A Town Called Alice (Part Two)

The most interesting place in Alice?

Thorny Devil

Angry croc

Another week draws to a close. And what a week it's been. One where I have enjoyed the varied, and at times Bohemian, lifestyle that I long dreamed of when I was part of the rat race.

It got off to a good start on Monday when my lovely friend, Tracey, took me to my first open circle meeting at the Spiritualist Church in Cleethorpes. It was immensely interesting. The spirits had a lot to say for themselves, but not to me.

On Tuesday evening I met Jim for a curry and a couple of bottles of glugable red. I met Jim when he taught a module on screenplay writing at university. Jim, who has been a writer for over 40 years, is one of those wonderful people who believes in me as a writer and gives me bags of confidence to persevere. It was brilliant to discuss the various writing projects we both have in the pipeline. Jim and I had made an agreement before I retired to co-write a screenplay based around policing. Jim has been unable to find a production company for the project, but he has wisely suggested we collaborate on a stage play instead. We pencilled it in for the autumn, when our current projects will be finished.

Last night I went out for yet more curry. This time with Steve, a former colleague who retired from the police 4 years ago and now works as a teacher's assistant. I admire Steve for avoiding the revolving door and taking on the challenge of a life beyond policing. Not only that, he's one of the loveliest blokes on the planet and always good company.

Aside from all the social activity I have cracked on with the opening to my book, Adventures of a Middle Aged Gapper. I have the first 8,000 words under my belt and I'm on schedule to deliver the first 10,000 words as the final piece for my degree in May.

There's no word yet from any of the four literary agents I approached a couple of weeks ago. I'll leave it for another week or so then approach another four. And if they don't respond I'll approach another four. Nil desperandum!

On a more positive note, I received an email yesterday from playwright, Dave Windass, at Hull Truck to say that my application for their 8 week PlayWrite course has been successful. Apart from what I will learn, this is a great opportunity to get known at Hull Truck and maybe get my foot in the door.

I am travelling to Somerset tomorrow. I will visit relatives in Bridgewater then pay my respects at the grave where both of my parents are now buried in a village churchyard. After that I have a rented a quiet cottage by the sea for a week for me and my dog. There is no internet access so there will be no blogs for a while I'm afraid.

Being by the sea, the cottage affords me the chance to achieve one of my remaining challenges - to catch a fish, weighing more than 2 pounds. Fingers crossed.

Okay, let's get back to Alice.....

Alice Springs does not live up to the beauty of its name. Apart from a small mall lined with shops selling Aboriginal art, it is a very industrial looking grid of ugly buildings. All the garish features we normally associate with developments on the edge of big cities such as fast food chains, petrol stations, huge supermarkets and used car lots have been squished into the town centre, constrained by the boundaries of the river, The Gap and the railway line. I do discover a couple of redeeming features though.

The first is the best bottle shop I have seen in Australia. Apart from a wide range of wines it also has a vast cold room, stocked high with cases of beer. Stepping out of the heat and into a cooling atmosphere, surrounded by cold lagers and pale ales is like finding a door from hell to heaven.

Taking my six-pack to the till I feel very flattered to be asked for photo identification, until I discover that you can’t buy alcohol here without ID even if you’re a hundred. It’s not just the anti-smoking laws that are tough in the outback.

The other gem came as a result of my conversations on the train with Emily, who not only dished out free books on behalf of the cosmos but also provided a very good tourist information service.

‘You must go to the Reptile Centre,’ advised Emily. ‘It’s really interesting and they let you handle some of the snakes and lizards.’

I arrived at the centre just in time for the 4.30pm demonstration. As promised, a young lady gave a very informative talk about the various snakes and lizards to be found in central Australia and passed around some of the friendlier specimens to those willing to handle them. I took a real shine to the Blue Tongued Skink, who kindly proved the accuracy of his name when tasting the air around me.

What the young herpetologist, Julie, said next certainly caught my attention:

‘Australia is home to 18 of the 20 most venomous snakes in the world.’

Having been in the country for more than a week now, I had become very blasé about the constant threat of dying horribly. I had even stopped checking toilet seats for Redback spiders and their equally deadly cousins.

‘But there is some good news,’ said our guide. ‘Take a look at these. What you have here are two fangs. One from a Gaboon Viper, from Africa, and the other from a Western Brown Snake, from Australia.’

The small box containing the snake teeth was passed around. The Gaboon Viper fang was a good inch long, while the fang of the Western Brown Snake was tiny, barely a sixteenth of an inch.

‘Most snakes will move away once they hear you coming. If you are unfortunate enough to take one by surprise it may well strike you,’ continued Julie. ‘A Gaboon Viper has the longest fangs of any snake in the world and will bite you right through thick clothing. However, all the snakes in Australia have very small fangs, so if you are wearing boots, thick socks and long trousers you will be protected.

‘Even if you are unlucky enough to be bitten the bite is unlikely to prove fatal. These snakes are quite small and they recognise that you are far too big to be prey so they will not waste venom on you. Nine times out of ten their strikes will be dry.’

Despite the odds being in my favour, I hadn’t realised just how many venomous snakes there were in the outback and a small alarm bell began to sound. In a couple of days I would be taking a 7 mile walk around the base of Uluru.

The talk over I had time to wander around and see the various Bearded Dragons and Thorny Devils in their enclosures. The prize exhibit was a freshwater crocodile, which was in a large pool that afforded underwater views through thick glass.

I have seen crocodiles in the wild in both South Africa and Kenya. As photographic subjects go they are among the most boring. Every photo I have of a wild croc depicts this log-like creature lying inert in the water.

The captive specimen is lying at the bottom of his pool. I take a few pictures of him through the glass, but they are still not very exciting. Then a middle aged Aussie chap appears and I take him to be the owner of the reptile centre.

‘Hang on, mate,’ he yells to me from above. ‘I’ll wake him up for you.’

The reptile bloke then proceeds to bash the water with a large pole, just above my view point. The effect on the croc is startling. He shoots towards me and the pole, mouth wide for the attack. I take my best croc pictures ever. I imagine that they represent the last thing many a hapless creature sees when nipping down to the billabong for a quick drink.

Back at the hostel I prepare my supper and sit outside in the comfortable heat of the early evening. The History Boys is showing on the outdoor cinema screen. I’ve seen the film twice before. It is based on the play of the same name by fellow Yorkshireman, Alan Bennett. In fact we were both born in Armley, Leeds, although that’s where our similarity ends. Strangely, I went to Leeds Grammar School, having earned a scholarship, and Alan didn’t. He attended Leeds Modern, a boys’ school to the north of the city. It doesn’t seem to have held him back. The film is one of my favourites, a reminder, if it were needed, of Bennett’s sheer genius.

I check for snakes and spiders under my seat, then settle down with my vegetable pasta and a few cold ones to watch the movie. A message from home arrives on my iPod. Apparently it’s snowing there again. Shame.

