Festival Update

With only ten days to go, I think you’re due an update on the Short Sharp Film Festival.

Not much has been happening, frankly, because when we reviewed the entries the day before the closing date, we were confronted with a bunch of sausages talking about road safety and a guy with a hangover vomiting over a priest. While the latter was heavy with symbolism (possibly the former too, but it escaped me), and we did have a couple of potential winners, we didn’t feel we had enough to justify making a night of it.

In true media tradition, though, there was a flood on the last day and we seem to be in business. After viewing all the entries, two things occur.

Technology, in the form of relatively cheap cameras and editing packages, is a great enabler for people of all ages. It’s hard to see how you could have mounted a festival like this ten years ago. However, to return to an old theme, just because you can use the technology, doesn’t mean you should, unless you’ve got something to say or show. The fact that you clearly need traditional elements like inspiration and an ability to tell a story is reassuring, I think.

The exercise has afforded a fascinating and sometimes chilling insight into people’s minds, which is exactly what a creative endeavour is supposed to do. If you want to know any more, you’ll have to turn up at the screening the weekend after next.

Still Black and White

The debate about the Federal Government’s take-over
of Aboriginal land in the Northern Territories to address the problem of child abuse continues. The gulf between the Government’s “something must be done” position and those who say that what is proposed is paternalistic, opportunistic and purely political is caused by the conflict between those who still feel guilt at what happened when the European settlers arrived, and what has happened since, and those who believe that feeling guilty will not turn back the clock or improve the lot of a single abused child; and between those who believe that a traditional way of life can be resurrected or preserved and those who believe that integration is the only way forward.

These articles by Noel Pearson and Germaine Greer
(I don’t think the latter has appeared in the Australian press) sum up the debate.

Filling Time

There can’t be many dentist’s chairs from which you can sit and watch migrating humpback whales.

John Nevell’s surgery in Coffs Harbour overlooks the jetty, the marina and many acres of the Pacific Ocean so you can scan the ocean for a few minutes before he reclines the chair and gets down to business and powers up the drill. I didn’t see any today but Debbie, his assistant told me that she saw three pods go past yesterday.

A few days ago, Sara and I sat on the headland to the south of Sandy Beach and saw a fine display of breaching, blowing and tail-waving.

Black and White Issue

The Federal Government dropped something of a bombshell last week and announced that it would be taking over the administration of the indigenous land currently in the charge of the Government of the Northern Territory.

The reason was a shocking report detailing endemic child abuse in Aboriginal communities, fuelled by alcohol and substance abuse, and the lack of any action by the local administration. Police stations, for example, had been built by the Federal Government but left un-staffed. New measures will include an influx of police and soldiers, an end to the permit system that restricts entry by non-indigenous people, and health checks, primarily for STDs, for those aged under 16.

It’s hard to see, in the face of the evidence of abuse, how this move could have copped such a bad press, and it continues to do so, with accusations of paternalism and a land-grab, and claims that the health checks could lead to another “stolen generation”, a reference to the formerly widespread practice of removing Aboriginal children from the parents and sending them to live with white families.

No one other than the Federal Government has come up a plan for dealing with the problem though and it has won the support of at least one Aboriginal leader, Noel Pearson, the director of the Cape York Institute. This interview
is highly recommended.

Controversial Cleric or Just A Boofhead?

Politics here can be quite colourful. We start in October last year with Australia’s senior Muslim cleric, Sheik Taj Aldin Alhilali who compared scantily-clad women to “uncovered meat”, the inference, later denied, being that they had only themselves to blame if they were molested by men. This provoked a storm of protest from all sections of society.

Fast forward to this week when the Catholic Archbishop of Sydney, Cardinal George Pell, warned members of the NSW State Government that they faced consequences in their religious life if they supported a bill to extend stem cell research. More outrage, including from NSW Cabinet Minister Nathan Rees who compared the cardinal to “that serial boofhead, Sheik Alhilali.”

Another Cabinet Minister and Catholic, Frank Sartor, said the remarks were reminiscent of the Dark Ages and added: “I’m very sceptical about people who claim to speak in the name of God….because if you look at history, people have been burnt in oil in the name of God.”

No word from the controversial cardinal as to whether that’s what he has in store for Frank and any other MPs voting the wrong way, but I can tell you that a “boofhead” is defined as a fool by my Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary (yes, really), probably based on “bufflehead”, buffle being an obsolete word for buffalo.

Australia 31, Wales 0

The singing of the anthems in the SunCorp Stadium, Brisbane, on Saturday night. After that, it all went wrong. Both teams and the ref were booed off at half-time for being useless. In the second half, Australia got better but Wales didn't. There's not much else to say, really.

Game Of Two Halves

Off to Brisbane at the weekend to see Wales play the Wallabies in the Second Test. For those who don’t follow these things, we’re talking pointy ball and 15-a-side.

Having been derided in the Australian press as a third-rate side, with most of the best players staying home in Wales, there was a stunned silence when Wales went 17-0 ahead in the First Test last Saturday. I watched the game with neighbour John who, at this stage generously remarked: “Well, good on ya.”

I said that they’d messed it up before and could no doubt mess it up again and, sure enough, things went awry but, with 90 seconds to go, Wales were one point ahead when they kicked the ball away and Australia scored a converted try, leaving John and I staring at the screen in disbelief.

We’ve heard little about third-rate sides since, and it’s all set up nicely for Saturday’s re-match in the SunCorp stadium, or, as I should say, the cauldron of the Suncorp Stadium. Mind you, I reckon both sides would get pasted by the All Blacks.

Here Comes The Rain

See. I told you...Farmers Rejoice...and young sheepdogs who have never seen rain are puzzling over puddles.

More Water

Water is much on our minds in this party of the world, and not just because it rained heavily on our metal roof all night. Many of Australia’s major cities are still drifting toward a crisis as supplies diminish in the face of the country’s longest drought, thoughtless development, political inertia, and a political reluctance to stop people doing exactly what they want, which includes watering their lawns and washing their cars.

Most of rural New South Wales is in a worse state, residents worrying not so much about washing the dust off their SUVs, but about feeding their cattle and trying to grow their crops. Lawns? There’s no grass left in many places.

In and around Coffs Harbour, we can afford to feel smug because of climate, topography and the foresight of the local council, which has a nice, full reservoir up in the hills, topped up with supplies from local rivers, and has invested in water recycling.

In fact, one of the estate agents in town reports that the most frequently offered reason for moving here is a secure water supply. I feel it’s time we started keeping quiet about it.

Remember the UK’s short-lived Drought Minister? Well, no sooner had the Government unveiled its plan to save one of the country’s major river systems, the Murray-Darling, and the farmers that depend on it, than it started raining, not enough to solve the problem, but enough to make some think that the tide may have turned.

Drought is inseparable from the global warming debate, which has now made it to the top of the political agenda, though internationally, Australia has something of a bit part. If the country was shut down – power turned off, traffic stopped, no flights etc – then China would make up for the reduction in greenhouse gas emissions in a mere eight months. However, there’s a strong feeling that because Australians are the highest per capita emitters, we have a moral duty to do more.

I find this comforting, and hope that the high moral tone continues when the taps run dry in Sydney and Adelaide. But don’t count on it.

Presidential Power

I was walking along the beach with Carl and John, looking for a spot to surf, when I was voted on to the committee of Coffs Harbour’s Short Sharp Film Festival. It’s still not clear to me exactly what I’m doing there but I appear to have agreed, so that’s that.

I have discovered that we need to tread carefully as there appears to be a question mark over the organisation of the previous film festival, which could be fatal in a small town, so we have to appear serious and responsible at all times. John, who is also on the committee, interprets this as being given black Armani suits to wear on the night, but he may be disappointed.

Carl is key to all this, of course. When I suggested he might want to run my membership past the other committee members first, he just said: “Nah, I’m the President.” Then we went surfing.

That was pretty much his last act as President, as he's since been re-titled “chair”. He says he’s used to being sat upon. It’s also sadly removed the opportunity for John and I to say, a la The West Wing, “we serve at the pleasure of the President.”

Hello, Possums

Sitting outside Coffs Harbour council chambers in the dark the other night, waiting for Sara to finish work, something moved in the bushes at the bottom of the steps. A large possum emerged, with head-lamp eyes and a huge, erect bottle-brush tail, and stalked confidently across the road to the park. He was followed shortly after by a female with a young possum clinging to her back. They didn’t brave the road, though, and on seeing me, scrambled up a palm tree.

I’ve seen possums twice before – two fighting on the roof of a bed-and-breakfast in Bangalow and one peering at me out of tree one night in Canberra.

Pub With No Beer

Sara and I had a post-Easter trip to The Pub With No Beer, which is at Taylors Arm, about an hour-and-a-half's drive from Coffs Harbour. The pub is named after a song which was a big hit for the late Australian Country singer, Slim Dusty, and did once, allegedly, run out of beer, although the song refers to another pub altogether. Apparently.

