There's no hot water, no heating, and tiny wood-floored rooms. It's mid-winter, the room's cold, and smells of mould. The TV receives one channel, fitfully. The "tea and coffee facilities" (in other words, the kettle) are hidden unused and mouldering in a cupboard. The basin is too small to fill the kettle from, and is anyway hanging dejectedly away from the wall. My bed is a foot too short for comfort, but is at least clean. Unlike the 2 porno mags under the bed, which somehow add to the air of the place. I'm not really sure what it means, but I have a sudden whim that the phrase "fin de siecle" was invented for the Challis Lodge. The refugee from Carnaby Street running Reception is too stoned, or too indifferent, to notice that he's A., forgotten to charge my key deposit to my credit card, and B., given me both parts of the credit card slip. Fighting back visions of going on a spree with the $59, I fess up, and immediately wonder why I bothered.
I track down my travelling companions. They're not so hard to spot. They're the group of 5 huddled into one room around the hotel's only portable heater, which they've managed to blag from The Management - I imagine through undisguised threats of violence. Claire and Rowena just sit there shivering. Chris paces up and down, chain-smoking, and Pete has developed a dogged, teeth-gritting determination to be cheerful, despite the jetlag. James makes a quip about the joining of The Fellowship. Don't know about you, James old boy, but bags I don't play Gimli The Dwarf.
On the upside, the cafes along the street do some excellent brekkies, the owner of one comes from a town just a few miles up the road from where I live, and it is just a short walk down the hill to Woolloomooloo. We walk down to the Woolloomooloo Bay Hotel, where a great meal restores the equilibrium, and we toast our safe arrival. Woolloomooloo Bay Hotel. It's a hotel on Woolloomooloo Bay. No shit, Sherlock. It seems to cater for all sorts; kind of a sports and pool bar one side, food bar on the other side, with an area for the live music they frequently feature, and a room out the back with pokies. The beer, the wine and the food are all excellent, as indeed are the live band playing. Top class pub! The old Marc Bolan song comes to me, and haunts me, probably for the rest of my life, every time I think of Sydney. "Woolloomooloo, is it you..." Cheers then, Marc.
Wednesday 21st. I've got a cold. In the absence of Tony Blair, I blame the Challis Lodge. James hit the ground running last night; went off with an old school mate to paint Potts Point red - with some degree of success, by all accounts. Staggered back to the hotel at 2am, to find himself locked out. The youth of today, eh?
Down to Woolloomooloo, and through the Botanic Gardens, marvelling at the million-strong population of fruitbats. Couple of hours in the Art Gallery, then on past the Opera House (which seems far smaller than I'd led myself to believe) to Circular Quay, and on to the Manly Ferry. What a surprise! It's mostly populated by 15-year old mall rats from Bristol, with that lovely West Of England accent. "oooh, Meesh, look at Kevin over there, ooh, he's lush inn'e, ow oooh me knickers 'ave gone up me bum". And they're all texting each other in that weird language called "fuckwit", that goes "I lik 2 laf a lot lol i luv boiz n shoppin lol u r mi bes m8 4 eva". And so on. How profoundly depressing; thought I'd flown to the other side of the world to avoid that sort of thing. The obligatory photos of the Opera House are taken. We mill about, and get our bearings, head for a pub for some lunch, and then mill around some more. By mid-afternoon, when we get off the Manly Ferry again, we're all pretty tired, and a trip round the Aquarium seems just a bit too energetic. Back to the Challis Lodge for a nap. Later, another good meal at the Woolloomooloo Bay Hotel.
Thursday 22nd, and we're on the move again. Back to the airport, in a taxi driven by a Lithuanian, who seems to think that it could take us as long as 8 or 10 hours to drive to Cairns. Gloomily, we wonder if his encyclopaedic knowledge of the country's road system extends as far as Sydney airport, but we get there nonetheless, to pick up our home for the next month, a Toyota Tarago. Hmm. It's, er, cosy in there, with the 6 of us and all our baggage. But it'll do, just fine. 10.30, we leave Sydney, and head up the Pacific Highway. We stop for lunch at Karua; I sample my first steak sandwich, and marvel at this nation's obsession with beetroot. Pressing on, we get to Coffs Harbour a little after 6.
