A Week In Oz - Rain. Forest

Stepping into Katoomba is like stepping back in time, especially the walk from the quaint old station to the YHA. Other than an Aldi, which is a welcome addition from the choice of supermarkets in New Zealand, all of the shops and cafes are locally owned, independent establishments without a whiff of corporate contamination. Although this can result in an over reliance on one particular type of business, but on the whole it's for the better. But really, just how many coffee shops can one small town support? Or cake. Are a dozen or so cake shops really necessary? Just how much cake can one town eat. Certainly the locals don't look like they live on a diet that consists wholly of sweet baked products. But there are an awful lot of cake shops. It did give us a bit of a dillema when we first arrived as we lost nearly an hour to cake window shopping, carefully comparing and contrasting the offerings from around a dozen different retailers. It was exhausting work but the custard tart was reward enough.

But, as well as the retail approach, the other reason that Katoomba is a blast from the past is the forest. Sorry, Bush. Staring down from Echo Point into the vast expanse of forest, sorry Bush, I got the feeling that I was looking at a prehistoric landscape. Untouched, except for the cable car and train service that ferried people from the car park to the valley bottom. But apart from those modern intruders, the valley looked every bit like it had just come out of a Jurrasic Park movie. Seriously, I probably wouldn't have been at all surprised if I'd seen a T-Rex stomping around the valley or if I was buzzed by a Pterodactyl. Well maybe a little surprised, but the setting was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that we just had to explore it. And so we set off around the ridge, following a well marked trail that would take us down into the valley bottom, around the base of the cliff face and then finally back up the steps to the Scenic World facility. It was so well marked, we were assured, that a map torn from the back of a free brochure  would be all we needed. The route was so well marked that even a child could follow it. 

We got lost coming coming out of the car park. How embarrassing. Mistaking a random track for the path we set off confidently and, after about a whole five minutes of walking, we emerged from the Bush back into the car park we had just left. After a hurried glance at the map we realised our mistake and set off once again, rather less assuredly, in the correct direction.

Blimey it doesn't half rain in the bush. The increasingly heavier rain added to the other worldly feeling and sense of not belonging in that environment. Trees stretched skyward, parakeets squawked and water ran down every available nook and cranny onto the dark forest floor. Only the occasional sign broke the spell of being way-back in time when dinosaurs roamed the earth and mobile phones were a figment in someone's imagination. The signs did, at least, serve a purpose and offered some useful advice about which plants to expect to see and notes on which animals could be encountered. As well as the usual collection of Tree Frogs, Bush Rats and Possums, four types of snakes could be encountered including the Death Adder. Now I'm no expert, and maybe they are perfectly pleasant creatures, but I have no real desire to meet a Death Adder. What does one do if confronted by a Death Adder? A-ha, thankfully the sign also gave some top advice on what to do in this situation; "If you encounter a snake on your walk it's probably best to leave it alone". Let's file that in the 'No shit Sherlock' category and move on.

Thankfully, or disappointingly, we didn't encounter any such wildlife and by the time we reached the steps back to the cliff top the total sighting was a resolute zero. No doubt the rain had put them off. But now to solve the real dilemma of the day. Should we take the transport back to the top or climb the 1000 steps back to civilisation? Surprisingly the transport option won by a ratio of 3:1. It must've been the rain as I'm sure in any other circumstances we'd all have happily forgo the pleasure of riding in a comfortable mechanised mode of transport and instead elected to sweat a little bit more and clamber under our own steam to the top. And just to demonstrate how easily this could be done, one member of the group took this option.

The rest were forced to spend $16 on the  ride back to the top on the worlds steepest railway, a decision made all the more easy by the promise of tea and cake at the top. In a choice between cake or pain, cake is always going to win. Unless the cake in question is Battenberg in which case I'd gladly climb any number of stairs in the pouring rain and jab needles in my arms whilst doing so in order to avoid that particular sugary delight.

The top was crowded once again with coach parties who seemed oblivious to the natural beauty that lay below and were more occupied with taking selfies on their mobile phones. Ah well, it's their loss. Such is modern life. To busy trying to capture to experience it. Maybe if a dinosaur wandered into sight they'd finally drop their phones. Maybe. Or maybe they'd try and get the T-Rex to pose in their photo. Hmmm.

