I'm 31 with no job and no place to live but at least I'm going travelling for a while.
Saying goodbye (for now)
Wednesday, 3 December
There were a lot of goodbyes over the last two weeks. I’ve said goodbye to my friends, my job and colleagues, my flatmates, landlord and my family. And whilst I know I’ll be back in the UK soon it’s been a tough couple of weeks, each set of goodbyes felt like a mini sucker punch to the stomach.
At times, it felt a little self-indulgent, but I really felt the love from my pals during a goodbye meal at Sugo82 in Netil Market, Hackney (pictured). A suitably intimate set-up where we were served homemade Italian food and tried to drink limoncello shots with no hands (see video).
A few days prior to this, I had some goodbye leaving drinks with my colleagues, some of whom I’d known for over five years. I felt very special when our nominated social sec (spot the guy in the hat) told me that he had reserved a private area in All Bar One - a cornerstone establishment of British after work drinking. Christmas tunes blaring on a Thursday evening at 5 pm and 2-for-1 cocktails until 8pm, what’s not to like? It felt like a suitable homage to all of the trashy after work drinks venues we’d frequented in the city.
However, despite being able to see as many of my close friends, family and colleagues as possible, there was still an overwhelming sense of denial that I was even going on this trip. Specifically, the fact that I’m flying to the other side of the world and not knowing exactly when I’ll be back or see everyone again.
I’ve always found the idea of processing (or not processing) emotions interesting, and how people process them differently. For me, unless I literally write something on my forehead and look in the mirror every day, these sorts of big life moments don’t hit me until the last minute and with that often comes a big tidal wave of emotion.
For me that moment arrived, oddly enough, when I was walking towards my gate in London Heathrow Airport and I looked up at a picture of an RAF man on the grimy walls of a connecting tunnel. He seemed to be waving goodbye at me and me alone. This is what really brought it on. There was something definitive, almost smug, in the way he was waving at me.
Suddenly, the months of thinking about my trip, or trying not to think about it, boiled down to a few steps as I handed over my passport and boarding pass. And before I knew it, I was twiddling my thumbs waiting for my boarding call.
Reflections on leaving London (aboard flight QR112)
Thursday, 4 December
Now that I am safely aboard my 8 am flight to Doha from LHR, my trip is starting to feel a little more real. And with just enough elbow room to operate my keyboard, I thought now would be the perfect time to reflect on my time in London which I am leaving behind (at least for a while!)
I’ve spent just under 9 years in London. It was always part of my plan. My parents met in London and loved their time living in shared houses from Maida Vale to Finchley and Ealing. Whenever they have the opportunity to visit my sisters and me in the capital they’re keen to take a trip down memory lane and revisit the stomping grounds of their youth.
I think you could quite easily make a case for London being the best city in the world. Occasionally I would make the most of this by visiting the museums, restaurants and walking among the 2,000+ years of history layered into its streets.
Yet most evenings were spent meeting friends in an East London pub that existed somewhere at the intersection of trendy-looking people, dark mahogany interiors, and cheap-ish Guinness.
This was normally followed by jumping on a lime bike a little inebriated (sorry mum) back to my flat where I’d be praying that I got home before my phone died, or that I’d swerve out of the way of a three-legged fox that had just scampered across the road. Or both. This was all part of the charm of course.
However, in recent years, I started to find that the more time I spent in London the more I felt myself turning to my flat as a place of refuge, burrowing away from the chaos and noise. And other than bumping into my neighbours in the lift, I never felt a real sense of community. I guess this partly explains the general exodus from London at the 30+ age mark - and that’s before we even get to how expensive it is.
My Hackney flat was in a new-build (pictured), but even the deep-insulated walls couldn’t keep out the sirens and guffawing uni students from across the road. And in the last year or so I found myself buying things to ‘keep London out’: black-out-blinds, noise-cancelling ear buds, a white noise machine and so on.
Perhaps this is a slightly privileged complaint as many people live in London all their lives but having grown up in fairly suburban areas of Nottingham and Manchester for most of my life, I felt myself yearning for a bit more quiet.
The word ‘London’ hints at another challenge too, ‘lon-eliness’. (Granted that was a little clumsy but the point stands) In a city of eight million people, where you often feel you’re living on top of each other, it can be surprisingly isolating. The city is so tight you feel like you know the people in the apartment building right across the street - but you don’t really.
Every day I would steal small glances into the kitchens and bedrooms, other people’s lives. TVs illuminate living room walls. Someone leaning on the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil. Then all of a sudden the people you’ve been seeing every day are not there anymore. New people have moved in. There was something intensely lonely about that for me.
So, as I begin my journey to Australia, I am going to do my best to appreciate the new noises of Melbourne, a new city; meet some fun people and make a conscious effort not to look into people’s kitchens as much.
A conversation with passenger 22J
On my flight over to Australia, I wanted to strike up a conversation with whoever ended up sitting next to me, and find out where they were going, and why.
I was the first person to reach row 22 on my flight to Doha but I had been dealt the middle seat. So, I patiently waited to see which two unsuspecting passengers were going to join either side of me.
A middle-aged man who had a striking resemblance to Mike from Breaking Bad (pictured) but who was far less intimidating, and decidedly English, scooched past me to get to the window seat. When he was making his way down the aisle he made a passing joke to the person behind him about the fact that due to their cabin layout, Qatar Airways always made economy passengers walk through business class on their way to their seats. Essentially, the riffraff get a sneak peek into the high life of individual booths, TV sets and prosecco on arrival. There’s a funny awkwardness about it. The people in business class stare straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with the economy passengers walking past. After seeing ‘Mike’ openly mock the situation, I knew he would definitely be up for a good chat.
