We arrived in Sydney, not really understanding why we had found the hunt for accommodation so tricky. We had initially wanted to couch surf. We like the idea of getting to be in a real place, meeting local folk and getting an educated perspective on an area, hopefully making a friend or two and let’s be honest saving a penny or two as we do. We haven’t got a house to do it yet, but when we are no longer homeless, we do intend to let some folk surf our couch(again, dependant on us obtaining one). Sadly, Conny didn’t get much of a response from anybody she had asked, except for one lady who denied her and even messaged a one word reply. It read “LOL”.

Then we looked for backpackers, but all were taken.

The dreaded curse of Conny and David in the city seemed to be in full effect. We settled for a room that cost about 100€ a night, not exactly extortionate, but not the backpacker rates we had hoped for, but it was nice, in a nice area and it was clean. Couldn’t grumble. We realised soon enough that the curse was indeed in full effect. True to form, it was fucking Mardi Gras weekend. We headed out to the parade, which in all honesty was as heart warming an experience as one could imagine or hope for. Yes we had to buy a crappy little blue stool, to stand atop and peer at the passing troupes of dancers and prancers and such. Yes Conny had her beer taken off her by an over-zealous rozzer, even though she had literally just bought from the shop behind us, unknowing of the ban on alcohol (I know, who ever heard of an alcohol free carnival) and yes there were some nobheads who didn’t quite get it and were out for their own kind of fun. But what the parade and it’s legion of revelling spectators was is simple. It was a giant, camp, fun, over the top celebration of love. People respecting the right of all to love, not just respecting it, but embracing it, and supporting those who might sometimes be downtrodden. It was obviously about LGBTQI folk, but to my eyes it was a coming together of all of us with hearts and souls to show one another that no matter who you are, or which variety of human you are into, it’s ok, not only that but it’s great. A demonstration that it doesn’t and shouldn’t matter if you have two dads, two mums or a dad that was a mum or whatever. Watching those in the parade bust out their fiercest moves, in their spangliest outfits and to then be able to rush to a cheering crowd of men women and kids with smiles across their faces, clamouring for hugs and high fives, letting those folk in the street know that they are not on their own is something to be savoured. I really really really thought it was humans at their best and was glad to be there to witness it. Plus it is funny as fuck. The costumes were ridiculous to sublime. Some folk were having a giraffe, others being as serious as a heart attack. Politicians, educators, sports teams all busting out the glam and glitz to have a bit of a laugh and show some love.

Sydney is a beautiful city. It feels nice, it feels safe, the Opera House was somewhat underwhelming, particularly to Conny (you may see a trend here) but it was easy to navigate, has some beautiful architecture and more importantly it has a Dan Mackey. One of the plethora of old Nice folk that we have and shall bump into along our travels and a fine gentleman. He met us after work one evening and he had a plan. His plan was to take us to some of the places that the tourists can’t find and he pulled out some corkers. We went to a random rooftop bar (Sweeney’s) we had to climb through 4 empty floors of run down pub to get to, with a full terrace at the top. The jewel in the crown was a secret speak-easy style place that was devoid of signage (called Baxter’s, so I’m told), down an alley, past some bins. Here you would have to enter an unmarked door, and walk down some stairs and around some beer kegs to an innocuous looking door. Behind said door lay something that was halfway prohibition era speak-easy and halfway harry potter magic and marvel. A whisky den with an epic collection that required our (beautiful to the point that I even told Conny I might be in love) server to climb ladders like those in a library to get to the booze (it might have been her solid ladder work that made me love her). Those of you who know, might wonder why I am so awestruck and happy in such places, given my teetotal-ness, but really, that is not down to a disdain for the beverage, merely it doesn’t work with my head chemistry. I love places like this, a good bar is the best place on earth. In this one I even got a green apple juice pressed to order(the beautiful server goddess’s idea…again, possibly a reason for my silly infatuation). The lighting was candles and the décor was old style brick, brass, wood and leather. The only food they served was super salted pretzels and the atmosphere was thick with people having a great night, a sparkling conversation or a straight up belter with friends. Top marks Dan. To round the evening off we headed to another pub, it wasn’t actually Dan’s initial choice (that was GDR), but it was still amongst his favoured haunts. A place (Arcadia Liquors) that served tasty beverage along side toasties. What’s not to love. Dan said he used to go there for dance nights where the campest Austrian DJ, with a giant teddy bear frame would get dressed up in his spangliest tightest disco wear and rage all night as he span the cheesiest disco tunes he could. Sadly his visa ran out. I would have liked to have seen that. We said our goodbyes and retired for the night to start afresh the next day.

We took the ferry on a bumpy and stormy day to meet up with another of the old Nice crew at Manly a day or two later, Kieran worked with us back in our Thor days, he again is a proper decent sort. Also, he is mostly vegetarian. Always good in my books, and he witnessed a time when the girlfriend of my brother once tried to fight me in accusing me of stealing from my own restaurant. Awks. But still, we had a very pleasant night out at the very lovely Manly, made me kind of think of the Santa Cruz of the Sydney area. We ate pizza, we chatted, we met his current lovely lady, with whom he will shortly be moving to Byron Bay. He’s one of those guys you would always like to see. Brings a smile to your face and warms the cockles of your heart. I’m happy to see him doing well and happy.