A Week In Oz - Katoomba!

Now this feels like a Graeme and Sarah holiday; ham and cheese sandwiches, biscuits and a train journey. Sydney was really loud and busy this morning and we felt a little under attack, enhanced no doubt by us feeling tired.

So it's quite a relief to be getting out of the city, at least for a while anyway, and head out to the mountains by train.

You can get a great deal of information about a place from the windows of a train carriage. Much more than guidebooks and websites can possibly impart. Glimpses into parts of lives and lifestyles that otherwise would've been beyond view; back yards, gardens, streets and shops. The corners of people's lives that are shared with family and the passengers on a passing train. A casual invitation to wonder what it must be like to live in that town, shop in other shoes, work in the offices and relax in the cafes and bars. Only train travel allows such polite intrusion. And all whilst munching on ham and cheese sandwiches.

The train journey from Sydeny to Katoomba, at least the urban part, was remarkable in its unremarkable-ness. It all looked familiar and strangely European. If I'd have fallen asleep and woken an hour into the journey I'd have sworn that I was somewhere in Northern Europe, undoubtedly remarking that it was tremendous value  for $8.80.

But it's a different story once the urban landscape gives way to the foothills and the train begins its slow pull upwards.  Slowly the formed, man-made environment gives way to bush. And my goodness there is a lot of it. Pretty soon bush dominates the landscape, punctuated with only the occasional glimpses of the state highway and small mountain towns. Miraculous really that within only two short hours of leaving the urban bustle of Sydney, we step off the train into the cool mountain air of Katoomba.....

A Week In Oz - A Manly Pursuit

I'm not really one for spending a lot of time on beaches. Sure I like a walk along a sandy bay as much as the next man but I wouldn't say that I was at home there. I mean I'm not about to don speedos and hurl myself into the foam or lie face down and soak up the rays for hours on end. That would drive me potty. Or rather more potty. But I am inexplicably drawn to them. A moth to the proverbial flame.

But I don't think it's the beach as such, but more the allure of the open sea. The infinite horizon and what lies beyond. It's either that or the opportunity to stare at bronzed, semi-naked bodies. Err let's stick with the horizon thing.

Whatever the reason, today was a beach-tactic experience. And all for the bargain price of $2.50. Sydney's transport system is a wonder and, once you have a Opal card, the maximum cumulative fare for a Sunday is $2.50 or, if you prefer, £1.25. So today we took two buses, three ferries and a train all for the price of packet of crisps and a Mars Bar. 

Although the main aim of today's wandering a was the iconic Bondi Besch, which was nice and all that, it was the amusingly title Manly Beach that was the real star. Maybe it was the name, accompanied by enticingly named restaurants such as Manly Hotel, Manly Chemists and my particular favourite Manly Italian Restaurant. Or maybe it was the fact that, as dusk descended on the little seaside suburb, the sand took on a luminous glow and the subdued lighting  cast soft shadows. You decide. 

Just like our adopted home town on Auckland, Sydney is blessed with a multitude of beaches, all within striking distance via a great ferry service. And Manly surely takes the crown. I've not seen the rest of the beaches, but this must surely be first on the list to visit. Besides, how could you not when the ferry service proudly boasts 'Welcome to the Famous Manly Ferry Service'. Indeed.

 

A Week In Oz - Getting A Flyer

You've got to admit that it's pretty special to be able to leave work at four in the afternoon (ok, maybe just a little before four, but nobody was watching) and arrive in a new continent in time for a pint and a bite to eat.

No? Well I do. It may have been only a 'short! hop over the Tasman Sea but it was still a three and a half hour flight. Yes New Zealand's nearest neighbour is still two in-flight movies away. One if you decided to attempt 'Lord of The Rings'. But thanks to the international time zones knocking two hours off the time, there is enough...well....time..... to eat and be merry once you arrive. 

