Well that was all a bit stressful. Of course you have to drop off a rental car with a full tank of petrol, but were there any petrol stations on the way to the airport? Of course not! Almost ran out and had to drive off in any old direction before I found one. So, have filled up Gutless, dropped him off and am now sitting at the airport in the waning Aussie afternoon sun with way too much time to spare. Am also about to run out of pre-paid mobile broadband, but that's okay.
Really, this trip as been fantastic and have achieved more than I could have hope for, but am so ready to fly home to Rob, them puppies and leafy Gloucestershire. Mind you, Al and I took Koda the naughty Staffie for a walk this morning and again I was struck with how 'blue' the Blue Mountains are. Apparently it's something to do with evaporating euclyptus oil!
So, a ghastly 28 hour journey awaits, with a 5.5 hour stop over at Kuala Lumpur, which means arriving there at approx 5.00am 'my time'. Apparently one can rent sleeping cells there, but they have no roofs so you can hear announcements.
So, this is me, signing off for now.
R
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
In Memory of Eileen
Given that that the train journey to Sydney is 2 hours, it was surprisingly cheap. Settled into my seat and combined watching the world go by with a bit of writing. Sun-emboldened colours notwithstanding, once the train reached the bottom of the mountain, the landscape outside was much the same as any urban train journey, although the number of outdoor public pools was a reminder that I wasn't on the 6.47 to London Paddington...
Decided to walk from Central Station to my first destination. Central Sydney is like a maze of canyons, quite dark where the sun cannot reach. Took me a while to get my bearings, but once I recognised a few landmarks familiar from last year, I knew where I was. Startling to be among the hustle and bustle of a major metropolis after the peace and quiet of the Blue Mountains. It's ANZAC Day tomorrow, so there was much evidence of preparations for what will be a public holiday.
The opportunity to meet Eileen Westley's daughter was an unexpected bonus to my trip, and as it turned out, rather lovely. Eileen passed away in 2002, and as her daughter is now a mother herself, she has become increasingly keen to know about her own mother's life. We sat over coffee and traded stories and pieces of information which neither of us had previously known about Eileen, and as a result I was able to add even more substance to the tale of the Galloping Tortoise in addition to that which Minnie and Jenny had provided. Eileen sounds like she was quite a character, but I suspect to become a features editor on a national newspaper at only 25 years old, and as a woman in 1968, would have probably required strength and determination.
Eileen's daughter has promised to go through the various photographs and documents both she and her father have kept, and let me have whatever she is able to copy or scan. Apparently, Eileen wrote a lengthy piece about her Marathon adventure, so that would be fantastic to read.
Email addresses swapped, I bid her farewell, and set off for the State Library, where I spent a wonderful 3.5 hours searching copies of the Sydney Morning Herald from November and December 1968. The Herald was a competitor to the Telegraph, and while it was clear that as it hadn't sponsored the Marathon, it offered up less coverage, it did have its own motoring correspondent competing on the event (I met one of his co-drivers when I was here in 2012), so I was able to make copies of the various articles and reports the Herald had published. Combined with the interview recordings, and scanned photographs and documents I have amassed during this trip, I have a lot of admin' to do once I get home!
Wandering back through the very centre of Sydney, I was once again struck with that feeling I get on the final day of any extended visit overseas - while I was aware that I was walking through Sydney in Australia, surrounded by crowds of people rushing here and there, I was also thinking about my imminent departure, and that soon I will be home to Rob and puppies and beautiful Gloucestershire, and the comfort and security all that represents.
A last dinner with my hosts in Katoomba, and then, underfloor heating working away happily (the heating engineer came today), I crawl into my southern hemisphere bed for the last time.
It really has been quite a wonderful and rewarding trip.
Decided to walk from Central Station to my first destination. Central Sydney is like a maze of canyons, quite dark where the sun cannot reach. Took me a while to get my bearings, but once I recognised a few landmarks familiar from last year, I knew where I was. Startling to be among the hustle and bustle of a major metropolis after the peace and quiet of the Blue Mountains. It's ANZAC Day tomorrow, so there was much evidence of preparations for what will be a public holiday.
The opportunity to meet Eileen Westley's daughter was an unexpected bonus to my trip, and as it turned out, rather lovely. Eileen passed away in 2002, and as her daughter is now a mother herself, she has become increasingly keen to know about her own mother's life. We sat over coffee and traded stories and pieces of information which neither of us had previously known about Eileen, and as a result I was able to add even more substance to the tale of the Galloping Tortoise in addition to that which Minnie and Jenny had provided. Eileen sounds like she was quite a character, but I suspect to become a features editor on a national newspaper at only 25 years old, and as a woman in 1968, would have probably required strength and determination.
Eileen's daughter has promised to go through the various photographs and documents both she and her father have kept, and let me have whatever she is able to copy or scan. Apparently, Eileen wrote a lengthy piece about her Marathon adventure, so that would be fantastic to read.
Email addresses swapped, I bid her farewell, and set off for the State Library, where I spent a wonderful 3.5 hours searching copies of the Sydney Morning Herald from November and December 1968. The Herald was a competitor to the Telegraph, and while it was clear that as it hadn't sponsored the Marathon, it offered up less coverage, it did have its own motoring correspondent competing on the event (I met one of his co-drivers when I was here in 2012), so I was able to make copies of the various articles and reports the Herald had published. Combined with the interview recordings, and scanned photographs and documents I have amassed during this trip, I have a lot of admin' to do once I get home!
Wandering back through the very centre of Sydney, I was once again struck with that feeling I get on the final day of any extended visit overseas - while I was aware that I was walking through Sydney in Australia, surrounded by crowds of people rushing here and there, I was also thinking about my imminent departure, and that soon I will be home to Rob and puppies and beautiful Gloucestershire, and the comfort and security all that represents.
A last dinner with my hosts in Katoomba, and then, underfloor heating working away happily (the heating engineer came today), I crawl into my southern hemisphere bed for the last time.
It really has been quite a wonderful and rewarding trip.
Tuesday, 23 April 2013
Stunning Views Be Damned, I Think I May Be Sick...
Am sitting at Katoomba Station waiting for the Sydney train to take me into the city to meet Eileen's daughter. In my opinion there's something particularly fine about being up early on a sunny day, watching the town wake up and knowing I don't have to rush to work.
I had a bit of a revelation yesterday. Even as I hurtle towards my 50th birthday, it seems there are new things to learn about myself! We went for our promised 'bush walk' yesterday afternoon, and decided upon the Wentworth Falls as a good choice from which to descend to the valley floor. The path began its gradual descent through trees and shrubs, the sun piercing the canopy here and there. We passed hikers coming up the trail, all looking a little out of breath. Zig-zagging down, we arrived at the falls, negotiating the stepping stones across the small span of water, watching it disappear over the edge, the breeze occasionally blowing mist backwards. Quite a lovely site to see, the deep gorge beyond, the sun throwing light and shadows off the cliffs beyond. We went onwards, through a little tunnel of trees and emerged on a path cut into the cliff side, rock towering above my head at an alarming angle, forcing me to duck here and there. A rail runs along separating walker from the abyss. For a few minutes we continued, down some steep wooden steps, and all the while I was becoing increasingly aware of the drop, the sudden, sharp edge of the path to my right, with nothing but air and depth beyond. More hikers passed us, and suddenly we reached a sort of bend, curving round to the left and beyond which I couldn't see anything, as it disappeared out of sight past the cliff edge. Al began to point out another path running along the opposite cliff over to the right, seperated from us by the chasm. The wind blew alarmingly, voices echoed all around, I grasped the railing and there, however many hundreds of feet up, I realised I was having a ghastly attack of vertigo!
I think the only things that stopped me lying down and asking to be carried back up was a rather sickly sense of shame, and the only crumb of comfort was the fact that my sun glasses were slightly reducing my visibility. I quietly whimpered words to the effect of 'I say, would you mind awfully if we returned from whence we came?', and sweating with all unpleasantness, I somehow managed to return to the waterfall and, in my view, terra firma.
How appalling is that? We beat a hasty retreat to a coffee shop in Blackheath, and instead amused ourselves by watching the many odd looking people wander by (and for such a small town, there are many odd people!). A mooch around an antique/junk shop restored my senses, and then it was back home, where I carried on writing the Minnie and Jenny (and Eileen) story.
It does make you wonder how these things suddenly rear up after half a lifetime of never being aware, although I do recall feeling a wee bit unwell standing on Rob's balcony where he lived in London when first we met!
Ah the wonders of life and lessons learnt...
I had a bit of a revelation yesterday. Even as I hurtle towards my 50th birthday, it seems there are new things to learn about myself! We went for our promised 'bush walk' yesterday afternoon, and decided upon the Wentworth Falls as a good choice from which to descend to the valley floor. The path began its gradual descent through trees and shrubs, the sun piercing the canopy here and there. We passed hikers coming up the trail, all looking a little out of breath. Zig-zagging down, we arrived at the falls, negotiating the stepping stones across the small span of water, watching it disappear over the edge, the breeze occasionally blowing mist backwards. Quite a lovely site to see, the deep gorge beyond, the sun throwing light and shadows off the cliffs beyond. We went onwards, through a little tunnel of trees and emerged on a path cut into the cliff side, rock towering above my head at an alarming angle, forcing me to duck here and there. A rail runs along separating walker from the abyss. For a few minutes we continued, down some steep wooden steps, and all the while I was becoing increasingly aware of the drop, the sudden, sharp edge of the path to my right, with nothing but air and depth beyond. More hikers passed us, and suddenly we reached a sort of bend, curving round to the left and beyond which I couldn't see anything, as it disappeared out of sight past the cliff edge. Al began to point out another path running along the opposite cliff over to the right, seperated from us by the chasm. The wind blew alarmingly, voices echoed all around, I grasped the railing and there, however many hundreds of feet up, I realised I was having a ghastly attack of vertigo!
I think the only things that stopped me lying down and asking to be carried back up was a rather sickly sense of shame, and the only crumb of comfort was the fact that my sun glasses were slightly reducing my visibility. I quietly whimpered words to the effect of 'I say, would you mind awfully if we returned from whence we came?', and sweating with all unpleasantness, I somehow managed to return to the waterfall and, in my view, terra firma.
How appalling is that? We beat a hasty retreat to a coffee shop in Blackheath, and instead amused ourselves by watching the many odd looking people wander by (and for such a small town, there are many odd people!). A mooch around an antique/junk shop restored my senses, and then it was back home, where I carried on writing the Minnie and Jenny (and Eileen) story.
