Rest Day – Deniliquin

First things first. The town’s name comes from a white Australian mishearing the name of a local aboriginal elder. I must admit it sounds like the away captain of a visiting quidditch team to Hogwarts. The town sits on the Edward River and this water is a vital part of the local farmlands through irrigation channels.

The river flows through the town and looks idyllic. It enables quite a bit of bathing and water sports. Its muddy appearance is blamed on carp. They’re not indigenous and not loved or eaten! I don’t think they help but there’d need to be a lot of carp to colour it. All this was explained to me by Margaret and Sonya at the Information Centre who patiently answered my questions about the town’s history and livelihood.

Deniliquin’s existence is based on farming. Sheep and beef are vital and they roam and produce good meat, merino wool and dairy. Then there’s dry crops (crops that rely on rainfall such as cereals.) That leaves crops that need copious water from the river. Rice, surprisingly to me, is an important local crop and one of the largest processing plants is nearby. Cotton is a new crop that they manage to grow without its usual massive need for water. It was all interesting as was the various pestilences of fire ants, mice, rabbits, rats etc that literally became plagues at various times. Drought is a concern but flooding is a bigger problem but somehow farmers all seem to make a living and they generate a need for services and the existence of the town.

A few folk drift in and out of this Information Centre and I believed the ladies enjoyed answering all my questions and displaying their immense local knowledge.

It wasn’t all educational though and I managed to combine a trip to the laundrette with some bike maintenance.

Here I met Jean who was cleaning the shop. This was one of four jobs she did during the week. She was born and bred in ‘Deni’ and seemed one of the hard working and non-grumbling folk you find around here. Remorselessly cheerful she told me of her four adult children and what they all did for a living. Added to that was her 97 year old mother in care who required her attention. A busy life: she needed a rest day! If there are any people who make the world go round then these are they.

Clearly breakfast was on my mind…

Back at the motel with my clean washing I put my feet up and then typed ‘museum’ into Google Maps. Result! I found a car museum called The Depot. This was a family collection beautifully displayed. I particularly loved the Australian vehicles.

Now I’ve found a car museum I feel my work is now done in Australia. If you know me then such a collection is nirvana.

A bit like a Sunday night at home then despite there being the remaining hours of the weekend your thoughts turn to work tomorrow. Back at the motel I folded my clothes, stuffed my panniers, looked at tomorrow’s route, had a quick call with Anna, typed up this drivel, had my beef pie, potato salad and tomato and thought about getting on the road and heading toward my third State of the trip, Victoria. an early start methinks.

Jerilderie to Deniliquin – 56 miles & 51m climbed

Sunday is certainly a day of rest for most in Australia and places shut. But what about my breakfast? I’d noted that the bakery was shut on a Sunday and was advised by a check out assistant, at the local supermarket, that the BP petrol station on the outskirts was the place to go on Sunday morning. This place was a 24/7 truck stop and so the Sabbath was irrelevant. Some place had to be open to fuel the trucks and truckers who barrelled through this part of NSW day and night.

So Tony was a happy boy with a bacon and egg sandwich and some things for lunch.

It was a still, cool morning and I sped along. I knew after about two hours things would change, I’d start to become weary, the heat would arrive and the monotony of this dreary stretch of road would start to pall. There was nothing new in this but the nature of these settlements meant there was nothing for 56 miles to stop for, it was a grind all the way through with nowhere to stop and sit or any shade.

However before I got to this point I had a few cattle to negotiate. These boys and girls (?) were either side of the road and presumably crossing it. With the odd car coming along they kept off the tarmac and I nervously pedalled through them. They were skittish and would break from their grazing into a panic and start running. The chance of a half a ton of meat running into me at 15mph was not a happy prospect.

As I’m cautiously cycling through them up behind me comes an 18 wheeler. Needless to say he’s in no physical danger should los toros charge him. Being a pillock he wants to overtake me, after all he can save a nanosecond on his 300 mile journey if he gets past the cyclist! He does overtake and I continue slowly until clear of the cattle much relieved.

I did mention sponge in my last blog. An old trick for a numb butt is to sit on a car wash sponge. I deployed this down my shorts. It was a kind of fix and life was easier. It also helped that there was no climbing to do. Gradients make you press harder into the saddle as you push on the pedals up a hill.

I’d identified Deniliquin as a place for me to stay two nights in a motel and chill a little. It eventually came into view and so did the Deniliquin Bakery where I treated myself to a Tuscan Chicken pie and a coffee ice cream. Being too early for check in at the motel I cruised around this little town. It looked lovely. A good pick I must say.

Temora to Narrandera, NSW – 83 miles & 494m climbing

Narrandera to Jerilderie, NSW – 68 miles & 176m

It’s not often I wake to horse’s hooves on the gallop but in the dark on this oval sand racetrack a horse was following an ute. I was staying at this stadium. It was a hot morning and as I wandered around unpacking my tent and getting ready to depart I didn’t put on my jersey, it was very warm. Poor Trigger, no wonder he was out doing circuits in the cool/dark.