A Town Called Alice (Part One)

Alice Springs YHA, complete with outdoor movie screen

Alice wet now and again

The ANZAC memorial

Next morning I arise far too early, the excitement of long distance rail travel undiminished. Spurred on by my successful interview with Emily I spot one of the train managers and decide to try my questioning skills once more whilst it is quiet.

‘G’day. Did you sleep okay?’ she asks me as I approach her. I see from her name badge that she is called Hayley. The badge is attached to a very smart khaki uniform, worn by all the staff on board the train. They all lined up on the platform at Adelaide, posing with easy smiles for photographs but at the same time ready to spring into action and beat the crap out of any scumbag trying to sneak from Red Class to Gold Class.

‘Yes, fine thank you.’

Hayley, who I take to be in her late twenties, chats amiably about weather and what’s on offer for breakfast but I want more than mere trivia. I wade in with my killer question:

‘Does anything exciting ever happen on the train?’

'God, yes, ' she relies. 'Mainly around the mining towns. We get some rough characters getting on board and they do get out of hand. Fights often break out. We chuck them off the train, them and the smokers.'

What? I'm not exactly pro-smoking, especially in a confined space like a train, but to be thrown off in the middle of a desert and left to fend for yourself sounds like a harsh punishment for lighting up. Judging by what I have seen out of the window even Crocodile Dundee would have trouble making it through the day.

Fortunately Hayley clarifies that they only get thrown off at stations and the police are waiting when they get there. Nonetheless, Hayley’s words present me with an image of the police in Australia that it very different to the one I am used to.

Much crime goes unrecorded in Britain as people often perceive the police to be too busy or disinterested to make it worth the effort of reporting something. It is a perception that is not undeserved. I know of many instances where a person has reported a crime only to receive a standard letter telling them that it will not be investigated further. To ensure the insult really hits home, the letter is often addressed wrongly and the name of the person misspelled.

Things appear to be different in Australia where it seems that even the minor offence of having a quick fag in the bog will render you worthy of the attention of a police welcoming committee. I’m not sure which response causes me the most distress.

Luckily there are no brawlers, drunks, druggies or surreptitious smokers on the train today, so when I get off it at Alice Springs there is no sign of a posse of burly cops with cuffs and dogs.

I say goodbye to the lovely Emily, pick up my backpack and stride off into the late afternoon heat, which is notably several degrees hotter than it was in Adelaide.

The youth hostel at Alice Springs used to be an outdoor movie theatre and the hostel maintains the tradition by screening a movie every evening. I am welcomed by the staff and directed to my four bed dormitory. I pass the swimming pool on the way, which in the afternoon heat is very inviting, but I have less than 24 hours in Alice so I need to take in the sights.

My room is neat, tidy and thankfully it has air conditioning. It also has a very friendly German bloke in it.

‘Hello, my name is Rudolf. I am pleased to meet you.’

‘Hi,’ I say, shaking Rudolph’s hand. ‘I’m Bryan. Have you been in Australia long?’

‘Yes. I am being here two months now. I have travelled all the way along the East Coast and I am now making my way north to Darwin.’

‘Good. And are you enjoying your stay?’

‘Yes, I am enjoying the trip. I am making the very good friends in Sydney so now I have somewhere to stay. I am going back to Sydney and I will stay there for three more weeks.’

‘That’s good,’ I say. It’s nice to meet you.’

I know that I should have milked Rudolph dry for information and funny anecdotes to spread out over the next two pages and I am sure L. Peat O’Neil will be disappointed in me, but as I have said, I am keen to take in all that Alice has to offer.

I stow away my luggage, splash on the Factor 6 and grab what I need for a few hours of aimless wandering.

‘See you later, Rudolf.’

The first thing I notice as I make my way along Leichhart Terrace is that there are far more Aboriginal people here than I have seen so far in Australia. And well there should be. The Arrerente people have been living in and around his area for 50,000 years. The first white man, John McDouall Stewart, did not arrive until 1862.

The name of the town indicates a great deal of optimism by early white settlers who mistook a waterhole in the Todd River for a permanent spring. They named the town after the wife of the former postmaster general of South Australia, Sir Charles Todd and the river after Charlie boy himself.

The Todd River runs roughly north to south and forms an obvious border along the town. I fancy a game of pooh sticks so I cross the street to check it out. Instead of finding a raging torrent I discover an extremely dry, sun baked stretch of clay.

As Emily had explained to me on The Ghan:

‘They say that you have to see the Todd River in full flow three times before you’re considered to be a local in Alice. I know people who have lived there for 5 years and not seen it flow three times.’

As I said, naming the place after a spring was a tad optimistic. Then again ‘Alice wet now and again’ doesn’t quite have the same ring and Mrs Todd might have felt a bit insulted.

To the south of Alice there is an even more formidable barrier – The MacDonnell Ranges, a 400 mile long mountain range running east-west through central Australia. The Aborigines call the ranges Aranda. John McDouall Stewart may have been a great explorer, but he was clearly a bit of a bum kisser too and chose to rename them after the Governor of South Australia at the time. There seems to be a lot of that in former British colonies.

If the town is unfortunate to be named after a non-existent water feature it is at least blessed by being right next to the one and only gap in the MacDonnell Ranges, known locally in a triumph of modern Australian simplicity as: ‘The Gap.’

The Ghan Part 2

Tony Hawks bids farewell to Ireland and I look up expectantly for my free book to drop out of the heavens. Nothing. Feeling a little bit miffed at the Cosmic Ordering Service I resort to leafing through the only other book that I brought from England. It is called Travel Writing by L Peat O’Neil. I bought it whilst I was still at work, when the idea of writing about my gap year was developing. The book has a 5 star rating on Amazon, albeit that only one person has reviewed it. ‘A very useful addition to any budding travel writer’s library,’ said ‘A Customer’ (aka L Peat O’Neil’s literary agent). Still, it was enough endorsement for me. I would study L Peat O’Neil’s advice during my last month or so at work and hit the ground running as the budding travel writer.

Except I didn’t. Here I was, half way through my gap year and opening the book for the first time. I scanned it for tips on what I should have been doing on my travels.

‘A travel writer must talk to strangers,’ advises Ms O’Neil. I look about and realise I’m surrounded by strangers. There’s a middle aged couple a few rows back who don’t look very happy with each other. I reckon that if I can get them talking to me all kinds of revelations could be made. A sort of Jeremy Kyle show on rails. Sadly, I don’t have the courage to approach them and opt for a maxim of my own – keep it simple. I turn to the girl next door –

‘Emily, what’s the most exciting thing that has happened to you on your travels?’

‘Gosh. That’s a tough question. Exciting? Well, as I have said I’m on my way home from Malaysia. On the way there the plane to Adelaide was delayed by 4 hours. It was late when I got to the airport and as my flight was very early the next morning I thought I’d sleep at the airport. I’d got settled when the security guard approached and said the airport closed at 11pm and I had to leave.’

‘Right,’ I say, not quite sure where this was going.

‘There was another woman there, so I told her what was happening. There was one last shuttle bus into Adelaide if we were quick,’ continued Emily. ‘She said she was on the same plane as me but she didn’t have any money. I told her it was on me and we got ourselves into Adelaide, found a hostel and shared a room for the night.’