To be honest, I can’t remember the order of things in Sydney. One day we went to Bondi, but it was stormy and the sand whipped the shit out of my eyes. There was an awesome coffee shop/library/bookstore there though, that encouraged you to read what you wanted whilst enjoying your beverage. I opted for the origins of Kung Fu, written in 1981. A solid read I would say.

We saw parakeets in the park walking around the sea front. We chatted to an oddball or two. All in all very pleasant. Next up we had to hire our car for the next few days as we headed to the Hunter Valley.

We were picked up by Sarah in a big Ford Falcon, we went to collect a couple in from Adelaide as we made our way, ensemble, to the rental car company HQ, Sarah telling us that despite having been born and raised locally, she didn’t really know where she was going. As she turned into the lot at pace, she bottomed the car out and as she reversed into her spot, she casually halted after long and virulent protestation from her co workers.

“Oh I didn’t realise there was another car there” she notes upon exiting the vehicle. I look at the distance between the falcon and said vehicle. I couldn’t see any.

“Welcome to Rent a Bomb” the more senior looking cohort says, “Sarah is the one that makes them bombs, we give her cars, they come back bombs”.

Yes folks, Rent a Bomb. Not, as one poor guy from Singapore found out, where some would assume the hiring of incendiary or explosive devices (his bank blocked his card and told him it was being used for terrorism, that someone was trying to rent a bomb in Australia, come to think of it, renting a bomb is a bit of a silly idea, you would invariably lose your deposit), but cheap as chips car rental (20 bucks a day). The car we landed, made Jucy’s El Cheapos look like a shiny Maserati. The interior cloth of the doors and roof had been either stapled or screwed on. The automatic box gear lever was as wobbly as a manual. The bumpers taped on, the sides covered in scrapes and scratches, the wing mirrors so shonky and wobbly they were practically rendered unusable above 30 Km/h. Still, it got us where we needed to go.

Where we needed to go was the Hunter Valley. Famed for its wineries and it’s horse studs, we happened to know the owner of one such place, the Kia Ora stud by Scone. It’s only a boutique stud by the scale of some of these places, but it was still vast. Paddock after paddock all neat and wonderfully groomed. Backed up by thousands of acres out back. We were lucky enough to be offered one of the houses on the stud for a few days, and it was exactly what we needed. We pulled into the driveway and a flock of parrots flew off. To be fair, a lot of Australia, and New Zealand for that matter, is reminiscent of England, due to their shared heritage. The wildlife, flora and fauna set this bottom end of the world apart. The flora are spectacularly exotic in their spikes and grand blooms,. What I find most striking however is the birdlife. Turning a corner here and a flock of red, gold and green parrots take flight. Bumbling down a country lane and a giant parakeet flops out of the bushes, or the flocks of Galaas and such. That’s even before the magpies. A magpie in Europe is a scoundrel of a bird. But worse still, it’s like the thieving scally of the avian world. Likely to pick your pocket and try and grope your girlfriend. A magpie on this side of the world looks more like a big fancy raven, only, to continue the theme, he is dressed more ornately, like the old highway man from tales of yore, romanticised in a way of refined elegant thievery to which he would not only steal the contents of your purse, but also the heart and very hand of your wife, with a dash and panache that even the victim has to admire.

Back to the Hunter before I let my literary notions of bird thieves/thief birds run away with me. Hunter had plenty for us to keep occupied, a trip to a winery or two for Conny, chilling out in the sun, a visit to a lake, Kangaroo spotting, a look into the world of thoroughbred breeding, we got the chance to hang out with a 30 million dollar stallion. Most important, we met the crew of the farm. Alex showed us around the stock, we hung out with a few weanlings and yearlings, and Brandon showed us the farm itself and more over took great effort to look after us. We went out for dinner at a nice restaurant in town and we even went for dinner with him and his family at their house. A true gent if ever there was one and a lovely family to boot.

It is impressive being around the horses. They are beautiful creatures. I have my thoughts upon horse racing and the treatment of the animals once they can no longer race and such, but at this stage, they are simply just well looked after, beautiful animals. Obviously when you see them for sale or in show or on TV they look very prim and proper. Staid and calm, but we got to watch them play, and run about. I found it amazing that they took one of the old brood mares who no longer was breeding, and threw her in with a bunch of young ones to act as a nanny, it was a delight to see. All Too Hard, the aforementioned stallion however, was not all too long legs and cuteness like the foals. He was a big beast. Full of muscle, he cut such an imposing figure I defy anyone to feel un-awed in his presence. These boys, in season, sew their seed up to three times a day. What a life! To be fair, at tens of thousands a pop(so to speak) you can see why there is money in it!

After the Hunter, we headed back to Sydney for rental 2.