The most striking thing about arriving into Sydney after ten months in Auckland is just how familiar it is. It looks and feels just like a British city. Only with kangaroos. It does though; the underground direction signs are a direct copy of those in London, traffic is still on the left and a squizz over the map reveals names like Liverpool, Darlington, Hyde Park and Kings Cross. I'm half expecting to see a red double decker come around the corner. Even the bridge looks strangely familiar.

And although it's a national landmark, the Sydney Harbour Bridge is actually a Boro lad. North-east born and bred. You see, it was designed and constructed by a Middlesbrough firm Dorman Long and Co Ltd. Fresh from the success of designing and building the Tyne Bridge, that great piece of Smoggie engineering in the wary of Geordieland, they were awarded the tender to design and construct the Sydney Harbour Bridge. And it's not only that. The four huge hinges that support the bridge, weighing not an insubstantial 300T each, were manufactured in Darlington by the Darlington Forge Co. It's very much a northern lad, or lass if you prefer, living down south. 

Standing here, looking at iconic image of the bridge and the opera house seems almost surreal. It's an image I've seen many, many times but I have to pinch myself to realise that I'm actually here. In Sydney. Of all if the things we've done over the past 10 months, I suppose it's typical that an engineering wonder should really hammer it home. 

Nervous? Me?

I don't consider myself to be a nervous flyer. Not at all. Far from it in fact. But here's the thing - landing in a plane into Queenstown brings out the scaredy-cat in me. Right out. Up front and centre you might say.

Now I totally understand that hundreds of aircraft make the landing every week without any problem. I can do the maths and appreciate that the odds of anything happening are slim. Logically they'd have to be or otherwise the authorities, the powers that be, wouldn't allow it. At least I hope they wouldn't. I'd hate to think that they'd take a 'She'll be right' attitude towards aviation standards and risk assessment. On the other hand....

The last time I came into Queenstown it was in an Airbus A320 which, it's has to be said, is not a small plane. And I know that there is plenty of room but diving down from above the mountains to land on a runway that is nestled deep in a valley in a huge airliner seems..... well....a tad optimistic.

There doesn't seem to be a lot of room for wiggle, if you know what I mean. And the mountains seem awfully close to those wings. Too close of comfort.

Well I now know I can top that. I've recently discover an even more exciting way to arrive into Queenstown. In a smaller airplane. The kind where you're practically sitting on the pilot's knee. A tiny twin-prop plane seems lost amongst the giant mountains and whether it passes through the thermals seems to be at the whim of the Gods. The increase in room to the nearest granite mountain wall is far outweighed by the fact that a slightest breeze can skew the little tin box sideways and an alarming rate. I know this to be true because I've got the fingernail scars to prove it. And if the woman who was sat next to me happens upon this blog then in sorry. I didn't meant to shriek and cause you to jump out of your skin. And although the runway seems perfectly large enough to accommodate the tiny craft, when you approach it sideways and at a rakish angle it seems less than certain that you'll hit it. Let's just say it was exciting.

Like I said, I'm not a nervous flyer but Queenstown sure does test me. I'm sure an airport geek can point me in the direction of dozens of more challenging spots to land a fast moving, jet powered human filled bullet. But I doubt it. To get over my fear of my nemesis I've done some background research. I figured if I knew more I'd worry less. It hasn't helped. But in the interests of sharing here they are;

The small planes can only land in clear conditions because they don't have any instruments to guide them. They rely wholly on visuals! I know! I'd assumed that all commercial aircraft had enough tackle to be able to land whatever the conditions. It does beg the question what would happen if fog or most descended in-flight. Then what? It's not as if the pilot can wind down the cockpit window and ask for directions or park up and get the map out. In an age when most mobile phones are equipped with GPS it doesn't seem too much to ask that aircraft are fitted with.... well..... something.

Fact number two. The airport only operates during hours of daylight. Yes, it closes. At night. Now, to be fair, I don't know whether it closes because it is too dangerous to land aircraft in anything but clear skies or whether the air traffic controllers don't like the dark. Either way it's an incredible fact. Maybe it should be renamed Queenstown International Daytime Airport.

