Tripping the Light Fantastic

Without wanting to further bore any of you stay at home types with yet another beach, our next destination for a good old root around (oops do not use the word root – it means naughty things in Oz), was to be what proved to be a hugely popular destination for the travelling masses with many folks rumoured to be staying here for months on end.

I am of course talking about a strange old town where things just didn’t seem to add up. And by that, I mean it has not been like anywhere else I have seen in Australia to date, for starters it was a lot busier than the majority of other places. It was also a lot more built up and seemed outwardly less picturesque. It was a place called Byron Bay, oh and yes, it also has a beach or two (cough, cough).

With slight traces of the drug/hippie/beach bum scene, Byron is mainly a place for water sporters to go get wet at, shoppers to go get skint at, and twenty-somethings to go get jiggy with each other's beautiful bodies and bumping uglies at (hopefully after the sun goes down and in private). What more can I say? It is a typical holiday destination where people go for all kinds of holidayish sorts of things and having said that, the general populous here seems to be a little on the younger side too.

Byron Bay Album here

There are however shops and markets galore, along with fine restaurants and plentiful eateries. Bars and beaches abound by the bucketful, and festivals appear to take place on every corner and just like in most other successful holiday destinations around the world, there is also a constant stream of people busily doing nothing in particular, flowing up and down along the main streets. Hell, there's even an Olympic size or looking, outdoor swimming pool right next to the beach, God knows what they would want that for.

But that was just the first, smack you in the face impressions I got. Below the surface, the place benefits from the same old overall cleanliness as the rest of Oz, the same friendly faces of the locals, and the same old glut of instant photography opportunities with the same old mix of different building styles, etc... etc... etc... Oh and then there’s also the dreaded crop circles that appear every morning on the pristine beaches… Now that's got to be scary if not worthy of note...

Is it art or is it a way of life? Nah, bet it's them aliens again.

Further down the road from the main centre of Byron stands the Byron Bay lighthouse and all the associated water, rocks and, need I say, more of the same old stunning scenery I am very quickly becoming accustomed to. The lighthouse is open to the general public with an accompanying museum and stands proud at the top of a purpose built walkway which includes lookouts over the coastline, seating and picnicking areas, and some rather splendid flora and fauna to look into along the way.

Check out the lighthouse trek album here

Little did I know though, the walkway went on for what seemed like miles (it had hairpin bends doubling back on itself too), taking us over to the eastern most point of the Australian mainland. And as you stand at the sign actually telling you so, you can see the small final peninsular of land jutting out into the ocean while making the tantalisingly wrong assumption that it is only a hundred or so yards away from you and therefore merits your further inspection.

Downhill all the way, the gentle seaside amble soon turned out to be more of a trek of what seemed to be astronomical proportions but without the aid of Zulu or Spock, I eventually made it to the end, waved at what should be south America way, way, way ahead of me, took some pics so as to prove it happened and then presently turned round and shit my self.

You see it suddenly dawned on me, that my journey so far had been downhill all the way. And in order to continue in any kind of direction at all, I would now have to begin to go… UP those very same hills… Eeek.

Now having learned quite a lot about hills through where I live back in the Penines of Blighty, I knew this was not going to be an easy task by any means. But with the putt-putt patiently waiting for me at the top, I had no choice but to proceed with my undoubtedly life threatening return.

The aching legs were among the first of the symptoms to hit me as I ascended my way back. Then came the breathing difficulties... Happy people with smiling faces brushed passed me while I was audibly gasping for what seemed the very last drop of oxygen on the planet. Jogging old aged pensioners were looking my way like nothing was amiss while wondering what the hell could possibly be wrong with me as they scratched at their foreheads. Others looked on with sheer concern as volunteers stepped forward to offer the man with a crimson red face, pained expressions and flared nostrils some aid in the guise of isotonic drinks, space blankets and full sleeping facilities for the rest of the month. Sweat poured from every inch of my body and my hair was bleeding water down my face…

I had made the first quarter of the return trip home.

Never mind the hiking, this should have been me !

I remembered on my way down how I was thinking ‘I hope this is all worth it’ along the way and ‘I’ll kick myself later if I didn’t do it’, but now all I could think was, ‘what the hell was I actually thinking?’ or ‘no it was notbloodyworthit’. But it really was a trip that had to be made and now, with the benefit of hindsight, CPR, gorgeous nurses that I was too unfit to play with and defibulators (Honestly - the things I have to go through for you guys), I really am glad I did it and yes it really was worth it.