‘Which you paid for?’

‘Yes. Eighty dollars. I was ripped off but didn’t have a choice. Then things got worse.’

‘What happened?’ I was getting engrossed in Emily’s story.

‘The woman set the alarm on her phone, but it didn’t go off. We woke up with just 25 minutes to spare until my plane took off.’

Good grief! Dan Brown would be pleased with the tension Emily is building up.

‘We got dressed quickly, found a taxi and told him to step on it. “No worries,” he said and then proceeded to keep well under the speed limit.

‘We arrived at the airport just as the plane was boarding. Only, it wasn’t my plane. The woman was on that plane but I’d made a mistake. Mine didn’t leave for another 45 minutes.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, a tad disappointed with this ending.

‘When I got to Malaysia I was supposed to meet my friend, Jenny, but she didn’t turn up to meet me.’

This is more like it. We’re off again.

‘I waited for an hour but there was no sign of her. Jenny had made all the arrangements for our stay in Malaysia. Without her I didn’t know what to do.’

‘My goodness. What happened?’

‘I went to the hostel Jenny was staying at, but she had checked out! The receptionist searched for her but Jenny had left.’

‘So, you’re stuck in Malaysia with no idea where your friend is and where you are meant to go next?’

‘Exactly. But the receptionist did find Jenny’s lap top. I knew that she would come back for it so I waited. Sure enough, about an hour later Jenny turned up at the hostel. She had got my arrival time wrong. We must have just missed each other at the airport’

‘Wow. That’s some story,’ I say appreciatively.

L Peat O’Neil certainly knows her stuff. All that from one question. I pick up Travel Writing and stare at it admiringly.

‘What’s that you’re reading?’ asks Emily.

‘It’s a book about travel writing.’

‘Oh, right. I picked up this book in Malaysia,’ says Emily, reaching into her small rucksack. ‘It’s called The Memory Keeper’s Daughter.'

I instantly recognise the book that Emily is holding. It has received good reviews and was one of those that I picked up in Bookers the day previously but put back as it was too expensive.

‘I’ve heard of that. Are you enjoying it?’ I ask Emily.

‘Yes, it’s an easy read. I’ve just finished it. Here, you can have it if you want.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. Here.’

Emily hands me a very battered but free copy of The Memory Keeper’s’ Daughter’ by Kim Edwards.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ I say, addressing both Emily and the cosmos.

Look!

Err, it's quite dark. Click on it for a better view.



Sorry to interrupt my Australian travels, but I just had to show you this picture that I took late last night. Isn't it brilliant?

Okay, I admit, it's not quite the image I was hoping for, but it's what it represents that is so fantastic to me. Any idea what it is?

Yes, aurora borealis, also known as the northern lights.

Seeing the northern lights features large in my list of 20 challenges to be achieved in my gap year. As challenges go it is not very physically demanding, but ticking it off required a lot of luck and some planning.

I considered taking a trip to Iceland, Norway or Finland, but even a few days in any of these places would have cost over £1,000 and that's without beer money. Even then I would not have been guaranteed a sighting.

The aurora is a very unusual phenomenon. I'm not going explain the technicalities of how it occurs as that will mean cutting and pasting from Wikipedia or some such site to bring a level of detail that will bore both of us. Let me just explain my own understanding and if anyone reading this knows better then I'm happy to be corrected.

The northern (and southern) lights are directly related to solar activity i.e. sun spots and solar flares. These give off what is known as the solar wind, a flow of ions away from the sun. This wind would be lethal to us were it not for earth's magnetic field that protects us, much in the same way that the Starship Enterprise's forward shields protect it from Klingon photon torpedoes. Although the solar wind is deflected around the earth, some ions do reach us as they are dragged into our atmosphere in the backwash as they reach the far side of the earth, much in the same way that a fast moving vehicle will produce a slip stream behind it that sucks in other objects, such as cyclists. These ions react with our magnetic field to create a geomagnetic storm which is visible as a ring of light around the earth near its poles. For reasons not fully understood, the aurora are most prominent around the time of the vernal and autumnal equinoxes.

All that is my way of saying that this time of year affords one of the best opportunities for seeing the northern lights.

I chose to take my chances and view the lights as cheaply as possible by joining a trip aboard a chartered jet that flew north from Doncaster.

I was one of about 170 people who gathered at Robin Hood Airport last night for the trip. The evening began with talks by experts, Paul Money, a reviewer for Sky at Night magazine, and Steve Lawrence, a co-presenter on the Sky at Night TV programme. Paul told his rapt audience about what would be visible in the night sky and Steve explained the mechanics of the aurora borealis. He ended, rather dramatically with the aurora forecast. This is never precise, but takes into account a number of factors, including solar activity, to rate the possibility of seeing the northern lights on a scale of 1 to 9. Our chances were rated at 2. Not disastrous but it could have been better.

The talks over, we boarded the plane and headed north. Half an hour into the journey every light in the cabin was switched off to accustom our eyes tom the dark. The astronomers on board then explained what could be seen out of the windows, whilst the passengers played musical chairs to give everyone a chance of the window seat.

What was good was to have an expert pointing out features in the night sky - the different constellations and visible galaxies. I learned a lot that will stand me in good stead next time I get my telescope out of the garage. Three weeks ago I was stood atop a small mountain in New Zealand with a perfect view of the night sky above me. It was breathtaking and I'm afraid that the view out of a plane window can never match that experience.

As we ventured further north there was good news. The faint outline of the aurora became visible. The plane captain kindly kept going until we reached 63 degrees north, which may not sound like much but that's further north than Stockholm, Oslo and Helsinki. The Arctic Circle is just over 66 degrees north of the equator.

The plane ran legs east and west to give both sides an equal chance to see the aurora in the northern sky. Musical chairs gave way to pass the parcel as it was very much a case of being next to the window at the right time when the lights were on your side. They also pulsed brighter and darker to make it even more of a lottery. I thought I was going to miss out as the two elderly ladies on my row seemed to have their timing better than mine. Luck prevailed. I was in the hot seat as the plane made a bonus run of just 2 minutes. As we turned around the glorious lights came into full view before me. Once more that feeling of elation raced through me as I realised that I had done something that was important to me.

I made a wild stab at a photo, giving my camera a 15 second blast of bulb setting at ISO 3200 (which is why the picture is so grainy). I didn't have time for another shot as I felt compelled to allow the ladies a view of the aurora, which was the brightest it had been all night.

I didn't have a back up plan. If the aurora had not been visible last night I would have simply failed a task. The satisfaction at seeing such a brilliant phenomenon is immense.

The real value of last night is the inspiration it has given me to spend more time studying the night skies and learning about the universe we live in. You don't need to do what I did to be awed. Just go outside on clear night, preferably as far away from light pollution as you can, and look up.

Orion is the most prominent constellation in the sky right now. That reddish star at the top left of Orion is Betelguese - red giant. If that was our sun it would be so big that earth would be inside it! One day Betelguese will go supernova and give is a free firework display. It may already have done so as the light from it has taken 500 years to reach our eyes. Saturn is also visible and Mars is the most prominent it will be for another 2 years.

