FNQ

Friday July 6th

We booked our flights to Cairns on the flying kangaroo but then they bumped us onto Jetstar, you know, their subsidary company, so we had to suffer the orange and black scousejet uniforms and the cheap foundation all over again.

The thing about flying across Australia is that you really get a perspective of how vast a continent this really is, and not just how vast but how desolate and unpopulated as well. If you fly over to Perth you cross deserts and multi-coloured salt pans as far as the eye can see and if you fly to the middle of Australia then the earth becomes the richest red colour imaginable. Flying up to Cairns takes you over enormous stretches of land where there's just nothingness and in particular there's no water, hardly any at all, not even in the rivers, which have dried up or salted up or just given up and buggered off elsewhere. It's a stunning landscape; the towns and cities clinging to the very edges of the continent as though they're scared to venture any further inland.

Anyway, as if the bump onto Jetstar wasn't enough, the only flight we could get was at 2.35pm which meant Ella didn't get an afternoon sleep and spent the entire flight unable to sit still. By the time we began our descent into Cairns she had to be strapped to me with one of those lap belts, and cried loudly as we swooped down over the mountains and round over the turquoise of the Coral sea - not the start to the holiday I'd been hoping for.

And here's what all the fuss is about - Cairns, a small town which lies above the tropic of capricorn but below the equator. It's a low-rise town of badly-constructed motels and plots of wasteland and a startlingly ugly statue of Captain Cook, yet still it's my favorite place in Australia, and one of the country's top tourist destinations, with direct flights to Asia every day of the week. In the summer it's wet and hot, especially between February and April, but in the winter it's much cooler and drier and altogether more bearable.

The town sits at the foothills of rainforest-clad mountains on Trinity Bay, as you can see from the first picture. It doesn't have a beach as such, just an expanse of mudflats that become exposed when the tide goes out and provide fertile ground for wading birds, huge great mudskippers and little crabs.

They've tarted Cairns up since we last came and now they've built this artificial lagoon on the esplanade. They've even shipped in some fine white sand in the same way they have in Brisbane and in the same way they're currently busy pumping false snowflakes over the ski resorts of the snowy mountains down at the bottom end of the country.

Mexicans

It’s a little while since we had a holiday, I mean it’s over a month for goodness sake, we’ve got itchy feet.

So tomorrow we fly to Cairns, gateway to the Great Barrier Reef, which is in far north Queensland, (or FNQ as it’s universally known). The Queenslanders would call us Mexicans, a term they use for those south of their borders who travel north to escape the winter in the colder states. It’s a three hour flight, a small price to pay for a return to more pleasant conditions.

The last time we went to Cairns was 1996 and we used it as a base for a fortnight travelling up and down the coast as far north as Cape Tribulation and south to Mission Beach.

To date, the area ranks as my favourite part of the world just for the scenery; tropical rainforest meets the Great Barrier Reef, another of Australia’s four world heritage-listed sites (along with Fraser Island, Kakadu National Park and Ayer’s Rock), miles of sugar cane plantations, Queenslander houses, sweet fresh bananas, stripy and spotty tropical fish. And the winter is almost the only time it’s worth going – during summer it’s hot and wet and you can’t go into the water because of the box jellyfish, which has a lethal sting.

Our plans include three nights in Cairns with a trip to a pontoon on the outer Barrier Reef, the sort that has snorkelling facilities, an underwater viewing platform, glass bottom boat and helicopter. After that we’re heading north to Port Douglas for five nights, where we’ll probably go back out to the reef and visit the rainforest habitat for their “breakfast with the birds” before heading off to see Mosman Gorge, a tropical freshwater reserve.

Most of all we need some rest. We’re tired now, the sort of tired where you want to stay in your pyjamas and order some take-away food because you can’t be bothered to cook, less still to go shopping. Or perhaps that’s just the inconvenience of life in a big city. Almost six months after we arrived, we’ve hardly stopped to take a breath and though it’s exciting, it’s also stressful trying to combine it with a job, especially one which requires you to learn new skills, and trying to fit in other things like going to the gym and organising trips and maintaining a social life doesn’t leave much room for chilling out.