Don't even think about it, this is less than
a tenth of the steps en-route

And having finally made my way back to the top of this monolithically tall headland just in time to see the light on the lighthouse shining its way across the crystal clear Pacific, that seemed as good a time as any for me to whisper (having been rendered unable to talk) a very fond farewell to the scenic pleasures of Byron Bay. Will you guys ever forgive me for being so slack? To be honest, I don't really care. My feet hurt, I have stitches in my sides and stomach, my heartbeat is racing and to top it all, I need a wee but the nearest toilet is down a spiral track of about another bzillion kilometres and it will just have to wait.


Oh Byron Bay, you are a lovely town with lovely beaches and beautiful rocky backdrops wherever needed but please, oh please, oh please, can you not put up some warning signs for when I or any other like minded but physically challenged mortals like me should ever return to your welcoming shores?

Brochures...

I know my time here is nearly up and I should be spending every last minute now trying to take in as much as I possibly can... But every now and again I need to stop myself dead and look to the future for a while. And that always takes me to the fact I need to choose a new hat for my much wanted return. 

Its not that I am in any way disenfranchised with the current hat I have got and continue to adorn but there is something at the back of my mind, subliminally telling me my time here is not yet complete.... It's a big place, and the people here have big hearts and I for one will miss it all.

The hat thing is probably just the inner voices starting up in my head again.

What more can I say?

Homepage

If you walk down any English street or road, the chances are, you will be met by rows of uniformly built housing. Even the newer housing estates of this green and pleasant land are made up of only a few (maybe half a dozen) variations in house styles in as many as 200 homes. It all looks kind of deliberate and for the want of a better word, orderly…

First impressions of Australian housing however couldn’t be any further from what I am used to, the image I have portrayed above. The housing here seems to be a simple case of build whatever you like (within regulations of course) and sod what the neighbours might think. There are of course some precautions put in place, but they don’t always appear to do the trick. And it is quite rare to find a street over here of uniformly built housing but things are getting slightly better in that respect with the building of some new ‘same style’ housing complexes (similar to the housing estates back home).

All of these houses above neighbour each other on the same street.
A typical scenario in most Australian suburbs.

And coming from within the building trade, the only problem I have with any of this (so called) freedom of expression in Australian housing is that there is no accounting for the ‘keeping up with the Jones’ brigade, and where one day you may have a home you can be proud of, along can come Mr & Mrs next door who proceed to build what could be either a masterpiece (shadowing your own efforts) or a complete abomination (knocking the value (aesthetic if not monetary) of your own efforts), and yes there are actually signs of just that happening all over the place. And there seems (on the surface at least) to be very little you can do about it.

You see back home, even though the properties are generally a hell of a lot smaller on the whole, an Englishman’s home is said to be his castle. So when a house is built in England it is generally built to last in excess of a hundred years and it is constructed of long lasting materials like stone, brick and slate for both weather proofing and durability, and it is subject to being to some degree, harmonious to the neighbouring properties.

The house is then home to a party for as long as that party is willing and able to live there and maintain it and it is then sold on when said party gets bored of it or wishes to move on. The property is generally regarded to be the main item of value in a man’s wealth.

And while you can personalise, chop and change your home, the basic housing stock remains very similar in shape and style bar the odd extension here or there. But from what I have gleaned In Australia, this doesn’t seem to be the case. Whereas in England the more talented of property developers would look out for “doer uppers” – run down properties to be renovated and resold for profit. In Australia it seems the land is more the real key to a man’s riches.

Properties over here seem to take second fiddle to the actual land they are sitting on. And when a property goes up for grabs here, it seems that the land the property sits on is usually the significant part of the deal. And there is a great possibility the existing property could be simply pulled down to make way for something er… better? Even heritage listed buildings are not safe over here with ‘accidental’ fires often accounting for their demise when it comes to redevelopment.

With this in mind it appears that most of the older homes are therefore only sold for a token scrap value, merely given away with the land they sit on. A house here is sold more as a plot of land (usually a quarter of an acre) and the condition of the property often bears little consequence to the value of the land it comes along with. Houses are even shipped away for resale here.