Loaded I faced a long day, I was worried. Not least because there were several routes I could pick to Narrandera all indirect and some carrying the risk of being dirt tracks as opposed to tarmac. Anyway I first trundled into the town centre and bought some lunch before heading out.

The first couple of hours on most days are easy: the wind is down, the temperature early 20s and my butt and legs are not complaining. On this latter matter they were quite tolerant for up to two hours and then I knew I was in for a long day. I also knew I wouldn’t pass any shops or restaurants for the whole day. I had to carry enough water to see me through. I suppose in desperation I could have found a farm house, which were few and far between and well set back from the road and was anyone in? However, I carried over four litres on the bike (which I drank as the temperatures eventually hit the mid 30s.) Riding on the flat the weight is less of an issue but water still weighs about 1kg per litre. The surrounding land seemed mainly scrub. Some had harvested crops but the other land looked like grazing albeit now parched at this time of year.

I ground on wondering if I should have chanced the odd dirt track to reduce the distance and listening to podcasts until my AirPods ran flat. Podcasts today included ‘The Price of Football’ and the ‘History of England’. One is a forensic analysis of the finances of English football clubs and the other is the long slow demise of Charles I through the long English Civil War. As I plodded along I noticed to my delight/thrill two kangaroos bouncing along in a field. The overtook me and when ahead they leapt the low fence, crossed the road in front of me and disappeared into some bushes and trees. It’s taken a lot of miles in 2020 and this year to see them although Heaven knows I am into double figures seeing road kill.

It’s clear that the afternoon sees winds rise and inevitably it has to be a headwind. I reached Narrandera out for the count due to a 45 mile grind into this steady breeze. Also reappearing is that horror – the rumble strip. This is a popular US feature where drivers presumably lose concentration as they drive deserted roads at 70 or 80 mph. This strip is meant to drag them to their senses and make them concentrate keeping the truck on the road. For a cyclist it means that when combined with a negligible hard shoulder you spend a lot of time balancing the bike on a foot wide strip of tarmac or driving on the road.

Now I know you think I’m a gritty Tyke but I just happened to stop, to reconnoitre my evening accommodation solutions, near a motel. Noting my Finance Director was still asleep and unable to dissuade me, I dived in and for £50 got a room. Tony was a tired boy. Please forgive me.

I feel walking is good for tired cycling legs and I washed up and then ambled into Narrandera and had some fish and chips at an RSL.

You can make a faster start in the morning if you don’t have to pack panniers and a tent and it wasn’t long after waking I’m asking for a tuna mayo sandwich at a bakery. A very pretty young girl served me and with short sleeves proudly displayed her ‘sleeve’ of tattoos. What was she thinking? I despair. Yes, I know, I’m old.

However, those lovely folk at TalkSport were covering the Leeds Utd vs Leicester City match. I joined the commentary as Leicester are missing gilt edged chances in the second half to increase their 0-1 lead. On a long hill we not only equalised but took the lead. It’s truly troubling how this bloody football team can make or ruin a day. For those fans back in Blighty I knew their weekend would now be perfect.

After this initial climbing the road was flat but the countryside offered no shade just wide open spaces with no trees near the road. By the middle of the day my tuna mayo was torturing me to be eaten (5/10) from my pannier and stopping in bright hot sunlight I quickly devoured it. Again, I must stress a regular calorific consumption is not an option it’s essential.

Jerilderie eventually came into view. I’ve cycled 497 miles so far. For A$32 my landlady, Ali, found me a piece of grass with a tree to afford some shade. Before showering I cycled down the wide open vista of a Main Street to the centre to find a supermarket. Tonight I was going to make dinner and I needed some bits including a sponge (more will be revealed.)

As I’m cruising around I found a Leopard tank, water skiing on a lake and lots of graphics and old buildings concerning Ned Kelly and his gang knocking over a bank and staying in town for three days in 1879 as they toured the area generally killing and robbing. The town seemed very proud of this association! These towns are set in the middle of wide open spaces of arable and livestock farming activity. The town inevitably simply exists to service the population involved in the farming. So there was a small hospital, a school, vets, doctors, a post office, garages, petrol stations etc. The settlements are 60 to 80 miles apart. In between there are farms with vast acreages.

Near the campsite was a sports club that offered a/c and ice cold beer. However, before 7pm I found myself asleep in the tent. Oh so nice.

Angels of the Black Top

Canberra, ACT to Harden, NSW – 77 miles and 1,147m of climbing

Harden to Temora – 53 miles and 567m of climbing

I was worried about the ride from Canberra. I had ‘spent’ a lot of fitness getting to Canberra and had had a brief but lovely time whilst there but I didn’t rest and the quads really ached! The start was flat and cycle paths abounded in this well laid out city. However, soon the road started to rise but with the weather overcast and relatively cool I made it to Yass without too much distress. Here I asked a pedestrian which was a good cafe and following her advice I can confirm she was right, the chocolate muffin was exceptional. The further I got away from Canberra the more I ended up in the country and I found myself on the small chain ring spinning away.