So we’re signing off for the big chill-out, we’ll be back with the photos a week on Sunday.

Sailor's Thai

And so to Sailor's Thai, apparently the best Thai restaurant in the whole of Sydney(106 George Street, The Rocks) where we met up with Lucy and Paul, who you might remember I met in the queue at Sydney Aquarium. It was the first time they'd escaped their toddler in eight weeks and you could feel the relief. As it was a school night, I drove and Darren drank. We all know I'm a two pot screamer and I didn't want to reveal my other life as a lush when I hardly know them.

Sailor's Thai has been on our "to-do" list since we came to Sydney in 2002 and read about it in our Time Out guide. We'd planned to go there for dinner but without a mobile phone to book a table and suffering from intense jet-lag (brought about by having arrived via Singapore and having flown backwards to Perth and forwards again to Sydney, all within the space of a week), the thought of booking anything was beyond us.

And that's the problem with being a tourist in Sydney; even if you have a week to spend here, by the time you're over the jet-lag and you've got your bearings, it's time to move on. I've always found guide books to Australia intensely frustrating because they give you a glimpse of what you could be doing in Sydney (or elsewhere) but your actual experience of the city as a tourist ends up being pretty far removed from the one you read about in the book, which is why you need to visit more than once or visit for three weeks or with somebody who knows their way around. The alternative is to spend your days at the zoo and Bondi beach and your evenings at Darling Harbour, all of which are tailor-made for the passing tourist and none of which offer much of an insight into the real Sydney.

So now we have a proper "to-do" list blu-tacked to the wall in the living room, based on Lonely Planet and the Eyewitness series, Time Out and the Rough Guide. I've read and researched and asked questions; we're not going to miss a thing, not a trick. We're squeezing the life out of the place in the hope it stops me dreaming about it when I'm back home.

Anyway, like most renowned restaurants, Sailor's Thai turns out to be a bit on the poncy side and true to form I managed to make a complete tit of myself by trying to eat my starter while it was still wrapped in its decorative banana leaf. Apparently you're supposed to take it out of the banana leaf and wrap it in some other sort of leaf but I'm buggered if I could even identify a banana leaf let alone know the correct etiquette for dealing with one. Growing up in Dallam, the only leaves we needed were dock leaves to use as an antidote to the nettles down by Sankey Brook.

The waiter soon put me right, no doubt alerted to my plight by the sound of my clicky jaw.

"I like Sydney" said Paul, "but I don't feel safe".

"What do you mean?"

"Well you try getting a mobile phone reception in a train station - especially Central Station. You can't get one"

"I don't understand" I replied. I could sense a conspiracy theory brewing and thought immediately of my father-in-law, who has been convinced for years that MI5 are going through his wheelie bin in Penketh.

"I've been reading up on this and they've blocked the signal so you can't use your mobile to detonate a bomb. It wasn't like that in Auckland"

"You need to get out more. You need a job" said Lucy.

"I like Sydney" she continued, "I don't feel unsafe at all, not like in London, you know, on the underground. True, it's not like New Zealand because the Kiwis just don't get involved in world politics. I mean, they have an opinion on issues like Iraq but they don't get directly involved by going and sending bloody troops to fight.

You do feel sort of out of the way in New Zealand, sheltered I suppose, but I still don't feel unsafe in Sydney"

"Well you see how you feel when they have the APEC summit here in September and George Bush rocks up and they close the city down" said Paul. "They're blocking roads off and putting police boats on the harbour. You won't get a mobile signal anywhere in the city centre because they're planning to scramble them, even the taxi drivers' radios are being scrambled. I know because I read abou it"

"Yeah" I said. "It's a bit over the top but it doesn't surprise me. They're telling Sydneysiders to get out of the city that weekend, we've been given an extra bank holiday on the Friday and there's all these ad campaigns telling us to go to the Blue Mountains. They love the drama, the thought that they're up there with the big boys on the world stage, it's part of their need to fit in, need for approval. They might as well shout "Run! Run for the hills!" because that's effectively what they're doing".