They've solved the beer problem now by building a small brewery out the back, run by a bloke called Murray. The only remaining problem was that despite accepting our overnight booking, they were mostly closed. We were wandering out of our room looking forward to supper at 6pm when the barman approached and said: "Glad I've found you because the locals have all gone home and I'm shutting early. Do you want to come and eat? The chef's left you some risotto."

Luckily, it was excellent, as was the beer, and it gave us just enough time to admire the collection of photos and song lyrics ("you have to drink the froth to get the beer" - how true) before we wandered back to our room clutching a stubbie of Murray's Sassy Blonde and a glass of unidentified Chardonnay. That was 7pm. It is very dark in Taylors Arm at night and, apart from the insects, very quiet indeed. But it is a beautiful spot.

Wildlife Bulletin

First, the sad news that Lori, the lorikeet with no tail feathers taken in by Carl, has died. His adopted father found him on Saturday morning, still clinging to the side of the cage, upside down. He spent a lot of time like that. Carl reckons that as he was the runt of the nest, his Darwinian clock was ticking loudly and ominously. And then stopped.

More happily, John and I were surfing on Sunday and were treated to a swim-past by a pod of dolphins only a couple of metres away. They then put on a fine display of surfing (much better than us), also very near-by, and finally started shooting out of the back of the waves (we can’t do that at all), including a mother and calf. We felt very privileged.

Now to Western Australia, where a young female surfer was savaged by a sea-lion while being towed on her board by her father’s boat. She survived and there’s not much more to be said really, except that if you go in the ocean, these things will happen.

Forget Mains Water, Get Me Fibre Optics

Broadband is a big issue here at present. The general mood is that we’re way behind other developed nations in rolling out high-speed services and this is a bad thing. I’m not so sure it is and, anyway, there’s a good reason for it.

As I’ve remarked before, Australia is big, really big, and really empty. There are 20 million of us knocking around, enough for an attractive infrastructure market if we were all huddled together in one corner of the continent, but we’re not. Far from it, there’s a strong feeling held by many that they don’t want to be near anyone else and many people buy properties miles from anywhere or anything.

The odd thing is that while they’re prepared to accept that these properties are on a dirt road and don’t have mains water, postal deliveries, buses, shops, a doctor, a school or refuse collection (and for a very good reasons), once they discover that they can’t get an internet service that enables them to download the whole of The Lord of The Rings on DVD, with director’s commentary, in ten minutes, they’re horrified. And they certainly don’t want to pay any more than they did when they lived in the city.

I’m sure you can do most things at lightening speed in the cities. For the record, in Sandy Beach (pop, around a few hundred, who knows?) we have ADSL at 256 kb/sec. Anything faster, and you pay through the nose and your download limit plummets. In time, we may get ADSL2, which will be faster for less money. (I don’t understand why).

My point is that, considering where we live, which is 20 minutes drive from the region’s biggest town (pop. 60,000), and six hours’ drive from Brisbane, that’s not a bad service. And, unless you’re running an internet-based business, who really needs anything faster anyway? Most of us don’t. Most of us don’t play games and most of us don’t download movies and our lives wouldn’t be any better if we did. Offer me the choice between high-speed down-loads and an empty beach and I know which I’d choose. In fact, I have.

Flying Like a Brick

Remember that young lorikeet that Carl rescued after a storm? It looks like Lori, as he is known, is with us for life.

Carl’s original plan was to keep him until his tail feathers grew back but further research has revealed that some young lorikeets never do grow tail feathers. They inevitably end up on the ground after an attempt to fly, where they get eaten by dogs, cats, snakes and other exotic local wildlife.

Lori was clearly waiting for this fate when found by Carl. Since then, he’s demonstrated his low rating on the Darwinian scale by escaping from his cage, climbing the nearest tree, and then plummeting to the ground, so far without damage. He always will fly like a brick, it seems, so had better resign himself to living with Carl and being supplied with flowers from our gravilias. Parrots of all kinds love the nectar.

Mower Meets Meter

Been a quiet time on this blog and I’m not sure why. Possibly because of my policy of not blogging unless I really want to say something or possibly because I wanted to avoid a series of entries like “not much happened today, really.” I suppose the two are the much the same thing. Anyway, last night, I destroyed our water meter with the motor mower.

Some cultural pointers are needed here to avoid me appearing a complete idiot, I feel. Water meters in Australia are outside your house, usually on the horizontal part of an inverted U of the water pipe sticking up above the ground. The stop-cock is also on this flimsy pipe so any passer-by can turn off your water if they wish, as a jolly prank, though they seem not to.

Ours emerges from a lush bed of buffalo grass and I still maintain the mower blades were nowhere near when the meter disintegrated in a shower of plastic, metal and dials, all hoisted into the air by a jet of water. The mower is fine, thanks.

The interesting thing about this is that a very friendly bloke from Coffs Harbour Water rolled up in a ute around three-quarters of an hour after my call and just as I finished the lawn, fitted a new meter in five minutes and left with the bits of the old one in a bag. This bearing in mind that, in UK terms, we live in the back of beyond. I then had a much-needed shower. Truly this is the lucky country.

Chillies

The latest crop from our garden. You wouldn't think caterpillars could eat them without dire consequences, but they apparently do.

Sydney – Wildlife

Next to the splendid Sydney Aquarium in Darling Harbour is the newly-opened Wildlife World. We gave it a go and emerged slightly disappointed because the vast majority of insects, mammals, marsupials and reptiles within could all be seen or heard within a kilometre of our house. That includes the lethal red-bellied black snake and the brown snake. Useful to know what they look like as, so far, we haven’t seen them. But they are there…..

Sydney – Water

It’s always a bit of shock arriving in Sydney after the rural calm of Sandy Beach, what with the crowds, the tall buildings and the traffic (OK, I’ll take the straw out of my hair, now). It makes quite an impact at first but then I found myself thinking how precarious it all was. Every time I turned on a tap, I remembered that the city’s water reserves were down to 35 per cent and there’s no sign of substantial rain. In fact, 92 per cent of New South Wales is now in drought and yet, with the exception of the announcement of the building of a controversial desalination plant, there’s no sign of any action to ensure the city’s water supplies.

Sydney – Voices

We went to Sydney last weekend. As I emerged from the shower in the hotel bathroom, I heard Mike’s voice above my head. This was quite disturbing, as he’s in London, until I realised that Sara had turned on the television, tuned to BBC World, Mike was reading the news, and there was a speaker in the ceiling. Come to think of it, it’s still disturbing that friends on the other side of the world can make themselves heard in your bathroom.

Night Visitor

Found in our back garden one evening....they make a very loud noise when they start croaking in a drain pipe.

Dear Pom

In a victory for common sense, the Advertising Standards Board has ruled that the word “Pom” is not offensive and is more an affectionate term, on a par with “Kiwi” and “Aussie” (see earlier post). Unless, of course, it’s combined with words like “whingeing” or “b**tard.” Then they might think again.

British People Against Discrimination, who brought the complaint are reportedly disappointed, though you would have thought that England losing the Ashes in three straight Tests would have disappointed them more. Those car ads enjoining Aussies to “tonk a Pom” will have to be updated because that’s exactly what’s happened.

Now, by all the rules of blogging, I should include a link to the Sydney Morning Herald story, but I’m not. For one thing, you don’t really need to know any more. For another, obsessively peppering posts with links just says to me that you see your post as a signpost or a gateway, rather than a worthwhile destination. If everything on the web is just pointing the way to something else, then where’s the substance?

Relax.....

It's always interesting to see what Australian news items make it in the international media and to see how others view the country. BBC News Online had this today and it's about a piece of research that shows that more people in the UK are more likely than in Australia to have heart attacks when watching sport.

No surprise, really. I recall hearing a Kiwi comedienne talking about watching the Socceroos exit the World Cup with a bunch of Aussies. After weeks of hysteria, their demise was greeted with a shrug and "Oh well, there you go." Everything is more relaxed here and it's probably due to a combination of sunshine, space (there's only 20 million of us), and the knowledge that there's always another beer, barbecue or beach just round the corner.

Of course, that doesn't apply to those actually competing, as the England cricket team knows to its cost. I'm grateful to The Guardian for reminding them that "it ain't over til the fat boy spins." Of course, the writer was referring to Shane Warne.

Shelter From The Storm

Carl found this young lorikeet with its tail feathers missing and he and Anne and Darius are looking after it until it can fly again. He (or she) is rather nervous of everyone except Carl and likes having his neck scratched. He spends most of his time in a big cage in a tree in the garden, which is just as well, because Took the Terrier and one of the local currawongs (they're a bit like magpies) don't seem to have his best interests at heart. We heard the other day that there used to be a far greater variety of bids, particularly small ones, in Sandy Beach until the currawongs moved in and started killing them. Still, this small bird seems to have struck lucky.