It does make you wonder how these things suddenly rear up after half a lifetime of never being aware, although I do recall feeling a wee bit unwell standing on Rob's balcony where he lived in London when first we met!
Ah the wonders of life and lessons learnt...
Monday, 22 April 2013
Just Visiting
All too soon my trip to Australia is approaching the finishing line. The day after tomorrow I will be packing up bag and baggage, loading up my gutless little rental car and driving back down the mountain to the airport for the 28 hour flight home.
I think Australia is a land which tolerates its inhabitants while expecting them to be ever-mindful that unless they remain vigilent, its geography, flora and fauna will act to reclaim the parts humans have colonised. Whether it be marauding killer spiders invading house and home, murderous sharks and jellyfish patrolling the waters or invasive plant life ready to encroach and spread if not kept in check, this is a land where people have had to seek some kind of working relationship with what was here before. At the risk of harping on about the little buggars, I don't think it's a coincidence that the venom of the funnel web spider is much more lethal to humans than other animals, so while a dog or cat will become sick and will require treatment if bitten, the human nervous system can quite simply begin to shut down after 20 minutes unless the antidote isn't administered.
So a beautiful, breathtaking, multi-faceted land of desert and water and greenery and forest and mountains, but also very much one which demands respect. We were talking about this the other day - in the 1970s there was a wave of Australian films that explored these themes. Perhaps the best known are Walkabout (a personal favourite) and Picnic at Hanging Rock but for me, a film that captures the essence of man against the hostile Australian environment is Long Weekend. The seventies was a fascinating period for Australian cinema and I've noticed that many of the films made during this time are now available on DVD, so will be trawling through them once I get back.
Drove back into the city yesterday with the intention of meeting a former work colleague for lunch and visiting the State Library, but was defeated by the (hardly surprising) parking restrictions. No different to London or any other major city I am sure, but in the end I was only able to meet Eugene for something to eat and a catch up, before racing back to where I'd put the car (there are parking garages but I decided I wasn't prepared to pay £50 for the privilege!). However, as returning to my limited parking space did afford me a train ride via Circular Quay, I was therefore able to see the still astonishing view of the Harbour, the Bridge and Opera House, the green and white ferries appearing to dart back and forth, expertly manoeuvring through the deep water.
A 'bush walk' is promised for today (Al orchestrating a packed lunch to take, lest we famish in the forests!), and tomorrow I will leave Gutless behind and board the train to the city to meet the daughter of the third Sydney Telegraph Girl. I know nothing of when or how Eileen Westley passed away, but do know that her daughter is keen to revisit her late mother's adventure in 1968. It maybe an emotional coming together, I don't know, but I am so very happy to share what I know with her. Then, I will spend the remainder of my last full day trawling through the newspaper archives at the Library before boarding te Blue Mountain Line back to Katoomba and a final dinner with Al and Marcus.
It has been a delightful trip.
I think Australia is a land which tolerates its inhabitants while expecting them to be ever-mindful that unless they remain vigilent, its geography, flora and fauna will act to reclaim the parts humans have colonised. Whether it be marauding killer spiders invading house and home, murderous sharks and jellyfish patrolling the waters or invasive plant life ready to encroach and spread if not kept in check, this is a land where people have had to seek some kind of working relationship with what was here before. At the risk of harping on about the little buggars, I don't think it's a coincidence that the venom of the funnel web spider is much more lethal to humans than other animals, so while a dog or cat will become sick and will require treatment if bitten, the human nervous system can quite simply begin to shut down after 20 minutes unless the antidote isn't administered.
So a beautiful, breathtaking, multi-faceted land of desert and water and greenery and forest and mountains, but also very much one which demands respect. We were talking about this the other day - in the 1970s there was a wave of Australian films that explored these themes. Perhaps the best known are Walkabout (a personal favourite) and Picnic at Hanging Rock but for me, a film that captures the essence of man against the hostile Australian environment is Long Weekend. The seventies was a fascinating period for Australian cinema and I've noticed that many of the films made during this time are now available on DVD, so will be trawling through them once I get back.
Drove back into the city yesterday with the intention of meeting a former work colleague for lunch and visiting the State Library, but was defeated by the (hardly surprising) parking restrictions. No different to London or any other major city I am sure, but in the end I was only able to meet Eugene for something to eat and a catch up, before racing back to where I'd put the car (there are parking garages but I decided I wasn't prepared to pay £50 for the privilege!). However, as returning to my limited parking space did afford me a train ride via Circular Quay, I was therefore able to see the still astonishing view of the Harbour, the Bridge and Opera House, the green and white ferries appearing to dart back and forth, expertly manoeuvring through the deep water.
A 'bush walk' is promised for today (Al orchestrating a packed lunch to take, lest we famish in the forests!), and tomorrow I will leave Gutless behind and board the train to the city to meet the daughter of the third Sydney Telegraph Girl. I know nothing of when or how Eileen Westley passed away, but do know that her daughter is keen to revisit her late mother's adventure in 1968. It maybe an emotional coming together, I don't know, but I am so very happy to share what I know with her. Then, I will spend the remainder of my last full day trawling through the newspaper archives at the Library before boarding te Blue Mountain Line back to Katoomba and a final dinner with Al and Marcus.
It has been a delightful trip.
Sunday, 21 April 2013
The Great Australian Bake Off!
What started off as dinner round the fire (the evenings are decidedly chilly up here) ended up with Al and me sitting over copious amounts of wine, talking and giggling into the night. I finally crawled into bed in the early hours after what was one of those lovely evenings where anything and everything was discussed - life, loves, politics, friends, films and so on. Without wanting to go into the personal details, suffice to say my friend has been visited with profound loss in recent times, so it was quite special to learn more about someone who passed away a year or so ago, and made me realise that I would have very much likied to have known him. I think talking about people who have passed away keeps them alive, somehow, sharing memories and stories and descriptions.
Personal histories. In the end that is what I am researching, the personal histories of men and women who, regardless of what occurred in their lives after the event, shared this great journey, this madcap run through eleven countries, encountering everything from suspension collapse, through collisions with army trucks and double-decker buses to brushes with bandits! To listen to someone recount stories of their life, told with humour or sadness or astonishment or even anger ('we were sabotaged!') and be witness to the changing facial expressions as memories bubble up to the surface is a rare priviledge indeed and something I hold very dear. To listen to an eighty year old man explain in such a matter-of-fact tone how he refused to let childhood polio stop him achieving his dreams, or witness the wistfulness of two women as they reflect how the third of their number is no longer there to tell her side of the tale is something I am so very blessed to have been afforded the opportunity to do. Again I am aware that as I have pursued these stories around the world, I therefore have a responsibility to 'do right' by those stories. Today I have begun writing Minnie's and Jenny's story, to be further enhanced once I have transcribed our 'interview'.
I have also decided to set myself a deadline - I am at the point where I must exert discipline, regardless of whatever else intervenes, especially 'work'. I know lovely Rob will help me with this, as he will gently remind me or encourage me to go, sit down and work for an hour or two on the transcriptions or manuscript during the weekend. So much still to do, but it will not be done without effort from me, and given that Minnie quietly made her suggestion on Friday, I really do have a target at which to aim.
A rather lovely 'domestic' day today - I actually slept until 9.30am, unheard of for me, and emerged sleepy eyed to face a beautiful blue sky again, all traces of the heavy rain and cloud faded away. Thought it probably best to have a shave as I was beginning to look like a vagrant, and then Al and I wandered up to the supermarket via a sweet little coffee shop in Katoomba. I am cooking for the guys this evening and had made a list of what I need. Then, as we sat sipping our 'flat whites' and munching on cupcakes, he confessed how he often dreamed of the classic English Victoria Sponge he used to have as a boy growing up, as he did, in England. One thing led to another and I decided to give him a lesson in baking! Up and the down the aisles of Coles the supermarket, and as well as the ingredients for dinner, we gathered all the pre-requisites for cake! Now writing this, I have just taken them out of the oven and so they are cooling ready for dollops of jam and whipped cream. Have written out the recipe and instructions (with many thanks to Sally David), so Al is determined to experiment from hereon in. Suffice to say the house is filled with the smell of baking.
Off to Sydney tomorrow to spend the day at the State Library and their fantastic collection of digitised Aussie newspapers from the 20th century, finished off with meeting up with someone I worked with in England a few days ago.
I think the weather will hold!
Personal histories. In the end that is what I am researching, the personal histories of men and women who, regardless of what occurred in their lives after the event, shared this great journey, this madcap run through eleven countries, encountering everything from suspension collapse, through collisions with army trucks and double-decker buses to brushes with bandits! To listen to someone recount stories of their life, told with humour or sadness or astonishment or even anger ('we were sabotaged!') and be witness to the changing facial expressions as memories bubble up to the surface is a rare priviledge indeed and something I hold very dear. To listen to an eighty year old man explain in such a matter-of-fact tone how he refused to let childhood polio stop him achieving his dreams, or witness the wistfulness of two women as they reflect how the third of their number is no longer there to tell her side of the tale is something I am so very blessed to have been afforded the opportunity to do. Again I am aware that as I have pursued these stories around the world, I therefore have a responsibility to 'do right' by those stories. Today I have begun writing Minnie's and Jenny's story, to be further enhanced once I have transcribed our 'interview'.
I have also decided to set myself a deadline - I am at the point where I must exert discipline, regardless of whatever else intervenes, especially 'work'. I know lovely Rob will help me with this, as he will gently remind me or encourage me to go, sit down and work for an hour or two on the transcriptions or manuscript during the weekend. So much still to do, but it will not be done without effort from me, and given that Minnie quietly made her suggestion on Friday, I really do have a target at which to aim.
A rather lovely 'domestic' day today - I actually slept until 9.30am, unheard of for me, and emerged sleepy eyed to face a beautiful blue sky again, all traces of the heavy rain and cloud faded away. Thought it probably best to have a shave as I was beginning to look like a vagrant, and then Al and I wandered up to the supermarket via a sweet little coffee shop in Katoomba. I am cooking for the guys this evening and had made a list of what I need. Then, as we sat sipping our 'flat whites' and munching on cupcakes, he confessed how he often dreamed of the classic English Victoria Sponge he used to have as a boy growing up, as he did, in England. One thing led to another and I decided to give him a lesson in baking! Up and the down the aisles of Coles the supermarket, and as well as the ingredients for dinner, we gathered all the pre-requisites for cake! Now writing this, I have just taken them out of the oven and so they are cooling ready for dollops of jam and whipped cream. Have written out the recipe and instructions (with many thanks to Sally David), so Al is determined to experiment from hereon in. Suffice to say the house is filled with the smell of baking.