I suspect Australia will go mad when the APEC summit is on. It'll be like a little child that's been invited to a birthday party for the most popular kid in the class. Sydney won't be able to get over itself.

nb Two-pot screamer, n, A person who gets drunk on very little alcohol, Australian (slang).

Misbehaving

The summer-like weather continues, temperatures around the 21-23 degree mark, the sun still intense enough to feel it might give you a bit of colour if you sat in it for long enough.

Despite this, it still feels damp in the flat, though the windows aren't steamed up any more so at least we can see the outside world.

This morning I put on a shirt then had to blast it with the hairdryer until it felt dry enough to wear, which is a bit miserable. Then I took Ella to Westfield at Bondi Junction because I needed to exchange the pyjamas that Santa brought (because Santa thinks my arse is even bigger than it really is and had selected pyjamas of clown-like proportions - how will I ever recover?). Ella charmed me into letting her walk, but once she'd got out of the pushchair she started misbehaving, especially in Pumpkin Patch, where she waded through racks of clothes saying "ooh this is nice" before discarding the items onto the floor. A burly shop assistant followed me round the entire shop with an expression that said "buy something or get out". We got out.

After that she tried on three hats in the Cancer Council (awful name for a shop they sell sunscreen and beach suits, that sort of thing) and banged on the pet shop window, waking all the puppies from their slumber. Then she threw herself on the floor and refused to walk any further so I had to strap her kicking and screaming into her pushchair.

We had lunch in the food court next to a group of British and Irish mums who all had children the same age, all complaining about the terrible twos. I wanted to join in but had to content myself with eavesdropping instead. I envy the people who have proper support networks, especially when Ella's having one of those days.

The Appeal - Results of Your Donations

The pleas for Cadbury's have yielded a stash worthy of a Blue Peter appeal; dipped flakes from Lou and slabs of chocolate from Nat and an unfeasible number of Dairy Milk products from my mother, all secreted in and around Ella's birthday presents.

Did I tell you she's having another birthday in about four months time?

You lovely, gorgeous lot. I love you and I'm recommending you all for Blue Peter badges.

The Wrong Cake

And here’s Ella’s Wiggles birthday cake. Lovely isn’t it?

Except it’s not a Wiggles cake at all. No, it’s a Tigger birthday cake, which set me off ranting in every direction about the bloody inefficiency round here and how nothing works and nobody listens and how it’s no wonder nothing works when nobody listens.

Before I had Ella I didn’t understand the importance of getting the right birthday cake. I assumed that providing it had chocolate and candles and icing you were on the right track. Motherhood changes everything. It alters your mind so that you start to see things from a child’s point of view and you begin to realise why people camp outside Hamley’s all night to get their hands on that elusive toy their child has been dreaming that Santa will bring. You become a nutter.

I went searching on the internet weeks ago for a firm in Sydney who could make me a Wiggles birthday cake for Ella. In the event, one of the high street bakeries did exactly the cake I was looking for so I dropped by to order it early in June. At first they were reluctant to take the order but wouldn’t give me a reasonable explanation for this, except to say it was a “bit early yet to put it into the diary”. When I questioned what would happen if they did put it into the diary (I mean, would it erase itself from the page?) they relented and allowed me to put the order in and pay the $10 deposit, no doubt eager to get me out of the shop.

And then I went to collect it the day before her birthday and there it was, a Tigger cake. Completely the wrong cake because they hadn’t paid attention and hadn’t written the details down correctly.