The roads were wide with easy climbs but long fast descents. It was here that I lived in fear of my AirPods falling out and for me never to see them again. I listen to music or podcasts. On the latter it’s either the English Civil War, Leeds United or politics.

I have only two fears on a bike. One is cycling through a tunnel. The traffic noise is terrifying and if the tunnel has an incline you feeling like a target as you pedal at 5mph whilst a truck bears down on you at 60mph in the darkness. The other terror is a unique to Australia: crossing the lanes a motorway from the hard shoulder. The Aussie road designers configured a cheap solution to exiting to a town on the other side of the four lanes. It was simply turning across traffic into the central reservation and then waiting for a gap to cross. This Russian roulette involves 18 wheelers doing 80mph and cars going even faster as you attempt to find a gap in the traffic to make it to the central reservation. I have a slow, badly balanced bike to get across the four lanes. Fortunately Anna doesn’t read the blog!

An obvious delight in store was my lunch from last night and I eventually pulled off the road near the grave of a 19th Century highwayman. He met his end here after seemingly causing havoc and death wherever he went!

So despite the distance and climbing: a combination of a day off the bike, eating well on the road and cooler weather I pedalled into Harden and found the caravan and campsite immediately. Finding anyone to check in was difficult until I rand a telephone number and a young lad ambled out of a caravan. He said the fee was A$42 but on seeing cash agreed to A$40, frankly given the quality of the site it was too expensive. However, I was a long way from an alternative. It was a shabby spot with a weary and dirty washroom. My pitch was fine but ultimately too near the main road. The 18 wheelers thundered past until the early hours and to cap it all off it was a nearby railway line. This had a long slow departure at 00:35 I recollect.

You can eat in most small towns at the ex-Servicemen clubs. They have a bar and restaurant where you can get a beer and meal for less than £15. I found one here and ate my fill before returning to see if my laundry had dried. It had and despite the astonishing and awful noise the swarm of cockatoos were making in the trees I crawled into my little tent. I listened to the trucks and trains until eventually I succumbed to sleep.

In the morning I packed and found a wonderful bakery. Here I was asked by a chap about my tour. He volunteered he had a lot of motorcycles and had ridden a 1942 Harley Davison 5,000km last year on a charity ride for The Flying Doctor. He showed me a photo of a barn full of motorbikes. I don’t think he was short of a bob or two! Sadly the reason he was in Harden, with his wife, was to attend a funeral for another of the riders who was, at the time, in remission.

By way of preventing complacency the Angels of the Blacktop served up, on the supposedly easier day, a climb of 260m in the first 10 miles. Also it was a lot hotter than the day before and I started to fade badly. I don’t think I ate well on the ride and the heat rose to 42°C. Sometimes I’m only human, obvs. However I got to the show ground at Temora and found a pitch near the new modern washroom for A$15.

In fact the supervisors of the site came round collecting the dosh and I struck up a conversation with Garry and Joan. Both were retired and interested in my bike ride. It surprising what people tell you! Their gay son lived in Ealing with his partner and they’d been across to the UK a few times. Garry had worked for P&O and his son for Intercontinental Hotels. They eventually left advising I remain vigilant for the deadly brown snakes! Thank you (!) and I did keep my tent zippers tightly shut. The night was sweltering and my flannel jim jams were stored away as I chose my birthday suit until about 3am when the temperature fell from sizzle to warm and I slipped into my sleeping bag liner. Sorry, I know, too much information…

Again I had found earlier a club and had a good guzzle before returning to the tent. The next day offered my longest ride of the trip so far. Deep joy.

Canberra

Checking into an apartment I immediately spread the contents of panniers around the place and extracted all my laundry! Yes, I washed it all. Even though I wash it every night at a campsite I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to put it into a washing machine and clean it properly. I was staying in the centre of Canberra and around my accommodation were many shops and malls.

There were also many restaurant options. My main shopping interest would be supermarkets. I’m always looking for things you can ‘add water’ to. Carrying some tins is attractive but they’re heavy! When I leave Canberra the adventure will start with towns few and far between and the ones I visit will be small with few shops or facilities. I will miss the luxury of choice.

Canberra has a population of half a million (quite small) and is the seat of the Australian government. It ended up as the capital at the turn of the 20th Century after Sydney and Melbourne couldn’t decide which city should be the capital between them on an ongoing basis! A compromise was Canberra. (Seems a bit like the nonsense of Strasbourg being a part time seat for the EU along with Brussels.) It’s a modern place by virtue of its age and has a garden city layout. It certainly had a calm ambience; a lot less frenetic and diverse in folk than Sydney.

In the morning of my day off I visited the very disappointing and half closed National Museum of Australia. The two positive ‘takeaways’ were that it was free and the toilets were nice. They revisit the story of the indigenous people. Clearly the European colonisers stole, killed and abused the existing First Nations. It’s a disgraceful and maybe an unforgivable story, not least the stealing of children from their parents and attempting to make them behave and grow up like the white population. It’s all on record. Australia now struggles with its history and I’ve heard or read about this history forever. Whether the lot of the indigenous people is positively served by this is something I’m not convinced about. You can only feel guilty for so long before the world moves on. If it hadn’t would we ever have forgiven the Germans and Japanese for their WW2 atrocities and genocide?