Before I spoke with Mike, however, another middle-aged man pulled up alongside me to sit in the aisle seat. He was a small-ish Pakistani man who was travelling with friends from London to Lahore to visit family. He was a little quieter and spent most of his time trying to use the Wi-Fi on the plane (there’s Wi-FI now?!) to watch the Ashes via a sports platform he’d downloaded on his phone.
Turns out he was a big cricket fan. We chatted a little about our time playing cricket when we were younger and how sad he was that his son isn’t interested in the sport at all. I was keen to tell him about my recent debut performance for Broken Wanderers (a local London-based team) where I got 62 runs, not out, but the chat was cut short due to a seatbelt announcement from the cockpit.
About ten minutes later he noticed that I was eyeing his phone in an attempt to watch the cricket. I think he felt sorry for me and said ‘Take it - honestly I think you’re more invested than I am’. I was surprised but thanked him and took it. Following this, when he saw that I was struggling to prop up the phone to watch it Mike on the other side of me gave me his headphone case (pictured). It might not look like much but these small gestures put me right at home. Maybe being in the middle isn’t so bad after all.
Friday, 5 December
But back to Mike. I asked him where he was headed and he explained he was going to see his daughter. She had given up a teaching position at a local school in the UK to become a full-time nanny for a wealthy family. The family were Swiss billionaires and she travelled the world with them. He showed me pictures of a yacht they had just bought. He was keen to tell me about this situation but added that he often felt awkward and out of place whenever he got invited to an event or dinner at the family’s expense. I asked him if he was visiting anyone else and he told me that he was going to visit his birth mother.
The phrase ‘birth mother’ led me to ask a few more questions. Turns out Mike’s birth mother was a ‘ten pound pom’. This term was coined during a programme by the British Commonwealth from 1945-1972 where around one million Britons were encouraged to migrate to Australia. Mike told me that he’d paid £900 for his flight to Brisbane last month, whereas in 1960 his mum had spent £10 (hence ‘ten pound pom’).
But when he was born, his mother put him up for adoption and he was brought to the UK by his adopted parents. He was told about this when he was ten. Obviously an incredibly hard bit of news to try and grasp at such a young age. And then, when he turned forty, Mike made the decision to contact his birth mum. After learning his ‘real’ second name, he found a Yellow Pages book and saw that there were only six people registered with the same name. He rang all six until his mum answered. After some difficult conversations, he decided that he wanted to visit her where she was living in a borough not too far from Brisbane. During his visit he found out that he had two brothers. He met them in a pub where they told him, ‘There are parts of you that really remind me of Mum’. Whilst he was happy that he had two brothers, he was conflicted by the fact he was the only one given up for adoption.
The truly heartbreaking episode of Mike’s story came when he described how his adoptive mother felt about all of this back in the U.K. When he told her he was going to make the journey to Australia, she said, ‘You should go to her - she’s your real Mum, not me’. He spent a long time trying to convince her that this wasn’t true and that she was indeed his real mother. She was the one who fed, clothed, and put him through school (where he misbehaved a lot). It’s a uniquely painful situation. From what I can tell, Mike still carried a tremendous sense of guilt - guilt, even all these years later, that he had somehow betrayed his adopted parents.
First impressions of Melbourne
Wednesday, 10 December
I’ve now spent the last five days exploring Melbourne in all its glory. It’s been exciting - at times I felt giddiness bubbling up inside me as I ventured down new streets - but also daunting, as often being in a new city can be. Thoughts pinballed around my head - will I meet some nice people? Do my clothes make me look English? How do the self-checkout tills work?!
One thing was for sure, however: having travelled to the other side of the world to the ‘sunburnt country’, I was not expecting to be met with rain at Melbourne Airport on my first day. Feeling more like Manchester than Melbourne, I suddenly felt the clothes I’d packed for this trip were hopelessly wrong. Turns out Melbourne weather is rather temperamental, even during the summer months. My rain jacket got some early action.
However, as the rain subsided, I jumped in an Uber from Terminal 2 to Ol’s house in Brunswick East, a quirky suburb in the north of the city. And as I pulled up to his house, it was as if the clouds themselves had decided to part and the sun poured down to celebrate this momentous reunion. Having not seen him in over a year, it was a bizarre feeling walking straight into his house as the door was left open and peeping round the corner to announce my arrival. It was great to see him again after so long and to see him happy in his new Aussie life. It was also great to see Maggie, a lovely girl that Ol is seeing out here. Maggie works at the Northcote Bakeshop (which you must try if you’re ever in Melbourne), and who, having learnt I can’t resist a sweet treat, presented me with a box of cookies with a sweet message inscribed (see pictured).
After dinner I headed to Collingwood to check into my hotel for the first night. On the way over, a couple of things struck me straight away. Firstly, how easy it was to gain entry to Ollie’s house - apparently the locals often leave doors and windows ajar and unlocked. There’s a real feeling of trust which was a shock to the system having been in London for so long. Secondly, in the suburbs, most of the houses are bungalows and the commercial buildings are no more than two storeys high. The streets are wide and telephone cables dangle across storefronts. As soon as you stray outside of Melbourne’s CBD it feels a lot less developed than a typical urban city. The only way I could comprehend it was to imagine a fusion between a city like London with a slightly less developed city in Indonesia.