There are also signs of one-upmanship everywhere you look in the Australian housing stock. Bigger and better properties are sprouting up among the hoi polloi and the inevitable race for best takes on new dimensions as the houses grow out of all proportion and inevitably out-price themselves from normal home buyers.

It’s a sad situation really, as the only way to progress from there would be to sub-divide plots to bring back affordability. But that in turn, will lead to a new move towards building condominiums and shared housing with a tendency for a lot more ‘building’ and less garden spaces and then an inevitable need to grow upwards with high rises taking the place of today’s more sprawling but modest in comparison bungalows.

And then there are the homes for the rich…

“Hello Mr Builder… Can you come round and throw up on my front garden please?”

I’m sorry if that sounds a little insulting, but to the richer people of Australia, what the hell are you thinking? Is it so hard to put a little thought into what you are building? Driving around some of the more affluent areas of the Gold Coast, it is easy to believe that there simply is no accounting for taste and there is definitely no monopoly on good taste by the rich alone.

Yes they may be able to afford the stuff we lesser mortals can only dream of, but please… it costs nothing to look and when we look your way, we often find it hard not to laugh…

Some of the creations on show really look like they could have been put together better by a three year old with a decent sized bucket of Lego. Bigger and brasher is not always beautiful, better or a brilliant use of wealth guys. Diamonds for example, carry their value in their perfection more so than in the size alone.

So please, please, please, make your extensions sympathetic to the rest of your building, incorporate the monolithic statues and the like ONLY if it suits the building rather than your egos. And God help you when it comes to ever selling up. What was your overall strategy for resale values again? Was it that of good planning or simply planning blight that you built your home and your country’s heritage around?

Click here for a 'full house' album

But don’t get me wrong here, a lot of Australian home owners take a real pride in their homes and there really is some stunning architecture going on around here giving a wide and varied stock of housing to suit all tastes. Some of them are really quite nice too. But another thing that seems quite odd to a sun starved Brit, is the way the Aussies tend to cover up all their windows with shades or blinds or trellis works. Either that or have great clumps of trees bang up to the front of the property obscuring all views. And if they don't do any of those, the next option is to build six,seven or eight foot walls all the way round the place which is a real shame when places can look this good.

Tripping

After leaving the candle factory back in Nimbin we headed back towards home with no definite plans which brought us into another small place called Uki (pronounced Yookeye in case you really are that interested). 

Click here for more Uki photos

We stopped there primarily for something to drink but mainly due to the interstate time differences, all of the cafes were closed leaving us with the only option of a convenience store so, resigned to the fact there was to be no fine dining, we parked up the old jalopy and wandered around on foot snapping at anything of interest as we went (photo snapping not moody snapping that is).

And that seems to be the thing with Australia, it appears that no matter where you are, there always seems to be something well worth photographing. Whether or not I can do any justice to that is the crucial part under scrutiny here but Uki like everywhere else we have visited, is a quiet, clean and well presented little place and as suggested on websites, there are some things really  worthy of the odd snap here and there. And during the whole holiday this country has given me some of the most satisfying photos I have ever taken. So generally speaking, the place mustn't be all that bad.

Click here for the Murwillumbah Album

Anyway, from there we headed back towards Murwillumbah (yes you may have read it right but how did you say it? If indeed you even tried). Again, it wasn’t for any particular reason apart from Jodie being born at a hospital there (sadly no statues of that ~ thank god) but like the town’s website suggests, it is a beautiful place despite its chequered historic past (somebody’s birth that is).

We dotted around the prettiness, saw some nice scenery, eyed a few houses, took in a closed museum and went up the the Lion’s Lookout. And then, like in all the best movies (really?), it was back into the putt-putt for a trip even further down the road to Fingel Head lighthouse and yet another bloody beach. This time overlooking Cook Island (it’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. So very glad it was me).

View from the Lion's Lookout

And I say "another bloody beach", because I was trying not to swear too much and because I know I have readers back in old blighty probably suffering with freezing cold temperatures, ice, snow, sludge, dark overcast nights and plenty of rain and I profusely apologise to them for seeming to be rubbing their noses in it with all this sand, sea and sunshine. I honestly didn’t know this place had so many beaches. Yet alone how beautifully presented, warm and welcoming they all are. Oooops sorry guys, got carried away again.

More Fingel Head photos here.