Off to Sydney tomorrow to spend the day at the State Library and their fantastic collection of digitised Aussie newspapers from the 20th century, finished off with meeting up with someone I worked with in England a few days ago.
I think the weather will hold!
Saturday, 20 April 2013
Head In The Clouds
Yet another 'first' for me during this trip - being breathalysed. The NSW police are obsessed with speed traps and drink-driving traps. Apparently it's less about safety and more about revenue... I was driving away from my meeting with Jenny and Minnie when I encountered an organised breathalyser trap, and was beckoned into a cordoned area on the roadside and asked to count from one to ten into an alcohol meter. I suppose it's a good idea to do spot-checks at 2.30pm on a Friday afternoon, but really, the available resources to undertake speed and alcohol checking is huge, compared to the UK.
Took Marcus and Al to dinner last night and discovered that while downtown Katoomba leaves a lot to be desired, neighbouring Leura is an altogether more ritzy affair - reminds me a little of Crouch End in North London, where you are hard pressed to find a newsagent but will never run out of scented candles, expensive nick-nacks or gourmet coffee. A lovely but hair-raisingly expensive dinner, and much chuckling was had by all.
Overnight the rains came. Being 3,300 ft above sea level, it's not so much being under a rain cloud as right inside one. Al and I dashed through the deluge to meet a friend of his for breakfast in Leura, a rather lovely woman called Wendy with a permanent mischevous twinkle in her eye - if anyone watches The Good Wife, imagine Jackie having a more irreverant older sister. Also present was a man Al hadn't previously met, who turned out to have gone to school at Beaudesert in Minchinhampton in the 1940s! Discussion wandered from Margaret Thatcher to Julia Gillard to the role of the British within the history of slavery. Really rather needed to have my wits about me, but stated my case regarding Thatcher with some passion. Now we are invited to a pub dinner with Wendy on Tuesday eveing, so I can only assume I didn't disgrace myself!
Brandishing an enormous umbrella, I then ran to my car and drove to Penrith (pronounced PEN-rith, rather than our Cumbrian Pen-RITH), some 40 miles down the mountain, where I met my friend Kim and her little girls for lunch, at the Penrith Panthers centre, a sort of entertainment complex/casino/rugby ground. Kim looked fantastic and the girls presented me with drawings - loved how Jasmine had drawn me in a 'rainbow car'! As the girls tucked into pizzas, Kim and I caught up on 12 months of life lived since last we saw each other. She doesn't seem to have gotten any older since we first met in 1998, which I suspect has something to do with yoga and good genes! A lovely few hours nattering and watching the girls playing, before we say our farewells and I head off for the drive back up the mountain, before realising I had left the flippin' umbrella at the coat-check! The sun is fighting to emerge as I again begin my ascent until about 10 miles from Katoomba I drive right back into the cloud again, and that is where I am now, thousands of feet up in the clouds.
So that's why I am sleeping so well!
Took Marcus and Al to dinner last night and discovered that while downtown Katoomba leaves a lot to be desired, neighbouring Leura is an altogether more ritzy affair - reminds me a little of Crouch End in North London, where you are hard pressed to find a newsagent but will never run out of scented candles, expensive nick-nacks or gourmet coffee. A lovely but hair-raisingly expensive dinner, and much chuckling was had by all.
Overnight the rains came. Being 3,300 ft above sea level, it's not so much being under a rain cloud as right inside one. Al and I dashed through the deluge to meet a friend of his for breakfast in Leura, a rather lovely woman called Wendy with a permanent mischevous twinkle in her eye - if anyone watches The Good Wife, imagine Jackie having a more irreverant older sister. Also present was a man Al hadn't previously met, who turned out to have gone to school at Beaudesert in Minchinhampton in the 1940s! Discussion wandered from Margaret Thatcher to Julia Gillard to the role of the British within the history of slavery. Really rather needed to have my wits about me, but stated my case regarding Thatcher with some passion. Now we are invited to a pub dinner with Wendy on Tuesday eveing, so I can only assume I didn't disgrace myself!
Brandishing an enormous umbrella, I then ran to my car and drove to Penrith (pronounced PEN-rith, rather than our Cumbrian Pen-RITH), some 40 miles down the mountain, where I met my friend Kim and her little girls for lunch, at the Penrith Panthers centre, a sort of entertainment complex/casino/rugby ground. Kim looked fantastic and the girls presented me with drawings - loved how Jasmine had drawn me in a 'rainbow car'! As the girls tucked into pizzas, Kim and I caught up on 12 months of life lived since last we saw each other. She doesn't seem to have gotten any older since we first met in 1998, which I suspect has something to do with yoga and good genes! A lovely few hours nattering and watching the girls playing, before we say our farewells and I head off for the drive back up the mountain, before realising I had left the flippin' umbrella at the coat-check! The sun is fighting to emerge as I again begin my ascent until about 10 miles from Katoomba I drive right back into the cloud again, and that is where I am now, thousands of feet up in the clouds.
So that's why I am sleeping so well!
Friday, 19 April 2013
Lunch With 'The (Sydney Telegraph) Girls'
Yesterday was a consolidation day. Decided to take advantage of the time I spent with Bob and write the framework for his story, although transcribing the interview recordings will have to wait. Once done, I cracked on with writing up previous interviews. The challenge for me is that an average interview, say 3 hours, can mean 20-25 pages. Not the world's fastest typist, but pointless to get anyone else to do it as there are so many references that only I understand. It's a useful exercise though, as I am able to note sections that will be useful or usable later on.
Took a break in the afternoon and wandered into downtown Katoomba in search of a bank and chemist - fortified by 'Vapo-drops' (Mentholyptus to you and me), I returned and cracked on, enjoying the sun, warm through the window. Still in the early 20s here, although the wind is picking up and the dreaded rain threatens.
My friend Al only moved in 8 weeks ago, and while much needs to be done, even since I have been here the transformation of both garden and home has been astonishing. Of course he can only see what's outstanding, but I think it's useful to have me there looking at it all with an independent eye. It's a small space, but rather lovely, if a little cramped for three grown men plus dog plus cat. I am hugely grateful to him for letting me stay amidst the turmoil of it all, however, not least as it saves me the cost of hotel accommodation during my visit. It also means I can enjoy chatting and laughing with someone I first met over 30 years ago. Last night, amidst the giggling, I decided I will cook for them this weekend. Least I can do, if you ask me!
Up early this morning to allow time to get into the city during rush hour. Quite chilly as I quietly leave the house, but am off and away down the mountain by 7.00am. Honestly, the road over the Blue Mountains is a shocker - apparently it's one of the main arterial roads to the west, which is why it's clogged with those huge, American-looking trucks. It's supposed to be two lanes in either direction, but a massive widening programme is causing chaos. Traffic is at a crawl into Sydney, but 2.5 hours later, I find a parking space, go and find some coffee and then mooch in the sun until 10.00am comes around.
Now, I am seeing Jenny and Minnie, two of the three-women crew who drove a Morris 1100 from London to Sydney. They were 26 and 23 respectively, and Minnie wrote a column for the Sydney Telegraph, which she continued to do throughout the 10,000 mile journey. Their third crew member, Eileen, the Woman's Page editor on the paper, passed away sometime ago. I read back through Minnie's columns again last night and as before, sat and laughed out loud, reading her 'take' on their adventure. Hard to think she was 23 as the columns are very clever and quite hilarious.
Armed with my laptop and various books, I find the address, open the gate and walk down steps that lead to the front door. I knock. Moments later, a stick-thin, grey-hared woman in jeans and a denim shirt opens the door, and I am ushered into what is obviously a huge and very beautiful house. This is Minnie. She is as slim as she was at 23. I am guided down stairs into a lovely sitting room, the sun treaming through windows to the left, with doors open to a terrace beyond, table and benches, and standing in the sunlight is Jenny, saying hello, shaing my hand and smiling warmly behind her glasses. Funny, I have seen so many photographs of both of them from 1968, and of course they are 45 years older, but instantly recognisable. Talking of photo's, in most of the ones I have seen, Minnie is smoking. She still does, and roars approval as I wave my packet of fags at her! With coffee served, they interogate me about who I am, what I am doing, and so on. Simply inviting a perfect stranger into your home is not to be sneezed at, even if they have come all the way from England!
At some point we break for lunch, and I run out to move my car, parked in a 2 hour only space. Then, sitting down to munch on bread, prosciutto and sun-dried tomatoes ("is it too early for a glass of wine?"), we carry on. Jenny can recall much more than Minnie, but as I have prepared many questions based on what I have read, they are both laughing and marvelling at events, scrapes and situations long-since forgotten (although Jenny did fly down to Sydney from her home in western New South Wales yesterday, and they both spent last night over a bottle of wine or two, recalling the Marathon and again reading Minnie's columns).
Jenny in particular has travelled the world a great deal since 1968, as she worked for a merchant bank, which took her to the Soviet Union in the early 1970s, and for a time to Vienna. Minnie carried on with journalism for many years, eventually writing a regular televison column before she decided she didn't like the anxiety that deadlines represented. They had all but lost touch until five years ago, they met again. They were both very aware of Eileen's absence today, and Jenny asked if I'd be willing to meet Eileen's daughter while I'm here to tell her more about her mother's exploits in 1968. Naturally I said 'of course'.
Then suddenly almost 4.5 hours has passed. Jenny took a photograph of Minnie and I sitting at the kitchen table, and I took some copies of a few things, including a lovely photograph of them both on the ship from Bombay to Perth. Jenny had even found a spare Marathon car number, a large adhesive Number 41 which would have been afixed to the Morris 1100's door. I suggested she framed it as soon as possible, and hung it in pride of place in her home. "You know?", she said as I packed up my things, "I think I will!"
All too soon it was time to depart. I thanked these two laughing women, so different from each other in so many ways but united by their madcap journey across continents 45 years ago, still giggling about disposable, paper underwear and being held up by bandits - "to this day", said Minnie, " nobody believes us. But it actually happened".
Then, as I leave, Minnie suggests that once I have written the first two or three chapters, and a summary treatment of the proposed 'book', I should send them to her as one of her closest friends is a literary agent of some renown.