Blowing Hot and Cold

Summer’s here, with temperatures touching 40 degrees in Coffs yesterday. We’re having the usual vicious electrical storms and gales in the evenings, with the subsequent power cuts and phone failures, the surf’s rubbish, the police in Sydney are on stand-by in case of race riots, and the Ashes series has started with a convincing Australian win.

That’s all pretty normal (I’m glad to say it’s a lot cooler today) but enter British People Against Racial Discrimination (BPARD) which has asked the Advertising Standards Board to ban the use of the word “Pom”. This follows an Ashes-linked advert by brewers Tooheys for a new super-chilled beer which is “cold enough to scare a Pom.”

I hope BPARD isn’t serious, but it appears to be. It does remind me of the time when some Welsh nationalists tried to get Wales listed as an oppressed nation in the UN (I wanted to send them to Iraqi Kurdistan to learn what oppression was all about). This really will give new meaning to the phrase “whingeing Pom” and only this morning neighbour Chris paused while lashing down his boat against the next, inevitable storm, to remark “so you don’t like being called a Pom, then?”

My standard response to jibes like this is that it doesn’t relate to me because I’m Welsh and Poms are English in Australian minds but then that doesn’t really stand up to analysis since the term “Pom” is popularly supposed to stem from “Prisoner of Her Majesty” and presumably some of these prisoners were Welsh. But any port in a storm.

For a flavour of the debate, spiced with references to the convict stain, go
here.

Fresh Fish

We’ve got some new neighbours. It was fairly easy to spot that Chris is a keen fisherman as there were two boats parked on the lawn (Australians seem to go in for parking things on their lawns, which seems very strange to us). Anyway, there was a knock on the door just before supper the other evening and Chris presented me with two Nile Perch fillets, part of his afternoon’s catch. So fresh they were practically still twitching, they smelt of nothing but the sea. We ate them that night and they were delicious. Strange to think that they’d been swimming around only a few hundred metres away but I suppose you get used to that idea.

An Australian, His Bike and His Axe...

A cycling revolution has swept Sandy Beach, as you can see from this photo. Ever since the Red Rock Triathlon, Saturday morning has seen us all up at 5am to drive into Coffs Harbour for the community bike rides, which draw up to 80 riders in four groups differentiated by speed and lycra. You have to do it that early because this is Australia though, I am glad to say, afterwards you have to have a cafe breakfast sitting outside in the sun as well. But Carl, for it is he, and his axe? Well, not only do we rise at dawn for a ride on the road, but we also head for the trails of the Wedding Bells Forest in the afternoon and Carl has become increasingly frustrated by the trees lying across some of the trails. So today he took his small axe and sent the woodchips flying. He may have a big axe too, for all I know, as he did spend some time living in the bush. I happened to mentioned that I'd never been mountain biking with an axe before. "This is Australia," he replied.

Bird Watching

Trudging back from Parliament to the rented apartments we use when we're in Canberra last night, I was depressed by the bureaucratic wasteland created by the Communist-style planners - wide highways with hardly any cars circling vast anonymous office blocks surrounded by dusty, sunburnt verges.

Some of the verges do have lush grass and these have sprinklers installed which spring into life with no warning and give your suit a good soaking. There is possibly a knack to knowing when they're going to start up but, if there is, no one's told me. Canberra is not as friendly as the rest of Australia, with the exception of the mainly immigrant taxi-drivers, and I am beginning to see why. It's not a good place for the soul.

However, in the vacant lot next to the Department of Foreign Affairs, waddling around in the scrubby grass, I found four galahs, splendid plump, pink and grey parrots, and a sulphur-crested cockatoo, which, as the name suggests, sports a fine yellow quiff, contrasting with a pure white body. They were only a few feet away and completely unperturbed. But then they are big birds. They added a welcome touch of the exotic to the bland surroundings.

Old Ways, New Country

Back in Canberra after a brief weekend in Sandy Beach and, just after 6am, joined the multitudes out on the running and cycling trails. Just past the Greek Orthodox church, and on the shores of the vast Lake Burley Griffin, I saw an elderly Chinese gentleman, in a black, loose shirt and trousers, with a conical bamboo hat and fishing rod, silhouetted against the water. It was an utterly foreign sight.

There are many immigrants in Canberra. A bewildering racial array of cab drivers ply their trade at the airport and Eastern Europe and the Balkans are well-represented on the Parliament House staff. Perhaps it's because Canberra is considered an unpleasant place to live - too cold in winter and too hot in summer - and there are more opportunities for those starting afresh. I'm sure it's a sign of tolerance that the old man was clearly comfortable sitting by the lake.

Nerves of Steel

Went to a showing of a new Australian documentary in Parliament House last night. Nerves of Steel was about four young women who, with no experience whatsoever, formed a team that qualified for the skeleton in the Winter Olympics.

They did, I should point out, have the backing of the Australian Institute of Sport and were experienced in various sports. On the other hand, they had absolutely no experience of winter sports, or of hurtling head-first down a tunnel of ice on something like a tea-tray at 130kph.

There are many good reasons why many of us lack that experience, not least of which is the will to live, to retain the use of our limbs, and a keen sense that tea-trays are best used for other purposes.

I know I keep banging on about it, but here, again, was the “she’ll be right, mate” mentality writ large and taken to whole new level of professionalism. Apart, perhaps, from when they turned up on their first slope without proper gloves and apparently used washing-up gloves instead. The amazing thing is, and it’s a tribute to the women themselves and the whole enterprise, that, apart from many spectacular bruises and a few broken bones, they were more than “right”.

In five months, the team came from nowhere to qualify for the Winter Olympics. Only one team member could compete, and, on the day, fifteen months after starting out, one touch of a foot on the ice saw a possible medal-winning position slip to 13th.

I think what impressed me most was that, despite all the technical and financial help, it was their confidence in their ability and willingness to risk their necks time after time, that brought them success. Nerves of steel, indeed.

Red Rock Results

The start of the Red Rock Triathlon. It was 25C, windy and the water was fresh. John and Anne are in there somewhere. John's business, Coast and Plateau Fine Foods, sponsored two teams in the business category, the Babes of Baclava and Cheeses They're Fast.

Two of the Babes of Baclava in transition.

Carl brings home the bacon for Cheeses They're Fast.

Sara mops up for The Babes.

The teams, with our cheerleader, Darius, and Will, who did the whole thing on his own. Our strategy of entering the business category paid off handsomely as both teams won. And yes, I'm sure there were other business teams taking part.

Traing, training, training...

Carl and Anne are away in Sydney but the rest of us went up to Red Rock to swim, ride or run our triathlon legs. Here are John and Will about to sample the delights of the creek. For the record, the water was quite cool but the air temperature was 27C. There were no homicidal magpies on the run or bike routes and there was nothing untoward in the creek either. So far, so good.

Red Rock On....

It was right at the beginning of the evening that John suggested we all enter the Red Rock Triathlon, giving us exactly two weeks to prepare. I'd barely taken a sip from a bottle of beer and the others were stone cold sober so there was no excuse for saying yes.

So John's delicatessen wholesale business, Coast and Plateau, is sponsoring two teams - Me, John and Carl, and Sara, Anne and Liz - for the 800m/22k/5k event. We each do one leg, so it's not too demanding. Well, it would be if I had to do the swim, but I haven't. And Will is doing the whole thing as an individual. But he's onyl 21.

The commitment is frightening. The next morning, everyone was out in Sandy Beach doing their thing, Anne even getting bitten by bluebottles (jellyfish). It hasn't stopped and we've even done a recce of the course, Will heroically swimming in the creek at low tide, so it was rather brown. There's a fine air of "she'll be right, mate" about the whole enterprise but I suspect everyone is harbouring their own little fears, not the least of which will be letting the others down. I'll keep you posted.

Australian Values

The Opposition Leader here, Kim Beazley, is taking a bit of pasting over his suggestion that all visitors to Australia should have to express their commitment to Australian values. It's all to do with concerns that many Muslims who settle here allegedly see their allegiance as first and foremost to Islam (and we all know what that means).

Quite what these values are isn't clear. Are they reflected, perhaps, in the fact that a number of dead sting rays have been found on the Queensland coast with their stings cut off, prompting speculation that this is a bizarre form of revenge for the death of Steve Irwin? Even if this is just speculation, it says much that it's regarded as perfectly feasible.

For a historic perspective, and in reference to the continuing controversy about the treament of the Aboriginal population, you might turn to The Australian's front page cartoon on the topic showing a bearded gentleman in a robe facing an immigration offical and swearing: "I plan to steal your land, trash your culture, and never apologise."