(However, I don’t live in Australia. I must have some humility in that my response is based on my background and knowledge.)

Anyway I had an appointment with John Hunt. John was an over confident public school boy who Ealing Technical College had found digs in Southall at the start of his HND in Hotel Management in October 1973. In the same house, lodging with the family Bonicci, was another young public school boy, a long way from Leeds: me! John escaped the awful Bonicci’s and got digs in Ealing; I quickly followed in my 1965 Triumph Herald. Obviously this is a friendship that’s endured and whilst I was interested to see Canberra I’d mainly swung past the city to meet John.

Ever the organised curator of a fine programme we met at the Australian War Memorial, which doubles as a museum to the 103,000 servicemen who’ve died in all the conflicts the government has sent troops to fight in. After a look round we joined their daily Last Post Ceremony. It was powerful and moving.

The bond between the British and Australians (and New Zealanders) is complete over the blood spilt in various conflicts but I never quite appreciated the fight they had against the Japanese. A nation that in WW2 fought with a barbarism that would match ISIS.

(I remember my father talking about a garage in West Yorkshire, in the 1970s, who wouldn’t let Japanese cars in their workshop. The owner had been a POW and was unable to forgive their treatment.)

So after that wonderful experience we wondered back into the centre to find a bar John knew. Sadly he didn’t know where it was though and by the time we climbed onto our stools with some pale ales I was on my way to 23,780 steps for the day. Some rest day!

Dinner was Asian/Chinese and delicious. You may ask how John finds his way to Canberra. his talented wife, Mary, is a grand fromage at the British High Commission looking at development in the Pacific Islands. John works part time, online, with a company in the UK whilst fitting in tennis, walking, cycling, facilities management and preparing itineraries for a number of Brits, like me, who pass through.

Ever the host and casting a parental eye over my welfare he called for a doggy bag and I left with the remains of the meal neither of us could finish/face. This would be real boon the next day.

So John called an Uber and I returned to my apartment to worry about tomorrow and the 76 miles it threatened. After Sydney, the climbing challenges and then Canberra I felt the real Australia was about to present itself.

Easy Tiger

Moss Vale to Goulburn – 50 miles and 763m climbed

Goulburn to Canberra – 55 miles and 443m climbed

I have in my mind’s eye, as I was thinking about my tour, what a great campsite is and this was. Reluctantly I made a leisurely exit in the mist and set sail for Goulburn.

It’s hard to get fit for a 1,100 mile bike ride. I simply try and remain fit prior to departure knowing that I’ll survive or get fitter as the weeks elapse. However, yesterday was pleasing in that I got up the Macquarie Pass but it came at a cost, my legs were now sore. Today I wanted minimal climbing. So I opted to go down the motorway!

On most motorways in NSW you can ride on the hard shoulder. The shoulder is wide, usually swept although the proliferation on bolts, kangaroo carcasses (seven seen so far) and broken bungees are prolific. Of course road builders minimise the gradients and it’s an easier ride. Less comfortable are the vehicles passing on your right at 70mph plus but they’re a long way from you.

One really pleasant bonus was motorway services. Of course a nice roadside cafe with real filter coffee and home cooking may have been more desirable but a cheese and tomato sandwich and an air conditioned seating area are not difficult compromises.

Arriving in the medium sized Goulburn I found the centre and a ubiquitous Coles store. It seems that they and Woolworths have coverage of the country and, as supermarkets go, they’re quite well stocked. I ventured in and bought a meat pie, bread rolls, bananas and peaches for dinner. I then pedalled off in search of a campsite on the southern outskirts. I made a mess of the navigation here and found myself retracing my route up some unforgivably steep hills before the entrance came to view.

From here the weather made a challenge of washing clothes. It started very hot and sunny (good), became furiously windy and blew my coat hangers off the line (challenging) through to a heavy downpour (bad). I wash my used kit every night. I carry the concentrated washing liquid you use in your washing machines. A little goes a long way in a hand bowl.

As I’m carrying out my chores in the ‘Amenities’ block Terry comes into view. Terry’s a chatty 66 year old burly former miner. With his wife he pulls his caravan to a selection of sites camping for a few days before moving on. Like many retired folk he also has a part time job and his is driving a concrete mixer. It’s not for the money he says. He’s interested by my cycling and touring and it gives him the opportunity to tell me about his motorbike touring days and his e-bike that he hauls around on his truck. As the wind picks up and I worry that my lightweight tent may be picked up and disappear like a kite and so I have to breakaway. He seems disappointed.

Washing and dinner completed I found my way into my tent before 8pm and shortly thereafter I found myself looking at the inside of my eyelids.

Early to bed means early to rise. Early departures are cooler and can get you to your destination in good time. So with this in mind I was back on the saddle before 7.30am and again on the hard shoulder. Canberra offered a rest day and the meet up with a very old friend. In fact all the way back to 1973.