Zoom in a little more and you start to notice how incredibly varied the architecture is. Every street is different, with a real hodgepodge of cute houses boasting Victorian verandas (pictured), wooden bungalows and punchy street art. The art murals, in particular, are widely celebrated and you’ll see one on every street corner, adding a splash of colour as you go.
One thing that definitely preceded its reputation was Melbourne’s pub culture, so I was eager to check it out. Having braved a gym class on Sunday, I met a guy who had just relocated to Melbourne. After working out that we were staying in the same neighbourhood, he suggested we grab a pint at Goldy’s tavern in Collingwood, a five-minute walk from where I was staying in Fitzroy. The pubs here take their hospitality very seriously and most of them will have a weekly agenda (see picture). They try to tempt locals with chicken parms on ‘Parma Nite’ or with ‘meat raffles’ - yes you read that right. But if you’re like me and you like organised fun, Melbourne pubs are definitely for you.
It’s like they’ve used London pubs as a template and made all the right tweaks. One thing I really like is that you can an either order a pint, a ‘schooner’, or a ‘middy’ (also known as a ‘pot’). Essentially, beer is served in three different sizes to avoid it getting warm. This attention to detail, alongside a free game of pool and a beer garden with dependable sun coverage, means there really is no competition. It also helps that people who work in hospitality, or ‘hospo’, are incredibly friendly. Everyone greets each other like they know each other. Rather than feeling like an annoyance, the whole interaction caters to conversation and possibility. This may be due to the fact that hospo jobs pay well out here, sometimes up to around $35-$40 per hour before tips.
Later that night, I met up with Ollie ahead of our first night out in Melbourne. He had arranged for us to go to Miscellania - a cool venue tucked away in the CBD. It had a great rooftop bar (pictured), where the light-speckled skyscrapers loomed above us. It was a great setting for us to not really pay attention to the music and catch-up on any drama/nonsense that we’d experienced over the last year.
I was worried that, after not seeing each other for a year, we’d have to build things back up, but as the photo clearly shows it didn’t take long for our usual dynamic of winding each other up to resume.
Later today we’ll be starting our road trip in our rented 2014 Volkswagen Golf - not exactly a road-ranging jeep made for conquest, but I’m sure it’ll be a trusty companion for the next nine days.
There and back again: a tale of two muppets
Sunday, 21 December
With the odometer clocking in at 1,015 km, our road trip down the Victorian coast came to an end yesterday, and we returned our Volkswagen Golf a little dustier and a little more worn to its rightful owner. Now back in Melbourne, having showered without flip flops on and having slept on a mattress that doesn’t deflate when I roll over, I’m in a much better place to sit down and unpack the last few days.
The first thing to say is I’m going to attempt to condense nine days into one short-ish blog and that would be unfair to the absolute pleasure that was experiencing it all with Ol. Just being in the car together for all those hours - spent in our little Golf - was arguably where we had the most fun. From playing each other new albums we’d recently heard, shouting at the Ashes scoreline on the radio to ridiculous ‘would you rather’ questions, it was a joy to be cooped in a car for that long together. And with only one minor scare on the way back to Melbourne where I took a corner too fast and went off the road (just for a second!).
It probably comes as no surprise that we arrived at our first campsite in Wilson’s Promontory, Australia’s largest coastal park, later than planned. After circling our campsite trying to find our spot to pitch our tent for about 45 minutes, we unloaded the car and began to assemble the tents in near-darkness, before celebrating with some rather sad but overly-buttered sandwiches in complete darkness (pictured). But thanks to one head torch between the two of us we made it work and managed a laugh too. On the right-hand side of the table you’ll see a ‘chicken in a bag’, an absolute staple in all Australian supermarkets, typically designed with men in mind who literally can’t wait to eat their food until they get home - aptly named a ‘bachelor’s handbag’. The Aussies really are great at naming things.
The next day, we decided to explore the coastline around Wilson’s Prom and just over the line of hedges that surrounded our campsite we were met with a truly stunning beach, which looked as impressive in the morning as it did in the evening when the sun went down (see pictures). The Aussies are completely spoiled for beaches over here and I’m sure this would be considered a very typical beach for them. White sand, blue sea and nobody for miles. Even the jellyfish in the sea didn’t put a dampener on things.
After spending two nights at Wilson’s Prom, we started to make our venture west towards Sorrento, where we would board a ferry to cross the bay and head out towards the Great Ocean Road. Before we reached Sorrento, however, we stayed a night in the Mornington Peninsula so we could visit the famous Peninsula Hot Springs (see picture). Drifting between the geothermal pools was a treat that felt surprisingly well-earned after three days of driving, pitching tents, and living off beef jerky and squeezy yoghurts. The visit also got off to a nice start as the receptionist forgot to charge us the $50 entrance fee after handing us our towels. Ollie thought this was due to our ‘English charm’, whereas I thought it was more likely due to the pressure of the large queue behind us. What do you think?
Following this stop-off, we drove over to Sorrento for what we had planned to be a full day. Sorrento is a sweet port town but it has been slightly overrun by bougie designer shops and posh hotels. After quickly coming to this conclusion over an unsurprisingly expensive pint at the Sorrento Hotel, we made the decision to jump on a ferry to cross the bay to Lorne that day. This included driving the wrong way down a one-way street to make sure we made the ferry departure. With a couple of hours to kill crossing Port Phillip Bay we turned to a pack of Stars Wars Top Trumps - you’re never too old for a game of top trumps. Ollie quietly dispatched me 2-1. There’s something more irritating about a winner who stays completely silent afterwards rather than rubbing it in your face - like the win was always in the script.