Meanwhile, I'm left wondering how many Australian visitors to, say, France or Thailand, would be happy to sign up to French or Thai values? Not many, I'd guess.

Jaws of Death….2

Admit it, you love all this shark stuff. So….last week a Coffs Harbour surfer was out for his usual early morning session, caught a wave, surfed into a two-metre (allegedly) bronze whaler and got soundly nipped for his temerity. He struggled and the shark let go. And it was only in waist-deep water, too. This is a bronze whaler.

Jaws of Death…..1

A death in the family always brings out the divisions that normally lie just below the surface and, on a national level, that’s just what the death of Steve Irwin did.

His demise led news bulletins here for several days, coverage starting with a clearly upset Prime Minister, crowds gathering outside Irwin’s Australia Zoo, first hand accounts of his death and then his family’s gracious rejection of the offer of a state funeral.

One of the words often used to describe him was “larrikin”. I think what Australians usually mean by this is that he was a cheeky chap, a bit of a rascal, and a generally loveable bloke who did no real harm to anyone. And those tight shorts are very popular.

Just to make sure, I turned to the Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary (yes, there is one) and found a number of definitions, including “a person who acts with apparent disregard for social and political conventions.” This leads rather nicely into the second phase of press coverage.

Enter Germaine Greer in the pages of The Guardian, suggesting that her fellow countryman was a bit of an embarrassment for most Australians, and questioned his attitude to animals in general, and recalled his exploit with his baby son in his crocodile enclosure. Irwin, she said, insisted he was in control, “displaying the sort of self-delusion it takes to be a real Australian larrikin.”

I can’t help feel she was right on that score and that it was another example of the potentially disastrous “she’ll be right, mate” attitude I’ve mentioned before. But I digress.

If there’s one thing Australian popular opinion hates, it’s an intellectual, worse one who has made a name abroad and not returned, and worse still, one who’s a woman. Irwin was the antithesis of an intellectual and he got the public vote. Ms Greer was vilified as a “feral hag” and “childless” (now doesn’t that say a lot?) and readers of the Daily Telegraph were encouraged to email “the vicious old cow” to tell them what they thought of her. I bet they did, too.

If there’s a lesson from all this, it’s that Australia is a young nation, still to settle on a national identity.

Belly Up

You probably haven’t heard of the orange-bellied parrot but then there are only 50 breeding pairs in the world and they’re only to be found in Tasmania in the summer and then across the other side of the Bass Strait in Victoria and South Australia in the winter. Despite not really having much orange on their bellies, these parrots have come into the money, $3.2m to be precise, or $32,000 per parrot.


They're deemed to be an endangered species on a par with the Siberian Tiger and the Giant Panda. So the Federal Government has stepped in.

This is clearly a parrot with punch. Recently a plan to build a $220m wind farm on the Victoria coast was scrapped because it lay on the migration route. Even though it was calculated that approximately one parrot in several decades would be minced by the blades, that was clearly one parrot too many for the Government.

So now the parrots will be not only be relieved from having to negotiate whirling turbine blades but they’ll also have millions spent on improving their habitat and, because this is Australia, the country where cats are kept in at night and encouraged to wear bells so they can’t creep silently up on their prey, there will also be slaughter of feral cats.

I’m comforted by the fact that while Siberia has a huge, ravening carnivore in need of care, Australia has a small, but well-travelled, parrot with a bit of orange on its tummy. It makes up for all the poisonous stuff, I suppose

A Sobering Surf

After a week of heavy showers and grey skies, the weekend was back to normal with blue skies, warm sunshine and a crystal clear sea. It’s very easy to be lulled into a false sense of security by all this.

Carl and I were surfing at the point at Arrawarra on Sunday morning. Unusually, there were few others out but Leroi, a gnomic figure who has apparently not missed a day’s surfing since fibreglass was invented, and possibly before that, was there. He is even older than Carl and me. We noticed a large number of boats further out and, ominously, several helicopters, sweeping the ocean.

Leroi told us that they were looking for two fishermen who went overboard from their boat during the night. Suddenly, I felt less blasé about bobbing up and down on my board so near the rocks of the point and so far from a safe shore. Later we found out that there had been four in the boat. One, wearing a life jacket, had swum ashore and another was found clinging to an empty oil can. It appears the boat had struck a whale.

Watching the humpbacks as they migrate north every year at this time is a stirring experience, whether from the shore, or from one of the whale-watch boats but, having seen a whale beating the water, apparently in irritation, with its tail, I have wondered whether I’d want to be anywhere near them in a small boat, whether they felt malicious or were just going about their business and you happened to get in the way.

Those fishermen were not doing any wrong or particularly stupid, with the exception, possibly, of not wearing lifejackets. They probably had not thought they were taking a risk by going out in their boat. Perhaps their mistake was taking nature for granted.

Planting Thyme...

This is what all that lurching around the Pacific Highway in an overloaded ute was about (see She'll Be Right, Mate below). Now we've done the planting and we have lavender, coriander, chives, parsley, rocket, thyme, chillies, oregano turmeric and basil. At least we will have if the slugs don't get them. It is raining frequently and Australian slugs are voracious.

Latest Visitors

Llywelyn has just arrived with his university mates John (centre) and Dean. After a morning's surfing at Arrawarra, during which all three of them managed to stand up on the boards, we walked over Mutton Bird Island in the hope of seeing some whales, which Sara, Dean and I did but, sadly, John and Llywelyn were just out of sight. Fickle, those humpbacks. We'll be out in the whale boat on Thursday.

She’ll Be Right, Mate

You frequently hear Australians using the phrase “she’ll be right, mate” in the context of some risky or dodgy activity or a repair job that isn’t perhaps quite all it should be. It’s indicative of a laid-back attitude and, I think, a sunny optimism. It appears to be catching.

Saturday morning saw Carl and I at the England’s Road tip, home of a vast compost producing enterprise and vast mountains of compost. Unfortunately, the man who operates the JCB to load the compost into your hired ute, or whatever, was nowhere to be found. Not to be deterred, we started shoveling after I’d wandered off to the recycling depot and negotiated the loan of a $2 dollar shovel.

After a while, Carl decided to turn the ute round to make it easier to fill and I distinctly remember saying “she’s looking a bit low.” To his credit, Carl distinctly remembers me saying this as well. He also remembers ignoring it. Some shoveling later, it was obviously full. Also obviously, it wasn’t going anywhere as the back mud flaps were bent back whereas the front wheels had only a tenuous relationship with the ground.

We looked at each other and started shoveling out, until some sanity had been restored. It was at this point that the phrase was uttered and buoyed up by this, we crept over the entrance speed bump and wobbled off the nearest garage to get the back tyres pumped up.

It was an interesting drive back to Sandy Beach. We were remarkably slow pulling away from traffic lights, much to the amusement of a lorry driver. Corners were a challenge and only to be taken slowly. In Coffs, we spotted a police car outside the Plantation Hotel so took a detour which unfortunately involved four 90-degree turns. We were sweating at this point. A fine queue built up behind us on the hill by the Big Banana. Various responsible citizens glared at us when they eventually overtook.

Half-way home, at Moonee, another police car lurked and there was no escape. We stared straight ahead, striving to be nonchalant, and all was well. As Carl remarked: “If he’d had his radar set for stupidity instead of speed….”

Anyway, we got home, slightly frazzled (“I was cacking myself there, mate”), and did another three, smaller, loads that day with the ute on an even keel to top up all our vegetable beds and lay the foundations for a three household veggie cooperative. There’s nothing like optimism when it proves to be justified. And the man with the JCB turned up as well.

Sunday Stroll

Iwan and Steph are visiting and took a Sunday afternoon stroll over Look At Me Now headland, where they saw many kangaroos and two surfers fighting their way out through big waves accompanied by some some large marine life, which thankfully turned out to be dolphins.

'Roos Go Out

Sad to say the Socceroos were booted out of the World Cup by Italy who won with a 92nd minute disputed penalty. I'm glad to say that some round here did point out that if they'd taken their chances and put the ball in the net earlier, then the penalty wouldn't have mattered.

We were at the Jetty Theatre in Coffs last night for the Melbourne Comedy Festival Roadshow, a good place to test the mood following this sporting disaster. The female Kiwi compere reported that her Aussie friends were on the edge of their seats until the final whistle then sank back with sighs of "oh well, there you go." And now it's forgotten. It takes a foreigner to deliver the best insights, I think, and her theme was that Aussies are pretty laid back, if not more laid back than Kiwis, in fact. She pointed out that New Zealand has no dangerous wildlife at all. In Australia, by way of contrast, we have a world-beating array of deadly creatures and insects and even something as apparently cuddly as a duck-billed platapus can poison you. And yet we don't seem to worry.

