Walking the Walk

Another glorious day in paradise. The perfect day the tackle the ludicrously picturesque Manly Walk. Winding its way for 10km along the fringes of the World's greatest harbour, the track starts at the Spit bridge and finishes at the famous beachside suburb of Manly. Along the way secluded beaches, rocky coves, stunning lookouts and bubbling streams vie for the walkers' megapixels. Cafes and ice cream trucks vie for Mei's megastomach.

The locals have seen it all before - another weekend horde of city slickers puffing and panting their way along in their never-seen-a-drop-of-sweat designer sportswear.

Not your traditional catwalk...

Hard to believe that if you keep sailing out to the glorious blue horizon you'll end up in a rainy, damp, cold land where the closest you'll get to a beach is stale re-runs of last year's Home & Away.

Rock takes a breather with some fellow rocks.

The half-way marker. 5km down, 5 to go.

But of course, because a quick boxing match is the natural thing to do on a magnificent hidden beach. Er, yes...

It can't be that deep. Rock wonder's if he's found a shortcut to Manly.

Dee Why... Dee X?

Wikipedia is unsure exactly why the Dee Why beach is called what it is. Perhaps some jaded explorer, after stumbling upon yet another pristine Sydney beach, was running out of superlatives and settled for the simple Beach A, B, C... D nomenclature. And ever since the city has been wondering: D? Why?

Rock, of course, had a different theory, a theory involving rates of change, plenty of dy/dx's, and the odd kinematic equation. But like all of Rock's theories, postulation ceased at the first sight of the cafes lining the picturesque expanse of golden sand.

Is there a better way to spend a balmy spring day in the Harbour City, than with a hunk of chargrilled meat hanging tantalisingly in front of one's face?



Gosh darn it, the Jetstar copyright lawyers aren't suing me yet over the trademark jump - it's almost like no one actually reads this blog.

The lazy curve of sand is framed by a row of Norfolk Pines - it's just like Manly, except without the drunken Poms.

Hey, it's a rock pool. Hur hur hur, a rock pool, geddit?

Of course it's cold! It's come all the way from bloody New Zealand!

It's obviously not quite summer yet... the tops are still on!

Looking back west from North Head, the jutting peninsula of rock that marks the northern side of the mighty Sydney harbour.


The sails are out as the city bakes in the hazy afternoon sun.

Road Trip!

It is surely one of the ironies of western civilisation that Labor Day - the day when workers around the country celebrate the right to hold down a decent job - is celebrated by doing anything but. I mean, if staggering into an office at 7am with the intravenous espresso drip in one arm is worth celebrating, then how come the F3 northbound out of Sydney was chocka at 5.01pm? Surely the eager workers should be celebrating their good fortune by filing an extra couple of Form B37s just for the sheer joy of it, or polishing off an extra account reconciliation spreadsheet just for the warm fuzzy feeling of two nicely balanced columns? Heck, shouldn't Labor Day be the day you splurge on a new stapler? You know, that sleek black model on Bob's desk down in Procurement that you've been lusting after?

A quick search on the all-knowing Wikipedia reveals that little Suri Cruise is an alien and... sorry, I digress. It reveals Labour Day started out as a movement to celebrate the 8 hour working day. Rock, not having much to celebrate on that front, argued that surely on that logic the 16 hour work day is worth double celebrations.

And so, like the rest of Sydney, off they went up the clogged freeway in search of fun in the sun... and Chinese takeaways. First stop - the picture-perfect Avoca Beach. It may only be early spring, but here in paradise that means 27+ degrees, cloudless skies, and beach babes aplenty. If you look really hard, you might see one in the background... muahahahahaha :)

Women's Weekly is out in force looking for salacious cover shots as the stars come out to play. Unfortunately this pic misses out on the coveted cover spot - the editor felt sunnies that cover less that 85% of the face are like, so yesterday.

A bronzed surf lifesaver stands ready to plunge into the deadly surf at a moments notice should his seasoned gaze spot anyone struggling... to tie up their bikini.

Another stop, another beach. This is Terrigal, a pumping beach front town with a nice array of eateries. Among other things...

Dude!, feeling a little defensive there with all those bronzed six packs on display? The only six pack Rock can manage is the ice cold one in the coke freezer across the road.

Welcome aboard ma'am. A friendly conductor welcomes guests aboard the first class carriage of the fabled Orient Express. Come on, back then that hat was in, I tell ya. But is that cool or what? A B&B consisting of old railway carriages converted into cabins.

Even the toilet comes complete with working brake wheel and lever! Mei just wishes Rock was so adept at manipulating the complex toilet-seat raising throttle.

Toot toot! Until Rock can afford the Trans-Siberian, this will have to do.

So after steaming through the night, the Express pulls into the World Heritage Barrington Tops National Park. You can't really tell it's the next day in the photos, because it's just another flawless blue sky.

Barrington Tops is a plateau perched above the verdant farmland of the New England district. Not sure what made the early settlers call it that - they were probably homesick what with the cloudless blue skies and lack of incessant driving rain and all.

The view from the top. Ok, not the top. Rock's lofty claim that the guidebook's estimate of an all day hike to reach the summit "is clearly a gross exaggeration for someone of my formidable physique", proved somewhat unfounded. With four hours of backbreaking uphill slog behind them, the party was forced to admit defeat and turn around. At least base camp comes fully equip with spa and takeaway shop.

