Sue was quick to remind me. An innocent slip in the local supermarket. Said I’d have a root around in the kitchen later. Fine northern expression. In England. But in Australia an entirely different meaning.
Left wondering what the Aussies made of the likes of rooting compost. Still, sheds some light on the holiday quip "Which ’route’ are you taking? Just the usual. The wife."
Dig deep enough and you’ll reach Australia…
As ever, I’m a little ahead of the blog. Now south of Brisbane, Queensland’s capital. Over half way down Australia’s eastern seaboard. Ploughing south towards Sydney. Making the most of the autumnal sun. Planes to catch. In the meantime, lots I hope to educate and amuse. Wrestling with city traffic, spot of snake handling, social faux pax with koalas, being spooked by dingos, French cuisine, some underwear confessions and even an impromptu visit to a village school. And the odd tame anarchist.
Just one last thing to do before hitting the road in the morning. Off to the beach. Keen geographer. Passing interest in geology. Sand quality. Research you understand. So I’ll do my very best to keep the scantily clad beach babes out of shot. Just wouldn’t be right. I’d hate to distract from the educational content. But first. Beer. Apparently you need a six pack. It was that or a bikini wax.
I’d replied to the e-mail. Unable to resist inserting "Obeying zee orders" into the subject line. Well, so far at least, the Germans had been a regular feature of my travels. Hadn’t seen any for a little admittedly. But there’d been some suspicious looking beach towels around Surfers Paradise.
Emma, my trusty steed, and I aren’t exactly in anyone’s Frequent Flyer programme. But we do rely on my parents for advice on the best airline deals. Mum and Dad now experts in excess baggage and the byzantine rules of putting a bicycle on a plane. They do the research. I just make the booking. And cough up.
Latest effort my flights to and from New Zealand. Alas, without my bicycle. Far too expensive. My steed obliged to spend some time with friends in Australia. Few weeks there before a return to the road and the run down to Melbourne. Following my parents recommendation to the letter. As always.
Of course, there have been moments. The hop across the Caspian Sea. A small Lufthansa subsidiary my Dad said. Not quite. An old Russian Tupulov. Probably a cast off from Aeroflot. But it worked. Got me to Kazakhstan. And gave me a new-found interest in metallurgy. Metal fatigue and failure mechanics. Of rivets.
But never any hesitation to follow their considered advice. For an adult I may be, the odd grey hair – tell myself people pay good money for such mature highlights – but my relationship with my Mum and Dad is hugely important to me. Something this venture has really brought home to me.
Their opinion, their counsel, matters. Always has. True, as a teenager, I might have been a bit reluctant to follow their advice. Just once or twice. The odd moment when the only angelic thing in the house came in a packet. Add milk, whisk and serve.
Nothing to do with monkeys. Rather a simple tale of close encounters with wallabies. Bounding haplessly out into the road. Quite unaware of your presence. Your silent approach. Their impending doom. And potentially serious damage to Emma, my trusty steed.
There are usually a few clues to raise your awareness of what lies ahead. Along the lines of the old joke – "We must be getting near the next town. Hitting more people". Increased road kill. With even a modicum of headwind you can usually smell it at a hundred paces.
Ordinarily I might wretch. But I find myself hardened to these sorts of things now. Suppose that’s Chinese communal pit toilets for you.
Wonder if that deters the koalas? Cuddly little critters. Apart from the sharp claws. Sleep sixteen hours a day. Rest of the time stoned out of their especially tiny minds. Or fighting amongst themselves. Lifestyle choice for some.
McCafe in Mackay. Scraggy, greying beard. Blunt. But his heart undeniably in the right place. Very best of intentions. Lost amongst a fractious accent and a manner that’d have Mother Teresa struggling to keep her composure. His lack of social skills striking. An encyclopedic knowledge of subjects various some compensation. Always keen to impart. To share. Gruffly. Product of his environment? Spent an age in Devonport. Imagined he meant the one in Tasmania.
[Please note that names may have been changed or omitted to protect the innocent. And promote the guilty…]
In Maryborough, central Queensland.
Green tree frog. Quite harmless. Loves cool, moist environments. Especially campsite toilets. Bowls. Even U-bends. Always best to look before you sit down. Carefully. Screams from the Ladies not unknown.
Northern lass from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Few close shaves with the traffic on the Bruce Highway south towards Sydney. The odd truck. But mostly long distance coach drivers. I’ll be subtle. Think dogs. The US of A. Hence a few modifications for riding my trusty steed. A good northern lass. Which I can say. As I hail from Lancashire.