It's true. Our shortest route to the beach is known to harbour red-bellied black snakes and brown snakes, both potentially lethal, but it's still the route we all use, even barefoot, in some cases. A schoolgirl was even attacked by a kangaroo in Coffs last week.

The other significant contribution came from an American who had been living here since 1992. He confessed that he hadn't applied for citizenship yet. "I've had the forms for two years but I just can't be arsed to fill them out. See...I reckon that means I'm a citizen already."

'Roos Go Through

Well, they did it. The nation had a definite spring in its step this morning despite getting up at 5am to see Australia play Croatia with qualification for the knock-out stage at stake for both sides (this is the World Cup, it's football, played with a round ball, for those non-sporting readers).

A late goal from Harry Kewell, or King Harry, as the Prime Minister calls him, was enough to draw the game, which was all they needed to finish second in their group. Travellers stranded at Canberra airport this morning because of fog were still fondly watching the replays many hours later. This was just as well as many were there for some hours (I know, I was one of those travellers).

Here's an irony. I've mentioned before that football here is very much the preserve of immigrant communities, though that may now change, and the list of player's names has a distinct European/Balkan flavour. The Socceroos' captain is a guy called Mark Viduka and he's of Croatian descent and started his professional career there. I reckon he passes Norman Tebbit's infamous cricket test, if that's not too confusing.

Now For The Manacle Marks

I’ve just been told that I am now a Permanent Resident in Australia. The letter came from the Department of Immigration this week. I’ve been on probation, as it were, for the last 18 months or so. I can’t pretend that it’s been a worry for us, though the consequences of a rejection would have been pretty horrendous. So now I can, in due course apply for citizenship and have the hereditary manacle marks put on my legs. (Sorry, that comes from a joke that New Zealanders tell – how can you tell an Aussie from a Kiwi?)

As I’ve noted before, it’s easy to forget that we’re living in a foreign country. This week reminded me that, until now, I could have been asked to leave at any time. Curiously, for the first time, I’ve also been racially abused. At the end of a long and, from both sides, fruitless phone call about the Government selling its stake in the Snowy Mountain hydro scheme, I was told I was a Pommie bastard and could piss off.

Now I don’t for a minute this ranks high in terms of racial abuse (though I am having counselling, obviously) but it does make you think. I didn’t get a chance to tell him I wasn’t a Pom because he put the phone down, but the point was I was being abused because of something over which I had no control, over something he thought I was. What must it be like to put up with that every day because of the colour of your skin? To add insult to injury, the Government pulled out of the sale the next day, citing strong public sentiment. I’ll say.

And for the record, I will be supporting Australia against England in the first rugby union test this Sunday, though what that proves in this context, I’m not sure, given that I am, of course, Welsh.

Codes for Kiwis

I read in The Australian this week that New Zealand is introducing a full national system of post codes. It was only a short article, but the four paragraphs managed to be pretty superior about the fact that our neighbours across the water were only just attaining this level of sophistication. This is very much in keeping with Australian attitudes to New Zealand generally, despite recent rugby results.

Personally, I find it rather encouraging that they’ve managed without codes until now. What it says to me is that, by and large, their communities are of a manageable, humane size and they’ve presumably been able to provide a decent service without reducing every neighbourhood to a sequence of digits or digits and letters.

Even now, they only need a four-digit code, as opposed to the six or seven letters and digits you have in the UK. And Australia is still getting by with only four digits for the whole continent.

Anyone for Wogball?

To a cavernous pub in Canberra last night with a few colleagues for a sporting occasion, the first of the State of Origin games. It’s Rugby League we’re talking about, which is more popular here than Rugby Union. Anyway, every year New South Wales and Queensland each put up a team of professionals and they play three matches. The attraction is not necessarily the rugby – because they’re virtually scratch sides, they’re not used to playing together – but the tribalism.

A newcomer could easily feel that the two states were separate countries, which they virtually were until federation, and not just when it comes to rugby. A newcomer might also ask “what about the other states?” Well, to use the vernacular, they don’t give a rat’s arse about Rugby League. They go for Australian Rules Football, which few understand and no other country plays.

It’s not to be confused with soccer, which is becoming a mainstream sport, helped by Australia qualifying for the World Cup for the first timen since 1974. Tonight the Socceroos play European champions Greece in a friendly in Melbourne, which has a large Greek community. For many years, soccer was played only by European immigrants and I’m grateful to this morning’s Sydney Morning Herald for telling me it was once (and possibly still is) known as “wogball.”

By the way, Canberra has seasons, unlike the Coffs Coast, and now it’s winter. The trees are bare, it’s freezing, and I need a coat, scarf and gloves to walk to Parliament House from our lodgings. It’s quite a change.

Another Rescue

While the story of the rescue of the two men trapped underground in a Tasmanian gold mine for 15 days unfolded, relatively little attention was paid to the fate of three men lost in a small boat off the coast at the other end of the country.

The three had set off to collect some members of the local rugby league team for a game, which gives you the first cultural pointer - we’re talking about seventy kilometres in an open boat as opposed to getting picked up in the team mini-bus. They got into trouble and drifted out of range of their mobile phones and waited until they were back in range to send a text asking for help. It took 22 days before they were able to send the message and survived by eating raw squid, drinking rain water and fashioning some sun shades from bits of metal.

There are immediately obvious reasons why the story attracted very little attention. The area is remote and no one knew where the men were. But in Australian terms, there are other reasons.

Large numbers of Australians take to the water in boats every weekend and it’s not unheard of for some of them to disappear and it’s far easier to disappear in the Pacific Ocean than it is in say, the Bristol Channel. Add to that the occasional disappearance of rock fishermen, usually swept into the ocean by waves, and such events are far from unusual.

It’s easy to get lost on land, as well. Even in relatively populous New South Wales, you don’t need to go far to find mile upon mile of bush, mostly unmarked by tracks. Australia is a vast and mostly empty land and Australians believe in making the most of it. They’re also realistic about their prospects if things go wrong, don’t expect to be rescued as a matter of course, and prove to be pretty resourceful, as did the trio in the boat.

Perhaps it’s something of that attitude that sustained the two miners, in their very different circumstances.

To The Falls...

On Easter Sunday, we all went to the Sherwood Forest and set off through the bush...


...to the waterfall....


...where you could have a natural massage in the freezing water...


....and then warm up in the autumn sun.

Coffs Harbour Live

You might like to see what the place looks like live, as it were. If you go to Swellnet and click on "surf cams" and then "Coffs Harbour" you'll see how the day's shaping up. Unless you get the time difference wrong, of course, and you log on during our night when you'll see nothing. We're nine hours ahead.

The three views, all from the Jetty area of Coffs, are, in rotation, of Gallows Beach (so-called because of the rocks, I think), the huge beach to the south of Gallows and, bizzarely, the car park at the top of the boat ramp, which is not very interesting. The camera is on top of the Deep Sea Fishing Club, which is good for fish and chips and you can sometimes see whales from the verandah.

If you're lucky, you might see dolphins on the surf cam, jumping out of the waves, as I did one day.

A-Hunting We Will Go

Sara spotted an ad in the local paper announcing that "conservation hunting" had started in a state forest not far from here. Licensed hunters could apply to shoot introduced species of feral animals, including pigs, goats, foxes, rabbits, cats, hares and deer.

Now given that these species were introduced in the late 18th or early 19th centuries, you might thing that, like Europeans, they'd earned the right to be regarded as residents, but apparently not. They take a very strict view of what's indigenous and seem to forget that recent history has been nothing more than remorseless Europeanisation since the first landings. Still, I can't quite see why a few pigs truffling around in the woods should be lined up for slaughter. No doubt they have some fearful environmental consequences associated with them. Just like the Europeans, really.

Anyway what really caught my eye, after the bit about hunters being required to wear some blaze orange clothing so they could be indentified at all times, was this: "These areas will not be closed to the public while conservation hunting takes place."

I don't quite know whether this is another example of the "she'll be right, mate" mentality or a subtle attempt at culling another introduced and damaging species.

Some Retreat...

Took to the hills behind Coffs this weekend to celebrate our first wedding anniversary at a place called Friday Creek, which consists of a few comfortable chalets and a vineyard. It's described as a retreat and, as we were the only ones there and the weather started rather murky, it certainly was quiet and secluded.

However, only I could book a country retreat in earshot of an all-night rave. The pounding bass started at 6pm on Saturday and was still going when we left at 10am on Sunday. Bill Munoz, the Chilean immigrant owner, was shaking his head as we paid the bill. "I've called the police," he said. "I'm half deaf so I'm OK but my wife didn't sleep all night." The volume was remarkable as all the action was taking place in the next valley, over the ridge in the picture below. Doesn't seem possible, does it? Do you still have raves in the UK or are they out of fashion? Luckily, Friday night had been as quiet as the grave.