Beyond that there are always meteors to be seen and satellites passing by. Not to mention the space station or the space shuttles which can be tracked.

Go on. Look up and enjoy the view from our very own spaceship, travelling through the universe at 67,000 mph. Hold on tight!

Live long and prosper.

Here we Ghan again

Wainwright posing as usual

People at the front of The Ghan arrive at the station 5 minutes ahead of those at the rear

The warders, ready to beat the crap out of anyone from the Red section trying to sneak into Gold Class

Before picking up my voyage to the centre of Australia I'd just like to take a moment.

Firstly, my last blog was a landmark but I didn't notice when I published it. According to the counter a the side of the page that was my 100th blog. Maybe yours too, and if that's true then thank you. I reckon that my blogs are on average about 1200 words long so that's about 120,000 words so far. All I have to do is cut and paste them into the book that I'm writing and I'm done. Easy.

Well, maybe there's more to it than that.

The beginning of the book is coming along nicely and I have let my university tutor see the first 4,000 words. He has come back to me with very positive feedback. I chose Steve as my tutor as he is an accomplished and published writer himself, unlike a lot of my other tutors who, whilst obviously academically gifted, are themselves wannabe writers waiting for that big break. 'Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach,' as the saying goes. Steve has suggested that I find myself an agent, which meant a trip to the library to thumb through the Writers' and Artists' Year Book to discover agents that will deal in the kind of book I am writing. Also, a lady I spoke to at one of the places we stayed in New Zealand has a niece who is a literary agent in London who she suggested I contact. Another of those acts of serendipity perhaps? We'll see.

There's definitely a difference between writing a blog and writing a book. I believe that a blog should be quite short and take no more than 5 minutes of your valuable time to read. Some of my blogs recently, being written for the book and not specifically for publication on here, have tended to bang on a bit haven't they? So, from now on I'm going to break them up into bite sized chunks.

Before we go back to Adelaide I just want to say hello to Sinbad and thank her for joining us here. For some reason the comment box on here doesn't like me and hasn't published my reply to your question. The answer is: 'Civilian Investigator'. My answer to that is: 'Sod off.'

Right, where were we? Ah, yes.

The Ghan train journey from Adelaide to Darwin is much shorter than the Indian Pacific at a mere 1,851 miles (2,979 km). The entire journey takes two days, but I am only venturing half way, alighting at Alice Springs in preparation for my final hop to Uluru.

The train appears to be very similar to the Indian Pacific one that brought me to Adelaide, but for some reason the seats are not as comfortable and do not recline as far. I have the window seat once more and this time my companion for 24 hours or so is the very affable Emily, a young student from Canada who is working with youths in Alice Springs for 6 months as part of a church project.

As the train leaves the station I settle once more into the stress free world of the long distance rail journey, where all decisions are minor. I have smuggled a small box of red wine on board and Emily gratefully shares it with me as we intersperse our chats with bouts of reading and iPod listening.

This time there are no unscheduled stops for terrorists or fallen power lines. Although in the past the track has seen its fair share of drama. The present rail link only dates back to 2003. Prior to this the line ran from Adelaide to Alice Springs and provided an uncertain and very slow journey. As with the Indian Pacific, early travellers faced a series of trains to traverse various track widths.

Back in 1886 three thirsty railway workers conceived of a plan to travel along the narrow gauge track in search of beer. They hoisted a makeshift sail onto a railway trolley and set off for a hotel at William Creek. The contraption worked a treat and they must have been salivating in anticipation of a few cold ones as the wind powered locomotive gathered speed. Unfortunately it kept on gathering speed and the hapless three had neglected to build a braking system into their invention. The trolley left the track at high speed and the three bodies, still with very surprised looks on their faces, were found three days later.

As recently as 2009, nineteen year old American tourist, Chad Vance, narrowly avoided adding to the line’s death toll. He got off the train in Port Augusta and went for a short stroll. To his horror he returned to the station to see The Ghan pulling out. Luckily, the train stops momentarily just outside the station to change drivers. Spotting this, Mr Vance sprinted down the track and began pounding furiously on the windows of First Class Dining. The First Class Diners duly ignored him, tut tutting over their Brown Windsor soup at such loutish behaviour. As the train began to pull away once more Mr Vance hurled himself onto a small stairwell on one of the carriages and wedged himself on board. He remained there dressed in only a T shirt and jeans for well over two hours as the Ghan sped over the rocky landscape at speeds of up to 70 miles per hour. His cries for help were eventually heard by Marty Wells, a Ghan crew member, who brought the train to an emergency stop.

"Chad is a very lucky guy - when we rescued him his skin was white and his lips were blue," Mr Wells told the Sunday Mail.

"I've never seen anything like this before and I sure hope I don't ever see it happen again."

Our journey is far less eventful and both Emily and I are careful not to get off the train in Port Augusta.

Cosmic Ordering

Adelaide

I awake to my last full day in Adelaide and the realisation that I am more than half way through the Australian leg of my voyage. I also wake up to a small crisis of confidence about my pilgrimage to reach Uluru, the red heart of the country.

I chose to stay in youth hostels and backpack for two reasons. The first was the cost. Youth hostels offer incredibly good value for money and are usually situated in a central location. The second was the need to prove to myself that I could travel across a continent solo, without the support of a Tuna or a Jay Jay.

Australia proved to be more expensive than I had expected, due mainly to the falling value of the pound. I judge a country’s cost of living by the price of its beer. In Australia this tended to be between four and five pounds a pint. A lot more than I would expect to pay at home. Obviously it was cheaper to buy cans and bottles but these proved extraordinarily hard to find.

I walked into numerous convenience stores in Sydney in search of a four pack and the only remotely alcoholic items on sale were red wine cook-in sauces. Realising that a pattern was emerging I eventually asked a shop keeper:

‘Excuse me. Do you sell beer?’

‘No mate. You need a Bottle-O.’

‘A what?’

‘A Bottle-O. You know, a bottle shop. That’s the only place you can buy booze.’

I was pointed in the right direction and after a bit of searching I eventually found a shop that would allow me to buy a bottle of wine or a few cans of beer. From that point on I made a point of discovering the nearest Bottle-O wherever I went. It was surprisingly difficult.

Aside from beer supply difficulties, the whole solo traveller thing wasn’t working out very well either. Emails from my daughter told of difficulties with my father’s will, which still hadn’t gone through probate. I’d tried hard to ensure that I’d resolved everything before I came away, but my useless solicitor let me down. I’d never been apart from my children for so long and the distance and time difference made me feel inadequate in my efforts to protect them. I felt that I was letting them down.

You may recall the whale of a time I had with my eldest son in Munich as I lurched from beer hall to beer hall clutching an inflatable vagina. I met so many young people that night, many of them backpackers. I enjoyed their company and they enjoyed mine, even calling me a ‘cool dad’.