They did say we might see some feral pigs lurking in the undergrowth...

Now here's a dining room view that even Aria can't match.

In hindsight, Rock is rather glad his "we'll make the summit or die trying" manifesto went down about as well with The Party as the Let's Give Taiwan Their Freedom bill. After all, now we can kick back and watch the Grand Final.

Nothing like roughing it the hard way with only a giant spa and private balcony between you and the uncaring wilderness.

How can anyone argue against the benefits of globalisation? Now even the most obscure country town comes complete with fried rice, sweet & sour pork and chicken cashew nut courtesy of the friendly local takeaway. If the WTO could taste this, you'd have free trade by the end of the meal.

Day three - time to race the Ferraris and Maseratis back to the big smoke. But on another magnificent day (mercury hits 30), why rush it? This is The Entrance. Which, by the way, is the rather cool name for a town, and not the moment when Rock strides into frame.

In fact, The Entrance is a rather practical name for the spot (and town) where the big Lake Macquarie connects with the ocean.

But, that's quite enough folks - my stapler is waiting for me...

Dude! That was like, totally sick, man!

With Johny "Darn it I wish I'd studied Mandarin" Howard and Dubbya "Welcome to OPEC" Bush declaring Sydney their personal remember-when-we-ruled-the-free-world party zone, it was clearly cool to be anywhere else. Cool being the operative word. Australia's snow season may be about as long as George W's attention span, but that didn't stop half of Sydney from heading south one last time before swapping the parka for the speedos.

But first, a few scenic shots to set the scene. Ok, so Australian "mountains" rate about as high as George Gregan's pass on the world scale, but that doesn't preclude them from offering up a few stunning vistas here and there. This is Lake Jindabyne, at the foot of the somewhat optimistically named Snowy Mountains.

Reminds me a bit of the good ol' Desert Road. Desolate alpine scenery with an Aussie twang.

At times like these, I bet they wish they never, ever agreed to let those pesky Kiwis cross the ditch unimpeded.

Why I'll be darned if this isn't the perfect spot to sink a few oil wells folks. With Big W in town and OPEC and pretzels on his mind, it's time to lock up your national parks and slap a V8 sticker on the back of your hybrids.

But enough of the prelude (but not, unfortunately for readers, the inane APEC jokes). The sun sets over the bustling alpine ski village of Jindabyne, but not before a raid on the end-of-season bargain bins yields some so-cheap results.

Quick, snap on these skis before the last of the snow melts! Rock pauses for a photo opportunity before his bid for gold in the giant slalom.
Mei settles for gold of a different kind. Nothing warms frostbitten hands like a steaming golden chippie.

Finally, the open slopes! The snow is falling and the piste is supposed to be quick. You wouldn't have picked that watching this skier in action...

Green tracks are for newbies! Show me the black diamonds! Rock talks big before breaking the no toboggans rule on the aforementioned green strip by sliding half way down on a rather bruised ass.

Don't tell me the Great Wall of Sydney extends this far. John Howard will go to any lengths to keep the un-Australiaaans out. Too bad Kevin "Ni Hao" Rudd let himself in.

One of the many slopes Rock was too chicken to go down.

Now that man deserves an ice cold one. Ok, he doesn't, but luckily the machine doesn't care how many times you tumbled on the kiddee slopes.

Mist shrouds an early start to beat the rest of the APEC refugees back to Sydney.

But clears in time to reveal... that nothingness that is the city everyone loves to hate - Canberra. Ironically, with JWH going to such great lengths to ensure none of his power buddies had to set foot in the actual capital, a number of Sydneysiders took the opportunity to remind themselves why... they live in Sydney. Ok, it's not that bad. In fact, on a sparkling day with the nicely groomed artificial lake shimmering in the spring sun, it's actually worthy of being called a capital. Well, for Australia anyway :)

Canberra! Oh what a feeling. The feeling in question being boredom.

You know a city has image problems when all you can think to write home about is "well, they had this big fountain".

Still, there are worse ways to spend a Sunday than a relaxing cycle around the lake. Like watching the Prime Minister shamelessly flog the climate change agenda like he was born a believer.

The last time Mei was on a bike there were 1.5billion people riding with her. Actually, no, that's not entirely true. The last time Mei was on a bike was the day she realised she could fit it in the boot of Rock's Corolla for the run back to Ferg Hall.

Last stop (before the traffic jam outside Campbelltown that is) is the Aussie Museum. Basically Australia's answer to Te Papa, except instead of Vegemite tins on display they have old Holdens and footy shorts.

But the architecture is top notch it has to be said. This porthole symbolises the view the first Australians got as they first sighted their land of golden soil girt by sea. The artist seems to have forgotten the prison bars.


Now we're getting esoteric. So esoteric in fact, I can't think of a single tenuous APEC connection to make.

One thing about Canberra. You never feel crowded. No people. No cars. Certainly no politicians dumb enough to spend more than the time it takes their chauffeur to get them from Parliament to the airport at the end of the latest pointless debate.

Clearly three hours of 104.2FM pounding away in the background has given Rock a few delusions of grandeur. Mate, there's always Idol next year...