmenère. Karen struggles more as the vegetarian option always seems to include bacon, ham or at the very least meat stock.
It’s time to head back to smogsville. Incredibly it only takes 1¼ hours as we find the quick Ruta 68 at the first attempt. We take a detour south to the recommended Pirque, but there’s not much there apart from a closed Concha y Toro HQ and some pleasant cow filled countryside where we stop for a picnic.
SOUTH AMERICA
CHILE
Santiago the First
I feel excited but a bit nervous as we touch down in South America for the first time. We have no experience of this continent, no language (neither Spanish nor Portuguese) and no sleep. Interestingly we arrive in Chile’s capital 6 hours before we left New Zealand, which causes havoc with our sleeping patterns for a couple of days. Luckily check out time here is a civilised midday, so it doesn’t matter too much that the kids have been going to sleep between 3 and 4am. After the first two days in the posh ‘Crowne Plaza’, to give us a gentle introduction to a new continent, (good English spoken, comfortable rooms, reasonable massages and even ice machines), we head back to reality, and budget, at the 3-star Vittoria Hotel.
The manager here is a friendly German (actually Spanish but lived for a long time in the land of Hamburgers and Frankfurters, hence not a contradiction in terms). He gives us a great deal on a quadruple room (actually two connected doubles) for US$90 instead of US$130. He also explains some of the differences between Spanish Spanish and Chilean Spanish, but as we have no clue of either it’s way over our heads. Breakfast is shocking, but you can’t have everything…
We head out to explore on a Sunday and it’s like a ghost town. We eventually find a café open on the main square (Plaza de Armas) – a name that turns out to be a popular one for main squares in SA. The waiter very kindly helps us with our first two words of Spanish that turn out to be ‘huevos’ and ‘pochados’ (‘eggs’ and ‘poached’). I decide to add Spanish to Ruby’s homework schedule so that I can learn something at the same time. Another unknown is the currency. We eventually realise that the prices with .000 at the end are thousands of pesos rather than dollars, so everything is over twice the price we thought!
We admire the statue of the founder of Santiago, Pedro de Valdivia - in particular the unfeasibly large ‘cahunas’ of his stallion – as well as the grand cathedral and acrobatic drumming displays performed by children as well as adults. Our guidebook’s highlight, the museum of Pre-Columbian Art is a bit disappointing as half is closed off and the remainder has no real focus, just a mish-mash from all over SA. There are a few highlights such as tiny mummified babies, large wooden sculptures in human form that used to accompany the funeral processions and Coca related items, including a metal prong that makes you vomit to prepare you for the hallucinogenic experience to follow. I consider ‘half-inching’ one to avoid a hangover on my next night out!
It really could have come in handy as the following night I order a plate of cold meats and cheeses, not realising it’s meant to be shared by 2-3 people. Even the delicious Carmenère can’t wash it all down and ‘prongless’, I’m forced to take out a doggy bag and snack on the remains for the next few days.
We decide to take the funicular up St Christobel Hill. We also get a cable car to the Chilean style playground that has real steamrollers rather than plastic cars and stilt like totem poles rather than climbing frames. On the way back we enjoy splendid views of the Andes @ sunset as well as the less splendid smog that stifles the city below like an unwelcome blanket in a tropical motel. Maybe this is the cause of the general grumpiness here in Santiago, or maybe it’s a result of years of oppression under Pinochet. Whichever it is, we decide to find out if other parts of Chile suffer from the same malaise. We hire a car and head North West towards the twin tourist towns of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar.
Santiago the First
I feel excited but a bit nervous as we touch down in South America for the first time. We have no experience of this continent, no language (neither Spanish nor Portuguese) and no sleep. Interestingly we arrive in Chile’s capital 6 hours before we left New Zealand, which causes havoc with our sleeping patterns for a couple of days. Luckily check out time here is a civilised midday, so it doesn’t matter too much that the kids have been going to sleep between 3 and 4am. After the first two days in the posh ‘Crowne Plaza’, to give us a gentle introduction to a new continent, (good English spoken, comfortable rooms, reasonable massages and even ice machines), we head back to reality, and budget, at the 3-star Vittoria Hotel.
The manager here is a friendly German (actually Spanish but lived for a long time in the land of Hamburgers and Frankfurters, hence not a contradiction in terms). He gives us a great deal on a quadruple room (actually two connected doubles) for US$90 instead of US$130. He also explains some of the differences between Spanish Spanish and Chilean Spanish, but as we have no clue of either it’s way over our heads. Breakfast is shocking, but you can’t have everything…
We head out to explore on a Sunday and it’s like a ghost town. We eventually find a café open on the main square (Plaza de Armas) – a name that turns out to be a popular one for main squares in SA. The waiter very kindly helps us with our first two words of Spanish that turn out to be ‘huevos’ and ‘pochados’ (‘eggs’ and ‘poached’). I decide to add Spanish to Ruby’s homework schedule so that I can learn something at the same time. Another unknown is the currency. We eventually realise that the prices with .000 at the end are thousands of pesos rather than dollars, so everything is over twice the price we thought!
We admire the statue of the founder of Santiago, Pedro de Valdivia - in particular the unfeasibly large ‘cahunas’ of his stallion – as well as the grand cathedral and acrobatic drumming displays performed by children as well as adults. Our guidebook’s highlight, the museum of Pre-Columbian Art is a bit disappointing as half is closed off and the remainder has no real focus, just a mish-mash from all over SA. There are a few highlights such as tiny mummified babies, large wooden sculptures in human form that used to accompany the funeral processions and Coca related items, including a metal prong that makes you vomit to prepare you for the hallucinogenic experience to follow. I consider ‘half-inching’ one to avoid a hangover on my next night out!
It really could have come in handy as the following night I order a plate of cold meats and cheeses, not realising it’s meant to be shared by 2-3 people. Even the delicious Carmenère can’t wash it all down and ‘prongless’, I’m forced to take out a doggy bag and snack on the remains for the next few days.
We decide to take the funicular up St Christobel Hill. We also get a cable car to the Chilean style playground that has real steamrollers rather than plastic cars and stilt like totem poles rather than climbing frames. On the way back we enjoy splendid views of the Andes @ sunset as well as the less splendid smog that stifles the city below like an unwelcome blanket in a tropical motel. Maybe this is the cause of the general grumpiness here in Santiago, or maybe it’s a result of years of oppression under Pinochet. Whichever it is, we decide to find out if other parts of Chile suffer from the same malaise. We hire a car and head North West towards the twin tourist towns of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar.
North to Auckland
Airport security are intrigued by our food bag and ask us: ‘kint you git iny diry (dairy ie food) in Aucklind?’ We politely respond that we could but we already have some thanks and they good-humouredly let us through. We enjoy a short scenic flight over mountains and volcanoes before landing in the positively balmy 17 degrees of Auckland where the amusing steward almost convinces me to put my clock forward an hour for the North Island. We check into the snazzy Heritage hotel/apart where the only drawbacks are a scabby air-con system that hasn’t been cleaned in years and a total lack of kitchen equipment presumably designed to encourage people to order room service. We don’t fall for this cunning ruse, but rather head to the harbour for dinner overlooking an old NZ America’s Cup Yacht. I go for the budget special pork chops whilst enviously ogling Ruby and Harley’s freshly stone-grilled fillet steak – talk about spoilt….
The next day we are wandering around Sky City when we see an advert for the 192-metre 75kmh ‘freefall’ tower jump. ‘Why don’t you have a go?’ says Karen innocently and before I know it I’m ‘walking the plank’ at the top of New Zealand’s tallest building that makes the Eiffel Tower look like a bungalow. (Actually it is only 4 metres higher than the famous Parisian landmark, and I am only jumping from 2/3rds of the way up, but it’s still bloody high, believe me.) It’s actually a Base Wire jump as your back is attached to a line. The worst bit is having plucked up the courage to jump headfirst, you drop 2 storeys and are then stopped for a photo, whilst dangling, waiting for the inevitable gut-wrenching dive to earth. I was then offered a second go for free which was actually much more fun. This was possibly because the adrenaline of the first jump overpowered the fantastic sensation of freefall enjoyed second time round.
We couldn’t resist the Hop-on Hop-off city tour and enjoyed the Ecuadorian live music at Victoria Market that gave us a tantalising taste of the next leg of the trip to South America. We also stopped at the Auckland Museum for an authentic Maori music and dance show with much more besides the inevitable Haka finale. We had a chat to one of the performers afterwards who taught Harley to perfect the scary eyes and sticky out tongue. Ruby was only allowed to do scary eyes, as it is disrespectful for ladies to use tongues (Essex girls could learn a lot from the Maoris).
Coincidentally another dancer was from the same family as the Maori friend Karen was trying to track down. After several phone calls she finally got to meet Anthony who she last saw in 1990 on his honeymoon with Karen’s best friend Lucia. It was funny to hear how Karen scared the local Maori women with her craziness (some things never change), but sad to hear that Lucia had gone back to Canada with mental health problems.
I had some catching up to do of my own with 1st cousin Peter. It was good to hear his news and especially fun to hear his anecdotes about my Dad’s mischievous side. Particularly good was the one where he and Peter moved some signposts and then having told the story later that evening had to go and put them back again late at night at my Mum’s insistence. The other one involved my Dad dive-bombing the indigenous tribes whilst training pilots in North Africa during the war, upsetting the water pots delicately balanced on their heads. I think he would have got on well with Karen….
The next day we are wandering around Sky City when we see an advert for the 192-metre 75kmh ‘freefall’ tower jump. ‘Why don’t you have a go?’ says Karen innocently and before I know it I’m ‘walking the plank’ at the top of New Zealand’s tallest building that makes the Eiffel Tower look like a bungalow. (Actually it is only 4 metres higher than the famous Parisian landmark, and I am only jumping from 2/3rds of the way up, but it’s still bloody high, believe me.) It’s actually a Base Wire jump as your back is attached to a line. The worst bit is having plucked up the courage to jump headfirst, you drop 2 storeys and are then stopped for a photo, whilst dangling, waiting for the inevitable gut-wrenching dive to earth. I was then offered a second go for free which was actually much more fun. This was possibly because the adrenaline of the first jump overpowered the fantastic sensation of freefall enjoyed second time round.
We couldn’t resist the Hop-on Hop-off city tour and enjoyed the Ecuadorian live music at Victoria Market that gave us a tantalising taste of the next leg of the trip to South America. We also stopped at the Auckland Museum for an authentic Maori music and dance show with much more besides the inevitable Haka finale. We had a chat to one of the performers afterwards who taught Harley to perfect the scary eyes and sticky out tongue. Ruby was only allowed to do scary eyes, as it is disrespectful for ladies to use tongues (Essex girls could learn a lot from the Maoris).
Coincidentally another dancer was from the same family as the Maori friend Karen was trying to track down. After several phone calls she finally got to meet Anthony who she last saw in 1990 on his honeymoon with Karen’s best friend Lucia. It was funny to hear how Karen scared the local Maori women with her craziness (some things never change), but sad to hear that Lucia had gone back to Canada with mental health problems.
I had some catching up to do of my own with 1st cousin Peter. It was good to hear his news and especially fun to hear his anecdotes about my Dad’s mischievous side. Particularly good was the one where he and Peter moved some signposts and then having told the story later that evening had to go and put them back again late at night at my Mum’s insistence. The other one involved my Dad dive-bombing the indigenous tribes whilst training pilots in North Africa during the war, upsetting the water pots delicately balanced on their heads. I think he would have got on well with Karen….
Return to Christchurch
You guessed it, another long drive. This time we cross the great central mountain range that runs the length of the country. It’s the Gods’ upturned canoe from Maori legend and it sure is a big canoe. The landscape becomes less green and more barren and rocky for a while, before we drop down again into the fertile valleys on our approach back to Christchurch. With memories of sleepless nights next to a nightclub still fresh in our minds, we upgrade to the chichi Crowne Plaza. Here we meet one of Karen’s friends Chay for an evening of tag drinking. Karen does the 8-10 shift whilst I put the kids to bed, then I get tagged for the 10-1am stint. Chay is an ex-copper turned customs official and we enjoy a few beers and a bit of a chat. Luckily we narrowly avoid the nightclub, as he has to go to work the next day. (I just can’t understand these people who feel they have to all troop off miserably to work on a Monday morning!).