Now, I think this is where I have to come clean. After disembarking from the ferry, and after three days of camping in a tent, I put forward a strong case for staying in a motel for the night in Lorne. Wasn’t the point of this road trip to drive around and pitch your tent as you go I hear you ask? Well, yes, you’d be right - and don’t get me the wrong, there is something magical about waking up, unzipping your tent and stepping out into nature - but, on the other hand, one has to contend with sleeping diagonally on a thin mattress so your toes don’t poke out of your tent and suffering incredibly loud birdsong at 5am and that’s before we get to being hungover. So after some convincing, I directed Ol towards a cheap motel and a single queen-sized bed for two it was.
I pushed for the one motel in town that was attached to a lawn bowls club (naturally) which became the site of my first victory of the road trip, claiming my top trumps revenge by pipping Ollie in the last round (see video). Whereas Ol is more of a graceful winner, I like to hold post-match press conferences…
Exploring Lorne didn’t take long. Like most seaside towns on the Victorian coast, they largely consist of one tourist information centre giving advice about one local attraction (normally a waterfall). Perhaps this is me being cynical but we were really hoping for a decent pub by now. In Lorne’s defence, they were not short of great fish and chips shops, where we tried a local delicacy - a scallop pie. The jury was out on that one for both of us.
On Monday, we put the small seaside town of Lorne behind us as we started our venture West along the Great Ocean Road and it did not disappoint. The photo of the waves crashing against the roadside doesn’t do it justice. Over the course of the next two days we navigated the increasingly winding roads from Lorne to the Otway National Park to Port Campbell. Granted Ollie was holding onto the grab handle some of the time, but it felt like driving in a video game. It’s a bit of road where you have to just stop checking google maps or the music as every turn seemed to deliver a better view than the last.
We decided to set up shop at the Port Campbell Hotel for the final two days of the trip as it was a twenty-minute drive to the main attraction in those parts - the Twelve Apostles. The Twelve Apostles (pictured) are an incredible rock formation that rises out of the Southern Ocean. One can observe these from the skies via helicopter ride for a meagre $500 each or you can look at them from a cliff-edge, take a photo and go home knowing you’ll be able to pay for food for the next three months.
They were incredible to witness, something I had never seen before and it makes you wonder how many millions of years they took to form. However, they really should come with a warning - beware the heat and beware the flies! We did a fantastic job at exposing ourselves as the true tourists that we are by deciding to visit them at 1pm - the hottest part of the day. The roads were clear and the queues were short, but turns out that’s because the locals aren’t fools and everything shuts down for a couple of hours due to the heat and the flies. I’ll let a picture of my back and video of Ollie capture our overall sentiments. It’s also worth adding that there aren’t twelve apostles (rock formations) anymore - more like seven - as a handful have crumbled into the sea over time. I guess you can’t change the name every time one disintegrates.
The sunsets in Port Campbell deserve a quick mention. The sky would often turn deep red and orange, and the locals would meander down to the shoreline to try and capture the sun as it sunk into the sea, and everyone would go quiet for a bit. A friend told me that when you watch a sunset in Australia everyone back home in the UK is watching the sun rise on the other side of the world. I liked this idea too much to check whether or not it’s actually true.
Running with the theme of the trip of not being able to find many good pubs or clubs, we spent most of our time in the beer garden attached to our hotel. This was where we ate sub-par ‘chicken parms’ and had boozy conversations with the other guests. This included Elisa and Marius (not their real names) who were a couple from The Hague (see photo). By complete coincidence we were sat on the table next to them when stopping off at a restaurant in a town called Apollo Bay a few days before. I had nodded at them so Ollie would see what I see I was seeing - Marius getting increasingly frustrated that the other diners kept leaving the door slightly ajar, allowing the cold air to come in. It must have happened six times and Elisa just rolled her eyes at Marius’ frustration. I found the whole thing hilarious and approached them in the beer garden of the hotel to explain I had seen this. They couldn’t believe it and joined our table, explaining that they were celebrating Marius’ retirement with a big trip around Australia and parts of South East Asia. We were the same age as their kids but it didn’t stop us from talking about the secrets of a long marraige or from laughing at the contrasting experiences of our separate trips. They were incredibly lovely, and we’ve stayed in touch since.
A hot Christmas & a silly new year
Saturday, 3 January
It’s been a little while since my last blog post - I’d like to apologise to my fans - essentially, the two people who asked me if this site was still working. My excuse is that I’ve been having a great time and the blog went on the back-burner.
Before I touch on the drunken merrymaking that dominated the Christmas Day to New Years Day period - ‘silly season’ as it’s affectionately known by the Aussies - I would like you to know that I did manage to squeeze some ‘culture’ in on Christmas Eve during my return to Melbourne. I tagged along with the Ol, Josh and Gabs (mum to the Ainley boys) to go to the Heide Museum of Modern Art, a sculpture park nestled in North East Melbourne that attempts to blend subversive contemporary art with heritage gardens. We unanimously agreed it did not come close to Yorkshire Sculpture park back in the UK. We strolled through the grounds and were not massively impressed with what we saw - we often couldn’t work out if an object was an art display or had just been left there and forgotten about. Thankfully, Josh was happy to play muse and really brought some of the sculptures to life (see pics). The highlight of this little excursion was Josh’s homemade reuben sandwich which we tucked into (from that colourful picnic bag) less than 20 minutes after arriving at the park. You know that situation where you bring a picnic to a park, beach or just on a general adventure, and everybody wants to eat the picnic as soon as you get there but everybody is too tentative to suggest starting it in case you come across as a bit of a heathen? Yeah, we had no problems there.