If that isn't motivation to keep going and get it done, I don't know what is!
Took a break in the afternoon and wandered into downtown Katoomba in search of a bank and chemist - fortified by 'Vapo-drops' (Mentholyptus to you and me), I returned and cracked on, enjoying the sun, warm through the window. Still in the early 20s here, although the wind is picking up and the dreaded rain threatens.
My friend Al only moved in 8 weeks ago, and while much needs to be done, even since I have been here the transformation of both garden and home has been astonishing. Of course he can only see what's outstanding, but I think it's useful to have me there looking at it all with an independent eye. It's a small space, but rather lovely, if a little cramped for three grown men plus dog plus cat. I am hugely grateful to him for letting me stay amidst the turmoil of it all, however, not least as it saves me the cost of hotel accommodation during my visit. It also means I can enjoy chatting and laughing with someone I first met over 30 years ago. Last night, amidst the giggling, I decided I will cook for them this weekend. Least I can do, if you ask me!
Up early this morning to allow time to get into the city during rush hour. Quite chilly as I quietly leave the house, but am off and away down the mountain by 7.00am. Honestly, the road over the Blue Mountains is a shocker - apparently it's one of the main arterial roads to the west, which is why it's clogged with those huge, American-looking trucks. It's supposed to be two lanes in either direction, but a massive widening programme is causing chaos. Traffic is at a crawl into Sydney, but 2.5 hours later, I find a parking space, go and find some coffee and then mooch in the sun until 10.00am comes around.
Now, I am seeing Jenny and Minnie, two of the three-women crew who drove a Morris 1100 from London to Sydney. They were 26 and 23 respectively, and Minnie wrote a column for the Sydney Telegraph, which she continued to do throughout the 10,000 mile journey. Their third crew member, Eileen, the Woman's Page editor on the paper, passed away sometime ago. I read back through Minnie's columns again last night and as before, sat and laughed out loud, reading her 'take' on their adventure. Hard to think she was 23 as the columns are very clever and quite hilarious.
Armed with my laptop and various books, I find the address, open the gate and walk down steps that lead to the front door. I knock. Moments later, a stick-thin, grey-hared woman in jeans and a denim shirt opens the door, and I am ushered into what is obviously a huge and very beautiful house. This is Minnie. She is as slim as she was at 23. I am guided down stairs into a lovely sitting room, the sun treaming through windows to the left, with doors open to a terrace beyond, table and benches, and standing in the sunlight is Jenny, saying hello, shaing my hand and smiling warmly behind her glasses. Funny, I have seen so many photographs of both of them from 1968, and of course they are 45 years older, but instantly recognisable. Talking of photo's, in most of the ones I have seen, Minnie is smoking. She still does, and roars approval as I wave my packet of fags at her! With coffee served, they interogate me about who I am, what I am doing, and so on. Simply inviting a perfect stranger into your home is not to be sneezed at, even if they have come all the way from England!
At some point we break for lunch, and I run out to move my car, parked in a 2 hour only space. Then, sitting down to munch on bread, prosciutto and sun-dried tomatoes ("is it too early for a glass of wine?"), we carry on. Jenny can recall much more than Minnie, but as I have prepared many questions based on what I have read, they are both laughing and marvelling at events, scrapes and situations long-since forgotten (although Jenny did fly down to Sydney from her home in western New South Wales yesterday, and they both spent last night over a bottle of wine or two, recalling the Marathon and again reading Minnie's columns).
Jenny in particular has travelled the world a great deal since 1968, as she worked for a merchant bank, which took her to the Soviet Union in the early 1970s, and for a time to Vienna. Minnie carried on with journalism for many years, eventually writing a regular televison column before she decided she didn't like the anxiety that deadlines represented. They had all but lost touch until five years ago, they met again. They were both very aware of Eileen's absence today, and Jenny asked if I'd be willing to meet Eileen's daughter while I'm here to tell her more about her mother's exploits in 1968. Naturally I said 'of course'.
Then suddenly almost 4.5 hours has passed. Jenny took a photograph of Minnie and I sitting at the kitchen table, and I took some copies of a few things, including a lovely photograph of them both on the ship from Bombay to Perth. Jenny had even found a spare Marathon car number, a large adhesive Number 41 which would have been afixed to the Morris 1100's door. I suggested she framed it as soon as possible, and hung it in pride of place in her home. "You know?", she said as I packed up my things, "I think I will!"
All too soon it was time to depart. I thanked these two laughing women, so different from each other in so many ways but united by their madcap journey across continents 45 years ago, still giggling about disposable, paper underwear and being held up by bandits - "to this day", said Minnie, " nobody believes us. But it actually happened".
Then, as I leave, Minnie suggests that once I have written the first two or three chapters, and a summary treatment of the proposed 'book', I should send them to her as one of her closest friends is a literary agent of some renown.
If that isn't motivation to keep going and get it done, I don't know what is!
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Along Came A Spider (or Two)
As planned, I awoke yesterday morning to find myself alone in Bob and Colleen's house - Bob was up and departed to Sydney to deposit the van and meet up with Colleen to drive back. If you consider that I am a complete stranger who they only met two days before, this expression of trust is immeasurable, and extremely humbling. Bob left me with another large box of papers, cuttings, photographs and documents to sift through - more treasure! So, again marvelling at the isolation and quiet (notwithstanding the ever-present chorus of exotic bird calls), I began my exploration, unearthing yet more written and photographic evidence of a life spent on four fast wheels.
And so I sat, reading and copying, copying and reading, until suddenly it was 11.30am and I spied Colleen's car winding up the track from the road. Colleen busied in the kitchen while Bob and I resumed our positions and continued talking. Bob began to talk about John Dawson-Damer, a British man who back in the day had approached him to build a rally car in the early 1970s, and once built had then asked him to drive it while he navigated. As he recalled this event and subsequent adventures, he began to weep a little to remember someone who had become a good friend and who had been killed doing what he loved - his friend, this 'pom', had died racing a car at the Goodwood circuit in England thirteen years ago. I realise yet again how emotional it has been for Bob to look back at his life and be reminded of so many friends and colleagues now passed away.
Preparing to take my leave, Colleen disappears for a moment and returns carrying a glass with a piece of paper held over the top. As I have remarked that is has been a thrill to see so much Australian wild - life in natural habitat, to top it all she shows me what she has caught in the glass. A red-back spider. Small, grey-black, no bigger than an average autumn garden spider in Britain, it has a startling red mark on its back. Related to the black widow spider, it also has a bite that will put you in hospital. I have to confess I was thrilled - I have never seen this infamous Aussie arachnid before, and while I would have been more than a little overwrought had it escaped, I was quite fascinated. Apparently they like to hang around pot-plants... and to think Australians love their gardening!
I felt hugely grateful and very sad to bid them farewell. This ordinary/extraordinary man, chuckling as I confessed to being nervous of driving him the evening before (of course he knew this), and telling me to keep in touch, a hand up in salute as I reversed the car and drove back down the bumpy track to the main road. I shall treasure the time spent with Bob Holden for many years to come.
The five hour drive back passed without incident, the roads pretty clear until I got to Sydney and then the 30-odd mile climb up the mountain to Katoomba. Bags dumped, I settle down at the kitchen table with glass of wine and catch up on the few days' events with Al while Marcus magics up a fabulous dinner of steak with mushrooms in red-wine. With a little more glee than I think is really necessary, they recount how the day before, as it had rained very heavily, they had managed to stop the progress of a 'small' funnel web as it scuttled down the hall towards the warmth of the fire. My obvious anxiety prompted great mirth - "so what should one do if one encounters said beastie in the house?" I politely enquire. "Apart from scream?" comes the reply. "Ah, kill it with a shoe mate"
I swear even the dog was laughing by this stage!
And so I sat, reading and copying, copying and reading, until suddenly it was 11.30am and I spied Colleen's car winding up the track from the road. Colleen busied in the kitchen while Bob and I resumed our positions and continued talking. Bob began to talk about John Dawson-Damer, a British man who back in the day had approached him to build a rally car in the early 1970s, and once built had then asked him to drive it while he navigated. As he recalled this event and subsequent adventures, he began to weep a little to remember someone who had become a good friend and who had been killed doing what he loved - his friend, this 'pom', had died racing a car at the Goodwood circuit in England thirteen years ago. I realise yet again how emotional it has been for Bob to look back at his life and be reminded of so many friends and colleagues now passed away.
Preparing to take my leave, Colleen disappears for a moment and returns carrying a glass with a piece of paper held over the top. As I have remarked that is has been a thrill to see so much Australian wild - life in natural habitat, to top it all she shows me what she has caught in the glass. A red-back spider. Small, grey-black, no bigger than an average autumn garden spider in Britain, it has a startling red mark on its back. Related to the black widow spider, it also has a bite that will put you in hospital. I have to confess I was thrilled - I have never seen this infamous Aussie arachnid before, and while I would have been more than a little overwrought had it escaped, I was quite fascinated. Apparently they like to hang around pot-plants... and to think Australians love their gardening!
I felt hugely grateful and very sad to bid them farewell. This ordinary/extraordinary man, chuckling as I confessed to being nervous of driving him the evening before (of course he knew this), and telling me to keep in touch, a hand up in salute as I reversed the car and drove back down the bumpy track to the main road. I shall treasure the time spent with Bob Holden for many years to come.
The five hour drive back passed without incident, the roads pretty clear until I got to Sydney and then the 30-odd mile climb up the mountain to Katoomba. Bags dumped, I settle down at the kitchen table with glass of wine and catch up on the few days' events with Al while Marcus magics up a fabulous dinner of steak with mushrooms in red-wine. With a little more glee than I think is really necessary, they recount how the day before, as it had rained very heavily, they had managed to stop the progress of a 'small' funnel web as it scuttled down the hall towards the warmth of the fire. My obvious anxiety prompted great mirth - "so what should one do if one encounters said beastie in the house?" I politely enquire. "Apart from scream?" comes the reply. "Ah, kill it with a shoe mate"
I swear even the dog was laughing by this stage!
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
Are The Wallabies On Your Side or Mine?