The legs were better and the route easier. In line with all the thought processes of a pessimist I rued the steady descent into Canberra knowing that my eventual northern exit meant a steady climb!

Eventually I left New South Wales entered Australian Capital Territory state and entered this large open city with wide cycle lanes. As the country’s capital it looks quite grand with lots of offices, probably many of them international and governmental organisations. Tonight was a hotel, yippee!

Up, Up & Away

Wollongong to Moss Vale – 48 miles and 1,143m climbing

So I woke up feeling hungover after minimal sleep thanks to my noisy neighbours. Their stupidity and inconsideracy was astonishing. I was leaving the site and the potential for future abuse wasn’t a problem for me. ‘Reception’ was shut and so I couldn’t complain but I later emailed the site office outlining the miserable night. I received a prompt reply advising they’d grip it. I hope they did.

Meanwhile I looked at my pre-planned route and decided to abandon some of the nice country lane detours and to cycle down the calm Princes Highway. This made it quicker and less hilly.

Cycling navigation Apps have an algorithm to avoid car traffic. That’s logical but for a cycle tourer with many miles to do you often can’t tolerate the stopping and starting of cycle paths and their meandering routes. I had to get a move on. I had planned all my rides with Ride with GPS under the tutelage of my appointed ‘Tour Digital Navigation Consultant’ (Nick from Harrogate) but I always knew I would adapt. Interestingly enough Nick always planned on the ‘car’ route option rather than ‘bicycle’.

Not having breakfast I stopped at a McDonalds and had a large gross type of breakfast burger. I need the calories but I won’t ever eat anything like that again! Now replenished I set my sights on reaching ‘the wall’. The story is that inland from the coast the terrain rises 700m in the form of a large cliff. In a car, by driving a long way south or north, you can do this more easily but ultimately you need to ascend to the Highlands.

My route, which was the one all the Apps couldn’t avoid, was the Macquarie Pass. This joyous road was 6.5 miles long and via a tortuous set of hairpins, at a fairly constant 10% gradient, it achieved the 700m.

In 38°C I wended my way up with several stops. On this gradient my heavy bike is very skittish as regards balance as there is 20kg of luggage on the rear wheel. I rode at 3 or 4mph for over a couple hours. This route was a jolly good outing for Saturday motorbikes who zoomed noisily up the pass; they weaved in and out of the cars and whistled three feet from my hip at 30mph. It was awful, not least the sound that suddenly appeared from nowhere and was always distracting.

As you cycle you don’t properly know when it ends but remain hopeful that you’re getting near the top on each bend you turn. A check on that optimism is the smell of overheated brake pads on the vehicles descending. Obviously there was a long way yet and judging by this burning smell I could tell that vehicles had been standing on their brakes for miles.

A few club cyclists went past on their carbon road bikes. Two quick lads shouted ‘Allez, allez, you’ve got this!’ as they sped quickly past. I appreciated their encouragement. Emerging eventually at the top I found the Robertson Pie cafe. I kid you not. So gasping for air and needing to replenish the two and a half litres of drink I consumed I popped in. Along with the water I indulged in a peaches and cream pie. As fab as this was it wasn’t sufficient reward.

Pretty jiggered I laboured on for another 15 miles to the town of Moss Vale. Here I pulled into a calm yet well set up campsite and erected my little tent. I’d spoken to Barbara the day before. She’d said if I got there by 4.30pm she’d have a space. Frankly if I’d got there by 7pm I’d have still had a field! It wasn’t busy.

The kitchen or ‘cook house’ had a microwave, hob, kettle, fridge, toaster, benches and tables. All I needed. However, I chose to dine out at The Returned and Services League of Australia club (RSL). It offers a bar and restaurant as well as karaoke (!) and some sports facilities. They are plentiful in the country and I’ve visited before. The dinner selection was wide, the food not fancy yet delicious, the setting comfortable and the beer cold. I became a temporary member and was in.

Back at the campsite I got talking with some Queenslanders from Rockhampton, a place Anna and I stayed in April. They’d come to the Highlands to escape the summer heat on the coast. Typical of many sites are residents who are contract workers. In the cook house on my return were three young guys in hi viz. They were working on a railway contract nearby but all came from Newcastle, just north of Sydney. These boys worked late and rose early. This was a Saturday night and when asked if they missed home they just shrugged their shoulders. They went where the work was.

I dived into my tent and enjoyed nine hours of solid sleep. Bliss.

Off!

Sydney to Wollongong: 53 miles & 1,214m climbed

So after getting some sleep (after jet lag) and generally getting set eventually Friday morning saw me join the heavy rush hour traffic including workers and school drops.

Sydney is a busy place and it took me 2 hours and 350m of climbing alone to get out of the city and into the Royal Park. I could have stuck to the Princes Highway but it’s a dreary fast road although I was to join it the next day. There’s an unswept hard shoulder and there’s was no appeal as there’s nowt to see.

So I ventured into the park. The traffic was light but the climbing was ferocious. However, despite numerous weather forecasts the rain never appeared and in drenching humid conditions I trundled south.