Smug bastard that I am, I get a deserved hangover from hell next morning, but have to get up for the planned trip to Hanmer Springs. I don’t know if it’s my head or the weather but this rave review spa town is a bit of a disappointment. We sit in the stinking sulphurous lukewarm pools, full of other people’s skin complaints, waiting for the rain to clear or at least warm up a bit. It doesn’t and to make matters worse our overpriced room is like a sitcom set from the 70’s. Make that the 50’s, as it’s not flares and flower power, but rather old over-friendly couples cordially inviting us to partake of an aperitif in the billiard room.
I’m really trying Karen’s patience with yet another ‘prostitute with tattoos’ aka scenic route, this time round more twisting ‘c’ roads to Kaikoura. Luckily this time the destination surpasses the journey with a great day out dolphin watching. We set off by boat past giant albatrosses and along a stunning coastline of green hills and snow-capped peaks contrasting against the azure sea. After half an hour we spot a gigantic ‘super pod’ of dolphins that all being well are supposed to interact with the divers who are on the ‘proper tour’ while we spectate for a cheaper price. The horn sounds and they all jump in, splashing and shouting to try to ‘connect’ with these graceful mammals. Sadly for the divers and comically for us, as soon as all the flippers touch the water, the dolphins scarper sharpish, the horn sounds again and all the divers have to drag themselves back onto the boat. This farce is repeated a dozen times but Delphinidae Annoyingbastardus won’t play ball and the divers are knackered. Meanwhile we get a bird’s eye view of the dolphin gymnastics and ‘keel riding’ over hot cocoa and biscuits. Later we drive round to a seal colony. We are warned not to go too close and Harley and I take good heed. Karen and Ruby on the other hand can’t resist and whilst slowly approaching a big old male get surprised by a close range bark from the side as another seal pops out from behind a tree. They both nearly jump out of their skins and it is hilarious to watch – from a safe distance of course. We round off the day with fresh hot crayfish and a bottle of red at a recommended roadside shack – this is the best meal in a long time and we’ve had some good ones.
We drive back at dusk to the snazzy Millennium Hotel where we have to sneak the kids in the back door as they charge a rip-off NZ$140 for each extra person in a double room regardless of age. I feel morally justified as this really is taking the piss.
Smug bastard that I am, I get a deserved hangover from hell next morning, but have to get up for the planned trip to Hanmer Springs. I don’t know if it’s my head or the weather but this rave review spa town is a bit of a disappointment. We sit in the stinking sulphurous lukewarm pools, full of other people’s skin complaints, waiting for the rain to clear or at least warm up a bit. It doesn’t and to make matters worse our overpriced room is like a sitcom set from the 70’s. Make that the 50’s, as it’s not flares and flower power, but rather old over-friendly couples cordially inviting us to partake of an aperitif in the billiard room.
I’m really trying Karen’s patience with yet another ‘prostitute with tattoos’ aka scenic route, this time round more twisting ‘c’ roads to Kaikoura. Luckily this time the destination surpasses the journey with a great day out dolphin watching. We set off by boat past giant albatrosses and along a stunning coastline of green hills and snow-capped peaks contrasting against the azure sea. After half an hour we spot a gigantic ‘super pod’ of dolphins that all being well are supposed to interact with the divers who are on the ‘proper tour’ while we spectate for a cheaper price. The horn sounds and they all jump in, splashing and shouting to try to ‘connect’ with these graceful mammals. Sadly for the divers and comically for us, as soon as all the flippers touch the water, the dolphins scarper sharpish, the horn sounds again and all the divers have to drag themselves back onto the boat. This farce is repeated a dozen times but Delphinidae Annoyingbastardus won’t play ball and the divers are knackered. Meanwhile we get a bird’s eye view of the dolphin gymnastics and ‘keel riding’ over hot cocoa and biscuits. Later we drive round to a seal colony. We are warned not to go too close and Harley and I take good heed. Karen and Ruby on the other hand can’t resist and whilst slowly approaching a big old male get surprised by a close range bark from the side as another seal pops out from behind a tree. They both nearly jump out of their skins and it is hilarious to watch – from a safe distance of course. We round off the day with fresh hot crayfish and a bottle of red at a recommended roadside shack – this is the best meal in a long time and we’ve had some good ones.
We drive back at dusk to the snazzy Millennium Hotel where we have to sneak the kids in the back door as they charge a rip-off NZ$140 for each extra person in a double room regardless of age. I feel morally justified as this really is taking the piss.
Franz Josep
Talking of cloudy, it is overly so the next day, hence Karen and Ruby cannot do the hang-gliding they were looking forward to. Instead we go on another long drive that they were not looking forward to. The 5 hours to the Franz Josep Glacier is made even longer by Muggins managing to track down the only police car on the West Coast. I’m clocked at 125kmh in a 100 limit and the policewoman kindly calls it 115 reducing the fine to a reasonable NZ$80 (cf Townsville where it was an extortionate AUS$250). I think it was the fact we were a family rather than my charming smile but anyway it was a fair cop in more ways than one and I feel obliged to keep to the speed
limit for the rest of the journey. The scenery is fantastic again with green hills, deep ravines and rugged coastlines – a bit like the UK but more beautiful and with less people.
We ask about glacier trips on arrival at our motel and are whisked straight onto a helicopter on the promise of a kids go free special deal. It’s still a lot of money but we justify it in the form of an early birthday present for Ruby and it’s well worth it. This is only one of 2 temperate glaciers left in the world and also one of the three that is actually advancing rather than retreating. Harley is unsure about the helicopter as the roar of the engine starts up but as we swing off the ground at take-off he starts to enjoy himself. We fly low over the rutted surface of this slowly moving icy behemoth that is 300m deep in places. We are allowed out at the summit but only for a couple of minutes as it’s minus 12 degrees (a true test for the RM Williams as well as for Karen’s new purple Ugg boots). The panorama of green mountains, white glacier, deep blue sea and pale blue sky is truly memorable and one of the top five sights of the trip (just behind a bronzed Karen in her new skimpy gold bikini).
limit for the rest of the journey. The scenery is fantastic again with green hills, deep ravines and rugged coastlines – a bit like the UK but more beautiful and with less people.
We ask about glacier trips on arrival at our motel and are whisked straight onto a helicopter on the promise of a kids go free special deal. It’s still a lot of money but we justify it in the form of an early birthday present for Ruby and it’s well worth it. This is only one of 2 temperate glaciers left in the world and also one of the three that is actually advancing rather than retreating. Harley is unsure about the helicopter as the roar of the engine starts up but as we swing off the ground at take-off he starts to enjoy himself. We fly low over the rutted surface of this slowly moving icy behemoth that is 300m deep in places. We are allowed out at the summit but only for a couple of minutes as it’s minus 12 degrees (a true test for the RM Williams as well as for Karen’s new purple Ugg boots). The panorama of green mountains, white glacier, deep blue sea and pale blue sky is truly memorable and one of the top five sights of the trip (just behind a bronzed Karen in her new skimpy gold bikini).
Queenstown
We stop off in Arrowtown for some shopping including a pair of RM Williams boots for me at the ‘bargain’ price of NZ$120. We also admire the autumnal shades of brown, red, orange and yellow of the bordering deciduous woods before making our way along treacherously twisty tracks to Queenstown. Our apartment is delightful and wonderfully spacious as we are upgraded from a 2-bed to a 3-bed. We are treated to the luxuries that you would take for granted back home such as washing machine, tumble drier and fully equipped kitchen which makes a pleasant change from poky hotel rooms so we book for 3 nights.
We didn’t come all this way to luxuriate in a posh apartment so we book onto the adrenaline-filled Shotover boat. This speedboat powers at extraordinary speed down the white-water river of the same name and is a very exciting ride especially for Harley. I have to pretend everything is cool and normal, as he can’t decide to begin with whether it’s very exciting or very scary. Luckily he plumps for the former unlike Karen who squeals at every turn where we invariably narrowly miss another huge rock. The only downside is the severe wind chill factor and I hug onto Harley tightly as the driver spins us on another 360-degree turn in the narrow boulder-filled canyon.
The next stop is Coronet Peak where we have a fun snowball fight @1 degree Celsius although it’s a bit one way traffic as the kids enjoy throwing a lot more than being hit. We narrowly avoid fisticuffs with an irate line painting truck (maybe he forgot to bring the roller up before moving out of our way) and a mere 10 minutes later we witness an extraordinary scene when a bus driver refuses to give way on a bridge. So stubborn is this guy that eventually the police have to be called out to cajole him into reversing. Just as we were saying how charming and friendly the Kiwis are as well. I discover that many are descended from the Scots, hence the hard stubborn streak beneath the surface. The only difference being that the Scots don’t tend to bother with the surface, especially when dealing with the English (I think I’m entitled to say that being ¼ Scot myself).
I decide to go in search of the ‘holy grail’: namely a restrained Kiwi Pinot Noir without too much extraction, as in the previous 3 examples we’ve tried. Unfortunately Felton Road is NZ$350 in a restaurant so we go to a wine shop where you can swap your credit card for a kind of vinous hotel room key and ‘enter’ whichever bottle you like for between NZ$5 and NZ$15 a shot. All the wines from the Gibbston Valley are delicious and just as I’m getting into the tasting and racking up a decent sized bill Ruby smashes a glass (no she wasn’t tasting too) and we assuage our consciences by buying a bottle of the Mount Difficulty Pinot Noir and a Cloudy Bay Sauvignon at a reasonable price for a change.
We didn’t come all this way to luxuriate in a posh apartment so we book onto the adrenaline-filled Shotover boat. This speedboat powers at extraordinary speed down the white-water river of the same name and is a very exciting ride especially for Harley. I have to pretend everything is cool and normal, as he can’t decide to begin with whether it’s very exciting or very scary. Luckily he plumps for the former unlike Karen who squeals at every turn where we invariably narrowly miss another huge rock. The only downside is the severe wind chill factor and I hug onto Harley tightly as the driver spins us on another 360-degree turn in the narrow boulder-filled canyon.
The next stop is Coronet Peak where we have a fun snowball fight @1 degree Celsius although it’s a bit one way traffic as the kids enjoy throwing a lot more than being hit. We narrowly avoid fisticuffs with an irate line painting truck (maybe he forgot to bring the roller up before moving out of our way) and a mere 10 minutes later we witness an extraordinary scene when a bus driver refuses to give way on a bridge. So stubborn is this guy that eventually the police have to be called out to cajole him into reversing. Just as we were saying how charming and friendly the Kiwis are as well. I discover that many are descended from the Scots, hence the hard stubborn streak beneath the surface. The only difference being that the Scots don’t tend to bother with the surface, especially when dealing with the English (I think I’m entitled to say that being ¼ Scot myself).
I decide to go in search of the ‘holy grail’: namely a restrained Kiwi Pinot Noir without too much extraction, as in the previous 3 examples we’ve tried. Unfortunately Felton Road is NZ$350 in a restaurant so we go to a wine shop where you can swap your credit card for a kind of vinous hotel room key and ‘enter’ whichever bottle you like for between NZ$5 and NZ$15 a shot. All the wines from the Gibbston Valley are delicious and just as I’m getting into the tasting and racking up a decent sized bill Ruby smashes a glass (no she wasn’t tasting too) and we assuage our consciences by buying a bottle of the Mount Difficulty Pinot Noir and a Cloudy Bay Sauvignon at a reasonable price for a change.