Yesterday was a day spent pouring over photographs, magazines, and news articles. From time to time Bob would appear from his workshop for a natter, before heading back to carry on with his automotive alchemy. I have taken copious notes, been given contact details for more folks (in Finland and Australia), and realised generally that the 1968 London-Sydney Marathon is but a footnote in Bob's long career - apparently one of his knick-names is Captain Araldite as once he gets in a car, you can't get him out! He is a man who fell in love with cars in the very early 1950s, and made them the central part of his life for the next 60 years. Mind you, in 1952 he was about to be put forward for the Tour de France, so successful was he as a competitive cyclist. Only an accident prevented this from happening, which led to cars, which led to where he is now.
We have been joking about how he can remove and replace an engine in 30 minutes, but doesn't/doesn't want to know how to use a PC! I showed him his Wikipedia entry, which he was fascinated by, amused that all the facts were correct. Also, coincidentally, in 1968 once the Marathon was over, Duncan, who I met with on Saturday, sold his car to Bob. Bob rebuilt it (it had of course hit a bus in Teheran) and went on to rally it for 18 months before selling it back to Duncan. They had pretty much lost touch, but I have now given Bob Duncan's contact details. Bob also insisted I read the initial draft of the biography his friend his writing. He is ambivalent about this whole enterprise, mostly because he is very private and feels uncomfortable about appearing to brag. A fascinating read, I told him that within the contemporary motor racing scene in Australia, there will be many folks who would relish to chance to know a bit about what has made him tick all these years.
So, I was outside for a fag break, when I caught a glimpse of movement to my right. I glance across... two wallabies happily grazing 50 yards from where I stood! Then, a small flock of kookaburras land in a tree to my left and start that astonishing, maniacal laughter they have. On top of the koala yesterday, in terms of Australian wildlife you can't get much better than that.
With Colleen away in Sydney, and Bob's lifelong refusal to learn to cook (!), we went into Taree for dinner. Lovely seafood restaurant and my chance to thank him for his hospitality. Mind you, as we went in my car, I can't tell you how stressful it was to drive this saloon car racing, trans-continental-experienced champion the 20 minutes there and 20 minutes back. Along dark, pot-holed, rain-drenched country roads and into a town I have never visited in my life. I don't think I impressed him much - the rental car's wipers and indicators are the reverse of my BMW, so I got in a right bother as it was raining. Poor man must have thought I only learnt to drive last week. I did learn something though... during rallies, if you're navigating, never say 'left' or 'right', as this gives the driver too long to think about which is which, by which time you've passed the junction or crashed. Instead, always say 'my side' or 'your side'.
Must try this when next giving Rob directions - "at the next junction, to me, no, to you"!
We have been joking about how he can remove and replace an engine in 30 minutes, but doesn't/doesn't want to know how to use a PC! I showed him his Wikipedia entry, which he was fascinated by, amused that all the facts were correct. Also, coincidentally, in 1968 once the Marathon was over, Duncan, who I met with on Saturday, sold his car to Bob. Bob rebuilt it (it had of course hit a bus in Teheran) and went on to rally it for 18 months before selling it back to Duncan. They had pretty much lost touch, but I have now given Bob Duncan's contact details. Bob also insisted I read the initial draft of the biography his friend his writing. He is ambivalent about this whole enterprise, mostly because he is very private and feels uncomfortable about appearing to brag. A fascinating read, I told him that within the contemporary motor racing scene in Australia, there will be many folks who would relish to chance to know a bit about what has made him tick all these years.
So, I was outside for a fag break, when I caught a glimpse of movement to my right. I glance across... two wallabies happily grazing 50 yards from where I stood! Then, a small flock of kookaburras land in a tree to my left and start that astonishing, maniacal laughter they have. On top of the koala yesterday, in terms of Australian wildlife you can't get much better than that.
With Colleen away in Sydney, and Bob's lifelong refusal to learn to cook (!), we went into Taree for dinner. Lovely seafood restaurant and my chance to thank him for his hospitality. Mind you, as we went in my car, I can't tell you how stressful it was to drive this saloon car racing, trans-continental-experienced champion the 20 minutes there and 20 minutes back. Along dark, pot-holed, rain-drenched country roads and into a town I have never visited in my life. I don't think I impressed him much - the rental car's wipers and indicators are the reverse of my BMW, so I got in a right bother as it was raining. Poor man must have thought I only learnt to drive last week. I did learn something though... during rallies, if you're navigating, never say 'left' or 'right', as this gives the driver too long to think about which is which, by which time you've passed the junction or crashed. Instead, always say 'my side' or 'your side'.
Must try this when next giving Rob directions - "at the next junction, to me, no, to you"!
Monday, 15 April 2013
And This Is The Reason I Am Here
This part of New South Wales reminds me a little of rural France. Driving along the old Sydney-Brisbane highway from Taree, it twists, rises and falls through woods and meadows, and crosses Peg Leg Creek. My final destination is a right turn off the road and onto an unmade track that bounces and shudders the Hyundai all the way up towards a large, single storey house set someway back above the highway. As I pull up, a man appears clad in blue overalls, and approaches as I turn off the engine and open the door.
Bob
Having re-watched his film the other day, I would recognise him anywhere, despite the 45 years since passed. Greetings and handshakes, and so begins one of those days that will never be forgotten. Bob and his wife Colleen welcome me in and before I know it, we are sat around the dining table, tea with scones, cream and jam all laid out, and we plunge into Bob's life behind the wheel of a racing or rally car.
Funny, self-effacing, practical, I listen transfixed as he explains his attitude to life - as a boy, while in hospital for an operation on his feet, he contracted polio which left him immobile. Being bed-bound, he read. And read. And read. Books fired his imagination and determination and he progressed from learning to walk to competitive cycling to competitive motor-racing. His first competitive race was in 1951. His most recent? Last Sunday! He has survived rally and racing accidents and more than one bout with cancer, and attributes his longevity to the spirit that took him from a childhood sick bed to becoming one of the most respected saloon car racing drivers in Australian history.
We walk up to his 'toy room' - a huge garage and workshop, containing three 'classic' circuit-racing cars, two vans and beneath a blanket, a Hillman Imp, its bodywork immaculate. He remarks that the workshop is a mess. I have never seen a more tidy set up. In a side room (the engine room), the walls are covered with photographs of his racing life.
Before I know it, hours have passed. Next up, Bob has to 'quickly' take an engine out of one of the vans, so he digs out a photo-album covering the filmed journey he made from Sydney to London, and as he sorts out the van, so I scan and copy picture after picture, chatting to Colleen as I go. At on point I am urgently beckoned outside - there in the trees behind the house is a koala, cuddled up in a fork of branches! The first I've ever seen outside captivity or in a controlled environment.
Will I stay for dinner? Of course I must stay over! Slowlv I realise I am being confronted with that wonderful, genuine hospitality and enthusiasm I have so often experienced during this marathon undertaking of mine. Time and time again I have journeyed to meet these adventurers from 45 years ago, whether England, France, the US or Australia, and encountered generousity of spirit and simple 'matter-of-fact' welcome. So, a quick dash back to the motel to grab my stuff (followed by a second dash because I'd left something behind), and I'm here, listening to a life story in Aussie motorsports from a man who has attempted at all times to be honest, straight-forward and careful to only take on what he could afford, attaching huge importance to reputation. At times deeply moving, Bob is an extraordinary man with a permanent twinkle in his eye and a real appreciation in what I am trying to do, even though an established writer is also trying to write his biography. As Bob said yesterday, 'well you contacted me first!'.
Once again I also feel a huge responsibility to the men and women I have spoken to these past 3 years, and a familiar feeling of frustration that circumstances have often prevented me from 'cracking on' with the Marathon project. Ah, if only I could do nothing else but this until it's done.
Colleen cooked a lovely dinner, and we sat and chatted about all sorts. Then settled down to watch one of the films I have of the '68 Marathon, which Bob had never seen, him pointing things out I didn't know or hadn't noticed. It was again moving to witness both Bob and Colleen watch a stream of familiar faces on the screen, friends who have since passed away.
Now sitting here surrounded by materials, photograph albums and scrap books. Colleen has driven down to Sydney and Bob, having repaired one of his vehicles while I have been here, has driven off to sort a few things out. Further insistance that I stay as long as I need to (I need time to go through this tremendous archive!).
I am a very fortunate man indeed!
Bob
Having re-watched his film the other day, I would recognise him anywhere, despite the 45 years since passed. Greetings and handshakes, and so begins one of those days that will never be forgotten. Bob and his wife Colleen welcome me in and before I know it, we are sat around the dining table, tea with scones, cream and jam all laid out, and we plunge into Bob's life behind the wheel of a racing or rally car.
Funny, self-effacing, practical, I listen transfixed as he explains his attitude to life - as a boy, while in hospital for an operation on his feet, he contracted polio which left him immobile. Being bed-bound, he read. And read. And read. Books fired his imagination and determination and he progressed from learning to walk to competitive cycling to competitive motor-racing. His first competitive race was in 1951. His most recent? Last Sunday! He has survived rally and racing accidents and more than one bout with cancer, and attributes his longevity to the spirit that took him from a childhood sick bed to becoming one of the most respected saloon car racing drivers in Australian history.
We walk up to his 'toy room' - a huge garage and workshop, containing three 'classic' circuit-racing cars, two vans and beneath a blanket, a Hillman Imp, its bodywork immaculate. He remarks that the workshop is a mess. I have never seen a more tidy set up. In a side room (the engine room), the walls are covered with photographs of his racing life.
Before I know it, hours have passed. Next up, Bob has to 'quickly' take an engine out of one of the vans, so he digs out a photo-album covering the filmed journey he made from Sydney to London, and as he sorts out the van, so I scan and copy picture after picture, chatting to Colleen as I go. At on point I am urgently beckoned outside - there in the trees behind the house is a koala, cuddled up in a fork of branches! The first I've ever seen outside captivity or in a controlled environment.
Will I stay for dinner? Of course I must stay over! Slowlv I realise I am being confronted with that wonderful, genuine hospitality and enthusiasm I have so often experienced during this marathon undertaking of mine. Time and time again I have journeyed to meet these adventurers from 45 years ago, whether England, France, the US or Australia, and encountered generousity of spirit and simple 'matter-of-fact' welcome. So, a quick dash back to the motel to grab my stuff (followed by a second dash because I'd left something behind), and I'm here, listening to a life story in Aussie motorsports from a man who has attempted at all times to be honest, straight-forward and careful to only take on what he could afford, attaching huge importance to reputation. At times deeply moving, Bob is an extraordinary man with a permanent twinkle in his eye and a real appreciation in what I am trying to do, even though an established writer is also trying to write his biography. As Bob said yesterday, 'well you contacted me first!'.