It was undoubtedly a strange feeling to wake up on Christmas day at 9 am to near silence apart from the buzz of my ceiling fan in my Airbnb in Richmond, East Melbourne. It left me reminiscing about being woken up to the usual wrap of knuckles on my bedroom door or calls of ‘Tom, get up!’ from downstairs back at my mum’s house in Nottingham. However, knowing full-well that I had imposed this ‘orphan Christmas’ upon myself, I mustered the energy to get out of bed and flick the fan off (I felt a tinge of guilt about keeping it on all night). I was very fortunate in that I had been invited to spend Christmas Day with the Ainleys over in Fitzroy, thanks to the generosity of Gabs and the fact that they weren’t sick of me yet (as far as I knew). The whole day really hit the mark of a ‘hot Aussie Christmas’ as it featured Hawaiian shirts, makeshift party hats and spicy margaritas (see pics). It was also great to be able to put on specifically ‘non-Christmasy’ music. Naturally, before bodies started to drop towards midnight, following the amazing roast dinner that Josh and Gabs had prepared and the strong margaritas Ol and I had mixed, I managed to get another game of Top Trumps in with Ol. This time it was the ‘Kings and Queens’ edition, and, safe to say, I can’t remember who won but I guess that’s rather convenient.
On Boxing day, the 4th test match of the 2025 Ashes series between England and Australia commenced in Melbourne at the Melbourne Cricket Ground (otherwise known as the MCG - the 11th biggest stadium in the world by the way). Thanks to Ol dutifully staying up until 3am on some day mid-June earlier this year, he had managed to secure tickets to Day 2 (27th) and Day 3 (28th) of this test. Unfortunately, by this stage in the series, England had already lost the Ashes as Australia had won all three of the previous tests in Perth, Brisbane and Adelaide. England were playing for the moral victory.
Despite this, the importance of this 4th test should not be underestimated. England had not won a test on Australian soil in 15 years. A victory would end an 18-match, 5,468-day drought since their last win in Australia back in 2010.
It’s safe to say that in the five-week build-up to this fourth test at the MCG, I had become completely consumed in the cricket jargon - the run rates of England batters, the injuries to Australia’s bowling attack and whether the secret to Australian Travis Head’s batting form was his glorious moustache.
So, at 10.30 am on the 27th December, we strolled through the grounds and settled into our seats at the MCG and we were incredibly close to the action (see vid). We held our breath as England’s Gus Atkinson delivered the first ball of the day to Travis Head with England desperately needing quick wickets, as Australia had started the day (and the second innings) 46 runs ahead. After the first over (which normally takes 5-10 mins), Josh announced he was going to buy the first few schooners (beers) of the day. A little aggressive I thought but looking around the 95000 seat stadium, basking in the sun, listening to the murmuring crowd and with some (early) beers on the way, I started to understand why people get hooked on this sport. The sport is played at a leisurely pace, encouraging conversation, analysis and quick bets between the onlookers, but the momentum swings of the match keep you enthralled for the whole eight hours - yes, that’s right, eight hours, (sometimes on five continuous days if the wickets don’t fall quickly enough).
This time the wickets did fall quickly enough and the game was being played at a fierce pace. After some fine bowling by Captain Ben Stokes as well as Brydon Carse, propped up by England’s best batting performance of the series where their aggressive ‘bazball’ hitting actually came good, all four innings were complete by the end of day two and England had won with 178 runs and four wickets remaining. Twelve schooners deep, supported by one lunch time beverage with some of the UK crew who had travelled to Aus for Christmas (Becky, Aimee, Dom and Oli from left to right), and we couldn’t help but join in with ‘ole’s’ from the Barmy Army as Harry Brook and Jamie Smith, our final two batters, exited the field. In some ways we felt a little robbed because we only got one day of cricket but had paid for two. However, the much bigger losers were Cricket Australia who are reported to have lost $10 million due to refunds as well as lost sales in merchandise, food and drinks for days 3-5. It’s all about the little victories!
New Years Eve never really goes to plan does it? Or at least it misses the inevitably high expectations that we place upon it…I had booked tickets (well I thought I had) to NY@thebowl, a one-day music festival at Sidney Myer Music Bowl which is situated aloft a hill in the Royal Botanical Gardens. There were some amazing artists on the bill including Berlioz, Confidence Man, two of my favourite DJs in Prosumer and Alex Kassian, and Underworld, a pioneering electronic music duo (you’d recognise their track ‘Born Slippy’ if you’ve not heard of them). However, when I walked up to the gate it turns out there was an error with my ticket and I was swiftly denied entry.
I begrudgingly trudged back through Melbourne’s CBD to my flat in Carlton and scrambled for a plan B. A serious lowlight of my trip so far! Thankfully, Kate, a friend of a friend through Ol, who I had met a few weeks ago, was having dinner in Collingwood so I cheekily asked for an invite. I joined her and a friend for a set menu at an Italian restaurant called Orlo (not quite what I was expecting for NYE).
