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...
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.