Finally, I've learned today they Queenstown only has an airport because it was forced upon the town council. Apparently the New Zealand Government was looking for a site to put an airport in the region and had identified either Queenstown or Wanaka as the most appropriate places. Incredibly both places fought against their town being chosen. Yes against! So now Queenstown is the adventure capital of the South Island, attracts tourists from all over the country if not world, and Wanaka is it's sleepy, laid back cousin. Actually, on that score, Wanaka probably wins.

But, for all that it scares me, and scare me witless it does, it's worth it. The location of Queenstown is simply stunning. And it has been recently enhanced by the additional of some early winter snowfall. Admittedly the snow and lack of forward visibility made the take off this afternoon just a little more exciting than it needed to be. But that's ok. It's all good. And you know what? I think I'm getting used to landing in Queenstown. A few more trips like this and I'll be wholly desensitised. Bring it on I say. Now I just need an excuse to go back. Hhmm, let me see......

  

So by way of evidence I'll leave you with a view of Fox Glacier from the airplane. The airplane that safely landed and took off again without hitch.....

The One About a The Election

I was looking forward to writing this blog. I really was. I had it all planned out. I was going to start ruminating about how, with the dark mornings and nights, it was starting to feel really Christmassy. I was then going to say if it was getting near the festive period then it would soon be pantomime time. Except it wouldn't because it was the wrong time of year. I was then going to deliver my punchline - that there may be no real pantomime but the political antics on the other side of the globe would do very nice thank you.

Except I can't. Not a bit of it. I realised, or rather have come to realise over the course of the last few days, that this is serious. No laughing matter. The choice that the UK is about to make will have a profound impact for the next five years. One way or another. For better or worse.

Ironically I feel more engaged in this election than any other despite being out of the firing range. Each new headline was poured over, performances analysed, stats discussed and predictions made and remade. It was a lot like football. And with each passing day the excitement and anxiety have become palpable. And I'm not the only one. In our office alone there are many who share the same excitement. Some of them have been away from the UK for over ten years yet they understand the importance of this election. Strange.

What makes this one different is that I will be able to watch events unfold, courtesy of the BBC website of course, whilst I go about my Friday afternoon workload. I won't quite know the result before the majority of the UK but it's as good as. Rather than wake on Friday morning and face the facts, I'll see it unfold, declaration by declaration, seat by seat. It really is like watching a really important game of football. Except this result will affect millions. Yes, I know football is important, but even the famous Bill Shankly quote about it being more important than life itself isn't really true. Not in this case anyway.

By the time folks back home read this it may all be over. Polls will be closed and the damage will be done. Except we won't know it yet. In the digital age of instant gratification it is satisfying that there are some things that you still have to wait for. But it's going to be an agonising wait.

So I'll leave the pantomime jibe for another time. And anyway, there are enough political comedy moments here in NZ. This is, after all, the country with a Prime Minister whose recent hair-pulling antics are simply one in a long line of embarrassing moments. If you haven't heard about it just type "John Key hair pull" in to Google and relive the moment when the PM of NZ was exposed for being a serial hair puller. Astonishing. I'm not sure any of our political leaders would be quite a popular if they went around pulling the hair of waitresses in cafes. And, given the amount of exposure a bacon sandwich got, God knows what the visceral UK press would make of a PM who pulls hair. If only that was the only damage Cameron had done.

Anyway UK. Vote. Vote well. But above all vote. It matters. You've got ten minutes.

An Alarming Situation

You may think I am over reacting but I hate the smoke alarm in our bedroom. Yes, I know that in the modern world words like love, hate and awesome are over used and never in their correct context. Is it possible to love a particular song? Is a cup of coffee truly awesome? Do you really hate that dress? D'you see what I'm saying? But I really, really, really do hate the smoke alarm in our bedroom. And this is no ordinary, run-of-the-mill hate. Oh no. This is cold, calculating, focussed hatred and it's been building.....

I used to think that smoke alarms were our friends, quietly affixed above our heads, watching over us, scanning the air for anything that may cause us harm. What great allies. Buddies almost. Or at least that's what I thought until the one in our bedroom went rogue.