After a mediocre meal with good company (including a rather flirty gay waiter who was enjoying our vibe), we jumped into a taxi to Northcote Bridge to watch the fireworks. Granted we were a bit far away in Northcote, about 5km from the CBD, but even still Melbourne’s fireworks were a bit like party poppers in comparison to London’s display (see video). If you listen closely you can hear a slightly slurred outburst from me: ‘you can barely see ‘em!’. Feeling a little underwhelmed we headed to Northcote Theatre where we saw Bradley Zero, a good DJ who flipped flopped between underground house vibes and soulful mixes, he put some energy back into our evening for sure. At 3 am we all parted ways and I left feeling slightly less bruised after my ticket mix-up.
Sydney - Part one, featuring a celebrity face
Tuesday 6, January
Having realised that flying to Sydney for New Year’s Eve probably wasn’t the shrewdest move, I eventually bought a ticket for Saturday, 3 January, returning to Melbourne on the 13th. And whilst it only took me ninety minutes to touch down at Sydney Airport, it was fascinating to see how different the two cities were. On one hand, I was leaving behind Melbourne, a very liberal, laid-back city with rather fashionable creative types and independent stores on every corner. On the other, I was immediately struck by the familiar food chains in Sydney and the amount of locals clad in activewear. Admittedly, I was staying in Bondi (perhaps my first mistake) but it did feel a little ‘Clapham-on-sea’. No disrespect to Clapham, I had a lovely six months in a shared house just off Clapham Common, but there are only so many cockapoos and iced lattes I can look at.
I should add, however, that having spent a little time in Surry Hills and Paddington (the best suburbs in central Sydney, so I hear) I could absolutely feel the ‘pull’ from this city and understand why lots of tourists visit and lots of travellers relocate. Not only is everyone sun-kissed, but everyone seems to stroll the streets a little lighter as if the pressures of the world aren’t on their shoulders. From chatting to a few locals, they seem to have nailed the daily routine: they go to the gym before work, visit their favourite coffee place with a friend at lunch; then, before you know it, they’re closing their laptops at 4.30 pm and heading to the beach for a quick swim or surf. Did I mention it’s sunny from start to finish on this metaphorical day?
I should also admit that I enjoyed having a little swim in one of East Sydney’s many coastal pools. I chose the one on Bronte Beach (see pic), hoping to skip the crowds that take over the famous Bondi Beach. These pools are essentially well-kept saltwater infinity pools that allow you to swim and look out across the sea without having to worry about the rip tides, rocks, seaweed and stingy creatures lurking below the surface.
It turned out that there were more people from back home visiting Sydney for Christmas. I ended up going for a drink with Chloe (pictured) who was visiting her friend Darcy, both of whom I had met in various house parties and festivals growing up in Manchester.
Darcy has settled in Bondi and has lived there for five years now. It didn’t come as a huge surprise that Darcy now trains for Ironman events - Sydney’s hills cater for long bike rides, and being surrounded by water means you can practise for that gruelling 3km swim. I have to say this did not appeal to me one bit. But it was great fun to connect the dots between our mutual friends and find out what they’ve been up to after ten years on. I also reminded Darcy of a date that she had with Ol when we were back in school. Ol had picked her up from her house in his car (what a smooth guy!) and found himself under pressure to perform a parallel park outside the Met pub in Didsbury. It turned out inch-perfect - something he has mentioned enough times for it to become folklore in our friendship group. Unfortunately, Darcy didn’t recall this incredible feat.
Another friend of mine, this time from university in Newcastle, had relocated to Australia five years ago. Pad (pictured) elected for Sydney and hasn’t looked back since. Back at university, we often found ourselves in interesting situations, often due to Pad’s charm. This time, he invited me along to a video shoot for a friend’s social media account - Schoonerscorer. As chance would have it, fresh off my Ashes fandom, the shoot was with Australian cricket captain Pat Cummins. Before the shoot, we attempted to chat to him about cricket and Yorkshire (strangely enough his wife is from Harrogate, the town over to where Pad grew up). It was a real highlight of the trip.
I did find myself running short of things to say at one point though and asked him about his back injury (how lame am I?) We eventually plucked up the courage to ask for a photo. He had been bombarded all afternoon for photos - they say he’s the most important person in Australia after the Prime Minister. I decided to make a big song and dance and ask for one in a faux polite manner. He jokingly replied (or at least I hope he was joking) ‘nah f*** off mate!’ before quickly agreeing to take one.
Anyway, I did not have the Australian cricket captain telling me to ‘F*** off’ on my bingo card!
Shoal Bay - Sunburn, surfing & slot machines
Saturday, 10 January
After a successful initial four days in Sydney, it was time for Ol and I to start our drive up the Central coast, past Newcastle and into Shoal Bay. Essentially Ol and I had planted ourselves right in the middle of a couples’ getaway with Becky and Dom, and Aimee and Ollie hoping for some quality time. Happy to ignore this, we jumped in our car and commenced our two-and-a -half-hour journey north from Sydney. Driving through Sydney is no joke. I wasn’t prepared for the complex road layouts, toll roads and confusing signage. I think my nervousness showed as I kept flicking the windscreen wipers on when trying to indicate left, which was all to Ol’s amusement of course.
Turns out Aimee and Ollie (right of me in the surf school pic) were also driving down from the Central Coast with a similar length drive. Naturally, we entered into a bit of a race, one car coming from the north and the other the south. Alas, our little Kia Picanto was no match for their Kia SUV. As we turned into the Airbnb garage there they were getting out of their car, smug faces to boot.