Teen Spirit

Running along the moonlit beach this morning (it's quite dark at 6am now), I was surprised by a number of luminous, long, oval shapes on the steep dune leading over the neck of the headland to Fiddaman's Beach. When I got closer, they turned out to be surf boards, carried by a group of teenage boys and girls, some wearing hoodies over the usual boardies and bikinis - there was a slight coolness in the air - which made them look even more spectral. Of course, they may have been up all night, but I can't help being impressed that they were up at all, and, while surfing under a full moon may be romantic, it's still not light enough to see anything that might be sharing the water with you. It needs a certain nerve.

What the Bloody Hell?

Yes, OK, I know you're probably all sick of this but I though it might be interesting to hear how the episode played out here. (Explanatory note: Aussie tourism ads. Used "bloody" in catch line. Banned from UK television. Poms all pompous prats. Get the picture?) I particularly liked this comment from the Tourism Minister, Fran Bailey:

"The regulators have clearly misplaced their sense of humour - and this from the country that brought us Benny Hill, The Two Ronnies and Little Britain."

I have to say, it seems a far cry from the studied seediness and open lust of Benny Hill and the sublime conceit of Daffydd, the Only Gay in The Village, to the use of the word "bloody" in a catch-line for an ad, but there we are, I've always had trouble seeing advertising as a higher form of art. What seems to have been lost is that not everyone here thought that this campaign was the best thing since sliced bread simply because "where the bloody hell are you", with the unspoken addition of the word "mate" is very much what one Australian bloke might say to another, so it does resonate...but the campaign isn't aimed at Australians so why the bloody hell are they using the phrase? And didn't anyone think to check with the regulator beforehand?

Anyway, the Government line is that it is a "cheeky" campaign, and, if nothing else, it's given them the chance to stand up for Australian culture and values, which always goes down well. The Queen's out here next week so no doubt they've lined someone up to give her another pat on the bum, just to bring home the point.

The final word on the matter comes from the queue in the Woolworth's bottle shop in Coffs Harbour: "They've banned the ads because it's illegal to swear in public in the UK." It's good to know the global village is breaking down all those barriers to communication.

A Change in The Weather...

I go away for a week and the weather goes to hell. This is what dangerous surf looks like at Sandy Beach and, yes, that's official - "dangerous surf" is a standard phrase in the weather forecasts. It's been raining hard all week, blowing a gale and we've had big tides as well. The rivers are in flood, a couple of towns are cut off and the farmers to the south of Coffs have had to move their cattle to high ground. My flight home yesterday included the biggest, stomach-curdling plunge I've ever experienced but, although flights are often diverted from Coffs because of wind or low cloud, we made it in. Several passengers, though, discovered they wouldn't be able to get home because of the floods. I'm sure it'll all be back to normal soon.

Another Day, Another Dollar....

Just in case you think life is all about lolling around in crystal clear water under a clear blue sky (see post below), I'm writing this in Parliament House in Canberra after a morning writing a speech about a new national cancer agency.

However, just outside the office window in one of the many courtyards, a splendid blue and red parrot is bouncing up and down on the branch of a shady tree. Across the small ornamental pond, three members of the ground staff are diligently pruning some bushes, all clad in the regulation elastic-sided work boots and baggy blue shorts and shirts. All wear broad-brimmed hats against the sun, though one has forsaken the usual canvas version for a rather racey patterned straw hat of his own.

Phone calls permitting, I'll shortly wander off across the Members' Hall to Aussie's coffee bar and sit outside under a sun shade with an espresso, surrounded by scrounging magpies. They're very vocal and melodious here though, as long-time readers of this blog will know, turn into arial assassins in the nesting season. There are two sides to everything.

Sunday Outing

This afternoon, John and Liz took us to their secret swimming hole, reached by a walk over the headland and then much scrambling over boulders. That's Carl on the right, with daughter Darius; John on the left, and Liz with Darius' firend, Lauren. Sara was in the entrance gully, trying to coax Took the Terrier into the water.

Ferry, Ferry Unhappy

I expect many of you who commute in UK cities would relish the chance to use one of these ferries in Sydney harbour for your journey to work and you’d be right to do so. The trip into Circular Quay in the business district is spectacular, taking you past the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, usually under a faultless blue sky.

But all is not well and there’s a growing feeling that this city with its gem of a waterfront is a city in crisis. Those ferries, and the faster catamarans, keep breaking down; the trains don’t run on time and there’s problems with the track and the axles; just don’t ask about the roads; and they’re not sure where the next drop of drinking water is coming from.

Property prices have soared in recent years and, as you know, there are the sort of tensions that resulted in the recent Cronulla riots. Meanwhile, the New South Wales State Government (you could be forgiven for thinking that it runs only the city, and not the whole of this sprawling and varied state) lurches from leadership changes to reshuffles via a major budget crisis.

In the middle of this comes a poll which comes to the startling conclusion that those of us living in places like Sandy Beach are happier than those living in Sydney. You can imagine that we all fell off our surf boards in shock up here and no doubt many Sydney-siders similarly fell to decks of those ferries in amazement that their country cousins might actually be living a more sublime existence, beyond spitting distance of the nearest Starbucks (we don’t have one at all - imagine that).

Is there a serious point here, other than the supreme pointlessness of that poll, which someone was presumably paid to conduct? If there is, I really can’t be bothered to think of one but the following will probably do.

Last Sunday, neighbour Carl suggested going for coffee at a beach-side café in the village to the south. It was lunch-time so just having coffee was bit problematic and there were five of us and tables were needed for people eating so we ended up being forced to have sour dough bread with hummus and olives, as well as coffee. “Oh well,” said Carl, tucking in. “Serves me right for trying to be a bit urban.”

PM Gets Bladdered

Regular readers will know that I try to offer some cultural pointers in this blog. After all, this is a foreign country. Sometimes, you come across something that speaks volumes, usually becuase it's written by an Australian, as is the following piece. A few words of explanation: When the good folk of the Sydney suburbs were hitting the living daylights out of each other on the basis of whether they were of Middle Eastern extraction or not, the Prime Minister John Howard remarked that this was not a racist country. More recently, international cricketers from the Indian sub-continent and, ironically, South African, have been subject to racist abuse from the crowd. Right, you're all set. Off you go to The Bladder

Sharks Again

I'm sure you've all been hearing about the latest spate of shark attacks which I noticed made several bits of the UK media. I suppose it's not surprising given that the fatal attack on a young woman in waist-deep water off Hamilton Island on the east coast was quickly followed by the nibbling of a diver off the west coast.

They certainly generated a lot of coverage here, though despite the volume, certain aspects remained remarkably murky. Was the woman killed by one shark or three? Was she at a popular swimming spot or one that the locals studiously avoid? The latter is particularly important because avoiding certain places is reckoned to be a good way of avoiding sharks. Most attacks happen in the waters off the southern and western coasts. You should avoid anywhere where there are seals, lots of bait fish, murky water, and bathing or surfing at dusk or dawn.

Much of the media furore that followed the Queensland attack was due to the fact that we're in the silly season here in the height of summer and news is short. Not that I want to diminish what happened, which was clearly horrific, but the way the story was taken on was pure silly season stuff. The Shark Attack File maintained by the Taronga Zoo in Sydney has a more sober view of the subject.

I also read that box jelly fish have been responsible for something like 70 deaths in the last century but we don't hear so much about those. Equally horrible but not so box office. What would you call the film? Jelly? Tentacles? Doesn't have the same ring, does it?

Start As You Mean To Go On....

You’ll be glad to hear that I started the New Year as I mean to go on. At seven am on New Year’s Day, I was bobbing up and down on the Pacific Ocean, on my surf board, in the company of neighbours John and Liz. They’d called round for “a quick glass of wine” at seven on New Year’s Eve and left just after one am, when John said: “Liz, we’re all talking crap. It’s time to go to bed.” I really can’t remember what we are talking about myself, but I remember thinking he was right.

And that’s been the tone of the whole holiday period, really. The previous day, I’d been on the beach and bumped into Carl, another neighbour who is married to Ann, who is English but grew up in Bethesda (though she seems remarkably unscathed by the experience). Carl had bagged the pandanus palm, which offers unrivalled shade, and we were able to chat happily for a good hour while his daughter, Darius, and dog, Took, played in the waves.

On Monday, I’d just got back from a rather unsatisfactory surfing session (too windy, tide turning) and was rinsing off the salt under the garden shower, when John stuck his head over the fence and suggested a trip to Arrawarra, a fine surf beach to the north (sheltered from the southerly wind, see) and off we went. As I was paddling out, I recognised Ken, a California surfer-cum-steel erector and the partner of one of Sara’s colleagues, so paused for a while to talk.

The reason I mention all this is not to rub in the fact that most of our spare time is now spent on the beach, under glorious blue skies, swimming in, or surfing on, a clear blue sea. No, really, it’s not. It’s just that it struck me that even six months ago none of this wandering about and bumping into people we know would have happened and yet I have no idea when the turning point came, if there was one at all. You settle into a new life imperceptibly, I think.