And I was in such a rush that I didn’t notice and I paid for it and left the shop and when I realised what had happened and took it back, they said no, I couldn’t have a refund because they couldn’t resell the cake. No, they had no evidence I’d ever asked for a Wiggles cake in the first place and well, okay, they’d give me $10 back and throw in a free candle and some sparklers and that was the end of it.

So here it is, a Tigger cake. I hate Winnie the Pooh, I hate his saccharine American incarnation popping up everywhere from Huggies Nappies to birthday cards tying to worm his way into the affection of our children so the Disney Corporation can become even richer and even fatter. Winnie the Pooh and his friends are English, not American. They should get on with sticking their paws into honey pots and stop this Disney nonsense. They shouldn’t be allowed onto birthday cakes and especially not one I’m giving to my daughter.

Birthday Tea

We picked Ella up earlier than usual from nursery and took her to the ball pool at Marrickville where we took it in turns to inflict the trampoline and bouncy castle and slide on our ageing bodies.

And then we went out to tea at Barzura by the beach at Coogee, where it was such a pleasant evening we were able to sit out under a patio heater. Is this the same sydney that was battered with wind and rain last week?

Tea Party

As it was her birthday, she went to nursery wearing a fairy skirt over her clothes. It was a gorgeous day, 19 degrees and blue skies, so they got to have her birthday tea party outside, complete with a big pink cake just out of the oven.

The weather isn't sure what to do. The kids are on the winter school holidays and they're back in the sea at Coogee in their bikinis.

Anyway, a huge cockroach flew in for the tea party so I got the manager to hit it with a shovel. He wasn't invited, he had to go.

Happy Birthday, Dear Ella

Monday July 2nd

Our beautiful, funny, precious little girl turned two today.

Thank you so much to all who sent cards and presents across the world for her special day, we really appreciate it, it reminds us we're not really alone.

And here she is this morning opening the first batch of pressies. She's especially proud of the new bike.

The Dunny

As everyone knows, Santa's parting shot is usually a hangover the size of Asia. But not in July and not with all that mountain air, which is just as well because Ella woke at 6.38am, her usual time, despite having stayed up until midnight in the hotel lounge.

Then I put her into bed with us and she whacked me in the eye with her new doll and I wished I'd bought a soft bodied one instead.

And so it was that we were first down to breakfast and checked out in time to take a detour along the Megalong Valley road, one of the only sealed roads across the valley floor in the whole national park.

And then we spotted this dunny. What a beaut; though perhaps a bit chilly to actually try it out. It actually had toilet paper, which is more than you can say for some public conveniences you come across.

Pressies

More presents for all of us; a consignment of Bisto powder and chocolate from my mother and some Ugg boots from Santa; just the ticket with that dress, though I'd had so much wine I didn't care.

Ella made a bee-line for the bubble wrap. Who teaches them that?

A Visit from Santa

The bagpipes played on and off throughout our Christmas dinner, which left me lamenting the fact I'd left my earplugs upstairs. Ella, however, was mesmerised by them.

And then the carol singers turned up, a kind of female barbers shop ensemble who were taking requests from table to table. Ella got up to give them a little jig but the pressure of the lyrics from "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" proved too much and the line "He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake" left her throwing a tantrum on the floor.

Then santa pitched up; the youngest-looking santa we've ever seen. You know you're getting old when the santas start to look young.

Canapes

So we hooked up with Steve and Scott, Steve fresh in from Warrington and warning he'd be in bed by 10pm even though he'd flown business class, the posh bugger.

Then it was canapes by the fire and the first of the presents for Ella to open before the bagpipes cranked up and they called us in for our Christmas dinner.

Star of the Show

But, of course, this is what I really came to see.

The Queen Mum's Lift

Other features of the Carrington include a lovely ornate tiled floor and an ancient lift installed for the stay of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother back in the 1930's. They even put a tartan carpet in it, especially for her.

Champagne on Ice

Especially when we got to the room and I found Darren had organised champagne on ice and chocolate dipped strawberries, just like we had in 2002, though I don't remember sharing the room with a third person last time.