I had assumed that on the back of that success the word would be out and young backpackers throughout the world would welcome me as the fun loving, karaoke singing, young at heart father everyone should have. But somehow communication had broken down and no one recognised me. There were even times when I appeared to be completely invisible. On one occasion I walked into my dormitory, greeted an unknown male with a rousing ‘Hi there’ and was totally ignored. It was a far cry from the raucous pub crawls I had envisaged, not that I could have afforded them anyway. I never did get to discover the price of disposable sex toys in Australia.

It wasn’t a Tuna or a Jay Jay I needed. I wanted to share this trip with the fantastic people who had journeyed around Turkey and Africa with me. The disappointment of not swimming with dolphins would have been more bearable if I could have cried laughing about it with Angelina and Lynn over a few bottles of wine.

To make matters worse, I was badly sunburned.

I am one of life’s mongrels. A curious mixture of English, Irish, Indian and goodness knows what else. Although I’m Caucasian in appearance I do have the added advantage of tanning easily. No Factor 30 for me, thank you very much. Unfortunately, whilst dozing on the deck of the dolphin boat, I had not applied any factor at all. The wet suit had protected most of my body, but my face was red and sore, my eyes very swollen and I had lips that Angelina Jolie would die for. I looked like I’d been in a fight with a madman wielding a flame thrower.

Looking back, what I should have done at this point was break out my credit card and turn my back on the whole backpacker-on-a-budget thing. Adelaide zoo had recently become home to two giant pandas, on loan from China. I could have gone there, oo-ah’d at the cute black and white celebrities then eaten well and toured the bars and clubs in search of fun and someone to have a laugh with.

Instead, I opted for a very quiet, low spending day out of the sun. This meant visits to the art gallery, the museum and time in the park reading Round Ireland with a Fridge in a shady bower.

It wasn’t the most exciting day of my trip. The only notable portrait in the art gallery was one painted in 1836 of an Aborigine named Woureddy, the Chief of Van Diemen’s Land. Proof of the everlasting link between the Aborigines and Geordies.

By late afternoon I was sick of culture, even if it was free and Tony Hawks was triumphantly marching into Dublin, fridge in tow, at the end of his trek. The lucky sod even got to shag a beauty from New Zealand in a dog kennel along the way. Apart from good looks, money and a wicked sense of humour, what’s he got that I haven’t? With another 24 hour train journey looming I needed another book to read.

The central shopping area of Adelaide could be any English city, apart from the weather, of course. I locate Bookers and step inside for an orgy of book browsing. The shop is the same as the English version but the prices definitely aren’t. Over twenty quid for the new Dan Brown! Even a modest paperback costs a tenner and most are around fifteen pounds.

I walk away in disgust and decide to invoke my last resort. A rare piece of magic.

A few years ago the idea of the Cosmic Ordering Service (COS) came to the fore of the public conscience and like many others I bought Barbel Mohr’s bestselling book. The book itself is evidence of the power of the COS. I imagine that at some point Barbel must have placed an order that said: ‘Dear Cosmic Ordering Service please let me make a very thin book out of stating the bleeding obvious and make a shit load of money.’

If nothing else, the book encourages a positive outlook on life and a forgiving state of mind, so I applaud it for that. On the basis that you should be careful what you wish for I have rarely bothered the cosmos with requests. When I have it has usually been to find my next girlfriend and it always has. Well, I’ve only asked it twice, but twice it has delivered. Unfortunately they found out about each other and it all got very nasty. I reckon Tony Hawks uses it too. But being a better writer than me, he goes into exquisite details that seemingly involve dog kennels and New Zealander’s.

If it works for finding female companions then surely a book will be a piece of piss? I decide to try.

‘Dear Cosmic Ordering Service please send me a free book to read on the train to Alice Springs tomorrow. Love and kisses, Bryan.’

Swimming with Dolphins

Mais Je ne vois pas des dauphins sanglante!

Glenelg beach - a seaweed free zone

Majestic stingray

Next day I slip out of my bunk at well before 6.00 am with a knot of excitement in my stomach. I dress in the corridor outside the room to avoid disturbing my three roommates.

I’d done a reconnaissance mission the evening before so I know where to go to catch the tram to Glenelg, a beach resort just south of Adelaide. I dose myself with sea sickness tablets and ginger on the 20 minute journey.

It’s a short walk to the marina where I soon locate the splendid looking catamaran that is going to carry me out to sea. The crew welcome me aboard and immediately slap an indemnity form in my hand for me to sign. It does nothing to calm my shark encounter worries. Normally I dismiss such documents as meaningless, but when a crew member solemnly witnesses my signature there is definitely an air of having signed away any future claim for my missing leg.

I am issued with a large black wet suit and told to change. There are about 20 of us taking the trip altogether and a crew member calls us together for our briefing.

‘G’day. I’m Gary and I’ll be looking after you today. The conditions are good, but we can never guarantee that you will get to swim with the dolphins. These are wild creatures. It’s up to them whether they want to play or not. Under no circumstances should you attempt to touch the dolphins as they will bite you.’

Great. Here’s me worrying about sharks and now this guy tells me that Flipper wants a piece of me too.

‘When we sight dolphins we will move towards them. I will then shout “Swimmers ready” and you should put on your masks and snorkels and make your way to the rear of the boat as quickly as you can.

‘When I give the command, get into the water and hold on to one of the ropes trailing behind the boat. You must stay inside the rope, so that the Shark Shield can protect you. We should get 5 or 6 swims today. Any questions?’

Of course there are. Everyone on that boat wants to know about the bloody Shark Shield and what their chances are of going home in one piece. But no one dares to ask.

I prop myself on the foredeck as we make our way out to sea.

We are barely out of the marina when the first shout goes up and I make my way to the back of the boat. There is a small aluminium platform at water level. Two white ropes rail behind the boat and in between them is a bright yellow cord. The sort of cord you would use to tie your luggage to a car roof rack. As highly effective shark deterrents go it doesn’t look like much.

‘Swimmers, get in the water,’ yells Gary.

I duly pull down my snorkel and mask and work my way down the rope. I can’t see anything except the pale legs of the bloke in front. People on the boat are shouting and pointing. I look to my left and no more than 25 feet away a fin appears out of the water. Shark or dolphin? Luckily it was a bottlenose. But he stays out to my left and doesn’t come to play so I never get the underwater view or a chance to be nibbled.

Then, on the rope opposite, a young girl begins to panic and shout. What's that? Is she saying ‘Help’ or ‘Shark’? I’m not quite sure but she certainly isn't happy. I am the closest person to her and luckily I trained in life saving many years ago. Hang on luv, it’s coming back to me. Ah, yes. Lesson Number One - you're no use to anyone dead so don't put yourself in danger. Good advice. I try to move as far away from her as I can, but she’s closer than I thought and makes grab for my leg. A swift kick catches her on the chin and stuns her, breaking her grip and allowing me to put a good distance between us.

My goodness that was close. Thank God for my training. What on earth was she doing? If there was a shark down there then all that thrashing about was just asking for trouble. It was a near thing, but I survived.

