Damnably cold again, overnight; it's sunny at times, but there's a thick mist come up from the coast, that shrouds everything, and brings a shiver. We're up and checked out, and have our brekkie in the diner across the road from the hotel, before we head up to the Dangar Falls. They're spectacular and beautiful, but on a far more human scale than Wallaman, so that they feel more tangible.Heading back towards the coast, we stop at the Griffiths Lookout, where everything in the foreground is in sharp relief against the background of mist. It's cold, we're getting whiny, we don't stop long...
Back on the Pacific Highway again, we stop somewhere south of Taree for pies, and on through Newcastle, till we wind up in Belmont, on the edge of Lake Macquarie. The first motel we look at is a bit of dismal place, and the owners don't seem to care whether we stay there or not, so fuck 'em. Onwards and upwards, we find the Aquarius Motel, check in, and nap.
It's at this point, I enter a Weird Shopping Vortex. Switching on the TV, I find I'm watching an advert, for some clothes hangers, called Huggable Hangers. Never mind, I think, it'll be over in a few seconds. It goes on. And it goes on. It goes on for NEARLY THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES! Good citizens of Australia, RUN FOR YOUR FUCKING LIVES! Joy Mangano is A FUCKING DEMON! It's beyond belief; I regain my grasp on reality by watching Men In Black.
Later, we decide we should eat. Someone, somewhere along the line, has mentioned the RSL, a couple of miles away, across the bridge in Swansea; sadly, on a Saturday night, it's a nightmare of pokies, flashing lights, a meat raffle, and about a million people. No way. Heading back, we find the Salina Italian bistro, about a hundred yards from the motel. It looks quite classy, the menu looks nice. Unfortunately, everyone else in Belmont has thought so too, so it's packed. Bugger. The only place we get to sit is in the windy courtyard out the back, but at least it's covered, and there's a heater. The menu still looks nice. Ah. Right. They've not got their liquor licence yet. Bugger. Where's the nearest bottle shop? A couple of miles away, across the bridge. In Swansea. Just past the RSL... Bugger.
Back in the Tarago, I go off for the wine run. "Just past the RSL" turns out to be a little economical, truthwise. Just past it, then pull an illegal U-turn across a murderous 3-lane highway, and run up on the pavement outside. It's bright orange, and roughly the size of one of those hangers they keep space shuttles in at Cape Canaveral. Still, that should mean they won't be running out of anything. Nope, they won't be running out in a hurry. Once stocks are replenished, our evening looks up. The Salina really is a bloody good little restaurant, the food is absolutely first class, so we're delighted we stayed. My pizza is generous enough that I can take half of it away for tomorrow's brekkie.
Back at the motel, I channel hop a while, making damn sure to avoid anything clothing-related.
Sunday 15th
Cold and windy today, and showers; it don't seem right, somehow. Nor does cold spicy green chilli and sour cream pizza for breakfast, as it turns out, but I eat it anyway. We're in Sydney for about 11, and spend a happy half hour removing all our baggage, and 4 weeks' worth of pizza boxes and VB cans, from the Tarago. Wallowing bloody pig of a car that it is, we're sad to see it go. While we're here, we mill around a while, and check email, before we head back to the Challis Lodge again. In an ever-mutable world, it's nice to know that some things uphold tradition, and don't change. It's still a shithole.The others head off to look round the art gallery; I decide to stay in my room and work up a bad mood. Depressed, I wander out to get some dull food from Woolworths, sit and eat it in the little garden overlooking Wooloomooloo, and wander back to read, pack bags, and eventually give up and nap.
A bit brighter, we head down to the Wooloomooloo Bay Hotel again; the food is good, and so's the live band; our evening has redeemed itself. Back at the Challis Lodge, I ring home, and send a farewell text to Sal and the crew in Melbourne. So, that's it, then.
Monday 16th
Monday 16th passes, in a blur of airport. Taxi, tea, buns, Customs, waiting, nasty food, tannoy announcements. We leave Sydney just after 3pm; behind me, an arrogant jerk bullies the stewardesses to move the poor woman sat next to him, just so that he can stretch out across two seats. He's a Yank, oddly. He claims he has back problems; ego problems are a far more likely candidate. 9½ hours to Bangkok, and I get out to pick up some duty free, and smoke. It has to be said, just in case it's not recorded anywhere, that the smokers' cubicle in Bangkok airport is the most profoundly smoky place on the entire planet, bar none. Actual cigarettes are not required, one only need stand inside it for a few seconds to absorb sufficient nicotine for the next 11 hours. This is perhaps just as well; the Yankee arsehole has been replaced by Mister Twitchy, seemingly inflicted with St Vitus' Dance, who keeps gettin' jiggy wit' it - metaphorically speaking - the rest of the way home.
We arrive, not as I'd hoped, to hear that Tony Blair had been assassinated, but that a freak summer flood had washed away a small village in Cornwall yesterday.
We're home.
So, Australia, we've had a ball. We've been amazed, well fed, enthralled, frozen, boiled, entertained, enraged, mildly inconvenienced, and generally astounded, for five entire weeks. It has been quite unforgettable, and for that, and for your unsurpassed hospitality, thank you.
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)