This was the camper we would take down to Melbourne over the next 8 days. We went for the eco-option. A tiny 1.6 litre Suzuki van, that made our US van look palatial. Similar idea, basic sink and kitchen in back, bed in the middle, drive at the front. No tent though, and no going above 90km-h really. But it was exactly what we needed, despite the guy who rented it to us telling us how we get what we pay for with it and stuff…it would appear that he couldn’t see the reason behind not choosing a house on wheels and going for something more simple.

Luck, as it happens, was not on our side. As we rolled down the coast from Sydney, so did a storm so bad, they called it a super storm. Frankly, I could see why. We were at times on roads so overflowed they were indistinguishable from rivers. As we passed one estate, I looked ten metres down the road to see a car, window deep in water, abandoned, via said window. It was chaos. It didn’t quite allow us to enjoy the splendour of the coast road, but we did find a couple of nice spots. Conny went for a swim in the local sea pool at one such place and we had a few walks by the beach and stuff as the storm died down a few days in.

Then, all of a sudden it changed. The weather got glorious, we visited a cave system, full of crystal and stalactites and mites thousands of years old, the formations were beautiful as one would expect, a little less expected were the ones resembling vaginas and even one looking like bacon. Australia, is brilliant for free camping. So much that I would go as far as to say it is what I think NZ should be and what I thought it was going to be. We slept at several free camp sites, with varying facilities, but generally with a toilet of some kind. One was even a disused private campsite that had been taken over by the municipality and maintained for folk to use for free. OK they didn’t keep it sparkly and nice but it was certainly a solid spot to stay considering its lack of charge. It had toilets, electric barbecues, there was even a pub across the bridge. That said, the village in which it sat existed of only the pub and three shacks. It was a little on the grubby side, I’m pretty sure the drip mats hadn’t ever been taken off the bar and I doubt one could achieve such a feat now. I think they and the bar are one. Conny insisted that when the barkeep gave me the coke I had ordered that I didn’t touch the glass. We found another site in a forest somewhere, with pit toilets and a fire pit, it was obviously reasonably well known as we found ourselves surrounded by the Germans. Noisy buggers. That said, they weren’t nearly as bad as the French folk that I neglected to mention in NZ. It was a night on the tour of the South Island, at one of the DOC campsites. A beautiful bay with cliffs and rolling seas, the romance of it all had clearly gone to the heads of some of our fellow site dwellers. Next door were some French folk, and as night set in Conny and I set to reading before bed as we tended to. Then the groaning started, a little feminine moan here or there, and Conny asks if I hear, I say I didn’t but my ears are keen now…and sure enough, there it was. Now, you may think that it’s to be expected, nothing too much out of the ordinary, but the thing is we saw this small tent erected. By four French folk. Two boys two girls. As the moans intensified it was clear that it was not the one lady, but two, and a few more masculine tones to boot. They were most definitely enjoying themselves and each other to the fullest, we couldn’t help but hear the sound of climactic crescendo and ball slap and frankly one doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Worse still, the morning after I caught one girls gaze as she looked out of the tent door in the morning. Her retreat was swift and I can’t tell if it was embarrassment or pride that I saw in the fleeting moment. Perhaps it was a little of both.

Anyway, back to Australia. There are places all over to stop, and if not officially made for that they seem to be ok with people staying pretty much wherever so long as you respect the place accordingly. The areas of beauty all come with electric barbecues and sheltered tables, most with toilets and drinking water. It was a fantastic trip down, until we realised that we had only got the van for one more night…not the two we thought we had! Clearly one of us wasn’t paying attention when he booked it, plus, I’m a bit crap with knowing what day, date or time it is at any given moment these days, it seems irrelevant, and for the most part, is. That said we realised we had to draw closer to Melbourne and skip our last day at the Pomontory, but we did find a nice spot, right on the cliffs just outside Melbourne to call home for the night.

Next up we had to find a place to sleep in Melbourne. We found a bed, cheap enough at Spencer backpackers, but Lady Luck had once more smiled upon us. The hostel was plain, nothing to write home about, although Oli, the check-in guy was faultlessly kind and welcoming. Moreover it was right by the Queen Victoria Market, which, as we headed out for food that night, was on its last night market of the season. It was awesome. The smell of all these delights cooking, the smoke, the lights, the stalls of hippy type interesting stuff. I couldn’t have asked for more, that is until the Sugar Fed Leopards hit the stage. A glam disco soul rock act, fronted by three ladies each looking like teachers from 1986 secondary schools in Nottingham on a staff night out (I’m somehow mixing This is England ‘86 with Grange Hill in my head here, Lord knows how or why, but that’s what springs to mind), complete with animal print and gold lamé jackets. They were ace, and it looked like they had their quirky headmistress on drums, and a sequin catsuit bedecked teaching assistant on bass.

We had some dumplings and some curry and several coffees (Conny opted for Pims, not coffee, then beer, not coffee) and we finished off with some strange pancakes that are cooked in halves and stuffed then cooked some more, but they were ridiculous. At this point we met Miss Würmli, a Wucher sister cohort (she and Ulrike even have matching tattoos), from Switzerland who also happened to have just arrived in Melbourne that day. She and Conny sprechened some Deutsch, we all spoke a little in English and had a very pleasant evening indeed.

The next morning we woke and headed for our next destination. Geelong!