Eventually I emerged on the coast and views were a sight for sore eyes. I’d had an earlier coffee ‘pit stop’ but this time I had a proper lunch, again with a sea view. Nutrition is always on mind. Frankly, you need to keep eating. You will ordinarily burn twice your usual calorie consumption by touring and so it’s all about eating what you see.

The cycle ride was fine and the legs didn’t like hills but they kept going. My road bike at home weighs c10kg. My loaded touring bike weighs over 30kg. It has more hears but such weight is immense and my average speed is a lot slower. The ride was straightforward up until they closed the road! There was an awful crash and it involved a very crushed truck at Stanwell Tops. I said to a policeman “I hope they’re okay”. He just shook his head.

As regards the diversion a lady appeared from out of a house and seeing my distress said “Aw mate…. No need to take diversion just follow this footpath”. I did and passed two grounded helicopters including an air ambulance and a selection of blocked, being ghouls, taking photos of the crash.

I seldom book camp sites, after all will I get there? However, being the weekend and the holiday season I did book one is Wollongong. This was expensive at A$50 for the night, a bit more than £25. All you get is a piece of grass and a free shower. Not much but the views nearby were special.

I have a lot to do when I arrive. Pitch the tent, shower, visit a supermarket to shop, cook, clean up and then set up my air bed, sleeping bag and clothes for tomorrow. It was dark around 8pm before I crawled inside my little castle.

However, some neighbouring tents partied until 2am. The site rules stipulate a 10pm curfew. There’s no sound insulation on a tent and I listened to an African tongue amid much hysterical laughter and raised voices as the alcohol kicked in. At 1am an Aussie visited the party and remonstrated. In fact they turned a boom box briefly then just carried on for another half hour before the women turned in and the men continued to talk until 2am. In the surrounding tents were fishermen looking to have an early start and a cyclist needing every piece of shut eye he could lay his hands on. More in the next blog!

Arriving and Planning to Depart….

So it was a week spent being very grumpy and quietly stressed but the outcome was fabulous as I’m penning this note from Sydney, Strathfield, to be exact. At the time of being denied boarding I had no useful idea of when I would fly. After the initial Qatar Airways rejection, due to a ‘damaged’ passport on the Monday, I went to Liverpool and put getting a new one in motion. That was delivered to my home on the Thursday – 4 days. Then I applied for an amended Australian visa. Again the instructions on the Australian Immigration website were clear as to how to amend but as to whether I’d got one wasn’t! So I rang up a chipper Aussie in Canberra, on a Help Line, and to paraphrase his answer to my question about a new visa amendment being issued he said “Aw mate, you just need to look at the website, I’ll walk you through it.” So he did, there it was, and I said “it isn’t like the form I got when I originally applied?” “Aw mate, this screen is better than your form it’s more up to date. Grab a tinny, chuck a shrimp on the BBQ and chill. She’ll be right.”

So confident that Australia would take me I re-booked my outbound flight. This whole reschedule when you include a new flight, another overnight stay in Manchester, a new emergency passport, lost accommodation cost in Sydney, driving to Liverpool and Manchester and back etc. totted up to c£1,200. Booking accommodation a week later was virtually double the price in Sydney. I think the Chinese New Year may swell the demand in the city?

Check your passport condition.

(As we stayed near Terminal 2 the night before I did pop down to Check In the night before for them to confirm I could fly: they checked the system and the computer said yes.)

Anna has been magnificent through this miserable week although whether power washing the drive is what she expected in return we will never know.

The flights are long ones: the total time including stopovers to get here was 25 hours. The first jet, a Boeing 777, was also fully booked and the seat space approximated, in size, to a small gap where I’d managed to wedge my upturned wheel barrow at the back of my garage. However the longer flight on an A380 would have been a wheel barrow and a half. The flights were delayed but uneventful and some sleep came. It certainly came to my neighbour, a middle aged Brazilian lady with no English, whose snoring was redolent of the breathing pattern of two Clydesdales pulling a heavy dray up a steep incline. I must ask where else do you now see signs for a ‘lavatory’? Very 1960s.

Anna had steered me toward an apartment in Strathfield. A suburb I knew nothing of (neither did she but it existed on Booking.com.) A very expensive taxi got me here and eventually I gained access. It being morning according to my body clock I dumped my bike box and luggage and went in search of groceries. With a new SIM card not yet bought I was navigating using photos of maps I’d downloaded. I got lost in the dark. Ambling along were two Chinese lads and so I enquired as to where the supermarkets were? To cut a long story short they went out of their way to escort me to a couple. They were both Chinese nationals. One had residency the other had citizenship. The major difference seemed to be that one could vote and the other couldn’t. I thought this not much of a benefit but given the absence of democracy in the PRC then maybe it had some cache. One worked in logistics the other in banking. They both had great English and couldn’t have been kinder. Sadly my interrogation ended when they brought me to the last supermarket and I had to set them free.