Oh yes, and on Christmas Eve a pod of ten dolphins glided past me as I waited for a wave. An early present.

33 Degrees and Rising

Yes, you’re right, that is a bit warm. In spite of that, everyone's been preparing for Christmas in their own way. Down in Sydney, of course, they've been fighting on the beaches, which confirms a number of widely-held views - that the cities are smelly, dirty and over-crowded and to be avoided (widely held in the country areas); that if you think it's violent in the cities, you should try living in the country (widely held in the cities); that there is underlying racism in Australian society (widely held in liberal circles); that immigration poses a threat to the Australian way of life (widely-held in il-liberal circles); that kids are just not brought up properly these days and should just behave themselves; that this sort of thing has been going on for years, since the surfer-biker clashes of I can't remember when. So there's something in it for everyone, which is exactly what Christmas is about.

The Australian Broadcasting Corporation has spent a small fortune (it only has a small fortune) on BBC programmes, though I'm glad to say that, in a highly unusual move (because nothing good comes out of New Zealand, apparently) it has also bought a stunningly un-PC school comedy from New Zealand called Seven Periods With Mr Gormsby. Those of you accustomed to all the pussy-footing around the Welsh language will instantly identify with the depiction of the Maori language but it gets worse (or better), I promise you.

I have been discussing the surf forecast with Dave the Park Ranger over the vegetables in Woolworths (that's a supermarket here) It wasn't something I'd have seen myself doing a couple of years ago. To see how seriously it's taken just visit Swellnet I'm afraid the forecast is not good. I've also bought some Roquefort.

Sara has been worrying about whether the rest of the food has been bought, which is far more constructive, of course, and made this splendid Christmas tree from a stray stick. It's a good job one of us is practical.

Tasmania

We've spent a few days in Tasmania and, of course, visited the former penal settlement at Port Arthur. This is one of the walls of the ruined penitentiary, where the common criminals were kept in the later days of the settlement. We also saw the rather more luxurious accommodation afforded to political dissidents, including the Welsh Chartist, John Frost. After a couple of bush fires and systematic looting by locals trying to expunge the convict stain, it's nowhere as grim a place as you'd expect, except perhaps for the rather more recent memorial to the 37 visitors and staff killed by a lone gunman in 1995. We also went to the Freycinet National Park and walked to Wineglass Bay...More photos here

Shouldering On

I feel as though I'm being inducted into a small,informal society (I also feel as though I need a physiotherapist for my shoulders). John and I were joined on the waves by two other surfers this morning. At a conservative estimate, our joint ages couldn't have been less than 200, so there was nothing flashy going on, certainly not on my part. They knew John, of course, but paddled over to shake hands with me. We did the being patient thing and then the paddling frantically to catch a wave thing (I was the only one who had to paddle frantically; the others do it effortlessly) and, I'm glad to say, I also did the catching the wave thing, which was very satisfying. Need more strength in my shoulders, though. Oh yes, and I learnt the rugby results and where to find good cheese in Tasmania, where we're heading tomorrow for a few days.

Master Class

Today started with a surprising role reversal when Sara leapt out of bed at 6am and brought me a mug of tea. I thought I was dreaming at first but a poke in the ribs persuaded me that I was in fact awake. Apparently, the deal was that I went surfing - it's sunny and there's no wind, I was informed - and Sara went back to sleep.

Down on the beach, I met our neighbour, Liz, who told me that partner John had finally decided the water was sufficient warm for him and was out there somewhere on his board. We located him, at what seemed to me an alarming way out to sea, and I paddled out to join him for a lesson on catching big, green waves (John, like many Australians, has apparently been surfing since he got out of nappies. Though not when the water's cold).

"It's important to be patient," he told me. That sounded good to me, as I felt as though I'd paddled a fair way to New Zealand, and we practised being patient for a while. It dawned on me that surfers actually spend a lot of time doing that, bobbing up and down sufficiently far out so that a wall of water doesn't fall on your head, and having a friendly chat. "It's great out here," he mused. "You can be out here some days and a dolphin will pop up next to you." He paused. "It's only happened once. Scared the living daylights out of me."

I found being patient came quite naturally. Catching the green waves, not so naturally. The easiest way to catch a wave is at right angles, which is fine on white water, but try that on green face and you find yourself rocketing downhill until the nose of your board digs in and then everything becomes very confused and very much like drowning. So you have to take it on an angle but, to do that, you need much more momentum of your own and the kind of shoulder strength that comes from starting when you were four years old. So I practised not catching the waves for a while until one caught me at precisely the wrong stage of wave development (from my point of view), allowing me to stand up until it whipped the board from under my feet. John, of course, caught anything he chose, with no apparent effort.

It really is the kind of skill that you need company to acquire, if you've got any sense, that is, so this morning was very welcome. It also confirmed my suspicion that it's far better to be on top of a big wave than under it. A useful session and I shall persist.

PS: I've had a couple of emails from Garrett Goulash. Not sure who or where you are, Garrett, but thanks for the compliments (they weren't on my surfing) and no, I really don't mind who reads the blog. The more the merrier.

Summertime

Summer seems to have arrived. No sooner did the spring storms abate, than the temperature went up and stayed up. The thin duvet has been banished to the linen cupboard and there's now just a sheet on the bed. It was 31C today.

I've not worked through a summer before and feel rather glad than I don't have an outside window so I can't see the sky. Also, it's cooler. At least it is when the air-conditioning is on, Luke and Karleaha freeze. When it's off, I roast. Greg, wisely, has his own fan. When I go out for a coffee, I wear sunglasses and stick to the shade. The barrista in the deli is usually melting by lunchtime. I don't know how Margo, the owner, manages to prepare cooked breakfasts. After 9am, I don't know how anyone eats them.

Leaving work, it's still hot. So when we got home, we went for a swim off Sandy Beach. Then ate supper in the garden and sat out until it got dark and, apparently from nowhere, a gale got up which is now lashing all the trees. It may be a precursor to a late spring storm so the sooner I finish this and disconnect the computer to prevent the modem being cooked by lightning - it happens often - the better. Either that, or the power will fail again.

Here Today....

Why do blogs just stop? Just as you get interested in them and build them into your life as essential reading, they just stop. Sacred Facts has done it. Fifty Quid Bloke has done it and now, thankfully restarted. I suspect it's a whole range of things, from running out of things to say to running out of time, with death and divorce and such like in between, though not in those two cases.

Of course, if you live in regional Australia, and that's most of Australia, the answer is probably "no power." We are in the season of spring storms. The morning starts sunny but hot. The heat and humidity builds during the day, as do towering clouds, and then by tea-time, the heavens are ready for a grand electrical display which lasts most of the night. At some stage, you can bank on the power going down, probably for many hours. Blogs are, I think, supposed to be spontaneous and nothing kills spontaneity like a blank screen.

Neither is it helpful when it comes to the ironing. Confronted with a pile of shirts the height of Uluru the other night, I managed precisely one sleeve before we were plunged into darkness. There are compensations, of course. The lightning is spectacular, the trees in the reserve silhouetted against the sky and the light sufficient to pick out blades of grass on the lawn. We get sheet lightning and forked lightning, in case you get bored, and the thunder is bowel-loosening.

At some stage, there is usually a downpour, hammering on our metal roof. Why a metal roof? Well, we also get hail stones the size of golf balls which can turn slate or tiles into slivers in a few seconds. They also make pretty patterns on your car, if you were foolish enough to leave it outside.

Whale Watch

Forget kangaroo-shooting heterosexuality officers (see Straight Up below) - this is what it's all about. From the beach this morning we watched whales spouting and breaching and this afternoon, Sara went up on the headland and saw five of them frolicking, about 400m off-shore. Even in the vast expanse of sea, they manage to make an impact.

Straight Up

Sometimes you come across a new item that is so culturally rich, you just have to share it. So I bring you the news that the students' union of University of New England in Armidale, a country town some hours' drive from here, now has a Heterosexuality Officer.

He's a trainee lawyer, who lives at home with his mother but, he swiftly points out, does have a girlfriend. As a trainee lawyer, he's also swift to point out that he's got nothing against gays. It's just that it's unfair that gays should get all the attention and resources (I'm not clear what these resources are, but never mind, there's more). Straight people should have someone to look after their interests, too (I bet no one's ever been insulted or thumped on the streets of Armidale for being straight so this puzzles me as well). He gets paid a small sum for his efforts but, at the time of being interviewed, hadn't actually done anything yet.

It was quickly pointed out in the national press that he wasn't much of a model for red-blooded Aussie hetero males as he lived with his mum and, far worse, he still had the "P" plate that probationer drivers have to display on his ute. Then again, he was photographed as he was preparing for an evening's kangaroo shooting.