So does she. Gary throws her a life belt and reels her. Lesson Number Two – find something to throw to the drama queen and pull them in. It must be thirty years since I took my bonze medallion in life saving, but it’s still all there. I bet I can still make a float out of pyjama bottoms should the need arise.

After ten minutes it’s clear that the dolphins are not in partying mood and Gary calls us all in. I soon spot shark girl sat on the deck with a towel round her hunched shoulders. Fortunately, in wetsuits and masks we all look the same so she hasn’t got a clue who twatted her. This is my lucky day.

Well, it would be if I actually got to swim with a dolphin. There is one more call to get in the water, but once again Flipper and his mates just take the piss. After that I just laze around on deck, like a Spitfire pilot waiting for the shout. It never comes. I'd spent sixty quid for the pleasure of being dragged behind a boat on a piece of rope. At least the sea sickness pills worked.

Being English I accepted that this was the way of things but as I left the boat a young French girl had a different viewpoint and was berating the crew:

‘But I did not see any dolphins!’ she complained.

I left her to it.

It’s a beautiful day and very hot. It would be a shame to leave the beach so I go for a walk.

From the pier I take photos of Glenelg as it seems to be a very modern and attractive resort. I got a few shots too of a magnificent stingray that glides under the pier. Not too big, maybe 6 feet across, but I really enjoy seeing this creature flapping its wings and moving along so wild and free.

I point it out to a chap nearby. He then regales me with fishing stories and tells me how this area had been ruined.

‘Look at the beach,’ he implores. ‘All the seaweed had been removed, driving the fish away, and local houses bull-dozed to make way for modern flats, all to make it more attractive to people. Don't tell me about the green house effect,’ he says. 'What about the greed house effect?'

Suddenly I see Glenelg differently.

My new friend, who turns out to be from Romania but has lived in Australia for 40 years, has a word or two to say about sharks too.

‘I’ve seen some really big ones. Even saw a great white once. But mostly they are harmless.

‘It is these people who dress all in black that are so stupid. The sharks mistake them for seals. They’re just asking for trouble.’

‘Tut, tut. How stupid can you get?’ I agree. ‘I’ve heard that there’s a company here who dress people in black wetsuits and drag them behind a boat.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asks my friend.

‘So they can swim with dolphins.’

‘And do they?’

‘No.’

‘That’s crazy!’

I leave him shaking his head. Wandering along the beach I am pleased to find that further up the seaweed reappears.

My walk takes me past the young French girl who still looks unhappy and is shouting something to her boyfriend.

‘Mais Je ne vois pas des dauphins sanglante!’

My French isn't too good, but I think that translates as: 'But I didn’t see any bloody dolphins!'

A short nap and a bit of sunburn later I make my way back but this time I walk along the promenade. The houses that front it are splendid and no two are alike. One in particular catches my eye. All steel, concrete and glass it is full of curves and designed so the top storey is the main living area. It is the grass that amazes me most. It is an unnatural green. I walk over to it to see if it is real and it is. Every blade of uniform length and not a weed in sight. The groundsman at Wembley would be proud of this grass. It is perfect. And it is on a slope, so I've no idea how such precision was engineered. I wanted to take a picture so the next time the Green Thumb Man appears we can have a chat about what I should get for my money. But I am conscious of the security cameras and sure that somewhere unseen there is a Rottweiler with and elastic band around its nuts to provide additional motivation to see off intruders.

I withdraw. But maybe I would have been okay, because what was odd is there are no people about at all. Apart from the odd workman painting or cementing something I never see any residents of these award winning beachfront properties. It is eerily quiet.


So quite a day all in all. I'd paid to be pulled through the sea like a seal on a rope just to prove that my sea sickness pills work. And then I'd gone walkabout for nothing, seen a majestic stingray and been left wondering, not for the first time, about the nature of progress and man's need to sterilise nature in order to create communities worthy of Homes and Gardens. I think I may have caught the sun too.

Indian Pacific

Wainwright is good to go

A seat with a 'roo (if you look closely)

Short stop at Broken Hill

If it wasn’t for the glass partition I could stroll about 20 feet from my railway carriage dormitory to the waiting Indian Pacific train, which is standing majestically at the next platform. Instead I lug my backpack on a 10 minute trek out of the hostel and through the nearby railway station.

The Indian Pacific train runs for 2,704 miles (4,352 Km) from Sydney, due west to Perth. As the name suggests, it links the Indian Ocean coastline of Australia with the Pacific Ocean coastline. The whole journey takes 65 hours to complete, requiring endurance travellers to spend 3 nights on board. That’s an awful lot of staring out of the window as small settlements, bush and kangaroos glide by.

The journey traces its origins back to 1917 when on 25th October the first eastbound passenger train departed Kalgoorlie for Port Augusta. The trip was the result of a brilliant engineering and surveying project to bridge the 1,240 mile gap between eastern and western rail lines. The project took 5 years to complete and made it possible for passengers to travel from Sydney to Perth by rail for the first time, although they had to change trains 5 times due to differences in the track gauge.

It was not until 1969 that the standard gauge railway line across Australia was completed. On Monday 23rd February, 1970 the first unbroken journey of the Indian Pacific commenced at Sydney Central Station and was greeted by a cheering crowd of 10,000 people in Perth three days later.

The train offers various levels of comfort with corresponding price tags. In his lively travelogue Down Under, the epic voyager and brilliant raconteur, Bill Bryson, describes his experience on the Indian Pacific. Bill, having quite a few best sellers under his belt by this time, checked into the luxury of Gold Class. A place of fine eating, soft beds and comfy chairs. Whilst exploring the train he eventually comes to locked doors that protect him from the horrors beyond.

‘What’s back there?’ Bill asks the buffet car girl.

‘Coach class,’ she replied with a shudder.

‘Is this door always locked?’

She nods gravely. ‘Always.’

Now, I’m not claiming to be a more intrepid explorer than Bill. As you may have guessed he is somewhat of a hero. But Bill never ventures beyond those doors. Just like he never completes the Appalachian Trail in A Walk in the Woods. Bill may be a wonderful travel writer but at times he seems to come up short on the perseverance scale.

Not so your Middle Aged Gapper. I chose to venture into the limited confine at the rear of the 15 carriage train in what is now called the ‘Red Service’. In the days of the Titanic it would have been called Steerage. I must admit that budget was a big factor. It would have cost me £400 to travel in Gold Service, opposed to the £75 it cost me for a Backpacker ticket. Well, I am a Yorkshireman after all.

My 75 quid buys me a very comfortable seat that tips back to form a less comfortable couchette, with slightly more room than you would have on a plane. On the plus side there is easy access to the buffet car, which may not be gourmet eating, but is reasonably priced considering I am going to be a prisoner for about 24 hours. There is also a shower and roomy toilet close at hand.

The Coach Manager welcomes me on board. A large bunch of keys, a can of mace and a side handle baton dangle ominously from her thick leather belt.

I have the window seat and I am joined by my cell mate, Steve, a very affable Scottish chap in his early thirties who has taken a couple of months out to travel. He’s made his way to Australia via Thailand and Vietnam. Like me, he has spent a few nights in Sydney before venturing west to Adelaide.