Mount Cook
One of my abiding memories of New Zealand from 1990 was turning a corner on the road from Christchurch to Queenstown and being gob smacked by the beauty of my first glimpse of Mount Cook. Here I am again looking across the blue-grey glacial lake bordered by evergreen forest and the eye is drawn up towards the snow-capped triangle of New Zealand’s highest mountain. The beauty is undiminished and this time rather than carry straight on to Queenstown we’re going to take a closer look. After a dodgy lunch in a ‘one sheep’ town, a Harley-from-hell to contend with and the temperature dropping by the minute, Karen is understandably less enthused, but she kindly lets me indulge my mountaineering fantasy. We get to the Hermitage hotel in just over an hour, a trip that used to take two days before the era of the paved road. Karen got an excellent deal on the Internet for 175 NZ$ as opposed to the rack rate of 760 NZ$ and just as well because it’s not that luxurious. Still it’s the best hotel in town with the best views of the mountain, if only the inconsiderate clouds would get out of the way. There are only a few wispy ones but Mount Cook seems to drag them all towards itself, rather like a selfish sleeper on a chilly night hogging all the blankets.
Rather than leave in the morning we decide to ‘stay another day’ à la South East Asia and follow in the footsteps of the recently deceased Kiwi King of the Mountains Sir Edmund Hilary. After a substantial breakfast we set off with a packed lunch and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in a custom made cooler bag (Sir Edmund celebrated his ascent with a bottle of claret so we’re sort of following tradition). We take the 4WD for the first few kilometres which saves a couple of hours and soon after the start of the walk proper we pass the memorial to more than 50 people who have died on this dangerous mountain over the years – a sobering thought. It’s an inauspicious start as the kids’ pace is slow, especially when we have to negotiate a narrow pass where it’s raining small pebbles blown across from a nearby ridge. I consider turning back but the kids soon calm down and seem ready for more punishment so we press on.
The pace soon improves dramatically and the children are excellent walking all the way over ankle-twisting rocky paths, slippery swing bridges and thorny scrub to our destination: a freezing greyish-white glacial lake at the base of the mountain itself. At the far end of the lake is a solid ice wall from which chunks drop from time to time. These icebergs are naturally sculpted by the water that has created strange, animal-shaped statues. Transfixed by these floating beasts, I forget how freezing it has become. Luckily we are prepared with extra layers as well as an excellent lunch of fresh bread, local blue cheese and a delicious apple and rosemary chutney all washed down with the above mentioned bubbly – bloody marvellous. I’m proud to say that the children walk all the way back as well (apart from two 10 minute carries for Harley) and we all arrive back knackered at 5pm. We may not have reached the summit like Sir Edmund but a five-hour hike must be practically the equivalent of climbing Everest for a four-year-old so well done Harley. Granny would be proud of Ruby too who didn’t complain once. I’m proud of Karen too who didn’t whinge either, despite it being far from her idea of a perfect day. Thank you, family.
Before we leave the next morning we just have time to check out the Edmund Hilary Museum including an attached 3D cinema. This shows great bird’s eye views of the mountain (literally) as well as a skier’s view (what a nutter!). The cinema then converts into a mock observatory as a giant screen rises up above our heads and informs us how incredibly small the earth really is in comparison to the universe as a whole. There was I thinking we did something really impressive as a family, but it’s all immaterial in the greater scheme of things…..
Rather than leave in the morning we decide to ‘stay another day’ à la South East Asia and follow in the footsteps of the recently deceased Kiwi King of the Mountains Sir Edmund Hilary. After a substantial breakfast we set off with a packed lunch and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in a custom made cooler bag (Sir Edmund celebrated his ascent with a bottle of claret so we’re sort of following tradition). We take the 4WD for the first few kilometres which saves a couple of hours and soon after the start of the walk proper we pass the memorial to more than 50 people who have died on this dangerous mountain over the years – a sobering thought. It’s an inauspicious start as the kids’ pace is slow, especially when we have to negotiate a narrow pass where it’s raining small pebbles blown across from a nearby ridge. I consider turning back but the kids soon calm down and seem ready for more punishment so we press on.
The pace soon improves dramatically and the children are excellent walking all the way over ankle-twisting rocky paths, slippery swing bridges and thorny scrub to our destination: a freezing greyish-white glacial lake at the base of the mountain itself. At the far end of the lake is a solid ice wall from which chunks drop from time to time. These icebergs are naturally sculpted by the water that has created strange, animal-shaped statues. Transfixed by these floating beasts, I forget how freezing it has become. Luckily we are prepared with extra layers as well as an excellent lunch of fresh bread, local blue cheese and a delicious apple and rosemary chutney all washed down with the above mentioned bubbly – bloody marvellous. I’m proud to say that the children walk all the way back as well (apart from two 10 minute carries for Harley) and we all arrive back knackered at 5pm. We may not have reached the summit like Sir Edmund but a five-hour hike must be practically the equivalent of climbing Everest for a four-year-old so well done Harley. Granny would be proud of Ruby too who didn’t complain once. I’m proud of Karen too who didn’t whinge either, despite it being far from her idea of a perfect day. Thank you, family.
Before we leave the next morning we just have time to check out the Edmund Hilary Museum including an attached 3D cinema. This shows great bird’s eye views of the mountain (literally) as well as a skier’s view (what a nutter!). The cinema then converts into a mock observatory as a giant screen rises up above our heads and informs us how incredibly small the earth really is in comparison to the universe as a whole. There was I thinking we did something really impressive as a family, but it’s all immaterial in the greater scheme of things…..
Christchurch
NEW ZEALAND
I’m up even earlier than I have to be for the flight to New Zealand to catch the first half of Chelsea’s first leg Champion’s league semi against Liverpool. I wish I hadn’t bothered with the 5am start as we go 1-0 down but I’m cheered up on arrival in Christchurch to learn that a Riise own goal in the 5th minute of injury time has given us a reprieve which we are to take advantage of in the second leg. Chelsea shortly afterwards beat Man U in the league as well to keep their slim hopes of the double alive, but the football season goes downhill shortly afterwards so the less said the better.
Christchurch is a pretty little town with the narrow winding tree-lined Avon River running through it. We take a little tram ride around the city centre admiring the punting down the river worthy of Cambridge and the colourful New Regent Street built in a very Spanish style. We work up an appetite in the Botanical gardens tree-climbing, duck watching and playground supervising that is sated with super seafood and a rather over-butch Kim Crawford Pinot Noir at the Dux Deluxe. Meanwhile Ruby has been fiddling with tree sap and can’t get the bloody stuff off her hands for ages, which stifles her budding arboreal interest somewhat.
The Oaks Apartments are a little claustrophobic but, worse than that, they are located right next door to a nightclub that bangs out tunes with a serious base beat until 6am. We are tired by morning but it’s Anzac Day and we refuse to be bottled up in the room so decide to head to the Art Gallery for some culture. The very modern building is housing a William Morris exhibition where we even manage to find Granny’s curtain design and send her a postcard. After a coffee in the central Cathedral Square and a look at the Irish dancing, we retire to the Tap Room on Oxford Terrace where I enjoy cooking my own scallops on a mini hotplate and washing them down with 7 different Monteith’s beers on a special tasting wheel. Fan-bloody-tastic. Less good is the 20% premium added to the bill simply because it’s a bank holiday. We were wondering why it was so quiet – what a bloody nonsense.
The next day we decide to take a trip to Akaroa, but poor Harley has twisted his ankle and can’t even get up out of bed. Deciding that this is not an elaborate ploy to avoid the long walk to budget rent-a-car Karen carries him as I’ve done my back in (no, not an elaborate ploy of mine either). Poor Karen arrives sweating like a rapist, despite the mild climate, but we do manage to get a deal on a 4WD Kia. Sadly there are no deals on booster seats, as the bastards are exploiting the new law making them obligatory, so we buy a new one instead which is actually cheaper. We drive over the mountains forcing me to get used to the car PDQ and are rewarded with great views of Lyttleton Bay. After a quick stop at Sumner Beach for lunch and coffee (is my new addiction a function of giving up smoking?) we continue for another 1 ½ hours of stunning scenery: cliff passes, turquoise lakes and steep mountains partially obscured by long white clouds (fittingly the Maori word for New Zealand is Aotearoa or ‘land of the long white cloud’). Akoroa is pretty if deserted and there’s not much to do but sit down for a drink overlooking the lake. Strangely the tables and chairs are all chained together and just as we’re remarking how this doesn’t seem like a crime hotspot and how dangerous it is to have all these chains lying around Ruby trips over one – typical. The views on our twisting and turning return journey at sunset are even more spectacular, with the mountain backdrop framed by every imaginable shade of pink, red and blue. Travelling in New Zealand seems to be more about the actual journey than the destination and I’m impressed – Karen less so which is fair enough, as whilst I’m engrossed in the wonders of nature, she is constantly catering to the whims of two extraordinarily demanding kids.
I’m up even earlier than I have to be for the flight to New Zealand to catch the first half of Chelsea’s first leg Champion’s league semi against Liverpool. I wish I hadn’t bothered with the 5am start as we go 1-0 down but I’m cheered up on arrival in Christchurch to learn that a Riise own goal in the 5th minute of injury time has given us a reprieve which we are to take advantage of in the second leg. Chelsea shortly afterwards beat Man U in the league as well to keep their slim hopes of the double alive, but the football season goes downhill shortly afterwards so the less said the better.
Christchurch is a pretty little town with the narrow winding tree-lined Avon River running through it. We take a little tram ride around the city centre admiring the punting down the river worthy of Cambridge and the colourful New Regent Street built in a very Spanish style. We work up an appetite in the Botanical gardens tree-climbing, duck watching and playground supervising that is sated with super seafood and a rather over-butch Kim Crawford Pinot Noir at the Dux Deluxe. Meanwhile Ruby has been fiddling with tree sap and can’t get the bloody stuff off her hands for ages, which stifles her budding arboreal interest somewhat.
The Oaks Apartments are a little claustrophobic but, worse than that, they are located right next door to a nightclub that bangs out tunes with a serious base beat until 6am. We are tired by morning but it’s Anzac Day and we refuse to be bottled up in the room so decide to head to the Art Gallery for some culture. The very modern building is housing a William Morris exhibition where we even manage to find Granny’s curtain design and send her a postcard. After a coffee in the central Cathedral Square and a look at the Irish dancing, we retire to the Tap Room on Oxford Terrace where I enjoy cooking my own scallops on a mini hotplate and washing them down with 7 different Monteith’s beers on a special tasting wheel. Fan-bloody-tastic. Less good is the 20% premium added to the bill simply because it’s a bank holiday. We were wondering why it was so quiet – what a bloody nonsense.
The next day we decide to take a trip to Akaroa, but poor Harley has twisted his ankle and can’t even get up out of bed. Deciding that this is not an elaborate ploy to avoid the long walk to budget rent-a-car Karen carries him as I’ve done my back in (no, not an elaborate ploy of mine either). Poor Karen arrives sweating like a rapist, despite the mild climate, but we do manage to get a deal on a 4WD Kia. Sadly there are no deals on booster seats, as the bastards are exploiting the new law making them obligatory, so we buy a new one instead which is actually cheaper. We drive over the mountains forcing me to get used to the car PDQ and are rewarded with great views of Lyttleton Bay. After a quick stop at Sumner Beach for lunch and coffee (is my new addiction a function of giving up smoking?) we continue for another 1 ½ hours of stunning scenery: cliff passes, turquoise lakes and steep mountains partially obscured by long white clouds (fittingly the Maori word for New Zealand is Aotearoa or ‘land of the long white cloud’). Akoroa is pretty if deserted and there’s not much to do but sit down for a drink overlooking the lake. Strangely the tables and chairs are all chained together and just as we’re remarking how this doesn’t seem like a crime hotspot and how dangerous it is to have all these chains lying around Ruby trips over one – typical. The views on our twisting and turning return journey at sunset are even more spectacular, with the mountain backdrop framed by every imaginable shade of pink, red and blue. Travelling in New Zealand seems to be more about the actual journey than the destination and I’m impressed – Karen less so which is fair enough, as whilst I’m engrossed in the wonders of nature, she is constantly catering to the whims of two extraordinarily demanding kids.