Once again I also feel a huge responsibility to the men and women I have spoken to these past 3 years, and a familiar feeling of frustration that circumstances have often prevented me from 'cracking on' with the Marathon project. Ah, if only I could do nothing else but this until it's done.
Colleen cooked a lovely dinner, and we sat and chatted about all sorts. Then settled down to watch one of the films I have of the '68 Marathon, which Bob had never seen, him pointing things out I didn't know or hadn't noticed. It was again moving to witness both Bob and Colleen watch a stream of familiar faces on the screen, friends who have since passed away.
Now sitting here surrounded by materials, photograph albums and scrap books. Colleen has driven down to Sydney and Bob, having repaired one of his vehicles while I have been here, has driven off to sort a few things out. Further insistance that I stay as long as I need to (I need time to go through this tremendous archive!).
I am a very fortunate man indeed!
Sunday, 14 April 2013
What's the Australian for 'Screen Wash'?
Most annoying - it feels like I have the after effects of a cold without
actually having had a cold i.e. bunged up.
Flying is extremely unhealthy!
Note to self - wash hands repeatedly on the flight home.
Looks like yesterday was the last day of sunshine for a while, as the rains
are coming. Took full advantage of this
by further exploring the cliffs overlooking the Jamison Valley yesterday
morning. I was here 21 years ago, but
the trend to turn every tourist spot into a 'visitor experience' has been
applied liberally, to point where I honestly don't recognise anything. The Katoomba Falls site (where the old
funicular railway took a lurching, 52 degree angle down the cliff-side) is now
called 'Scenicworld', and has a new cable car, called the Skyway, plus the
Scenicworld visitors' centre, multi-story carpark and large cafe. Multi-million dollar grant means much new
construction, hence the helicopter fetching and carrying up and down the
cliff-side the other day, like some enormous potter-wasp buzzing hither and yon
to build a nest. The cliff-side railway
is all new and very focused on health & safety (yawn) - I recall it being
little more than a series of old miners' carriages with little protection from the
dramatic drop-off. That was part of the
fun in 1992.
Progress I suppose...
There is a maze of overgrown pathways winding through the trees along the
cliff-top, with viewing sites at intervals.
Astonishing feeling, standing at the cliff edge and looking out high
above the canopy of trees far below, the waterfall to my left completely
dwarfed by the sheer expanse. Next week,
the intention is to descend to the forest floor and walk part of the Three
Sisters route, weather allowing.
Apparently, the three sisters were comely maidens who went in search of,
shall we say 'romance', and as a consequence their father (who rather
annoyingly for them, was a god), turned them to stone, or rather three
spectacular rocky outcrops, all interlinked.
Comments about the suppression of female sexuality through the ages on a
postcard please!
Obviously I caught the sun on my forehead, so brandishing a red face, I
returned via Casiopeia (sold out of Florentines, sadly) and set about packing
up ready for the drive to Taree. Mine
host (whose name is Alhazmi, by the way) ensured I was suitably fortified with
sausage and eggs before I punched in the co-ordinates and off I went. Now, it seems half of the population of New
South Wales deserts the Blue Mountains on a Sunday afternoon, so what should
have been a 4.5 hour jaunt northwards turned into a 5.5 hour slog. That said, once I hit the Pacific Highway, I
had a rather lovely feeling of familiarity, even stopping at the service
station I previously stopped at last year when it was experiencing a non-stop
deluge. This time it was warm and dry,
and I purchased a take-away coffee from a very friendly woman called Rose. Mind you, apparently the concept of
'screen-wash' is anathma to these Aussie service station johnnies! You know how you can't move for large
containers of screen-wash in any British petrol station? Not so down-under. I politely asked for said fluid, and the guy
behind the counter frowned before asking if I meant 'bug-wash'. Apparently this means the buckets of water
standing next to each petrol pump. No, I
said, the stuff you put in the bottle situated in your car's engine bay, and
which spurts out when you depress the lever in your steering column. Sadly, this didn't compute (seriously!), so I
had to settle for an over-priced bottle of mineral water.
Good grief!
After many hours of flicking back and forth between a variety of radio
stations (including a tribute to the musical theatre history of Angela Lansbury
- Elane Paige, eat your heart out!), I finally made it to the motel via a
'bottle shop', which was straight out of a stereotypical Aussie film from the
1970s and a very jolly petrol station (petrol is about the only thing cheaper
than in England). I love these antipodean
motels, and must confess that, despite the warm welcome and tremendous
hospitality I have received from Alhazmi, it feels good to be out on my own, as
I was last year. Have decided to spend
two nights here in Taree, as after my interview with Bob, I can hole up and
crack on with transcribing to the sounds of the water-feature outside. Must confess, am a little nervous about
meeting Bob... he is very much a legend in Australian motor-sports circles,
still racing at 80 and I suspect not someone who suffers fools. The other night I again watched the film he
made of his recce' journey from Sydney to London in July or August 1968, three
months before the Marathon itself. A
formidable character even at 35, and now I discover someone is writing hs
biography! However, I also know he was a
bit miffed that I didn't get to see him last year (the timing didn't allow), so
am hoping all will be fine.
As I arrived in the dark last night I had no idea of what surrounded the motel. By morning light I discover it's set among green pastures and herds of cows! Given that on the way here I passed a sign for Stroud and Gloucester, feeling a tad home sick.
Right, off to sample an Aussie motel buffet breakfast!
Saturday, 13 April 2013
Oxford Blues and Red-Bellied Black Snakes
I was a little nervous about seeing my first Marathonier for this trip
because I really hadn’t even looked at the book project since seeing David
Dunnell in deepest, darkest Wales back in mid-December.
I needn’t have worried.
I set off early from Katoomba via Cassiopeia, the neighbourhood coffee shop further down the street. A beautiful morning, blue skies and shrieking cockatoos darting from tree to tree above my head. Allowed plenty of time for the drive back into the city, so set up the faithful sat nav, cursed the car rental folks for giving me car without any screen wash, and set off for the 90 minute drive back down the mountain to Sydney. The mostly two-lane highway twists its way downwards, dominated by vast tracts of road works and speed restrictions. The roads were busy with folks who obviously had the same plan as me – traffic was heavy all the way into Sydney.
I discovered that the little Hyundai has a 6th gear, which seems excessive for such a little engine, but the car effortlessly transported me down the Parramatta Road and on into Redfern, my final destination. Good job the car is so small as said Road is three-lane, each extremely narrow. Lined with an endless stream of car dealerships and little else, the route towards town eventually took me into what is fast becoming a very trendy part of the city. Found a tiny alley in which to park and made my way along a street thronged with people sitting in the sun outside deli’s and coffee shops towards my appointment.
A rather lovely late 19th century house, chock full of packing cases and cardboard boxes awaited me – the door opened by a dramatically thin, smiling woman and very excited dog, barking a frantic welcome. I told the woman that barking canines at the door was home-from-home for me, and was led down a hall into a bright and beautifully laid out conservatory kitchen, where my subject sat smiling at a bench table.
Duncan.
I only tracked Duncan down late last year, via his co-driver Peter who lives in England, and I only stumbled across Peter via a Google search. Now I knew that Duncan, Peter and their third crew-member Simon had driven a privately entered Lotus Cortina in 1968, and particularly that a collision with a bus in Teheran has nearly put paid to their ambitions (and Simon’s freedom!). Other than a few fragments of fact, I knew very little.
Duncan apologised for not getting up, gesturing his stick which leant against the bench - at 70, he has severe peripheral neuropathy so mobility is a challenge, a cruel fate for a man passionate about fast cars and driving. So, sitting down to a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits and an apology for the chaotic state of the house (they move to southern NSW on Tuesday, so lock, stock and barrel were all packed up), I set up my voice recorder and once again immersed myself in the, for me, thrilling world of driving in competition from London to Sydney 45 years ago.
I think the thing I love the most about meeting and talking with these men and women is watching and listening to how memories rise to the surface, snippets and anecdotes not thought of for decades. Duncan mixed Marathon stories with his life in England as an Oxford grad’ (and former Oxford Blue!), his love of fast cars and how the Marathon led to a new life in Sydney – he stayed in 1968 and never returned home other than to visit. My plan is to meet Simon and Peter upon my return, and Duncan was excited to know what they will recall. All three remained good friends, and I think he was sad to realise his poor mobility means he will never again be able to take the 24 hour flight back to Britain.
Three hours and many anecdotes later, with a few myths dispelled, I made my thanks and farewells and departed into the sunlight.
Having now met or communicated in writing with 40 plus folks from the Marathon, I remain in awe of the determination, spirit of adventure (and not insignificant amounts of money) these men and women had in 1968. From professional racing or rally drivers to excited amateurs, whether cars or motorsport remained a part of their lives or not, time and time again I sense how the 10,000 mile dash across continents changed lives and forged life-long friendships, and it continues to be a genuine pleasure to know these people, if only for a few hours.
So, one down, three to go… a 4.5 hour drive awaits me tomorrow, not to mention one of those hilarious Aussie motels in the back of beyond. Had forgotten how much I enjoyed hurtling around on my own when I was here last year.
Now, apparently, on top of the arachnid-eco-horror here in Katoomba, I also have to be mindful of the red-bellied black snake – a friend of my host had to emergency dash to the local veterinary hospital recently when her dog was bitten while mooching in a garden. How on earth do people manage pets and gardens here? It’s like having to dice with death every time you pop out to prune your roses or plant spring bulbs, if you ask me!
I needn’t have worried.
I set off early from Katoomba via Cassiopeia, the neighbourhood coffee shop further down the street. A beautiful morning, blue skies and shrieking cockatoos darting from tree to tree above my head. Allowed plenty of time for the drive back into the city, so set up the faithful sat nav, cursed the car rental folks for giving me car without any screen wash, and set off for the 90 minute drive back down the mountain to Sydney. The mostly two-lane highway twists its way downwards, dominated by vast tracts of road works and speed restrictions. The roads were busy with folks who obviously had the same plan as me – traffic was heavy all the way into Sydney.
I discovered that the little Hyundai has a 6th gear, which seems excessive for such a little engine, but the car effortlessly transported me down the Parramatta Road and on into Redfern, my final destination. Good job the car is so small as said Road is three-lane, each extremely narrow. Lined with an endless stream of car dealerships and little else, the route towards town eventually took me into what is fast becoming a very trendy part of the city. Found a tiny alley in which to park and made my way along a street thronged with people sitting in the sun outside deli’s and coffee shops towards my appointment.