Now that the six of us were here (Becky and Dom included - left of me), I couldn’t help but get a little giddy - what were we doing all the way over here on this little peninsula on the other side of the world?
Having settled into the flat (where Ol and I squeezed into the bunk-bed room), there was some ambitious chatter about going on a hike around Tomaree Head Summit. But the 29-degree heat firmly put a dent in that plan and we decided to take a very short stroll over to one of the nearest coves.
We arrived at Zenith Beach (pictured) and it looked like what I imagine Brazil looks like. A huge stretch of soft sand surrounded by plush tropical hills. We pretty much had the beach to ourselves and felt confident enough to sneak a few plastic cups worth of rosé from a cooler bag (the Aussies are pretty strict about drinking on beaches, understandably). The water was incredibly clear and the best I have swum in so far.
The next day we jumped in the car to travel to Port Stephens for a surfing lesson. A little hungover from the night before we donned our surfing attire - the question is, is it possible to look cool in a surfing top? Walking down to the beach our instructor informed us that the conditions were perfect, perfect for a bunch of out-of-town beginners anyway. I have to say we all surfed well, consistently getting up on our foam boards and riding them to shore, although Aimee did need a little push from the instructor now and then (sorry Aimee). Unfortunately there is no evidence of us riding these waves as Ol, designated photographer due to his knee injury, ‘forgot’ to take any photos whilst we were in the sea!
After the surfing lesson, we grabbed some lunch at the beach cafe where we forced ourselves to watch Australia score the final few runs of the fifth and final Ashes Test at Sydney Cricket Ground to win the series. It was a painful watch and as soon as Cameron Green scored that final run we jumped up from our plastic cafe chairs and found a table outside, not a flicker of a smile between us. It was made worse by a couple of cheers from the Aussie locals inside the cafe too.
Outside, Ol and I cheered ourselves up by playing ‘Lady & the tramp’ for the last chip. Maybe it was the desire for the last chip, the need for some entertainment, or the ‘couples energy’ of the trip rubbing off on us. Either way, it was clear we had spent too much time together.
Later that evening we went for a meal at Atmos, a Greek restaurant that you’d expect to see in Mykonos, but also the only establishment that wasn’t a pizza or kebab shop in Shoal Bay. It did exceed expectations, however, and after a few drinks here, followed by a windy photo on the pier (see pic), we stumbled next door to Shoal Bay Country Club. Having visited this ‘club’ the previous night, the cheesy tunes and uncomfortable ‘locals-only’ vibe curtailed our evening fairly quickly. Before long, we were spending the last of our Aussie dollars ($20 to be exact) in the slot machines at the end of night, nothing spells the end of the night more than a brightly-lit casino. When we had lost all our money, we trudged back up the hill to our Airbnb, lamenting the fact we were all parting ways the next day.
Sydney - Part two, a bit of culture please?
Monday, 12 January
On our return to Sydney from Shoal Bay, I was looking forward to spending a few more days in the Emerald City again before I flew back to Melbourne on the 13th; this was so I could try to ‘see the sights’ a little more. On the Sunday, I determinedly strode out of my Airbnb in Camperdown, West Sydney, and walked towards the underground garage where my trusty Kia Picanto was resting.
As I was walking, the heat of the day suddenly hit me in the face. It was the kind of heat where the air feels thick and it stings your nostrils. And it was only 10 am. Looking at my phone my weather app displayed 37 degrees with an alert of ‘fire weather’, which sounds altogether like a bad kind of weather. Naturally, this forced me to rethink my plan of having a leisurely stroll through the city where I’d check out the Opera House and the Royal Botanic Gardens.
Funnily enough, on rainy days we all pile into cinemas and galleries, and in this kind of heat it goes full circle. It’s completely unbearable to be outside so we take refuge in these places, largely for the reliable air con. I decided to visit the Art Gallery of New South Wales and there was an exhibition on called ‘Dangerously Modern’. It told the stories of female artists in early 20th-century Australia such as Margaret Preston and Florence Fuller (whom I hold my hand up, I had never heard of).
Interestingly, settler-Australian women were the first in the world to gain full suffrage in 1902 (26 years before the UK). Yet, these women felt creatively repressed by society in cities like Sydney and Melbourne. They were expected to have a chaperone at private events and since they weren’t allowed to attend art school they had to pay for private lessons which were incredibly expensive.
As a result, many of these women boarded steamboats to more liberal European cities like London and Paris. The trips took six weeks in total. When they arrived they joined art studios, were inspired by European artists like Manet and Cezanne, and embedded themselves in society so much they started to form their own art colonies in smaller less-expensive towns; most notably Étaples, Northern France.
It was a great exhibition and my poorly taken snaps don’t do it justice. The paintings were modernist (apparently) but they also felt impressionistic in the way they captured light. The subjects were often women placed in domestic settings, either reading or dressing. This was the artists’ refuting societal expectations that women should be focusing on the housework. Whilst obviously global societies and communities continue to suffer systemic sexism, it’s bizarre to think that this is what progressive artistic communities were exploring when my grandparents were growing up. The very idea of a woman putting her feet up and reading and learning, rather than doing housework - how incredibly subversive!
I elected to do a guided tour. As you can see it was a worthwhile choice. The tour leader was very impassioned and proud of these Australian artists but, out of politeness, I would find myself at the back of the crowd. I quickly realised that this was totally the wrong way to enjoy art - someone explaining what they think of a painting whilst you have to get on your tiptoes to see it.