The Blue Mountains Long Weekend
On Friday I am gutted to miss out on High School Musical on Ice but I do the honourable thing and go on an advanced party to the Blue Mountains with Andy in the form of a driving lesson. I’m hoping that after an hour or so the party will become literal, but sadly halfway up the mountain a tyre blows. It takes about an hour to change due to a very short spanner and mechanically tightened wheel nuts. Still we get it sorted before a downpour and still have time for a quick beer and some shopping before the troops arrive.
Our rented cottage is a real beauty in the middle of the secluded hamlet of Wentworth Falls. The whole house is painted white and boasts three bedrooms and a roaring log fire. Little extras such as a bar of scrummy chilli chocolate really put the icing on the cake and turn it into something special. I fix the fire whilst the girls make bangers and mash and we retire to our splendid attic room with a great view.
On Saturday we drive up to Katoomba to watch the rainclouds literally rolling down the street like tumbleweed. After lunch it clears up a bit and we head to Scenic World to experience the thrill of the steepest incline train in the world. It’s great fun, although I was expecting some sort of seatbelt, especially for the kids. We descend into the heart of the Blue Mountains and enjoy a scenic woodland walk past the old coal mines. We take the cable car back past the famous ‘three sisters’ and ‘orphan’ rocks.
Once back at the cottage we stoke up the fire again and enjoy Karen’s amazing risotto. We also enjoy plenty of booze forcing Nicky into a powernap. After Karen has reminded Andy several times that her risotto is ‘much better than one you would get in a pub’ she too succumbs to the land of Nod. It is left to me to drink up the bottle of 2004 Penfolds Bin 389, sadly not as good as the 2005 but could improve with age – it doesn’t get the chance.
It’s Sunday again and time for Harley’s special treat – the Thomas Train. The temperature plummets to 10 degrees but this doesn’t dim Harley’s enthusiasm for the Zig Zag railway. The steam actually comes through the open windows in one of the tunnels as we wend our way to the activity shed for a mini-locomotive ride, a merry-go-round and face painting. Even the confusing presence of a second Fat Controller cannot tarnish the day’s enjoyment and we zig-zag our way back up the hill over pretty stone bridges and past beautiful mountain scenery.
There’s just time for a final driving lesson as Andy drives me back to Sydney. Poor Andy has a major traffic jam to negotiate, but the constant stopping and starting is actually very good practice. We arrive back at the house less than 10 minutes after the others in spite of a 30 kms per hour lower maximum speed limit for most of the way. Andy has put in a faultless display and is now ready for his test. Let’s hope he keeps up the good work and gets it out of the way soon.
We spend the next day sorting out the luggage and sending any excess back to the UK. Tuesday is much more fun with a morning trip to Balmain for presents for Andy and Nicky. They’ve put up with us brilliantly for 2 weeks and get a teapot and some golf balls for their troubles. They did get a great meal at Marque too so we don’t feel bad.
It’s our last evening in Sydney and in fact Australia so we get a babysitter in and celebrate with a meal at the fancy Rockpool restaurant. Aperitifs are taken at an impressive bar that looks like a prison from the outside but is very modern inside. There is even a mixed loo with enclosed cubicles for number 2’s and half-enclosed urinals with one way glass so you can pick out your paramour (male or female) from the safety of your own closet. Rockpool itself is top-notch and I enjoy a breathtaking John Dory sashimi with its own roe and a superb seafood stew that is a meal in itself.
It’s a fitting end to a fabulous time in what for me is the country’s true capital in terms of culture and entertainment.
Our rented cottage is a real beauty in the middle of the secluded hamlet of Wentworth Falls. The whole house is painted white and boasts three bedrooms and a roaring log fire. Little extras such as a bar of scrummy chilli chocolate really put the icing on the cake and turn it into something special. I fix the fire whilst the girls make bangers and mash and we retire to our splendid attic room with a great view.
On Saturday we drive up to Katoomba to watch the rainclouds literally rolling down the street like tumbleweed. After lunch it clears up a bit and we head to Scenic World to experience the thrill of the steepest incline train in the world. It’s great fun, although I was expecting some sort of seatbelt, especially for the kids. We descend into the heart of the Blue Mountains and enjoy a scenic woodland walk past the old coal mines. We take the cable car back past the famous ‘three sisters’ and ‘orphan’ rocks.
Once back at the cottage we stoke up the fire again and enjoy Karen’s amazing risotto. We also enjoy plenty of booze forcing Nicky into a powernap. After Karen has reminded Andy several times that her risotto is ‘much better than one you would get in a pub’ she too succumbs to the land of Nod. It is left to me to drink up the bottle of 2004 Penfolds Bin 389, sadly not as good as the 2005 but could improve with age – it doesn’t get the chance.
It’s Sunday again and time for Harley’s special treat – the Thomas Train. The temperature plummets to 10 degrees but this doesn’t dim Harley’s enthusiasm for the Zig Zag railway. The steam actually comes through the open windows in one of the tunnels as we wend our way to the activity shed for a mini-locomotive ride, a merry-go-round and face painting. Even the confusing presence of a second Fat Controller cannot tarnish the day’s enjoyment and we zig-zag our way back up the hill over pretty stone bridges and past beautiful mountain scenery.
There’s just time for a final driving lesson as Andy drives me back to Sydney. Poor Andy has a major traffic jam to negotiate, but the constant stopping and starting is actually very good practice. We arrive back at the house less than 10 minutes after the others in spite of a 30 kms per hour lower maximum speed limit for most of the way. Andy has put in a faultless display and is now ready for his test. Let’s hope he keeps up the good work and gets it out of the way soon.
We spend the next day sorting out the luggage and sending any excess back to the UK. Tuesday is much more fun with a morning trip to Balmain for presents for Andy and Nicky. They’ve put up with us brilliantly for 2 weeks and get a teapot and some golf balls for their troubles. They did get a great meal at Marque too so we don’t feel bad.
It’s our last evening in Sydney and in fact Australia so we get a babysitter in and celebrate with a meal at the fancy Rockpool restaurant. Aperitifs are taken at an impressive bar that looks like a prison from the outside but is very modern inside. There is even a mixed loo with enclosed cubicles for number 2’s and half-enclosed urinals with one way glass so you can pick out your paramour (male or female) from the safety of your own closet. Rockpool itself is top-notch and I enjoy a breathtaking John Dory sashimi with its own roe and a superb seafood stew that is a meal in itself.
It’s a fitting end to a fabulous time in what for me is the country’s true capital in terms of culture and entertainment.
Return to Sydney
For a change the kids behave beautifully the whole day despite the journey taking 11 hours. We make pit stops @ halfway Holbrook for lunch, including a bottle of Bobbie Burns Shiraz and at McDonalds where the waiter is astonished to learn that we don’t want to eat but simply want to purchase a fairy and a wizard for a dollar a piece. The next couple of days in Dulwich Hill are spent trying to sort out the car.
Poor old Percy has to go and nobody seems to want him. Not even the most understanding of second –hand car dealers on the Parramatta Road will offer more than $2000 so we switch to our back-up plan of selling back to Traveller’s Autobahn for 40% of the original selling price of $5500 ie $2200. When I finally track down the Sydney office, I come up against a real pr*ck whose ‘raison d’être’ is to stitch people up for a living. The offer price goes down $150 for an obligatory service after 10,000K, which we were prepared for. It then goes down another $200 for bringing the car back to a different office (fair enough – it’s in the smallprint). Things start to get nasty when he wants to knock off another $350 for fixing the brakes. True the brakes are sh*t, but they weren’t great when we bought the car and anyway it’s under warranty. After an hour of this guy saying he’s trying to get hold of his manager and the Cairn’s office who are on holiday/lunch respectively I decide to call them myself and miraculously I’m grudgingly given a revised offer of $1850. I manage to inadvertently run off with the key too which tickles my sense of humour imagining the panic of the guy with no spare set even in Cairns. I eventually decide to hand it in to Traveller’s Autobahn’s bank whilst I’m cashing their cheque but I was tempted not to.
Poor old Percy has to go and nobody seems to want him. Not even the most understanding of second –hand car dealers on the Parramatta Road will offer more than $2000 so we switch to our back-up plan of selling back to Traveller’s Autobahn for 40% of the original selling price of $5500 ie $2200. When I finally track down the Sydney office, I come up against a real pr*ck whose ‘raison d’être’ is to stitch people up for a living. The offer price goes down $150 for an obligatory service after 10,000K, which we were prepared for. It then goes down another $200 for bringing the car back to a different office (fair enough – it’s in the smallprint). Things start to get nasty when he wants to knock off another $350 for fixing the brakes. True the brakes are sh*t, but they weren’t great when we bought the car and anyway it’s under warranty. After an hour of this guy saying he’s trying to get hold of his manager and the Cairn’s office who are on holiday/lunch respectively I decide to call them myself and miraculously I’m grudgingly given a revised offer of $1850. I manage to inadvertently run off with the key too which tickles my sense of humour imagining the panic of the guy with no spare set even in Cairns. I eventually decide to hand it in to Traveller’s Autobahn’s bank whilst I’m cashing their cheque but I was tempted not to.
Return to Melbourne
Having picked up the family from a motel near the airport we head to St Kilda where we experience the famous Melbourne 4 seasons in one day. A spring morning heats up to a summery midday but by the time we are ready for the beach it’s turning very autumnal and we rush to the warm salty baths before it gets too wintry. I go for a haircut on trendy Acland Street that is decorated with models on the roofs (not the human kind). The place has a very Camden feel about it and the family go for a wander while I try to get some of the damage of my wonky Cairns haircut repaired. Come evening we drive to Dave and Sharon’s at 60 Canterbury Road. I am pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a Lara Bingle look-alike in her PJ’s. Was Sharon really this hot or has Dave been carefully selecting his nannies? It turns out to be neither, rather there are several 60 Canterbury Roads, a different one in each suburb. Sadly this means that Dave and Sharon’s house is still a good half an hour’s drive away through the hectic dusk rushhour. To make matters worse I spend most of the time in the fast lane looking for the elusive right turn to their house.
Eventually we arrive and meet the kids: Matt (13), Lucy (11) and Ali (7).Dave is in the process of extending the house to include granny flat and Jacuzzi but there’s no time to check it out before I’m whisked off to Dave’s very important dart’s evening.
I insist on drinking pints instead of the customary schooners and get roped into a team. My dismal form from Canberra continues to start with but after an hour or so the pints kick in and by the last game I’m on fire with a 133 and a first time double finish. I’ve always said you have to be half cut to play decent darts. Despite Dave’s promise that we’d be back by 9.30 it’s almost midnight by the time we stagger home. There’s no hard feelings as Sharon is probably used to it so we all don our swimmers and hop straight into the Jacuzzi for the ‘name game’ with port shot penalties (only a couple of litres left now!). Just as we’re getting into the swing of things a couple of strippergrams arrive – wow Dave sure knows how to throw a party. Just as I’m about to ask the cute blonde why she’s taking so long to get her kit off I’m told to shut up and stop hassling the local constabulary. Luckily they see the funny side and leave, cheerfully asking us to keep the noise down a bit as they’ve received complaints from the neighbours.
Dave generously insists on us having the master bedroom, but despite this I wake up with a hangover from hell. That’s all I need just as we’re off on a trip to the Yarra Valley. 3 panadol ease the pain and by the time we’ve quaffed a couple of sparkling aperitifs @ Domaine Chandon and sat down to lunch @ Rochdale winery I’m quite cheerful again. We go to the fancy restaurant rather than the café as we’re thanking Dave and Sharon for their very generous hospitality. The food is great as is the company and we wile away a couple of hours reminiscing on our sordid pasts to fill in the gaps for Karen.