A rather lovely late 19th century house, chock full of packing cases and cardboard boxes awaited me – the door opened by a dramatically thin, smiling woman and very excited dog, barking a frantic welcome. I told the woman that barking canines at the door was home-from-home for me, and was led down a hall into a bright and beautifully laid out conservatory kitchen, where my subject sat smiling at a bench table.
Duncan.
I only tracked Duncan down late last year, via his co-driver Peter who lives in England, and I only stumbled across Peter via a Google search. Now I knew that Duncan, Peter and their third crew-member Simon had driven a privately entered Lotus Cortina in 1968, and particularly that a collision with a bus in Teheran has nearly put paid to their ambitions (and Simon’s freedom!). Other than a few fragments of fact, I knew very little.
Duncan apologised for not getting up, gesturing his stick which leant against the bench - at 70, he has severe peripheral neuropathy so mobility is a challenge, a cruel fate for a man passionate about fast cars and driving. So, sitting down to a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits and an apology for the chaotic state of the house (they move to southern NSW on Tuesday, so lock, stock and barrel were all packed up), I set up my voice recorder and once again immersed myself in the, for me, thrilling world of driving in competition from London to Sydney 45 years ago.
I think the thing I love the most about meeting and talking with these men and women is watching and listening to how memories rise to the surface, snippets and anecdotes not thought of for decades. Duncan mixed Marathon stories with his life in England as an Oxford grad’ (and former Oxford Blue!), his love of fast cars and how the Marathon led to a new life in Sydney – he stayed in 1968 and never returned home other than to visit. My plan is to meet Simon and Peter upon my return, and Duncan was excited to know what they will recall. All three remained good friends, and I think he was sad to realise his poor mobility means he will never again be able to take the 24 hour flight back to Britain.
Three hours and many anecdotes later, with a few myths dispelled, I made my thanks and farewells and departed into the sunlight.
Having now met or communicated in writing with 40 plus folks from the Marathon, I remain in awe of the determination, spirit of adventure (and not insignificant amounts of money) these men and women had in 1968. From professional racing or rally drivers to excited amateurs, whether cars or motorsport remained a part of their lives or not, time and time again I sense how the 10,000 mile dash across continents changed lives and forged life-long friendships, and it continues to be a genuine pleasure to know these people, if only for a few hours.
So, one down, three to go… a 4.5 hour drive awaits me tomorrow, not to mention one of those hilarious Aussie motels in the back of beyond. Had forgotten how much I enjoyed hurtling around on my own when I was here last year.
Now, apparently, on top of the arachnid-eco-horror here in Katoomba, I also have to be mindful of the red-bellied black snake – a friend of my host had to emergency dash to the local veterinary hospital recently when her dog was bitten while mooching in a garden. How on earth do people manage pets and gardens here? It’s like having to dice with death every time you pop out to prune your roses or plant spring bulbs, if you ask me!
Friday, 12 April 2013
Possums and Potato Cakes
So last night I nip out into the garden before dinner, and in the dark
I catch a glimpse of some large creature moving on the roof of a neighbouring
house. Said creature then darts onto a
treetop, and crashes to earth, immediately followed by what I
would call a chilling series of annoyed groans and growls. Really rather
close. In the dark. And so, there ends
my first ever encounter with a possum.
Confess I stood there feeling rather European – okay so we do have
larger creatures rustling in the undergrowth at home, but when did you ever see
a badger on the roof? This country is somewhat a kin to another planet!
I really managed to set to with transcribing interviews yesterday,
frantically working the foot pedal as I listened to an interview and typed up its
content. Covered quite a bit of ground,
but still have hours, no days of the stuff to listen to. All quite fascinating though, as I again
realise and recall things I had forgotten, committing it all to paper as I
go. Quite a few hours in, and I decided
I needed some fresh air, so set off down the road towards Katoomba Falls and
Echo Point, all the while marvelling at the intensity of the light – autumn
here is a heady combination of coolness, humidity and harsh light, which
exaggerates all the colour, almost to the point of discomfort. It really is like nothing I have experienced,
like looking at the world through colour-enhancing spectacles. Echo Point affords an astonishing view across
the Jamison Valley, and this at the end of the road on which I am staying.
Looking out high above the forest ceiling, the sandstone cliffs and
extraordinary rock formations, as far as the eye can see there are mountains
that in the sun and shade of a cloudy sky really are blue. A cable car works its way back and forth over
the forest canopy, and a helicopter hovers noisily above some construction
site, delivering building materials far below the cliff top. I wandered a ways around the mountain-side
path, arriving at Lady Darley’s Lookout, before I turned and clambered up a
shockingly steep set of steps back to the road.
Seriously, only pride prevented me from stopping at the top and lying
down on the pavement. I really must
start running again, although maybe not around here… the hilly streets make
Minchinhampton seem positively flat!
Wandered (very) slowly along residential streets, passed faded motels
with fabulously 1960s neon signs, until I came across down-town Katoomba. Once again, a small Australian town that
appears to have reached its heyday around 1972 and then entered a decline. A wander through, then back to a coffee shop
I spotted at the start of my exploration where I bought a ‘flat white’, and a
rather delicious Florentine, which of course meant that like a three year old,
I was covered in chocolate by the time I got back.
More transcribing followed, tapping away at the keyboard, stopping
occasionally to tickle Coda-the-10-month-old Staffordshire Bull Terrier’s
ears. Poor Staffies have earned a bad
reputation, when in fact, with proper love and attention, they are fantastic
family pets. Thus I carry on, listening
to the cockatoos shriek outside, until my friend appears with a glass of wine
and a large plate of Sydney rock oysters.
Not everyone’s cup of tea I know, but oysters are one of my favourites,
and these were spectacular.
Now my friend’s 22 year old son is staying at present, and he recently
completed six months as a trainee chef, only giving up when he couldn’t take
the ridiculous abuse so many head chefs dole out these days. A great cook in the making, a doggie mishap
distracted him which led to the potatoes over-cooking, and him being none-too-pleased. As we were having fried flat head (fish!), I
stepped up to the ‘plate’, and transformed what were to be ‘chips’ into potato
cakes, laced with fresh parsley and fried in butter. Least I could do, given the wonderful generosity of my hosts.
Up early tomorrow to drive into Sydney and see the first of my
Marathoniers. I seem to recall parking
in central Sydney is shocking… hopefully there’ll be time to have a wander and
explore in the sunshine.
Rain, however, is forecast.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
What’s That In The Sky?
Standing outside in the garden yesterday morning, I lifted my face
upwards, closed my eyes and basked in glorious, warm sunshine. Even up here on top of a mountain range, the
New South Wales autumn sun is a damn sight warmer than anything that’s been
available in England these past 8 months.
Stood there transfixed, listening to those yodelling birds that always
appear on Aussie film and tv soundtracks.
Very happy to be back here.
That said, a little while later I must say I felt somewhat discomforted
listening to my hosts talking about a potential funnel-web nest near the back
door… and there was me barefoot!
Apparently, if it rains (and it will), we all have to keep an eye as
they are rather partial to finding a dry spot to shelter in – like under the
duvet or behind the sun-visor of your car!
Suffice to say, my polite offer to help dig the garden and do some
weeding has now been rescinded.
Drove through Katoomba in daylight enroute to Lithgow to sort out my
mobile broadband. Katoomba apparently
began life as part of the mining community up here, the point where coal was
transported down the mountainside. Much
of the architecture is 1920s, and has a faded grandeur particular to small
Aussie towns. Now very much a key
tourist destination as it’s the gateway to Wentworth Falls and the Three
Sisters walk, which I am told is spectacular and apparently planned for during
my stay. I was here over 20 years ago,
but other than the terrifying funicular rail down the side of the gorge, I have
hardly any recollection at all, although as I wound my way up from Sydney last
night, it all seemed vaguely familiar, even in the dark. May just have been my addled brain though –
not having enough sleep does make you at once both light-headed and foggy and
at the same time energetic.
We stopped at Blackheath for a late lunch, and sat outside a café, my
friend looking a little chilly and not convinced at my exhorting how lovely and
warm it was. Am advised that Blackheath
is a tad bohemian and artsy-craftsy, and famous for the annual Rhododendron
Festival! As Sydney becomes more and
more expensive in which to buy property, so folks are looking to the Blue
Mountains – in theory it’s only 90 minutes from the city, although in simpatico
with England, most of the route seemed to be fouled up with road-works, so I
shall be allowing plenty of time to get to the city-centre on Saturday. There is also a very scenic railway route,
but that takes up to 2.5 hours.
My friend has made me hugely welcome and it’s a joy to spend time
nattering. We first met when I was 18 years
old, so it’s quite an event to go back over so many years and swap stories from
decades long since past. I saw him very
briefly last year in Sydney during very painful circumstances (for him), but
before then I have to go back to 1992 for when last we met. Oceans of water under the bridge since then,
for both of us, but somehow satisfying to look backwards and then consider the
here and now.
So, all my interviews are set up – will be seeing one guy in Sydney on
Saturday, then another 3.5 hours north of Sydney on Monday. This will mean driving up on Sunday afternoon
and staying at the All Seasons motel in Taree before driving over to his house
on Monday morning. The journey from
Sydney will follow my route from last year but in reverse, although this time
am hopeful my rental Hyundai will be an improvement on last year’s gutless
little automatic Micra – some of the trucks on these ‘ere roads are enormous!
Next Friday I then drive into Sydney again to meet two of the Sydney
Telegraph ‘girls’ – spoke to one of them on the phone yesterday afternoon, and
she was thrilled to know I had arrived and actually serious about hearing her
memories and recollections of 1968. Am
still in awe that 45 years ago, at 24 years old, these three women climbed into
a little (and frankly ill-suited) car and took off across Europe and Asia to
drive the 10,000 miles to Sydney with absolutely no competitive motor racing or
rallying experience whatsoever. Jenny,
who I spoke with yesterday, remarked that when it was all over (i.e. the next day),
they all simply went back to work, oblivious of the news stories, PR,
publishing deals and attention that continued long after the last car trundled
into Warwick Farm.
It’s all a far cry from ‘NHS 111’ (the work I have been doing these
past few months, for those who don’t know/haven’t had to put up with my cries
of suffering), and a welcome one at that.