And for the record, the strawberries taste just as good even when that third person has licked every last one of them before deciding which ones to choose.

The Carrington

Ah the Carrington Hotel. A "place we won't be visiting again", you might remember I told you about it before.

The Carrington is the grand old lady of hotels and like most old ladies, if you look beyond the make-up, the decorative brooches and the whiff of Yardley perfume, you'll find things are crumbling a little backstage. Things like the sash windows, which rattle like buggery in the mountain wind.

The hotel was originally called The Great Western and was opened in 1880. It became popular as the railway advanced out west from Sydney and the monied folk began to come to the mountains for the supposed rejuvinating quality of the air. By the early 1900s, The Carrington was seen as the premier tourist resort in the entire southern hemisphere. It's only rival in the whole British empire was Raffles in Singapore.

And then it went into decline because the mountains went out of fashion. It finally closed in 1985 then stood derelict until 1991 when it was bought up and renovated over an eight year period, reopening in 1998. Whoever is in charge of the continuing renovations is either plundering the profit or working at their own pace; the hotel has improved since our stay in 2002 but there's still a long was to go before it's completely restored.

Still, we had a lovely room with a mountain view. The Carrington is Darren's favorite hotel in the world (he has a penchant for personality over perfection, which is handy) and the memories came flooding back right away.

Echo Point

This is the view from the Queen Elizabeth lookout at Echo Point. The three columns of sandstone rock are known as the Three Sisters, possibly the most photographed site in the whole area. There's some legend about the sisters being turned into rock by a scorcerer but I've forgotten the whole story so won't bore you with the inaccuracies here.

The other very popular tourist spot in the area is the scenic skyway just around the corner, where you can ride to the valley floor in a former mine train, the steepest and scariest train ride in the whole of Australia (and possibly the world) before coming back up in a cable car and then traversing the valley on the skyway, a cable car hung from one rocky outcrop to another. It's a place that turns up on adventure programmes in the UK, where they challenge people to walk across the cable with a balancing frame. We did it years ago (the cable car, not the tightrope walking) and Darren's face at the time suggested we'd never do it again.

Anyway, this is the coldest I've been since we loaded up the luggage trolley outside Manchester Airport on January 16th. The wind was biting, you know, to the point your fingers go red and your nose starts to drip. Ella and I are wearing as many clothes as we possibly can whilst still being able to zip up our coats.

Central heating awaits less than half a mile away.

Leura

Our first stop is the little village of Leura, which teeters on the edge of the Jamieson valley, along the Blue Mountains scenic cliff drive.

It's a nice little village, you know the sort; tea shops and shops selling full-length nighties in french lace. The sort of shops you feel your nerves jangling on edge the minute you enter with a pushchair, or worse still, a toddler no longer stapped into one.

Anyway, the yulefest celebration is in full swing so the Christmas shops are doing a roaring trade and Ella took every opportunity to shake things and poke things and look generally menacing until we eventually removed her for her own safety and moved on somewhere a little less fragile.

The Blue Mountains

Saturday 30th June

The Blue Mountains are an easy two hours drive west out of Sydney. When the first European settlers arrived at Port Jackson, the Blue Mountains stopped them in their pioneering tracks, as though they were able to settle the land around the coast, they didn't have the means get across the mountains to find out what lay beyond them.

Actually, to call them mountains is a little generous. The Australians are fond of bigging things up, they'd like to think they have mountains but most of the time it turns out to be a bit of a hill or a rocky outcrop at best.

The Blue Mountains is national parkland, most of which lies roughly 1000 metres above sea level. It gets it's name from the blue haze formed by eucalyptus oil hanging over the area. You become aware you're climbing as you drive out of Sydney because your ears start popping, but you never come across any actual mountains, which can be a bit of a disappointment the first time you come out here.

And then you catch sight of these huge canyons through the trees and you have to stop the car and reverse and say "whoah!".