Blog Down Under - I have Wifi

Lack of wifi has hindred progress, but now I have a connection so here is the latest . . .

Merimbula to Bermagui

Having survived the beach we returned to our accommodation at the Sails Luxury Apartments. We have attempted to blend in with the locals to such an extent that S has acquired the new moniker of ‘Parakeet Dundee’ . . .

On the car journey to Bermagui,  during one of those travelling games that you play – ‘Bullshit’, the daughter called it, but I think there is a more family friendly name for the radio 4 version -  I tried to convince ‘familia Evans’ of the existence of the Bandersnatch bird, indigenous to Australia and distinctive by having a blue beak. To their credit they spotted it as complete bollocks, but sadly not due to their extensive knowledge of comic verse. Anyhow, the point is I wish I had said that it had a blue head.

In order to blend in, I have acquired an Ozzy hat. Originally, as I was toying with the purchase of S’s chapeau she went and bought it from under my nose. Not to be outdone, but also not wanting to look like similarly attired twins, I was on the lookout for another. We stopped in Merimbula for a coffee and, as I strolled the boardwalk, I spied a ‘Drover’s Outfitters’ . . . marched straight in and was flogged a $200 hat on the spot by the nice lady who correctly identified my Welsh accent.  The way I justify such a frivolous purchase is thus: it will prevent my sensitive skin from being scorched by the brazier of the Australian sun; what better souvenir could one purchase after travelling half way around the world; and now that monetary value has ceased too have meaning it is merely a drop in the proverbial ocean of the Barclaycard. But, more importantly, I think it looks pretty snappy when performing the essential manly tasks that one must while on an Antipodean adventure . . .

Now I have to keep it away from the son, who straightaway said ‘I want one of those . . .’ So far on this holiday I have come in for (I think) unjustified sartorial criticism from the familia Evans, so this was the start of the fight back – from the knees up at least . . .

While writing this blog this morning, S suddenly emerges from her ablutions in panicky mode with the announcement that “quick, come and look, theres an enormous spider in our bedroom”.  Bloody hell, thinking it must be the notoriously huge ‘Hunstman’ spider, I rush in with my vorpal sword (towel) in hand . . . to be confronted by .

 . . . a daddy long-legs -  God help us if she sees a real one.

G'day

Blog Down Under - Melbourne to Merimbula

A combination of jet-lag, incipient cold from either the flight or home, hay fever and driving has curtailed my blogging activity. I also suspect that allergic hay fever - the usual flu-like symptoms, headaches, and sore throat – is visiting me as an unexpected bonus of to travelling to my 'second summer' of the year. But, finally, we have stopped for more than one night in the same place, which allows me to add some words. After tracking down the travelling daughter in Melbourne, where she works in the ‘Swan Hotel’ in East Richmond, near the footie stadium and  not the sort of a place you would ever find me in my [alleged] (according to children) youth . . . at £8 a pint you definitely wouldn’t have in fact . . .

Prices - at this point it’s worth mentioning that, with the state of the pound as it is and the country going down the Farage, and everything, the prices in Oz are a little eye-watering at the moment. Even in my current state of wallet unlock there are limits. Prices are relative to local wages, so they aren’t crazy nuts for the average Australian . . . or everyone would starve.  But it’s back on the bread sticks and water for us, or at least the ‘Carlton Draught’ and home cooked pasta meals for 10 days on the trot – as I keep telling the kids, it’s like my cycling holidays but without the bike . . .

I managed to pick up the hire car and negotiate the ‘left-hand-lane-right-turn-lanes’ that Melbourne is famous for. Then up to the supermarket to stock up on a ‘slab’ or two and some ‘goons’ for the long trip. Then back to the daughter’s hovel to get her on board and onto the highway to head up coast towards Lakes Entrance, which was to be our first waypoint. Now I may be wrong, but Lakes Entrance strikes me as the Australian equivalent of Trecco Bay or Southend, but much more spread out and with much larger and cleaner beaches . . .  but still with some excellent bits of tat . . .

The next day we set off along the Princes Highway towards Merimbula, and it was here that we saw our first kangaroos, five of them in fact . . . all flat as bathroom rugs on the highway. We await our first live encounters. 

Merimbula, is in New South Wales, on the Sapphire Coast (thank you Lonely Planet). Somewhat to my surprise they still have a Woolworths – the chain still exists in Oz, assuming it is part of the same chain, but they also sell food, which may account for it’s survival. We settled in to Sails Luxury Apartments, and got the first game of contract wist under out belts. Next day was an excursion to Pambula Beach; on the map this looks like any beach close to a town with suburbs, but in Australia it feels like being in the wilderness as soon as you step away from the ‘patrolled area’- the term conjures up (if you are used to Cornish beaches) a highly marshalled and teeming bit of surf with bathers and bodyboarders competing with the dudes (any any other wannabe beach boy) between the designated flags. But reality was a tiny stretch (50 metres long max) of flagged area where all the kids went too swim and bodyboard under the watchful gaze of the lifesavers and parents. The rest of the beach was practically empty except for the odd bather. This may have been because of a very nasty rip-tide . . .  or  . . . 