Finally, this appointment comes at a strange time as students across the land are up in arms at the Government's proposals to end compulsory student union membership, along with the compulsory fee that keeps student unions going. Part of the Government's argument is that the money gets spent on frivolous things like, errr, well, I can't think of any examples just now because I've just been reminded forcibly that Australia really is a foreign country.

Buskers, Buskers Everywhere

It's the International Buskers' Festival and for days the streets of Coffs and nearby Sawtell, where this bendy lady was performing, have been full of brazen individuals gratuitously abusing passers-by, flinging fiery brands into the air, and generally working their socks off in the spring sunshine. Today we also saw the New Zealand duo Motley Two (there's a rock joke in there, folks). Quote, from the top of towering unicycle: "Want to know how I get off? Come and see me after I come down off this bike." And there was Mario, Queen of the Circus, who does a juggling tribute to Freddie Mercury. You had to be there, really.

Ashes to Ashes

There's a bitter taste down here this morning as the nation comes to terms with yet another sporting failure. On these occasions, the media takes it upon itself to cushion the blow. ABC's Radio National (the loose equivalent of Radio 4) ran a sports bulletin that mentioned that the final Test had been drawn but omitted the fact that England had won the Ashes. (This is quite normal. If any Aussie wins a bronze medal in a major sporting event, we never hear who won gold, as it is clearly immaterial).

The Sydney Morning Herald was a little more generous, pointing out that the triumph was almost entirely due to a South African-born batsman. My colleague, Greg, agreed wholeheartedly, adding that there were also two Welshman in the side. And this from a nation of immigrants. The Australian remarked that it was a South African who broke Australian hearts, though he is best mates with Warney, so that makes it a bit better.

A senior member of the House of Representatives congratulated me as we entered Parliament House this morning and noted that England played the better cricket. I though this was magnamimous and relayed his comments to Greg, who promptly remarked: "No, we played worse." The real tragedy is that this opportunity for glee is mostly lost on me. I did try watching it on Sunday night but nothing seemed to be happening and then I became confused by the issue of "the light" (a revelation, perhaps?) and went to bed.

For guidance in all Australian sporting matters, I usually turn to the writings of Scratcher Gillespie at The Bladder I suggest you do too.

Some Success

I feel I should report that the Australian women's rowing eight (see Down Under and Out below) did bounce back from adversity to win a gold medal at the World Championships, all eight finishing sitting up and holding their oars. The Wallabies, however, did go down to the All Blacks. Coach Eddie Jones said the players just weren't good enough. This is good news for the northern hemisphere where the Wallabies will be touring shortly and bad news in this neck of the woods, representing a shocking blow to the national psyche. A lot rests on the Ashes.

Down Under and Out

We’re having a national crisis of confidence at the moment. Of course, it’s all about sport.

The Wallabies (that’s rugby union) have lost their last four matches which hasn’t happened since dinosaurs roamed the earth and there are calls for heads to roll (it’s very Welsh, really). They face a rampant All Blacks on Saturday. One luminary said that no one feared the side’s tight five because “they couldn’t pull a boy scout off your sister.”

Aussie tennis players are leaving tennis tournaments even quicker than Tim Henman. And as for the cricket - well, as you probably know, with one test to go and all to play for, when the team isn’t attacking the opposition, they’re attacking each other. So with the Ashes and the Tri-Nations to be decided at the weekend, and the rugby a foregone conclusion (we're going to lose), they can at least look to rowing for some meagre consolation.

You’ll remember the outrage at the last Olympics when the women’s eight was going strong for a medal and one of team, Sally Robbins, stopped for a rest, sorry, collapsed with exhaustion. Here’s a picture....


Un-Australian activity

The team are now back in business and have been competing in the World Championships in Japan, minus poor Sally and most of the rest of the Olympic competitors, apparently consumed by bitterness. Well, back in business, apart from a broken oar that lost them their heat and put them out of the competition. But, just to show it’s not all gloom and doom, I offer you this quote from their high-peformance director, Neil Donaldson: “At least they all finished sitting up.”

Yes Minister or Yes Mate?

Two telling pieces from the this week's news. First to the Parliament House in Canberra, where I spent much of last week, the flagpole of which you can see here. I've noted before that it's a very informal place, where Ministers expect to be called by their first names when they drop into the staff canteen, so it came as a surprise when security staff were told in a memo that they should no longer use the word "mate" as a form of address. Even a newcomer like me was shocked. The word is ubiquitous, a form of male bonding and the last thing that anyone would take offence to.

Predictably, the media denounced it as "un-Australian", which is the most damning indictment you could possibly use here; the Prime Minister, no less, said it was absurd and looked disgusted; and mate-ship was resumed at the security desks within 24 hours.

The other item has a less happy ending. Further north, in Queensland, the state that is home to all things crawly and poisonous and vicious, a husband and wife were fishing from a boat in one of their favourite water-holes when he was taken by a crocodile. She made it to the shore and raised the alarm but there was no sign of her husband. That's horrific, but what was interesting was the reaction.

It's been illegal to shot wild crocodiles since 1972 and there were calls for culling to be restarted. I thought this was ridiculous. There are parts of this wonderful country where very wild animals live and humans really shouldn't venture, unless, to put it bluntly, they want to become part of the food chain. If you do venture into that territory, then I reckon you go at your own risk.

And that is exactly what the man's widow said. She objected to the shooting of the crocodile thought to have taken her husband and said no others should be killed. That was not what her husband would have wanted, she said. Clearly a woman of some character.

Neighbours

Been a weekend for meeting more neighbours, or at least finding out more about the people you wave at when you see them on the street. This came about about because Carmen, next door on one side, had a small party on Friday, and because my new two-stroke whipper-snipper wouldn't start on Saturday.

Carmen is the owner of Stolly, the large Russian Blue cat who spends some time sleeping at our place and her house has many large fish tanks, housing local fish she and her parents have caught while diving nearby. They're quite intrepid, I think. Not sure fish tanks go with having a large, confident tom-cat but apparently they live in harmony.

Greg and Linda, on the other side have two children, two cats and a husky. Greg does a lot of fishing when he gets the chance. He has a ferocious four-stroke whipper-snipper but he wasn't around yesterday. Phil and Tracy live across the street with their children - Phil used to drive a wrecking truck in Sydney but prefers it here. We first met Phil when the people who sold us this house failed to provide us with any means of getting in. At least, we had remotes for the garage but they'd locked the interior door. He was very helpful and calm.

Liz and John live behind us. She's a lawyer working from home and John runs his own smallgoods supply business and he's surfed since he was five, but not in the winter. He dreams of buying some land and living off it, which seems to be a recurring theme here. Having met them once, it'll be shame if they move.

Lee, directly across the road I'd met with her Jack Russell on one of my morning runs. She was trying to take a photo of the moon just as the sun was coming up over the ocean. Partner Peter I met when I was about to dislocate my shoulder trying to start our new whipper-snipper. He's originally from Germany and they actually do have a small farm, inland from here. He kindly confirmed that the failure to start was not due to my incompetence (that must be a first)and then kindly dealt with the offending grass with his own four-stroke. Oh yes, and as I mentioned previously, Anne from Bethesda lives round the corner. That's all for the moment.

Meeting and Sleeping

The beach is a great meeting place, I suppose for no other reason that people spend so much time there. Marcus, the estate agent who sold us this house, told me he often did deals "out the back" ie bobbing up and down beyond the wave-break on his surf board. And Luke, the MP for whom I work, often gets harangued about everything from the Pacific Highway to industrial relations when he dons his boardies and wanders down to Diggers, where we used to live.

My own meetings are simpler, I'm glad to say. Among the regulars on the dawn shift at Sandy Beach is Ann, a colleague of Sara's whose terrier sometimes licks the salt off my legs when I've been running. Actually, it's not quite so simple, because Ann comes from Bethesda, so there's an element of coincidence. But it's very simple for the dog.

On Saturday, I was wandering along, sizing up the surf, when I saw a familiar figure in T-shirt and boardies, board under his arm, clearly making his way back into the village. I see him often but don't know his name. Had he been in, I asked? No, he replied. "I came down early but then I fell asleep and now the wind's come up. Tomorrow morning about 7.30 to eight. I'll give it another go then." I went home, changed and surfed despite the wind.

Come 8.30 on Sunday, I was in the water and noticed the same bloke - same T-shirt, boardies and board - and watched him make his way down to the end of the beach, put down his board on the little dunes, lie face down in the sand, and evidently fall fast asleep. He was still there when I left, desperate for breakfast, some time later.

I suppose there's simplicity in the fact that, if you don't feel like doing anything, you can just lie down on the beach in the middle of winter and fall asleep, but I can't help feeling there are one or two questions hanging in the air as well.