A few friends come round for a BBQ dinner but sadly Nick doesn’t make it (he always had a problem getting off his arse that one). Never mind as his house is our next stop. It’s an early start and the ever generous Sharon and Dave are up at 6am to make breakfast and say goodbye. I’m taking Karen and Harley to the airport for a last minute flight to Adelaide to spend a couple more days with Simone and the kids. We lose our way a little and Karen is convinced we are going to miss the flight but after a minor panic we manage to get back on track and end up with time to spare in the departure lounge for a bit of brekky.
Ruby and I head to the Rod Laver Arena to find out about Real Tennis as the phone book at the airport is no help. The place is practically deserted but we do admire some statues of tennis greats including Roy Emmerson who won a record 13 grand slams (one more than Sampras but will Federer catch him?) and Rod Laver himself who was the only person to achieve the Grand Slam of tennis by winning all 4 majors in the same year. We find the pro shop open and I discover that the Real Tennis club is down the road in Richmond. I ring up and book a game for the following Monday.
The next stop is St Kilda’s again, this time to Nick and Lisa’s house. We meet the kids: Henry (8) and Charlotte (5) and although I’ve been warned by Nick that Henry doesn’t like girls, Ruby and Henry hit it off straight away. I think it helped that I told Ruby to take an interest in his rock collection. Anyway they are soon getting on so well that they have to be reminded to include Charlotte in their games as she’s getting a bit left out.
Nick and I head off for some shopping and get serendipitiously distracted by an excellent Pinot Noir tasting in Dan Murphy’s (the Australian equivalent of Majestic). Armed with a few bottles and some lamb from nearby Safeway we head back for Nick to work his new found culinary magic (it certainly wasn’t there in university days). Dave comes round just in time to enjoy the slow-roasted lamb kebabs and the dregs of the Pinot Noir and we chat about the old days so much that Lisa asks us why we can’t live in the present a bit. Good point but there’s nothing wrong with a bit of escapism every now and again.
I’m getting to enjoy my stay here as I get a Sunday lie in whilst the kids play well together followed by a lovely little fry up and no hangover. Maybe it’s true what they say about decent quality wine. We take a bus and tram into town for a Wagamama’s lunch followed by a great little dramatisation of Aesop’s fables by the Umbrella Revolution Theatre Group as part of the Melbourne Comedy Festioval. Ruby rather disturbingly says that her favourite bit was the killing of the goose that lays the golden eggs. I certainly learn something from the fable of the shepherd, the wind and the sun where the moral ‘gentle persuasion is often the best’ is particularly poignant to current childcare. Maybe a good smack on the bum is even better but sadly not very PC these days. It didn’t do me any harm or did it?
Our relaxing ice-cream/beer is cut short by a call from the police as Nick and Lisa’s alarm has been set off. We rush back but luckily it’s only Nick’s parents back from a trip to Maria Island Tasmania. I apologise for making the house a bit of a squeeze but they kindly tell me it’s no problem as they come over most years. We go for yet more food/booze shopping and this time Nick’s culinary delight is frittata that we wash down with my thank-you-for-having-me present namely a really stupendous bottle of 2005 Penfolds Bin 389.
On Monday Lisa kindly takes Ruby and the kids to the cinema having called in to school for a kiddie ‘sicky’ to their obvious delight. I play my third and final leg of the Real Tennis challenge and notch up an impressive 6-4, 6-2 win against a Fund Manager. Afterwards I rather childishly sneak onto the club’s second court for a couple of serves so that I can say I’ve now played on every court in Australia. I enjoy a couple of beers with my opponent and we are joined by a couple of his Real Tennis playing friends. One of them tells me about a court about to open in Dublin and of his own ambitious plans to build a court in Italy. You heard it here first.
There’s just time to dash to the airport to pick up Karen and Harley (in fact we cross on the escalators between arrivals and departures and luckily spot each other). After a quick hello to Nick and the extended family we take a taxi to Albert Park to catch up on my ex-work colleague Sarah, husband Nick and baby Matilda. It’s great to catch up and particularly to find out that Nick, who was unwell in the UK with a mysterious virus, is now much better. We enjoy an excellent Yarra Yarra Shiraz from Sarah’s family vineyard to cap a wonderful last day in Melbourne. So has my impression of Melbourne changed since the last visit? It certainly has, the main differences being better weather, better food and most importantly better company (and not just because Karen was away for a couple of days!).
Eventually we arrive and meet the kids: Matt (13), Lucy (11) and Ali (7).Dave is in the process of extending the house to include granny flat and Jacuzzi but there’s no time to check it out before I’m whisked off to Dave’s very important dart’s evening.
I insist on drinking pints instead of the customary schooners and get roped into a team. My dismal form from Canberra continues to start with but after an hour or so the pints kick in and by the last game I’m on fire with a 133 and a first time double finish. I’ve always said you have to be half cut to play decent darts. Despite Dave’s promise that we’d be back by 9.30 it’s almost midnight by the time we stagger home. There’s no hard feelings as Sharon is probably used to it so we all don our swimmers and hop straight into the Jacuzzi for the ‘name game’ with port shot penalties (only a couple of litres left now!). Just as we’re getting into the swing of things a couple of strippergrams arrive – wow Dave sure knows how to throw a party. Just as I’m about to ask the cute blonde why she’s taking so long to get her kit off I’m told to shut up and stop hassling the local constabulary. Luckily they see the funny side and leave, cheerfully asking us to keep the noise down a bit as they’ve received complaints from the neighbours.
Dave generously insists on us having the master bedroom, but despite this I wake up with a hangover from hell. That’s all I need just as we’re off on a trip to the Yarra Valley. 3 panadol ease the pain and by the time we’ve quaffed a couple of sparkling aperitifs @ Domaine Chandon and sat down to lunch @ Rochdale winery I’m quite cheerful again. We go to the fancy restaurant rather than the café as we’re thanking Dave and Sharon for their very generous hospitality. The food is great as is the company and we wile away a couple of hours reminiscing on our sordid pasts to fill in the gaps for Karen.
A few friends come round for a BBQ dinner but sadly Nick doesn’t make it (he always had a problem getting off his arse that one). Never mind as his house is our next stop. It’s an early start and the ever generous Sharon and Dave are up at 6am to make breakfast and say goodbye. I’m taking Karen and Harley to the airport for a last minute flight to Adelaide to spend a couple more days with Simone and the kids. We lose our way a little and Karen is convinced we are going to miss the flight but after a minor panic we manage to get back on track and end up with time to spare in the departure lounge for a bit of brekky.
Ruby and I head to the Rod Laver Arena to find out about Real Tennis as the phone book at the airport is no help. The place is practically deserted but we do admire some statues of tennis greats including Roy Emmerson who won a record 13 grand slams (one more than Sampras but will Federer catch him?) and Rod Laver himself who was the only person to achieve the Grand Slam of tennis by winning all 4 majors in the same year. We find the pro shop open and I discover that the Real Tennis club is down the road in Richmond. I ring up and book a game for the following Monday.
The next stop is St Kilda’s again, this time to Nick and Lisa’s house. We meet the kids: Henry (8) and Charlotte (5) and although I’ve been warned by Nick that Henry doesn’t like girls, Ruby and Henry hit it off straight away. I think it helped that I told Ruby to take an interest in his rock collection. Anyway they are soon getting on so well that they have to be reminded to include Charlotte in their games as she’s getting a bit left out.
Nick and I head off for some shopping and get serendipitiously distracted by an excellent Pinot Noir tasting in Dan Murphy’s (the Australian equivalent of Majestic). Armed with a few bottles and some lamb from nearby Safeway we head back for Nick to work his new found culinary magic (it certainly wasn’t there in university days). Dave comes round just in time to enjoy the slow-roasted lamb kebabs and the dregs of the Pinot Noir and we chat about the old days so much that Lisa asks us why we can’t live in the present a bit. Good point but there’s nothing wrong with a bit of escapism every now and again.
I’m getting to enjoy my stay here as I get a Sunday lie in whilst the kids play well together followed by a lovely little fry up and no hangover. Maybe it’s true what they say about decent quality wine. We take a bus and tram into town for a Wagamama’s lunch followed by a great little dramatisation of Aesop’s fables by the Umbrella Revolution Theatre Group as part of the Melbourne Comedy Festioval. Ruby rather disturbingly says that her favourite bit was the killing of the goose that lays the golden eggs. I certainly learn something from the fable of the shepherd, the wind and the sun where the moral ‘gentle persuasion is often the best’ is particularly poignant to current childcare. Maybe a good smack on the bum is even better but sadly not very PC these days. It didn’t do me any harm or did it?
Our relaxing ice-cream/beer is cut short by a call from the police as Nick and Lisa’s alarm has been set off. We rush back but luckily it’s only Nick’s parents back from a trip to Maria Island Tasmania. I apologise for making the house a bit of a squeeze but they kindly tell me it’s no problem as they come over most years. We go for yet more food/booze shopping and this time Nick’s culinary delight is frittata that we wash down with my thank-you-for-having-me present namely a really stupendous bottle of 2005 Penfolds Bin 389.
On Monday Lisa kindly takes Ruby and the kids to the cinema having called in to school for a kiddie ‘sicky’ to their obvious delight. I play my third and final leg of the Real Tennis challenge and notch up an impressive 6-4, 6-2 win against a Fund Manager. Afterwards I rather childishly sneak onto the club’s second court for a couple of serves so that I can say I’ve now played on every court in Australia. I enjoy a couple of beers with my opponent and we are joined by a couple of his Real Tennis playing friends. One of them tells me about a court about to open in Dublin and of his own ambitious plans to build a court in Italy. You heard it here first.
There’s just time to dash to the airport to pick up Karen and Harley (in fact we cross on the escalators between arrivals and departures and luckily spot each other). After a quick hello to Nick and the extended family we take a taxi to Albert Park to catch up on my ex-work colleague Sarah, husband Nick and baby Matilda. It’s great to catch up and particularly to find out that Nick, who was unwell in the UK with a mysterious virus, is now much better. We enjoy an excellent Yarra Yarra Shiraz from Sarah’s family vineyard to cap a wonderful last day in Melbourne. So has my impression of Melbourne changed since the last visit? It certainly has, the main differences being better weather, better food and most importantly better company (and not just because Karen was away for a couple of days!).
Tasmania
I can’t work out if I’ve drawn the short straw or not as I drop the family off at the airport. They’re taking a one hour flight whilst I go with the car on the much more expensive 11 hr ferry. Although the trip across the Bass Strait is notoriously chunderworthy I do have the chance for some good ‘cave time’. As it happens the waves are only 2M max. This is a relief on the top bunk where I still feel to be sliding off and struggle to sleep for a while.
It’s a beautiful dawn drive to join the family at the plush Tasmania Country Club in Launceston where we decide to stay another night. We drive along the Tamar River scenic wine route that involves abundant forests, roadhogging logging trucks and constant drizzle from the imminent hurricane (lucky I crossed the Bass Strait when I did). We also enjoy some good wines at Piper’s Brook and Jansz that helps us to sleep soundly through the passing of the tail of the hurricane. Next day we sign up at the Flying Fox for some zip-wiring between some very tall trees. It’s great fun with the kids in harnesses on top of us whizzing through the trees like a family of monkeys.
That afternoon we drive 3 hours to the capital Hobart and check into what turns out to be a very old fashioned Rydges apartment. The whole place is very 1950’s and not at all pleasant apart from the squeeze your own juices for breakfast (I go for the unusually healthy apple, carrot, beetroot and ginger). We decide to stay for 4 days at a working winery instead and make tracks to the Riverdale Vineyard in the picturesque Coal River region. We have a quaint little cottage all to ourselves with fantastic views across the vineyards down to the river.
We decide to explore the nearby town of Richmond that is quite charming. We cross a beautiful sandstone bridge built by convicts in 1823 making it the oldest bridge in Australia. Armed with rolls from our bakery lunch we feed a plethora of ducks that get quite excitable and Harley has to be plucked out in tears from of a sea of frantic feathers and biting beaks. There’s time to stop at 2 churches including one with a ‘Garden of Gethsemane’ graveyard with headstones dating back to the 1840’s.