‘What about those bats in Sydney, eh? Big buggers weren’t they?’ I say.

‘What bats?’ replies Steve.

Checking that Wainwright is safe in the overhead luggage rack, I take note of the other passengers who now occupy every seat. Oh my God! I’m on the set of a disaster movie. Everyone is here – the selfish guy in the smart suit who will let us all die to save his own skin; the nervous woman who will let us all die because she can’t overcome some hidden weakness; a nun with a guitar; an old but fit guy in a vest who will sacrifice himself for the rest of us; Forrest Gump. Hang on, what’s Forrest doing here? Surely he’s on the wrong train?

Forrest turns out to be a very nice man from Argentina who is travelling with his equally charming Filipino wife. They sleep for almost the entire journey to Adelaide.

The Indian Pacific journey may be long, but it’s never fast. The Japanese Bullet Train could complete the coast to coast journey in less than 17 hours. Our locomotive settles instead for slow but steady progress at an average speed of 40 miles per hour. Slow and steady that is until the disaster strikes.

The train makes its way lazily through the outlying districts of Sydney. I am looking forward to the view as we wind our way through the Blue Mountains and into the outback beyond. But less than 3 hours into our journey the train comes to a halt in Katoomba.

A nervous voice on the intercom announces that an electrical storm has brought down a power line across the track ahead. The emergency services are on their way to deal with it.

About 80 yards away in the fading light I can see Hotel Gearin with its inviting beds and equally tempting bottle shop (off licence to us poms). But as the train is not at a platform we are confined and locked down. I look to see the older guy in the vest. The sod is asleep when he should obviously be climbing along the roof of the train to confront the terrorists that have seized control of the locomotive and put a gun to the head of the Train Manager to make him keep us calm with a plausible excuse.

It takes over 4 hours before we get underway again. By this time it is dark and all hope of seeing the Blue Mountains has gone. If I was on a British train and delayed for 4 hours I would no doubt join countless other passengers in a bout of communal disgust and anguish. There would even be those who would verbally attack the train staff and speak loudly about falling standards and refunds. But on a journey of nearly 24 hours what do a few more hours matter? If I’d wanted to get to Adelaide quickly I could have flown for the same price. The whole point of the Indian Pacific is to enjoy the experience of travelling by this world famous, iconic train. If anything, another 4 hours on board represents even better value for money.

I awake at 6.00 am the next morning and take a refreshing shower and shave. No one else is awake so I slip into the dining car to await breakfast. The sun rises to reveal a landscape of red soil, dotted with acacia trees, or the wattle, as it is known in Australia. There are no roads and no people but I do spot herds of goats and a few kangaroos as well as a couple of soaring wedge tail eagles, the symbol of the Indian Pacific.

Travelling west I do something could never do on a British train – I cross a time zone, albeit a rather odd one as my watch is turned back by 90 minutes to Central Standard Time.

For the remainder of my journey to Adelaide I settle into the cosy routine of the prison inmate – reading, eating, writing my journal, napping and gazing wistfully at a landscape that hardly varies.

There’s no exercise yard as such, but I do have the freedom to wander between my coach and the buffet coach. Seeing that the guard is distracted by Forrest, who is asking for another blanket, I make a bold dash to move further down the train but just as Bill Bryson has foretold the door is locked. I press my face to the dark glass and catch the faint chink of champagne glasses coming together before they are drowned out by raucous laughter. The inviting aroma of lobster thermidore eases through the gap in the doorway accompanied by a languorous whisper of jazz music. I make a silent promise. One day I will return and travel in Bryson class.

Stepping out of the station in Adelaide I catch the shuttle to the next hostel and a slight nervousness overcomes me as I think about what the next day will bring. A boat trip to swim with dolphins and a chance to find out if Shark Shield actually works.

Free Food

One aspect of the Youth Hostel system that impressed me was the idea of free food. Most backpackers are on a budget and so it makes sense to cook your own food to save money. The trouble is you always have something left over and since you will be backpacking to the next destination there is no convenient way to carry with you perishable items or that opened bag of dried apricots.

To avoid all this unwanted food going to waste the hostels have shelves labelled ‘Free Food’ in fridges and in kitchens. Thus, I was able to make a very edible and free sandwich from a couple of eggs and a tomato that someone had left and in return I left some pasta and a tub of margarine.

8.3 million tonnes of food is thrown away by households in the UK per annum. Wasting food costs the average family with children about £680 a year. So wouldn’t it be a good idea if we all adopted the Free Food approach?

The ideal place to leave waste food would be the entrance to any large supermarket. You could bring your unwanted, but still edible food in your shopping bag and leave it on a big shelf or in a fridge. Then help yourself to anything you wanted in return.

Of course, none of the big supermarkets would support such a scheme because it would eat into a fraction of a tiny percentage of the billions of profit they make by driving out every element of competition in the areas they operate. So, how about charity shops? Surely it’s wrong for two thirds of the world to starve while the other third chucks perfectly good food away? Oxfam would be the ideal starting point. They could even leave donation boxes for those who feel uneasy about something for nothing.

A good idea, but I’m sad to say it’s doomed to failure. For a start there’s food hygiene to consider. Would you trust half a jar of Bolognese sauce that may or may not have been in someone else’s fridge? Ninety nine percent of those willing to use such a scheme would do so responsibly. But what about the crackpot who thinks that lacing crunchy nut cornflakes with broken glass is funny?

Which reminds me of a time when I was a student training to be a teacher and one of the less popular members of our hall of residence offered me an egg mayo sandwich. Being slightly drunk and a greedy sod to boot I accepted the grub and gulped it down. It was delicious. I thanked the odd fellow and wondered if I might have misjudged him. Never again would I call him Paedo Pete to his face.

Years later, when I was more worldy wise, I reflected on this unusual act of altruism and a horrible realisation struck me. That smug, kiddie fiddling bastard wanked in the mayo.

Live long and prosper.

Sydney Part 2

Sydney Harbour Bridge - see if you can spot Stephen Hawking

I have had two interesting communications today. The first was from playwright Dave Windass at The Hull Truck Theatre Company. Hull Truck run a very occasional course with limited places for wannabe playwrights. I have been trying to get on the course for over a year, but they are very infrequent and not widely advertised. The next course begins in April and I would love to get a place. The problem, however, was missing two classes due to trips away from home. Dave has suggested that as long as I am willing to do the work normally undertaken in those weeks it should not bar me from applying. I have wasted no time in sending off said application together with 2 pages of my play script , Status - coming to a theatre near you once I've finished the bloody thing.

The second communication was a phone call from my former employer, offering me a 6 month contract to undertake some work for them. The pay is not bad and the money would be nice, especially after my trip down under. The trouble is I would have to work full time and start next week. As I see it this would revoke my cherished status as a middle aged gapper and transform me into a middle aged sell out. Not only would I not have time to attend to my play and my book, there wouldn't even be a book. I can hardly write about my adventures and then come to a bit that says -

' I had intended to do a lot of other interesting stuff but somebody waved money at me so you'll just have to imagine it. The End.'