It all started a few nights ago when we were woken by an incessant bipping. 1:12am to be precise. As we regained our senses, and discounted the possibility that we had been invaded by a gang of digital clock radios, we realised that that it was the smoke alarm above our heads. It soon became obvious that staring at it was not going to make it stop. Neither was quietly swearing under our breaths. No, we were going to have to get up and physically tackle it to the ground. Or put a new battery in. If I'm being honest, I was all for the tacking to the ground scenario. After dragging the step ladders from the garage we realised the problem. It was out of reach. Even on the top step of the ladder, on tip toes and with arms outstretched we were not even close.

"Bip!" came the response.

Ok, if we couldn't reach it then maybe we could open the cover with a broom and knock the heart - sorry battery - out of the infernal thing. So back to the garage once more.

"Bip!" 

Yes, this would work! The combination of the step ladders, outstretched arm and broom was easily enough reach. Bam! With one thwack the cover easily popped open and exposed the enemies innards.

"Bip?" 

It was worried now - it knew we had it on the ropes. Now for the battery. Thwack! Missed. Thwack! Direct hit but the battery didn't budge. Thwack! Another clean shot but no good. The alarm had a firm grip on the battery. This wasn't going to work.

"Bip!"

The smug bastard.

"Bip!"

I began to wonder "Why is it that these things never go off during the day - when you're out at work for example? But oh no, it is always at night when you are in deep slumber and usually before a particularly busy day. But why now? Was it really the battery? Maybe it just wants some attention? Have we been neglecting it?" It was at that point I realised that I was tired and needed to sleep, badly.

"Bip!"

F*ck!

The only thing to do, at least at this ungodly hour, was to make a tactical retreat, grab some earplugs and go and sleep in the spare room.

"Bip!"..........

We awoke the next morning slightly tired from the ordeal but something was missing. What was it? No noise! "Ha!", I exclaimed, "It's tired itself out!. Well that's sorted that out". Relishing the peace and quiet we went about our morning ablutions; a nice shower, breakfast and a cup of tea.

"Bip!"

Oh no! 

"Bip!"

Good God.

"Bip!".

It was either my imagination, or a lack of sleep but the bipping seemed to be cheerier than ever. Like it was pleased to see us. There was nothing for it - we were going to have to get some larger ladders. Why oh why did we not think to pack our ladders. They would've been ideal. Perfect even. Except they were 12,000 miles away. Not so good. No, instead, when we return from work this evening we were going to have to traipse across town to buy some ladders. Smashing! That "Bip!" was "Bip!" the "Bip!" only "Bip!" thing "Bip!" for "Bip!" it.

It took a good three or four hours to get the bipping noise out of my head. It seemed like it was welded into my psyche. But eventually, by the time I was tucking into my lunch, everything was quiet. Mmmmmm.

Anticipating a trip to Mitre 10 (NZ's B&Q) I arrived home earlier than usual and slowly opened the front door. I wasn't relishing that bloody noise drilling its way back into my psyche. But all was quiet. Peaceful even. "Thank God for that", I thought to myself. The alarm was still where we left it; it's innards exposed for all to see but it was clearly dead. An ex-smoke alarm.

So cup of tea in hand, I made my way to the living room for some unexpected rest.....

"Bip!"

"Bip!"

"Bip!"

"I HATE YOU, YOUSTUPIDANNOYINGBADTARDSOFATHING!!!!"

I wasn't in the least bit happy. I was mocking me. Ladders it was then. Mitre 10 here we come......

Who knew there was so much choice when it came to climbing apparatus? I thought ladders came in two types; step and normal. There were small steps, ladders that extend, ladders that make a deck chair look like a simple piece of kit, ladders that can be bent into all manner of shapes and angles and ladders that promise to make your life complete. Time and patience was running out.

So, to cut a long story short, we are now proud owners of a Laddermaster W244-B. And what a wonderful piece of kit it is - mind at $244 it ought to be - very sturdy, safe and above all just perfect for bringing a ceiling mounted smoke alarm to within reach so we could smash it to smithereens with bare, anger fuelled hands, stamp on the remains and flush them down the loo. Except we didn't. No, instead we calmly replaced the battery, shut the cover, dismantled the ladders and had a bit of a tidy up. Safety first after all.

And besides, I wouldn't give the damn thing the satisfaction of watching us burn to death, half wondering if that wasn't its evil plan all along.