It’s Saturday and time to explore the renowned Salamanca market in central Hobart. The stalls are nothing special but there is a live band and good coffee. We decide to check out Battery Point with apparently excellent examples of very old Australian cottages. This translates to turn of the century concrete eyesores a bit like OAP council houses back home.
Time to explore the old convict colony of Port Arthur. It’s 100km away which is a good 2 hour scenic drive through forests and past lakes. We get a bit of a shock on arrival to discover that there is no actual town there at all just a bunch of ruins.(A little bit like going shopping to St Albans only to find Verulamium). Having doubled back to find some lunch, Port Arthur turns out to be a great day out, if a little chilly. A boat tour is included in the price and takes us past two islands. One is the cemetery known as the Isle of the Dead whilst the other used to be the Boys prison. One boy was sent there all the way from England for stealing a hanky. We remind Ruby how easy she has it these days and she quietly ponders this but sadly only for a moment. We also pop in on the commander’s house, the prison itself and the asylum where the innovative commander was actually trying to cure people with mental problems rather than just lock them up. Sadly it didn’t work as his methods were worthy of some of the inmates, still it was the first ever ‘loony bin’ so hats off to the guy for effort. It’s almost dusk so I have to step on it to try to beat the marsupial curfew (a speed limit of 30 kms after dark). We actually see the most wildlife yet: echidnas, wombats and probably a tassie devil or two. I say probably as it’s sadly all roadkill. Still been there done that…..
On Monday we don our fluorescent ‘workers’ jackets and head down through the vineyards to the Coal River for some oyster harvesting. Amazingly you can just pick them out of the rocky river (none in the sandy bits as they need something to cling to). To be more precise it is Karen who wades in even though she can’t stand oysters as I don’t want to get my shoes wet (who says chivalry is dead?). Once back at the cottage it takes me ages to open the buggers without a schucker. I eventually manage to prise open half a dozen massive molluscs with the texture and colour of a severe head cold. By the fifth dark greeny-brown bogey I start to gag, still it’s fun living off the land.
In the afternoon we decide to drive up to the top of Mount Wellington which at 2000 metres is Tasmania’s highest peak. The temperature drops from 19 to a chilly 9 degrees and disappointingly the summit is covered in cloud. It’s quite an eerie place with low clouds scudding in over the summit past an odd spaceship shaped pole to mark the highest point. We still manage to get some good views halfway down.
I get dropped off at the Hobart Real Tennis Club for part two of my Australian sports challenge. This time it’s doubles and my partner and I get trounced which is a bit depressing. It later transpires that the opponents are playing off 15 and 21 whereas my partner is 27 and I’m off 37. Despite thinking the guy off 15, who knew everyone’s handicap, was a bit of a plonker for not playing with me to make it close, I am cheered up and put the whole experience down to good practice for the third and final leg in Melbourne.
We are sad to leave Hobart and especially the beautiful scenery and comfy cottages at Riverdale. We head up to Launceston via the East coast past the pretty Maria Island and Freycinet National Park. Apart from a hell of a lot of forest, very expensive petrol and a half decent Bay of Fires Pinot Gris for lunch we don’t have much to show for our rather extravagant detour. Still it only took two hours longer than going back the way we came which is nothing for the seasoned travellers that we have become. After a strange night in a motel on a huge slope, we decide to spend our last day in Tassie at the Cataract Gorge. This attraction is apparently the home of the longest single span chairlift in the world over a ‘stunning gorge’. It turns out to be not that amazing but maybe we’re getting a bit blasé after so much stunning scenery. We take the kids on a trip to the ‘Eagles Nest’which is about 20 minutes walk according to the chairlift attendant. Forty minutes later I realise that maybe the Eagle’s nest wasn’t the summit after all but rather the lookout point we passed 20 minutes previously. Still we press on to a very uninteresting summit with a few trees and no view. Oh well at least the kids showed some backbone getting to the top even if we did have to bribe them with extra long stories.
After a scrummy lunch I drop the rest of the family off at the airport and drive on the remaining 100 kms to Devonport for the return ferry to Melbourne. In the queue for the Spirit of Tasmania I overhear a bloke bragging about his old car with 3 million kms on the clock and still with the original clutch. This makes me feel much better about old Percy who’s now only clocked up a mere 310,000 kms. After a couple of movies and a half decent sleep, I rouse myself at 6am and head up to the top deck to witness a beautiful, and for me rare, dawn arrival at Melbourne. The CBD looks fantastic as the sun rises slowly behind the horizon highlighting the early morning balloonists in a full spectrum of pinks, reds and purples before finally the orange orb emerges sheepishly above Red Hill in the middle of the Mornington peninsular.
It’s a beautiful dawn drive to join the family at the plush Tasmania Country Club in Launceston where we decide to stay another night. We drive along the Tamar River scenic wine route that involves abundant forests, roadhogging logging trucks and constant drizzle from the imminent hurricane (lucky I crossed the Bass Strait when I did). We also enjoy some good wines at Piper’s Brook and Jansz that helps us to sleep soundly through the passing of the tail of the hurricane. Next day we sign up at the Flying Fox for some zip-wiring between some very tall trees. It’s great fun with the kids in harnesses on top of us whizzing through the trees like a family of monkeys.
That afternoon we drive 3 hours to the capital Hobart and check into what turns out to be a very old fashioned Rydges apartment. The whole place is very 1950’s and not at all pleasant apart from the squeeze your own juices for breakfast (I go for the unusually healthy apple, carrot, beetroot and ginger). We decide to stay for 4 days at a working winery instead and make tracks to the Riverdale Vineyard in the picturesque Coal River region. We have a quaint little cottage all to ourselves with fantastic views across the vineyards down to the river.
We decide to explore the nearby town of Richmond that is quite charming. We cross a beautiful sandstone bridge built by convicts in 1823 making it the oldest bridge in Australia. Armed with rolls from our bakery lunch we feed a plethora of ducks that get quite excitable and Harley has to be plucked out in tears from of a sea of frantic feathers and biting beaks. There’s time to stop at 2 churches including one with a ‘Garden of Gethsemane’ graveyard with headstones dating back to the 1840’s.
It’s Saturday and time to explore the renowned Salamanca market in central Hobart. The stalls are nothing special but there is a live band and good coffee. We decide to check out Battery Point with apparently excellent examples of very old Australian cottages. This translates to turn of the century concrete eyesores a bit like OAP council houses back home.
Time to explore the old convict colony of Port Arthur. It’s 100km away which is a good 2 hour scenic drive through forests and past lakes. We get a bit of a shock on arrival to discover that there is no actual town there at all just a bunch of ruins.(A little bit like going shopping to St Albans only to find Verulamium). Having doubled back to find some lunch, Port Arthur turns out to be a great day out, if a little chilly. A boat tour is included in the price and takes us past two islands. One is the cemetery known as the Isle of the Dead whilst the other used to be the Boys prison. One boy was sent there all the way from England for stealing a hanky. We remind Ruby how easy she has it these days and she quietly ponders this but sadly only for a moment. We also pop in on the commander’s house, the prison itself and the asylum where the innovative commander was actually trying to cure people with mental problems rather than just lock them up. Sadly it didn’t work as his methods were worthy of some of the inmates, still it was the first ever ‘loony bin’ so hats off to the guy for effort. It’s almost dusk so I have to step on it to try to beat the marsupial curfew (a speed limit of 30 kms after dark). We actually see the most wildlife yet: echidnas, wombats and probably a tassie devil or two. I say probably as it’s sadly all roadkill. Still been there done that…..
On Monday we don our fluorescent ‘workers’ jackets and head down through the vineyards to the Coal River for some oyster harvesting. Amazingly you can just pick them out of the rocky river (none in the sandy bits as they need something to cling to). To be more precise it is Karen who wades in even though she can’t stand oysters as I don’t want to get my shoes wet (who says chivalry is dead?). Once back at the cottage it takes me ages to open the buggers without a schucker. I eventually manage to prise open half a dozen massive molluscs with the texture and colour of a severe head cold. By the fifth dark greeny-brown bogey I start to gag, still it’s fun living off the land.
In the afternoon we decide to drive up to the top of Mount Wellington which at 2000 metres is Tasmania’s highest peak. The temperature drops from 19 to a chilly 9 degrees and disappointingly the summit is covered in cloud. It’s quite an eerie place with low clouds scudding in over the summit past an odd spaceship shaped pole to mark the highest point. We still manage to get some good views halfway down.
I get dropped off at the Hobart Real Tennis Club for part two of my Australian sports challenge. This time it’s doubles and my partner and I get trounced which is a bit depressing. It later transpires that the opponents are playing off 15 and 21 whereas my partner is 27 and I’m off 37. Despite thinking the guy off 15, who knew everyone’s handicap, was a bit of a plonker for not playing with me to make it close, I am cheered up and put the whole experience down to good practice for the third and final leg in Melbourne.
We are sad to leave Hobart and especially the beautiful scenery and comfy cottages at Riverdale. We head up to Launceston via the East coast past the pretty Maria Island and Freycinet National Park. Apart from a hell of a lot of forest, very expensive petrol and a half decent Bay of Fires Pinot Gris for lunch we don’t have much to show for our rather extravagant detour. Still it only took two hours longer than going back the way we came which is nothing for the seasoned travellers that we have become. After a strange night in a motel on a huge slope, we decide to spend our last day in Tassie at the Cataract Gorge. This attraction is apparently the home of the longest single span chairlift in the world over a ‘stunning gorge’. It turns out to be not that amazing but maybe we’re getting a bit blasé after so much stunning scenery. We take the kids on a trip to the ‘Eagles Nest’which is about 20 minutes walk according to the chairlift attendant. Forty minutes later I realise that maybe the Eagle’s nest wasn’t the summit after all but rather the lookout point we passed 20 minutes previously. Still we press on to a very uninteresting summit with a few trees and no view. Oh well at least the kids showed some backbone getting to the top even if we did have to bribe them with extra long stories.
After a scrummy lunch I drop the rest of the family off at the airport and drive on the remaining 100 kms to Devonport for the return ferry to Melbourne. In the queue for the Spirit of Tasmania I overhear a bloke bragging about his old car with 3 million kms on the clock and still with the original clutch. This makes me feel much better about old Percy who’s now only clocked up a mere 310,000 kms. After a couple of movies and a half decent sleep, I rouse myself at 6am and head up to the top deck to witness a beautiful, and for me rare, dawn arrival at Melbourne. The CBD looks fantastic as the sun rises slowly behind the horizon highlighting the early morning balloonists in a full spectrum of pinks, reds and purples before finally the orange orb emerges sheepishly above Red Hill in the middle of the Mornington peninsular.
Ballarat
Time to take Nick up on his recommendation of a few months ago for the best family day out in Victoria – Sovereign Hill. This is the site of the Victorian gold rush back in the 1850’s, but although we rush there a lot quicker than they could, by the time we’ve packed, cleaned up the mansion and driven 100kms it’s 3.30pm, which doesn’t give us time to do the place justice. We therefore check into a nearby 4 star motel and amazingly spot a sign for a Royal Tennis court. Surely this can’t be Real Tennis, my new passion, it’s probably just a Victorian name for squash or racquetball or something. No, sure enough we follow the signs and there, in all its splendour, is one of only 3 active Real Tennis clubs in Australia. The only others are in Hobart and Melbourne (2 courts) since the one at Sydney’s Macquairie University was scandalously turned into a basketball court. We are greeted by an 88-year-old amateur as the professional is out. He tells us that he started playing when the court was built by his son-in-law in 1987 aged 67 and is still going strong. The Pro returns and I can’t resist booking a court for 8pm – I know, another night out at Karen’s expense, but really what an amazing coincidence to literally stumble across one of only 4 courts in the country in the middle of Ballarat.