Strathfield and Burford are virtually exclusively Chinese or Korean with maybe some Vietnamese. Yorkshiremen are not common. That was of no concern other than that led to no bars or western food restaurants but a myriad of Korean BBQ restaurants and other variants. Judging by how busy they were it seems they all dine out regularly. I had a Vietnamese dish on one night.

On my first full day it was a matter of getting items. My airline luggage weight restrictions had been pernicious and I needed stuff like mosquito repellant, powdered milk, tins of tuna, a gas cylinder etc. on top of this I needed a SIM card. For 50GB of data I paid A$ 22. Public transport is affordable and the train station outside my apartment took me to Circular Quay and the iconic bridge and opera house.

So next it’s trying to catch up on some sleep, completing the cycle route planning, a test run of the velocipede and last minute final purchases before I head south. I’ll pick up next when on the road. Beep beep….

The World’s Smallest Dolphin

So after the issues at Doubtful Sound we were ‘compensated’ by G Adventures with a windy drive to the south of Christchurch to Akaroa to have (another) cruise. Now you’ve got to feel for the guide. This detour was a demanding drive but also meant that instead of getting to Christchurch at lunchtime we got there in the early evening. As a consequence she had to dump us at the hotel and then go and drop off the bus somewhere else in town. Before leaving the bus she had to clean it internally and externally, in the dark, and get back to the hotel to join us for our farewell dinner. If this wasn’t busy enough she then had to be up the next morning at Stupid O’Clock to get a flight to Auckland for the next tour. Let me tell you guides are not well paid, hence this and the weariness means that there’s a high turnover in guides.

However, back to the cruise… I also sympathise with captains who have to take passengers out to sea hoping to satisfy their desire for wild animals. Will you be lucky and find any? On the agenda were dolphins, seals, various birds including one called a shag and penguins. Well the captain got a full set apart from the penguins although Anna said she saw one. (I think not.)

The Hector’s dolphin was about the size of a large haddock in a decent portion of fish and chips. It was a very small chap.

As we’re peering over the sides expectantly one wag did bellowed… ‘ORCAS’. Of course he hadn’t seen one but the boat listed as 50 passengers bolted to starboard to look for a whale!

The captain had some good patter and my favourite was his advice for those on the bow to hold onto their hats in the wind. ‘If you do lose it then immediately raise your hand. Also any other passengers seeing this hat fly off should also raise their hand. You can then all wave the hat goodbye!’ Another piece of information he gave that was fanciful but he qualified it by saying ‘I did take a drop of whiskey in my coffee earlier. Nah, that not true, I don’t drink coffee.’

I wrote earlier about Christchurch’s earthquake in 2011 and the horrific loss of life. The town as a consequence consists mainly of one storey buildings and is laid out on a grid system. It looks like a provincial English town. The name originates from being named after an Oxford University college.

The guide did eventually make our celebration dinner and was feted for her work. Envelopes, with tips, passed across. I had a burger, obvs. One guest a few days earlier had said she’d asked her travel agent in Canada what was the going rate for tipping. ‘Well you could take something with you from Canada like, say, maple syrup.’ was the advice. Frankly if I’d been given a jar of syrup the donor would have needed surgery to have it removed. 

For her hard work and dedication over two weeks, between the two of us, we gave her £100. Judging by the ever so grateful personal WhatsApp we got back thanking us profusely there’s a chance I fear that the other guests were less appreciative and that she’s well provisioned with her pancakes for some time to come.

The party departed home in dribs and drabs with some literally getting up at 3am to catch planes the next day and others hanging on for a couple of extra days. Hugs and email addresses were swapped and then one guest, after departure, advised that she’d tested positive for Covid, a legacy and memory nobody wanted.

In our time we spun round Christchurch dining well and seeing the town, river, memorials and cathedrals. The original cathedral was damaged in the earthquake and that’s being rebuilt but won’t be finished until 2027. In the interim they’ve built a transitional one. This uses shipping containers and cardboard.

I’m not really much of a plant person but I was knocked out by the selection at the Botanical Garden. Not least my desire to eventually see a giant redwood tree. 

Christchurch is the largest city, port and airport for Antarctic access and several countries have operations based here. We visited the International Antarctic Centre that was quite interactive (read children running around pushing buttons and not waiting for the outcome before sprinting to the next button). Anna wasn’t very engaged with all the graphics explaining the history, exploration, geology, ice, wildlife etc and I did suggest that somewhere they’d be a room with photocopied outline pictures of penguins she could colour in with crayons and I could be left in peace to read all the walls without being urged to move along. However better than that she found real penguins, again these were blue ones and the smallest, of the breed, in the world and then a couple of huskies to stroke. In fact the dogs are a legacy as none, quite rightly (!) work in Antarctic any more.

I was struck by Captain Robert Falcon Scott and his achievements and ultimate demise in the Antarctic. He initially achieved the greatest distance in 1904 of getting toward the South Pole but was beaten to the actual pole by a Norwegian, Roald Admundsen, in 1912 by weeks. Ultimately Scott and his follow explorers perished on that trip. 

When you think of the clothing, nutrition, navigation technology, fitness, support etc that these men had it was beyond brave to attempt such a mission. I cannot imagine the deprivation and suffering ultimately leading to a terrible death.