Now all I have to do is stop dreaming about ‘operational
process’ – a sure sign of a slightly damaged brain, if you ask me!
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
From There To Here
London to Kuala Lumpur to Sydney. A total of almost 21 hours flying time, plus 90 minutes to change planes. Flying long distance is peculiar – seemingly endless as it’s happening yet over in a moment once you’re arrived at your destination. The A380 from London to Malaysia smelled brand new, and didn’t appear particularly full. Wall to wall maroon coloured interior, a little queasy in my opinion, but I had a row to myself, space to stretch my legs and a window to look out at those enormous wings. Also was in close proximity to a few too many babies and toddlers for my liking, although I mean, let’s face it, I felt like yowling after 9 hours cooped up in a confined space and I could move about! I must have napped a bit, and worked my way through 5 episodes of a US tv show about a female politician who doesn’t get the presidential nomination but goes on to become Secretary of State (no West Wing but pretty good), plus the film Hitchcock, which was very ‘actory’ and most of the film Zero Dark Thirty, which I want to watch again. I know the general view is not to eat airplane food, but really, what else is there to do on such a long flight? Convinced the flight attendance was making a note every time I asked for some more wine, but I also made sure I drank a vast quantity of water (which, of course had me up and down to the toilet!).
Now, the thing about ‘economy’ is that you’re all fed and then told to go to sleep, regardless of what time the plane departs - it’s a bit like being on a hospital ward without the Horlicks. Also, for some reason they make the cabin so cold, that you’re forced to cocoon yourself in blankets. I always get the feeling that as we are all being tucked up for a while, everyone’s having a party in business class!
All I can remember of Kuala Lumpur is coming into land over forests of palm trees, and a very crowded terminal. First vague signs of sleep deprivation as I navigated my way to the corresponding departure gate for Sydney, and then went in search of the ‘smoking lounge’. Hellish. Only in there for a few moments and am sure I then smelled like I’d been fire-damaged. Back to Gate C34, and then onto a second plane for another 8 hours. Foolish me for not sticking a post-it note on my forehead saying ‘Do Not Wake’ – just as a I finally drifted off, I was woken by a flight attendant asking if wanted ‘chicken or veggie pie’. I was then woken again by the woman sitting behind me asking to bring my seat forward so she had eat her meal, even though she had her entire row empty for her to stretch out.
I may have slept, I think I did, although every time I dropped off, I woke with a start as I was drooling. Regardless, we were eventually all ‘woken up’ by matron brandishing a basket of mini-Magnums that I suspect had been stored in liquid nitrogen, so frozen were they, and finally I disembarked at Sydney, local time 19.15, my time 10.15am. The immigration line felt almost as long as the flight I had just got off (and a vague whiff of it all being designed to be a bit punitive), but at last I was spat out into arrivals. Easily sorted out a mobile phone, picked up my rental car, remembering that to start the engine one has to depress the clutch, set up my sat nav, brought all the way from England (such a comfort to hear that nice, precise English voice), and off I hurtled into the night, all the windows open as frankly the sleep deprivation was really kicking in. 60-odd miles later, I arrive at Katoomba, feeling completely spaced out and am greeted by my old friend Al, laughing at the absurdity of it all as we drag bags and baggage down steep steps to his house.
As expected, only slept 5-6 hours so will be a bit woozy later today, I expect. Also, my mobile broadband isn’t working, so just as I did last year, I have to go in search of a Vodafone shop. Other than that, I suspect today will be quite gentle – a bit of an explore to get my bearings etc.
Oh, and the sun is shining! Glory hallelujah…
Now, the thing about ‘economy’ is that you’re all fed and then told to go to sleep, regardless of what time the plane departs - it’s a bit like being on a hospital ward without the Horlicks. Also, for some reason they make the cabin so cold, that you’re forced to cocoon yourself in blankets. I always get the feeling that as we are all being tucked up for a while, everyone’s having a party in business class!
All I can remember of Kuala Lumpur is coming into land over forests of palm trees, and a very crowded terminal. First vague signs of sleep deprivation as I navigated my way to the corresponding departure gate for Sydney, and then went in search of the ‘smoking lounge’. Hellish. Only in there for a few moments and am sure I then smelled like I’d been fire-damaged. Back to Gate C34, and then onto a second plane for another 8 hours. Foolish me for not sticking a post-it note on my forehead saying ‘Do Not Wake’ – just as a I finally drifted off, I was woken by a flight attendant asking if wanted ‘chicken or veggie pie’. I was then woken again by the woman sitting behind me asking to bring my seat forward so she had eat her meal, even though she had her entire row empty for her to stretch out.
I may have slept, I think I did, although every time I dropped off, I woke with a start as I was drooling. Regardless, we were eventually all ‘woken up’ by matron brandishing a basket of mini-Magnums that I suspect had been stored in liquid nitrogen, so frozen were they, and finally I disembarked at Sydney, local time 19.15, my time 10.15am. The immigration line felt almost as long as the flight I had just got off (and a vague whiff of it all being designed to be a bit punitive), but at last I was spat out into arrivals. Easily sorted out a mobile phone, picked up my rental car, remembering that to start the engine one has to depress the clutch, set up my sat nav, brought all the way from England (such a comfort to hear that nice, precise English voice), and off I hurtled into the night, all the windows open as frankly the sleep deprivation was really kicking in. 60-odd miles later, I arrive at Katoomba, feeling completely spaced out and am greeted by my old friend Al, laughing at the absurdity of it all as we drag bags and baggage down steep steps to his house.
As expected, only slept 5-6 hours so will be a bit woozy later today, I expect. Also, my mobile broadband isn’t working, so just as I did last year, I have to go in search of a Vodafone shop. Other than that, I suspect today will be quite gentle – a bit of an explore to get my bearings etc.
Oh, and the sun is shining! Glory hallelujah…
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
Under Starters' Orders
Hmmm not impressed by Heathrow Terminal 4. All high end i.e. expensive shops, and little else.
So, up at 5 and happy I sorted everything the night before. Poor Rob banished to the guest room on account of my jack-hammer snoring (so ashamed). Ever-wonderful, ever-patient, he had me bundled into the car by 6 and off to the airport. '14 months of winter' appears to have handed over to heavy rain. Spring in Gloucestershire then!
Have to confess am relieved to be departing England just as Maggie departs this mortal coil. The broadcast media machine is well-rehearsed and well-oiled, but wall-to-wall coverage for the next few weeks isn't something I'll miss. All those talking heads extolling her virtues or damning her to oblivion. Back in my foolish twenties I never really saw her as being on my side, but she at least politicised me. As I become an ever grumpier old man I fear the yoof of today are ambivalent at best and oblivious at worst.
Apparently there are 8 babies in a row on the Kuala Lumpur to Sydney flight. Good grief! Couldnt get a decent i.e. leg-roomy seat for that bit and have room stretch my DVT-bestockinged pins on all other bits of the journey there and and back.
Big shout out to Dave today and a trillion thanks to that Rob for being such a rock as always.
Ooo I can see my plane. A380s are extraordinary.
See you on the other side!
PS Whats to become of Friday Night Club now the Crown has closed?
Monday, 8 April 2013
Once More To The Other Side of the World!!
So, having thought I'd managed to gather as much research material as I will ever need, late last year I was able to track down three more Marathoniers in Australia, all of whom have an extraordinary story to tell of their motorised trek from London to Sydney in 1968. Two in particular had proved illusive since I started this mammouth endeavour in 2011, so I was thrilled to make contact with them - at 24 years old, three young Aussie women were persuaded to join the throng of 250-plus competitors, and pilot a brightly painted Morris 1100 along the 10,000 mile route, all the while writing a column for a Sydney newspaper. Christened 'The Galloping Tortoise' (a nod to Aesop's fable and a 1967 publicity stunt during which the car raced a light aircraft across Australia), I will be very excited to listen to their recollections of close-shaves with bandits, getting horribly lost in the deserts of Iran, and generally coping with competing in what was very much a man's sport in 1968.
Will also be meeting a man who, together with two other crew mates in a Ford Cortina, managed to collide with a bus in Teheran, and ended up in jail, and another competitor who drove his Volvo from Sydney to London, all the while making a film, before lining up at Crystal Palace to make the return trip, only to hit an army truck in India and end up in a local hospital needing plastic surgery and falling under the care of a local maharaja who made sure he and his co-driver wanted for nothing!
An opportunity not to be missed and so tomorrow I once more fly off to the other side of the world. A very old friend has generously offered me a place to stay in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney, which will help with costs and give me a chance to catch up with someone I first met when I was 18 years old. It's autumn in Sydney, which means it's spider season in the Blue Mountains. Just as those leggy house-spiders start to creep into British homes as the summer gives way to winter, so it seems that Funnel Web spiders do much the same in NSW. I was talking to a doctor-friend of mine the other week, and he was recounting how he worked in NSW for 6 months - rule of thumb for your average Aussie is 'if something nasty bites you, make sure you catch it and take it to the Emergency Department'. That way, the medics will know what antidote to administer.
Good grief!
As before, I shall be keeping a blog of my further adventures down-under. Happily it won't be quite as mad-cap as last year (and hopefully not as damp).
Now, where did I put those DVT tights?
Will also be meeting a man who, together with two other crew mates in a Ford Cortina, managed to collide with a bus in Teheran, and ended up in jail, and another competitor who drove his Volvo from Sydney to London, all the while making a film, before lining up at Crystal Palace to make the return trip, only to hit an army truck in India and end up in a local hospital needing plastic surgery and falling under the care of a local maharaja who made sure he and his co-driver wanted for nothing!
An opportunity not to be missed and so tomorrow I once more fly off to the other side of the world. A very old friend has generously offered me a place to stay in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney, which will help with costs and give me a chance to catch up with someone I first met when I was 18 years old. It's autumn in Sydney, which means it's spider season in the Blue Mountains. Just as those leggy house-spiders start to creep into British homes as the summer gives way to winter, so it seems that Funnel Web spiders do much the same in NSW. I was talking to a doctor-friend of mine the other week, and he was recounting how he worked in NSW for 6 months - rule of thumb for your average Aussie is 'if something nasty bites you, make sure you catch it and take it to the Emergency Department'. That way, the medics will know what antidote to administer.
Good grief!
As before, I shall be keeping a blog of my further adventures down-under. Happily it won't be quite as mad-cap as last year (and hopefully not as damp).
Now, where did I put those DVT tights?
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