After a brisk walk to the monument to the first gold discovery and a stunning room-service dinner of blue-eyed cod, mash and asparagus, I return to the Real Tennis court to catch the last few games of a Pennant doubles before my match with a 30-handicapper anaesthetist. Despite being given a point a game and leading 6-3 4-1, I manage to draw due to a combined lack of fitness and concentration. Amazingly the Pro can still input the score onto the international database which will apparently slightly reduce my handicap in the UK due to my away from home disadvantage! Despite a couple of beers I lose 5lbs according to the motel’s scales and feel much better. I realise that I’ve been missing sport a lot and decide to try to play at all 3 clubs in Australia as, conveniently, our next stop is Tasmania followed by Melbourne. Karen very sweetly supports my plan despite it involving more babysitting for her.
The motel continues to over-perform with an excellent breakfast. I’m still not sure if cereal, yoghurt and fruit followed by a fry-up is more or less healthy than just the fry-up? We enjoy a great day at Sovereign Hill with the kids. First is the museum for a bit of an intro. followed by panning for real gold in the stream. We cheat and buy a small sack of sand that is guaranteed to contain some gold and possibly a decent sized nugget. We don’t get a nugget but do manage to find a few flakes that we keep in a small jar for posterity. We then watch a real 3Kg gold bar worth $110,000 being forged, followed by a trip into the mineshafts with the brave family (esp. Karen who is a bit claustrophobic). Just wandering around this reconstructed 1850’s town is fun as all the staff are in period costume including soldiers and even waitresses. We get a good view of the whole town from the top of the ‘Mulloch Heap’ and even visit the Chinese quarter on the way out (many Chinese came here in the 1870’s in search of their fortune but most were disappointed as most of the gold had gone by then and the taxes for panning had become punitive). It is interesting that because of gold Ballarat is still the largest non-coastal town in Australia. Also due to gold Melbourne became the largest city and financial centre for 100 years. The reality for the prospector however was backbreaking work, unwholesome food and primitive accommodation. No wonder many turned to hard liquor, which is why one smart Irishman made a killing at the goldfields by cornering the market for booze.
After a brisk walk to the monument to the first gold discovery and a stunning room-service dinner of blue-eyed cod, mash and asparagus, I return to the Real Tennis court to catch the last few games of a Pennant doubles before my match with a 30-handicapper anaesthetist. Despite being given a point a game and leading 6-3 4-1, I manage to draw due to a combined lack of fitness and concentration. Amazingly the Pro can still input the score onto the international database which will apparently slightly reduce my handicap in the UK due to my away from home disadvantage! Despite a couple of beers I lose 5lbs according to the motel’s scales and feel much better. I realise that I’ve been missing sport a lot and decide to try to play at all 3 clubs in Australia as, conveniently, our next stop is Tasmania followed by Melbourne. Karen very sweetly supports my plan despite it involving more babysitting for her.
The motel continues to over-perform with an excellent breakfast. I’m still not sure if cereal, yoghurt and fruit followed by a fry-up is more or less healthy than just the fry-up? We enjoy a great day at Sovereign Hill with the kids. First is the museum for a bit of an intro. followed by panning for real gold in the stream. We cheat and buy a small sack of sand that is guaranteed to contain some gold and possibly a decent sized nugget. We don’t get a nugget but do manage to find a few flakes that we keep in a small jar for posterity. We then watch a real 3Kg gold bar worth $110,000 being forged, followed by a trip into the mineshafts with the brave family (esp. Karen who is a bit claustrophobic). Just wandering around this reconstructed 1850’s town is fun as all the staff are in period costume including soldiers and even waitresses. We get a good view of the whole town from the top of the ‘Mulloch Heap’ and even visit the Chinese quarter on the way out (many Chinese came here in the 1870’s in search of their fortune but most were disappointed as most of the gold had gone by then and the taxes for panning had become punitive). It is interesting that because of gold Ballarat is still the largest non-coastal town in Australia. Also due to gold Melbourne became the largest city and financial centre for 100 years. The reality for the prospector however was backbreaking work, unwholesome food and primitive accommodation. No wonder many turned to hard liquor, which is why one smart Irishman made a killing at the goldfields by cornering the market for booze.
Lorne
The beauty of the Great Ocean Road! Actually it is singularly unattractive until just before Lorne, but that doesn’t dampen the spirits as we’re en route to a spacious pad to hook up with some good friends. We pass Geelong and unbelievably miss out on the world famous National Wool Museum, which Karen is particularly put out by. However we’re on a schedule and must press on. The last 20 kms are very pretty, almost Cornish, with the rugged coastline, but sandy rather than rocky. The house is a stunning 4 bedroom beauty on the hill overlooking the bay and with a spacious balcony for feeding the colourful local fauna – namely cockatoos and parakeets. We’ve already met up with Andy, Nicky and Cooper and done a big food/booze shop, so the girls cook up a delicious prawn, chilli and ginger lunch just in time for the late arrivals from Adelaide: Rob, Simone, Jack, Harry and Emily. Blimey that’s 12 of us in total – maybe the shop wasn’t that big after all.
It’s very relaxing here. Lorne is the most fashionable and developed town on the Great Ocean Road, but still only has 1,200 permanent residents, so it’s very peaceful. The first night we stay in for a BBQ and boozing (especially Nicky!). Late on the girls gravitate to bed and the boys to the poker table, where I sting Andy and Rob for a huge $5 each making me even for the trip!
Saturday lie in HURRAY! Miss Karen’s fry-up BOO HOO! The girls go for a massage whilst the boys walk the kids to town for some excellent trampolining (a great double whammy for the stir crazy nippers). We meet the girls for lunch (marlin, yummy) and then we walk back up the hill with an ice-cream incentive at halfway. The cunning ruse of exhausting the kids works well and the adults are soon left in peace to play the hilarious Name Game. Everyone is in stitches at some stage including yours truly at the fourth H when I go for Henry 5th having already used Henry 8th, 7th and 6th (OK so you had to be there). It’s another late night but I get up early despite the sore port head (yes, the 10 litre flagon is still going strong) so as not to miss out on another fry-up. I end up cooking (for a long overdue change) and someone snags my snags for the kids – Gutted. We walk to the trampolines again and back up the hill via the ice-cream shop again. Are we stuck in some weird kind of Groundhog Day from which we will never escape? I hope so as long as it doesn’t involve more port. We say our goodbyes to Andy, Nicky and Cooper in town and to Rob, Simone, Jack, Harry and Emily at dusk with a few tears as we wont be seeing them again for a while (actually Karen and Harley do). Whilst everyone is standing around crying I manage to sneak a couple of litres of port into Rob’s car to ease my later suffering and to increase his. Cheers mate! We are left with a mixture of sadness that everyone has gone and happiness at the peace and quiet, the beautiful big house to ourselves and the fact that Karen surprises me with some saucy new lingerie WOW!
It’s very relaxing here. Lorne is the most fashionable and developed town on the Great Ocean Road, but still only has 1,200 permanent residents, so it’s very peaceful. The first night we stay in for a BBQ and boozing (especially Nicky!). Late on the girls gravitate to bed and the boys to the poker table, where I sting Andy and Rob for a huge $5 each making me even for the trip!
Saturday lie in HURRAY! Miss Karen’s fry-up BOO HOO! The girls go for a massage whilst the boys walk the kids to town for some excellent trampolining (a great double whammy for the stir crazy nippers). We meet the girls for lunch (marlin, yummy) and then we walk back up the hill with an ice-cream incentive at halfway. The cunning ruse of exhausting the kids works well and the adults are soon left in peace to play the hilarious Name Game. Everyone is in stitches at some stage including yours truly at the fourth H when I go for Henry 5th having already used Henry 8th, 7th and 6th (OK so you had to be there). It’s another late night but I get up early despite the sore port head (yes, the 10 litre flagon is still going strong) so as not to miss out on another fry-up. I end up cooking (for a long overdue change) and someone snags my snags for the kids – Gutted. We walk to the trampolines again and back up the hill via the ice-cream shop again. Are we stuck in some weird kind of Groundhog Day from which we will never escape? I hope so as long as it doesn’t involve more port. We say our goodbyes to Andy, Nicky and Cooper in town and to Rob, Simone, Jack, Harry and Emily at dusk with a few tears as we wont be seeing them again for a while (actually Karen and Harley do). Whilst everyone is standing around crying I manage to sneak a couple of litres of port into Rob’s car to ease my later suffering and to increase his. Cheers mate! We are left with a mixture of sadness that everyone has gone and happiness at the peace and quiet, the beautiful big house to ourselves and the fact that Karen surprises me with some saucy new lingerie WOW!
Melbourne the First
It’s my second time ever in Melbourne and there’s no change in the weather – gloomy and wet. It’s also dusk when we finally get there and we have no booking. Luckily we stumble across the pleasant Oaks 2-bed Apartments with underground parking to boot. Once the kids are safely in bed I pop out for some gin, tonic and lime. A simple task you might think. I return an hour later soaked and chilly with only 2 out of 3 ingredients. In desperation I ‘borrow’ half a lime from the bar downstairs from the absentee barman.
‘Oh look it’s raining again’ I exclaim as I draw the curtains next morning. I suppose we’ve been spoilt with sunshine for the last few months (even Sydney which had had the worst summer for 20 years saved a week of sunshine just for us). Undaunted I plan a city centre tour starting with the best latte in town on Desgraves Street. Harley gets a long overdue haircut and a pair of green Converse whilst Ruby sports a yellow pair. Now I feel left out as the only member of the family without the trendy Converse/hoodie combo. We pass the pristine yellow and red of Flinders Street Station and the quaint Royal Arcade (1869) en route to a risotto and glass of red in Block Place. After lunch we browse through Block Arcade crammed with designer names and on towards the Yarra river via the ultra-modern and unique architecture of Federation Square (cf Aesop’s Fables). We cross over to Southbank for a glass or two of Jansz Rosé and enjoy watching the busy Melbournites rush past as the kids expend some energy nearby. We leave next morning for Lorne and as we span the massive Westgate Bridge with great views back across to the city and urban sprawl, I reflect on how unattractive Melbourne really is. Maybe, rather like London, it’s the weather that doesn’t help; maybe we’re just unlucky – anyway we’ll be back after Tasmania to give it another chance….
‘Oh look it’s raining again’ I exclaim as I draw the curtains next morning. I suppose we’ve been spoilt with sunshine for the last few months (even Sydney which had had the worst summer for 20 years saved a week of sunshine just for us). Undaunted I plan a city centre tour starting with the best latte in town on Desgraves Street. Harley gets a long overdue haircut and a pair of green Converse whilst Ruby sports a yellow pair. Now I feel left out as the only member of the family without the trendy Converse/hoodie combo. We pass the pristine yellow and red of Flinders Street Station and the quaint Royal Arcade (1869) en route to a risotto and glass of red in Block Place. After lunch we browse through Block Arcade crammed with designer names and on towards the Yarra river via the ultra-modern and unique architecture of Federation Square (cf Aesop’s Fables). We cross over to Southbank for a glass or two of Jansz Rosé and enjoy watching the busy Melbournites rush past as the kids expend some energy nearby. We leave next morning for Lorne and as we span the massive Westgate Bridge with great views back across to the city and urban sprawl, I reflect on how unattractive Melbourne really is. Maybe, rather like London, it’s the weather that doesn’t help; maybe we’re just unlucky – anyway we’ll be back after Tasmania to give it another chance….
Over the Mountains to Melbourne
“It’s half the distance and much more beautiful” I say to Karen justifying our mountain route over the Snowies and through Mount Kosciuzko National Park to the Murray River. I neglect to mention that it will probably take twice as long in a clapped out Ford Fairlane, as Matt has assured me both ways take about 7 hours. The views are spectacular from the Alpine Way despite being misty, spooky and wet, with the temperature dropping from a balmy 25 to a chilly 12 degrees. We pass forests of spindly trees shrouded in gloom and other solitary behemoths scarred by the fires of 2002/2003. Past the highest habitation in Australia we creep and over massive dams to the Murray River Highway, where dead trees lie drowned in an eerie lake (no pun intended). Here we look to hire a houseboat but end up in a cheap motel in Wadonga. Definitely not so glamorous - we can’t even find a fish and chip shop in this hellhole. (Sorry Sharon, I know you were born here but really…) The only attraction is the paddle steamer in neighbouring Albury, which is closed for the low season (probably at least 11 months of the year if tourists have any sense).