From here we walked to the airport where our separation began as she contemplated the hell of three flights in Business back to Blighty and I revelled in the luxury of Economy. So goodbye New Zealand. Beautiful beyond expectation.

It was a long trip back back and I was bedevilled by unruly children, howling, seemingly unmanageable or small babies who wailed for hours dealing with weariness, the build up of pressure in their ears and the disorientation of clocks moving backwards and forwards.

Being one helluva guy I endured it through gritted teeth (for hours.) as I waded through my seven meals. As I type this a half dressed little three year old girl is running up and down the aisle at 15 mph. The good news is that she’s doing it quietly and, best of all, she’s irritating the stewardesses. It seems no one is claiming her; I wouldn’t. I’ve counted that she’s been past eight times in 10 minutes.

As always thank you for following the story (you have immense stamina.) I worry that I am too often curmudgeonly about folk and places I pass through but Anna and I had a wonderful time with lifetime memories and an appetite to revisit some of the places we’ve been. So where next? That’s half the pleasure.

PS  STOP PRESS – Fourteen times and counting

The Beginning of the End

The departure from Queenstown was, in reality, the beginning of the end as we started back north to arrive in Christchurch and a flight home. Today we were heading for Twizel, no not Twizzle, think of the same pronunciation as twilight. The heavens opened on leaving Queenstown but we had few complaints as the weather had been very kind throughout New Zealand with lots of sun and seldom nithering. The road north included a stop in Cromwell where I espied this cycling joy of a tool centre that could help you inflate your tyres or tune up the bike whilst en route.

The front passenger seat was vacant on the bus but if so inclined you could jump in and join the guide. One benefit apart from the better view was the opportunity to commandeer the music selection and so I plugged in my phone and treated the passengers to my eclectic record collection. They were captive, they had no escape for several hours.

One of the deficiencies about the bus, amongst several design flaws eg. no internal storage and seats as wide as Economy on a Ryanair flight was that you could barely hear in the front of the bus the music that was, possibly, blaring out in the middle of the bus.

The guide’s automatic reaction in any case, when moving, was to play music, not that she heard it! For the guests to drink in the views to a bit of hip hop, Meatloaf or ABBA wasn’t the right soundtrack for sumptuous valleys, rugged coastlines or gazing at those magnificent big wide open skies over the distant mountain ranges. She really thought she/we should always drive to music. A partial solution was at least to play some songs you liked, I took the initiative.

We had lunch in Twizel but afterwards continued to the end of Lake Pukaki where most of us embarked on a 6 mile hike to get closer to Mount Cook (named after the Yorkshireman).

At the end of the path we saw a lake with the remarkable sight of bits of glacier plonked within it, they had slid down here from the main glacier.

Unfortunately the top of the mountain was obscured in mist/cloud on this overcast day but it didn’t diminish the pleasure of the walk or the sense of achievement of adding another decent hike to our holiday.

One of the guests had wanted to organise a wine tasting evening as entertainment. Only New Zealand wines, of course, were to be considered. It was all ad hoc in arrangement and I have to ruefully note that the House of Ives unwittingly brought nearly 30% of the night’s wine to the party, for the 10 imbibers. Needless to say wine tasting turned into an elderly piss up whilst the five youngest didn’t attend!

It was a long night and during the merriment I personally had time to go into Twizel for a Thai meal with non-imbibers and return to find them still knocking it back.

I was very disappointed with Anna and her reckless pursuit of pleasure in my absence. In the end I dragged her back to the room as we had to get up and be away for 7am the next morning.

The night was a great success with all except the guide who had her own pre-arranged plans changed through the ‘grey’ drinking soirée. We’d had our third birthday fall on the holiday! In the guide’s world of pre-ordained responses this activated a cake, a communal dinner and singing. The fact that the latest guest to have this befall was really not bothered to celebrate her birthday; truth be told she’d already had quite a few before!

Given the ‘wine tasting’, dinner had to be cancelled and whilst I saw the cake it was never cut up or shared. (Chocolate for those interested.) To add to the woes of the guide she was booked by G Adventures into separate lodgings, a hostel, and appeared bleary eyed the next morning advising that her room was next to a crying baby’s (all night.) Given she was working so hard and not least driving hundreds of miles a decent night’s sleep seemed recommended?

The itinerary said we were off to Christchurch the next day but G Adventures had other ideas. They had diverted us, before Christchurch, to visit Akaroa. A delightful small town and harbour where we’d take a boat out to sea to see wildlife.

Why such largesse? Well the ship’s captain on our disrupted sail around Doubtful Sound had advised, over the tannoy, that we were all entitled to a refund. I really think that the guests were not bothered, the day hadn’t been a disaster and, truthfully, boat rides and scenery were just about max’d out by then for everyone. However, G Adventures, now presumably worried, about the prospect of giving us all over £100 each back and/or worried about getting hammered in customer reviews put on this boat ride and a free dinner on the last night. As it turned out the boat ride had its moments.