. . . anyhow, we did go in the sea, but kept close to the patrolled area because I didn’t want to chance an encounter with. . . 

G'day

Blog Down Under - Heathrow

Unusually, this is largely a non-cycling blog. After suffering through numerous seasons of cycle camping and dodgy gîtes, S has prevailed upon me to lever open the wallet doors and spring a substantial wad on an exotic holiday to the other side of the world. Obstensibly to visit the nest-flown daughter, who is currently experiencing the world post-University and prior to gainful employment. So Australia it is, despite my protestations that it is merely a warm version of bungalowed Plympton, albeit with more deadly wildlife.

In order to get there I must endure the first circle of hell - the limbo of Heathrow airport and a 24 hour flight to Melbourne, where we will eventually arrive on Sunday morning. In order to ameliorate the pain I have arranged a taxi to the airport and signed up for some airport lounge passes. Now, regular readers will know that I am not normally given to feckless largesse, and also that S must be discouraged from 'impulse luxury purchases'. So you are probably wondering if I have undergone some sort of Damascene conversion after watching 'A Christmas Carol' on the festive telly. The truth is more prosaic - I dislike flying so elected to buy 'not the cheapest flights' at the most expensive time of year, and then discoverimg that the was practically no economy accomodation to be had in the middle of the Ozzy summer holidays, my normal credit-card aversion therapy has failed to stem the debits, and I now wear it on my forehead so I can bang my head on the card reader while making the next contactless payment in the constant flow of holiday expenditure.

Later . . .

After an uneventful taxi ride to Heathrow we arrive at just after 2 pm, a good 5 hours before scheduled departure, having ignored the advice about arriving 'just in time'. After the usual faffing around with bag check-in and security - empty pockets, remove electrical items, false teeth, take off belts, underpants` prosthetic limbs etc. - we got through to departurtes at just after 3 pm. This still left nearly 4 hours to kill, which is one of the bits that make flying such a painful experience for me. Wandering the aspeptic concourses of the hermmetically sealed, mini-city that is Heathrow, buying over-priced crap and trying not to start heavy drinking at the overpriced bar. But, this time we are saved by the Lounge Pass. If you haven't done this, it's worth every penny of the £36 entrance fee - relaxing with a 'fishfinger sandwich' and chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc in a lounge with leather armchairs . . . middle-age disposal income has its benefits. Better still, it was a freebie with our bank account. The only surprise is that S has not checked out the Spa; just as well, because the Bespoke Skin Polish (imagine a giant shoe-shine machine into which you disappear and come out looking like a lightly-buffed, tan brogue) is £35.

G'day mate

Tour 2016 J summat

Sans Velo

Not only have I lost track of time, but we have had a day off the bike. Not that I was going to let S get away scott free with a sedentary day - no fear. Instead, we went kayaking on Lac de Guarledan. Well actually, we were invited by our hosts, so needless to say, I rustled up some kettle drums and a whip to make sure that S kept up a steady paddling pace . . .

. . . the only problem was that she kept paddling in circles, citing a left shoulder injury sustained while falling off her bike. Clearly this is a justifiable excuse so, patient and thoughtful spouse that I am, I applied the lash predominantly to the left arm, thus correcting the imbalance in her stroke.

Roman Retour

Next day we returned to the ancient Roman quarry, the subject of a 2015 blog post so I will not repeat my description of the sacrifiicial pit . . .

However, this usefully provides an example of what you can miss when not paying attention. To explain, a certain amount of back-story is necessary - unless of course you are a regular reader, in which case you will know that last year we happended across a series of installations at the spooky Chateau at Coat Caravel; and by installations, I mean the type of stuff that you find in the Tate Modern. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, on our previous visit to the quarry there were quite a few bits and pieces of no apparent utility scattered around in the trees, but we did miss this one . . .

. . . a gigantic rock suspended in the branches of a tree? At first I thought it might be an enormous puffball which had manifested that morning, so knowing that, en France, such forest fungus goes down a storm, I was stropping the Opinel to cut some large slices. But while I was counting the Euros S informed me, after closer inspection, that it was a bit of modern art made out of chicken wire and cotton wool . . . bollocks!

Moules et Pain

You may have wondered what has happened to the traditional moules et frites? No fear, we have broken our duck and embarked on a 'marathon moule munch' at the restaurant in Caurel, as evidenced by this before and after snap of S . . .

While there, I revisited the baguette vending machine. Feeling like I needed to don a scruffy raincoat and take my own brown paper bag, I surreptitiously inserted the €1.10, expecting to hear reciprocating and whirring sounds from within and, in a sort of prosthetic forming process, to see my baton extruded through the little hatch . . .

. . . the reality was that it just dropped out immediately.

Ca va