All is not lost as we are only a scenic riverside drive away from the viticultural zenith of the Muscat grape – Rutherglen. Once away from the river the land becomes very brown and burnt and even the vines have scorched leaves. This is strange as it’s only 19 degrees, but apparently it has been well over 30 degrees until very recently. Our first ‘nectar’ stop is at All Saints with a mature tree-lined avenue leading up to a pretty ‘chateau’ style winery. Muscats and Tokays (actually Muscadelle) are classified as ordinary, classic, grand and rare and I try a ‘rare’ brace. The Muscat outclasses the Tokay with well-integrated spirit and grape juice and some impressive tertiary flavours of molasses and Christmas pudding. As I chat to the winemaker, Karen is less impressed with the children’s antics outside. We move swiftly on to Campbells. I’ve had the ordinary Muscat before (a case in fact!!) and it is as good as ever with clean fruit combined with a deliciously luscious texture. We purloin a couple of half bottles before heading back to Wadonga for Ruby’s mislaid fleece. Luckily it’s much quicker on the freeway and we only waste about an hour. We have probably spent more in petrol than the cost of a new fleece but that’s not really the point...
All is not lost as we are only a scenic riverside drive away from the viticultural zenith of the Muscat grape – Rutherglen. Once away from the river the land becomes very brown and burnt and even the vines have scorched leaves. This is strange as it’s only 19 degrees, but apparently it has been well over 30 degrees until very recently. Our first ‘nectar’ stop is at All Saints with a mature tree-lined avenue leading up to a pretty ‘chateau’ style winery. Muscats and Tokays (actually Muscadelle) are classified as ordinary, classic, grand and rare and I try a ‘rare’ brace. The Muscat outclasses the Tokay with well-integrated spirit and grape juice and some impressive tertiary flavours of molasses and Christmas pudding. As I chat to the winemaker, Karen is less impressed with the children’s antics outside. We move swiftly on to Campbells. I’ve had the ordinary Muscat before (a case in fact!!) and it is as good as ever with clean fruit combined with a deliciously luscious texture. We purloin a couple of half bottles before heading back to Wadonga for Ruby’s mislaid fleece. Luckily it’s much quicker on the freeway and we only waste about an hour. We have probably spent more in petrol than the cost of a new fleece but that’s not really the point...
Over the Mountains to Melbourne
“It’s half the distance and much more beautiful” I say to Karen justifying our mountain route over the Snowies and through Mount Kosciuzko National Park to the Murray River. I neglect to mention that it will probably take twice as long in a clapped out Ford Fairlane, as Matt has assured me both ways take about 7 hours. The views are spectacular from the Alpine Way despite being misty, spooky and wet, with the temperature dropping from a balmy 25 to a chilly 12 degrees. We pass forests of spindly trees shrouded in gloom and other solitary behemoths scarred by the fires of 2002/2003. Past the highest habitation in Australia we creep and over massive dams to the Murray River Highway, where dead trees lie drowned in an eerie lake (no pun intended). Here we look to hire a houseboat but end up in a cheap motel in Wadonga. Definitely not so glamorous - we can’t even find a fish and chip shop in this hellhole. (Sorry Sharon, I know you were born here but really…) The only attraction is the paddle steamer in neighbouring Albury, which is closed for the low season (probably at least 11 months of the year if tourists have any sense).
All is not lost as we are only a scenic riverside drive away from the viticultural zenith of the Muscat grape – Rutherglen. Once away from the river the land becomes very brown and burnt and even the vines have scorched leaves. This is strange as it’s only 19 degrees, but apparently it has been well over 30 degrees until very recently. Our first ‘nectar’ stop is at All Saints with a mature tree-lined avenue leading up to a pretty ‘chateau’ style winery. Muscats and Tokays (actually Muscadelle) are classified as ordinary, classic, grand and rare and I try a ‘rare’ brace. The Muscat outclasses the Tokay with well-integrated spirit and grape juice and some impressive tertiary flavours of molasses and Christmas pudding. As I chat to the winemaker, Karen is less impressed with the children’s antics outside. We move swiftly on to Campbells. I’ve had the ordinary Muscat before (a case in fact!!) and it is as good as ever with clean fruit combined with a deliciously luscious texture. We purloin a couple of half bottles before heading back to Wadonga for Ruby’s mislaid fleece. Luckily it’s much quicker on the freeway and we only waste about an hour. We have probably spent more in petrol than the cost of a new fleece but that’s not really the point...
All is not lost as we are only a scenic riverside drive away from the viticultural zenith of the Muscat grape – Rutherglen. Once away from the river the land becomes very brown and burnt and even the vines have scorched leaves. This is strange as it’s only 19 degrees, but apparently it has been well over 30 degrees until very recently. Our first ‘nectar’ stop is at All Saints with a mature tree-lined avenue leading up to a pretty ‘chateau’ style winery. Muscats and Tokays (actually Muscadelle) are classified as ordinary, classic, grand and rare and I try a ‘rare’ brace. The Muscat outclasses the Tokay with well-integrated spirit and grape juice and some impressive tertiary flavours of molasses and Christmas pudding. As I chat to the winemaker, Karen is less impressed with the children’s antics outside. We move swiftly on to Campbells. I’ve had the ordinary Muscat before (a case in fact!!) and it is as good as ever with clean fruit combined with a deliciously luscious texture. We purloin a couple of half bottles before heading back to Wadonga for Ruby’s mislaid fleece. Luckily it’s much quicker on the freeway and we only waste about an hour. We have probably spent more in petrol than the cost of a new fleece but that’s not really the point...
Canberra
We’ve all been sick at least once on this trip and now it’s Percy’s turn. (Not my pecker but rather my pet name for the car and before you ask I haven’t started looking for hairs on my palms yet). Poor old Percy overheats on the dual carriageway but luckily we have water in the boot. We eventually get to the garage and Muggins tops up the water too quickly narrowly avoiding a very hot shower. Eventually we get going and arrive in Canberra 3hrs later (5 hours total).
It’s great to catch up with Matt and Donna after nearly a year, as well as godchildren Max and Sam and Mary. Max is very tall, very conscientious and very grown up and gets on well with Ruby straight away. Sam is smaller, cheekier and sharp as a knife constantly inventing ingenious ways to keep his parents on their toes. Their pet Great Dane Betty is massive. Harley is terrified at first, due partly to having been bitten in Vietnam and partly due to the vast size differential as well as Betty’s Tigger-like bounces. By the second morning Harley realises that Betty is just a big pussycat who wouldn’t hurt a flea and we can let the kids roam the huge house and garden. The playroom alone is the size of a small bungalow and is sensibly rarely tidied, so we let them get on with it while the girls catch up on gossip and the boys catch up on drinking time.
It’s Friday and Matt has sorted out a treat for the boys. Andy has just arrived and spent the last few hours shepherding the tearful Cooper away from the interested Betty. A trip to see the Rugby Super 14 is just the ticket and we have 3 in the corporate box. The Brumbies (ACT) are playing the Cheetahs (Orange Free State) and despite both teams languishing in the bottom half, the action is good aided by the copious free beers, sandwiches and seafood. The ‘wild horses’ or Brumbies notch up a rare victory and we celebrate with a couple in the club bar followed by a trip to the ‘English bar’ in town for some darts. Just as well we took a taxi as the police are incredibly ‘hot’ around here and even the taxi gets stopped twice. The Squires is good but not so the Bulmers and English bitter which both end up as penalties in drinking games. The darts is so bad that a random who can’t throw for toffee ends up getting to 15 in ‘round the clock’.
After a 1am finish the hangover casts a cloud over our trip to Questacon where the most animated I get is throwing a tennis ball @ 98 kmh on my first attempt and enjoying watching Matt take 10 attempts to achieve the same feat. Boys will be boys.
My God it’s Easter already and the girls organise an egg hunt in the front garden. The boys take the kids to the War Museum whist the girls shop and cook. The museum is excellent with good scale models of WWI and WWII battles as well as actual fighter planes, bombers and submarines. The kiddie section even includes a simulated helicopter flight from which it is difficult to drag them away (especially Andy and Matt). Easter Lunch is fantastic and filling. Luckily the kids are off to the playroom allowing us adults to embark on an evening of boozing and poker.
The next morning Nicky, Andy and Cooper are off back to Sydney. The tearful farewells are put on hold, as we will see them next weekend in Lorne as well as in Sydney. After a quick trip to the park where the children all enjoy the tunnels (not quite Chu Chi but impressive nonetheless), we settle down to the dregs of the festive drinks (apart from the 10 litre port which is still over half full) and a nail biting game of scategories that I clinch by a solitary point. (Not that I’m competitive or anything but I am pleased that my brain hasn’t completely died after 6 months of inertia). My abiding last memory of Canberra is of Matt preparing for his early start to Cambodia by ironing tea towels whilst balancing a champagne flute on the board.
It’s great to catch up with Matt and Donna after nearly a year, as well as godchildren Max and Sam and Mary. Max is very tall, very conscientious and very grown up and gets on well with Ruby straight away. Sam is smaller, cheekier and sharp as a knife constantly inventing ingenious ways to keep his parents on their toes. Their pet Great Dane Betty is massive. Harley is terrified at first, due partly to having been bitten in Vietnam and partly due to the vast size differential as well as Betty’s Tigger-like bounces. By the second morning Harley realises that Betty is just a big pussycat who wouldn’t hurt a flea and we can let the kids roam the huge house and garden. The playroom alone is the size of a small bungalow and is sensibly rarely tidied, so we let them get on with it while the girls catch up on gossip and the boys catch up on drinking time.
It’s Friday and Matt has sorted out a treat for the boys. Andy has just arrived and spent the last few hours shepherding the tearful Cooper away from the interested Betty. A trip to see the Rugby Super 14 is just the ticket and we have 3 in the corporate box. The Brumbies (ACT) are playing the Cheetahs (Orange Free State) and despite both teams languishing in the bottom half, the action is good aided by the copious free beers, sandwiches and seafood. The ‘wild horses’ or Brumbies notch up a rare victory and we celebrate with a couple in the club bar followed by a trip to the ‘English bar’ in town for some darts. Just as well we took a taxi as the police are incredibly ‘hot’ around here and even the taxi gets stopped twice. The Squires is good but not so the Bulmers and English bitter which both end up as penalties in drinking games. The darts is so bad that a random who can’t throw for toffee ends up getting to 15 in ‘round the clock’.
After a 1am finish the hangover casts a cloud over our trip to Questacon where the most animated I get is throwing a tennis ball @ 98 kmh on my first attempt and enjoying watching Matt take 10 attempts to achieve the same feat. Boys will be boys.
My God it’s Easter already and the girls organise an egg hunt in the front garden. The boys take the kids to the War Museum whist the girls shop and cook. The museum is excellent with good scale models of WWI and WWII battles as well as actual fighter planes, bombers and submarines. The kiddie section even includes a simulated helicopter flight from which it is difficult to drag them away (especially Andy and Matt). Easter Lunch is fantastic and filling. Luckily the kids are off to the playroom allowing us adults to embark on an evening of boozing and poker.
The next morning Nicky, Andy and Cooper are off back to Sydney. The tearful farewells are put on hold, as we will see them next weekend in Lorne as well as in Sydney. After a quick trip to the park where the children all enjoy the tunnels (not quite Chu Chi but impressive nonetheless), we settle down to the dregs of the festive drinks (apart from the 10 litre port which is still over half full) and a nail biting game of scategories that I clinch by a solitary point. (Not that I’m competitive or anything but I am pleased that my brain hasn’t completely died after 6 months of inertia). My abiding last memory of Canberra is of Matt preparing for his early start to Cambodia by ironing tea towels whilst balancing a champagne flute on the board.
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