As we turned a corner, one woman in the group clamoured ‘Oh - I like this little girl!’ (see pic) in a thick Aussie accent. Firstly I thought, how brave of you to brazenly share such an uninteresting remark with the group.
Secondly, I thought the painting was kinda creepy, but maybe I was projecting my fear of a baby coming towards me with open arms. I almost wanted to take a step back. It reminded me of how personal and subjective art can be. The longer I stared at the little girl, it also reminded me of a particular scene from a film I’ve watched way too many times.
For those of you familiar with the film Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, I couldn’t help but recall the scene at the Chicago Art Institute where Cameron, played by a young Alan Ruck, gets intensely lost in a child’s face (or lack of) in a painting of a crowd by a river. Serving as a mirror to his inner child it completely unnerves him. The shot is also perfectly accompanied by a haunting instrumental of ‘Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want’ by The Smiths.
It’s one of my favourite ever movie scenes. It’s pretty hard to capture how art can move you but John Hughes does a pretty good job! You can watch it here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBBOMLURSGA)
The Blue Mountains - Overrated or bad planning?
Wednesday, 14 January
I saw a sign for ‘Martin’s Lookout’, so I made my way down a windy gravel road and reached a dead end which could only have meant a lovely trek lay ahead, right? As you can see from the first photo, I was feeling optimistic, bag straps firmly on and ready to explore.
I found Martin’s Lookout (second picture) after about two and a half minutes and got a pretty amazing view (albeit a little overcast) that reached out over the eucalyptus forests that span the landscape. Apparently the eucalyptus oil gives it its blue haze. I just saw haze. I did, however, see a sign for ‘perch ponds’ which were only a 2.5km trek away down into the valley. This seemed reasonable, I thought, and I began my plunge into the thick forest.
The floor was a little wet following a thunderstorm the night before so I slipped and slid my way down this tight track, ducking branches either side of me. And unbeknownst to me at the time, spiders tend to remake their webs after a period of rainfall. I must have walked into fifty webs that criss-crossed the forest trees. I felt like Frodo in Shelob’s lair (apologies for the niche The Lord of the Rings reference). After several attempts to spit the webs from my mouth and ruffle them from my hair, I reached the bottom a little flustered and a little ego-bruised.
For my last day in Sydney I decided to go to the Blue Mountains. After hearing from a close friend (Mike) that it was a real highlight when he was studying in Australia, and that another friend (Georgie) had got a tattoo of one of the mountain ranges, I felt compelled to go. Admittedly, I was not feeling 100% on the morning of the trip as I had stayed out late the night before playing pool in a non-specific bar in the city. I also stayed a little longer than I should have because there was someone that caught my eye and I was hoping I’d be able to strike up a conversation with them at some point. I won’t go on…if you want to know you can ask!
To get deep into the mountains, and access the best hiking routes and views of the valleys below, it’s a slightly tedious two-and-a-half-hour drive on the motorway. It was an unpleasant drive, largely because I had to constantly put my foot to the floor so my little Kia didn’t frustrate the local Aussies trying to get to work behind me.
After about an hour, my eyelids were starting to droop despite the ‘long black’ coffee I had ordered from a motorway service station. I decided to curtail my journey at Springfield, a small town right on the threshold of the mountains.
I looked up and I was surrounded by dense forest and a disappointingly small pond. I then looked around and it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn’t seen a single person on this trek. A wave of anxiety hit me - maybe I’d missed an announcement on the news? Maybe all the other Aussies and travellers had seen a bushfire warning, it had been 40 degrees the day before after all. Naturally, I did a little ‘Google’ on my phone and the initial AI summary read ‘high fire danger’ and ‘total fire bans’ across the region. My mind started racing.
After devouring a rather squished sandwich I had prepared the night before I broke into a hurried walk back up the mountain. I looked at my phone again to see which way I should go and my phone signal stated ‘SOS’. I longed for a hiking buddy who would have calmed me down at this point. In fact, I just needed to hear another voice, it was eerily quiet. I found the track again and put on my only podcast that I had downloaded on Spotify. Unfortunately, that meant I had the voice of Stephen Bartlett in my ears for the journey back. That’s how desperate I was.
What did help was that I had taken out all of the spider webs on the way down so I didn’t have to worry about those on the way back up. After a very sweaty two-hour return hike uphill I finally saw my Kia emerge through the thicket, never had I been happier to see a car.
Clearly the trick to a good hike is to have a well-planned route, not be hungover and to not be so distraught when you walk into a spider’s web. On another note, I could quite happily have gone to the lookout, taken in the view, taken a photo and then taken the car keys out of my pocket and driven home. No need to plunge myself into the valley below with all its crevices and lurky thingies.
I also realised that I had left my rain jacket on the rock I was sitting on when eating my sandwich. In fact, this made me reflect; now that I’m six weeks and halfway into my trip and, having stayed in 14 different rooms from Airbnbs and hotels to pretty grimy motels and Ol’s bedroom (not as grimy), I thought I would take a stock check of my items. Like my mum’s car keys which seem to remain persistently out of reach in the ether somewhere, I’ve always struggled to keep track of my belongings. It’s a bad habit. So far, I’ve managed to lose a few things along the way including: earbuds, goggles, swimming shorts, a towel, a pair of socks, a hotel room key, Ol’s house key. This won’t come as a surprise to many but yeah not bad for six weeks! But as Marie Kondo once said, ‘The best way to find out what we really need is to get rid of what we don't’.