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.