It took all of 3 seconds to consider this kind offer and reject it. The dream lives on.

Okay then, let's get back to Sydney:

The Opera House was both disappointing and breathtaking in equal measure. I don’t know how I managed it, but when I searched the Opera House website for something to see during my visit I never noticed that La Traviata was being performed in one of the two main halls. Instead I booked to see a play called Optimism in the one of the small studios tucked away under the main auditoriums. Based on Voltaire’s Candide, the play was awful. It reached its lowest point at the end of the first half when a one armed man, dripping in mud sang 'I could be happy' as a dirge. Still jet lagged, I dozed off only to be awoken by a loud gunshot. I thought at first that I had been shot. You can only imagine my disappointment to discover that I hadn't and that I had lived to return for the second half. My own optimism that things could only get better proved unfounded.

Salvation came by way of the Opera House Tour the next day. In 1956 the New South Wales Government called an international design competition to create an opera house on the site of a derelict tram shed on Bennelong Point. Reputedly rescued from a pile of discarded submissions, Danish architect Jørn Utzon’s entry was the worthy winner. The building was meant to take 3 years to construct at a cost of $7m. But there was a problem. Utzon’s design was so radical that it pushed the envelope of engineering beyond its known limits. The design was eventually deemed impossible to create until Utzon himself came up with a visionary solution whereby the sails of the building were shaped so that collectively they would make up a sphere. Completion eventually took 16 years, during which time Utzon was sacked as architect, and the costs were over $100m.

Utzon, who received international architecture's highest honour, the Pritzker Prize, in 2003, died in November 2008, having never seen his greatest masterpiece.

Inside and out, the Sydney Opera House is a thing of immense beauty. Let me share one piece of insider information about it. The building, with its 10 sails, is not white but a slightly creamy beige. The colour comes from an exterior coating of ceramic tiles, 1,360,006 of them to be exact. And here’s the scoop - they are very similar to the ones in my kitchen.

I re-visit landmark number 2 on a day of parties and celebrations – Australia Day. 26th January 1788 was the day that Captain Arthur Philips landed with 11 convict ships from Great Britain at Sydney Cove and the settlement of this vast land by white people began. It’s not a day of celebration for everyone, with many of the Aboriginal population regarding it as invasion day.

I commence my own celebration by tackling one of the challenges on my list – to climb to the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The climb is a very popular tourist attraction and the entrance to the building where the climb commences has pictures of the numerous celebrities that have taken the challenge – Michael Caine and his lovely missus, Jodi Foster, Prince Harry, Stephen Hawking, the list goes on.

Walking up the bridge is like being in a chain gang. All your personal property is taken away and climbers don grey jump suits, stripping down to underwear underneath to overcome the heat and 85% humidity. An ingenious system of wires, cogs and belts means you are tethered at all times and unlikely to disturb the 8 lanes of traffic below by dropping in on them.

The 134 metre high view from the top must be one of the best in the world, with the Opera House gleaming in the sunlight and, as this was Australia Day, the harbour was teeming with all manner of water craft, weaving in and out of each other. There was even one of those big fire ships that spray water everywhere. It was a good day to be a middle aged gapper.

So what was my lasting impression of Sydney? The tower, the aquarium, circular quay, the bridge, the Chinese Garden of Friendship, the Opera House? No. The bats. They're huge. Every evening at dusk they swoop over city like leather dinner plates. Hundreds of them.

Sydney is home to the Grey Headed Flying Fox, a type of fruit bat. They hang out at the Botanic Gardens during the day. The strange thing was that no one appeared to see them but me. I’d stand there, open mouthed, looking up muttering 'Big bats' and pointing to anyone who might be interested. But no one was.

At the risk of repeating myself...

Inside SOH

Sydney Opera House on Australia Day

The Utzon Hall, SOH

Firstly, thank you to fellow blogger, Rare Lesser Spotted for nominating me for the somewhat tongue in cheek Creative Writer Blogger Award. I look forward to the gala evening.

I have been enjoying the sense of being a writer this week, getting up reasonably early and working on Adventures of a Middle Aged Gapper, in between bouts of staring out of the window, random web surfing and damn fine cups of coffee. I have alternated between writing the opening to the book, which describes how I come to be having a gap year, and turning my notes on Australia into something I consider publishable.

At the risk of repeating some of what I wrote from Australia, here is what I have written about my journey to the land down under:

I opted to fly to Sydney without a lay-over. As anyone who has undertaken this journey will tell you, it is very disorientating. The flight left at 10pm and we flew through the night to Singapore for a one and half hour stop in the morning. Except it wasn’t morning, it was late afternoon and as we climbed back aboard the plane the sun was already setting. So, as we completed the journey to Australia I saw the sun rise twice in less than 24 hours. A new experience for me, but sadly not one on my list of challenges.

Arriving at the airport I break out in a sweat of nervousness that would become a drugs mule. Australia has very strict laws on the importation of virtually anything organic – vegetables, meat, dairy products, prescription drugs and even the soil on your shoes. A short film about the restrictions is shown on the plane. It ends with the ominous words:

‘Declare! You will be caught and you will be shot.’

I am carrying bags of pills for headaches, diahorrea, travel sickness, male menopause, sore joints, upset stomachs, snake bites and shark attacks. Not to mention my canisters of every shape and form of ginger that I bought to ward off sea sickness. There’s just no way I can stuff that lot up my bum.

I have flashback to when I visited New England 18 months earlier. Kate, my girlfriend of the time, made the grievous mistake of saving for later an apple she was given on the plane. The fruit and veg dog at Logan Airport went wild. Kate was thrown to the floor and forced to assume the position while her luggage was ransacked. I can picture Kate now, lying on the floor, waving her arms and legs about like an upturned beetle while the dog tried to take the Juicy Fruity gum out of her mouth. It was so funny. Tears of laughter rolled down my face. In retrospect I think my reaction that day may have been a contributory factor to our acrimonious break-up by the end of the holiday.

I decide to declare and resign myself to an hour of delay at the airport. But, despite the dire warnings, no one is bothered that I am a ginger smuggler and I am waved through. Luckily only I hear the small sigh of relief that emanates from my backpack. Wainwright! An intimate search would have been painful but bearable for me. I fear it would have proved fatal for my miniature companion.

Taking the train from the airport to the city centre a couple of friendly cops direct me towards the youth hostel that was to be my home for 3 nights. The bright, modern hostel had been a railway station itself in the past. I paid a little extra to stay in a 4 bed dorm that had been converted from an old railway carriage. It is situated on the old platform, separated by a glass platform from the real railway station. I can lie in bed and listen to the 22.27 to Cairns easing itself out of the station. If ever a bunk was designed to encourage wet dreams among rail enthusiasts, then this is surely it.

The excitement of my greatest adventure to date beat the jet lag and I was soon out of the door and wandering around Sydney. Inevitably, I was drawn to the two iconic landmarks that would be the focus of my stay in the city.

More coming soon.

Live long and prosper.