One thing I must say here though is that while I was out photographing all the pretty things that were generally easy to focus on, I saw a real, live, out in the wild dolphin jump out of the water right by the rocks I was standing on. What a truly humbling moment that was for me and I know the rules, pics or it never, but it did happen and it happened too bloody fast to catch it on film or even SD card for the benefit of the more technically minded. 


It will, like the rest of my time out here, be captured in my memories for a very long time time to come though. And I’m just happy this angler guy didn’t hook Flipper, the fishy master of the shiny blue Pacific and get pulled to a watery death at sea. What the hell was he thinking standing that close to the edge? And, please... Nobody tell me now that Flipper can't speak either. That would just be the end of all reality in my merry window licking, little world.


And hurry up with the votes on the poll on the right. Voting closes in one day's time...

Nimbin and the Candle Factory

Question… What’s the first sign of a good old fashioned candle factory?

Google maps street view

We had found our way back into New South Wales (remember to change all clocks) again and had stumbled upon the sleepy but somewhat defiant town of Nimbin, rumoured to be the stoner’s capital of Australia. And while there, I was half expecting visions of Amsterdam and clouds of acrid smoke and the pungent aroma of a quarter of best farmed “weeds” but that was simply not the case.

Nimbin is a small township that seems to have publicly gotten away with sticking up its fingers at authority. And although there are strong ties to a drug related culture and rastafarianism, there were only ever signs of association and not actual use of illegal substances. You see, it’s a kind of schoolboy defiance where we can all pretend to be a part of it without actually taking part and to a Brit on tour over here, the single road township with a fork at one end carries the distinct feel of a 'smutty postcards' Blackpool back home if not a little smaller.

For a better look round Nimbin, click here

Complete with it's shops full of tat, bars and gaming machines, the place has a real feel of naughtiness but that soon dissipates as you start looking out for real criminals. And the only thing that shatters the whole illusion, is the huge police station at the end of the road there suggesting we are all being good after all.

Nevertheless we were at Nimbin and had to therefore make the most of it by fully exploring the shops, the museum, the huge Nimbin Hotel for lunch, and finally the Nimbin Candle Factory just over the Cullen bridge (a Twilight reference to keep Jodie happy).

The candle factory is situated in what was an old butter factory (where they put on a fair old spread for lunch no doubt) just north of Nimbin and today the building seems to be shared with a theatre company of some sorts (what the hell kind of actors do they use in a "bush theatre"?) but they were closed so we couldn't make further comment on that. But it is here that they (the candle factory) still make candles using only the finest edible grade waxes (for wrapping cheeses), food colourings and traditional methods and while doing so, were happy to take time out to show us around and teach us how things got done there, explaining the dipping processes, the shaping of candles, the smoothing of candles (with an electric iron no less), and how they use candle offcuts to produce their larger multicoloured block candles.

Click here for the Candle factory album

It’s not a huge place by any means that they operate from, and it is hardly geared up for today's mega-orders for supermarkets either, but it is however a quietly successful and seemingly thriving cottage industry with a useful product (yes it seems Australia still has power outages), where the friendly and approachable manner of the staff play a huge part in gaining repeat business no doubt from all over the world as tourists like me continue to stray through their doors.


And so, in answer to the question posed at the start of this posting, what’s the first sign of a good old fashioned candle factory? Well the answer just hit us in the face when we got there. Maybe it says the same to you…

Or maybe you just had to be there...

Who wants to be a milliner?

By all accounts, the hat is having a wonderful time over here (as indeed am I) and is loving being adorned with all kinds of souvenir type sparkly new shineys. 

Problem is, is how the hell do we get it back to England? Maybe I should go move to Arizona with my best friend Mark...

Needs more badges !!

It's life Jim...

Over the new year period, it appears I might have harped on a little too much about Australia’s lack of animals because our whole schedule was put on hold, turned upside down, thrown around a little and completely re written to include a visit to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary about 50 minutes away from Dragonfly Mansions at an average speed of circa 120 Km per hour (bizzies allowing).

Click here for the full day out at the zoo album
And apologies for the old geezer pics.. I thought he was Crocodile Dundee

We arrived there early enough to find parking (not bad for a public holiday) and proceeded to the outside café to await coffee in hand the other members making up our party for the day who included Patricia (Youth development officer from cadets) and her two boys Sean and Andrew (Great Name there) from the night before (we spent the night before with them at theirs for New year’s Day. Hence my absence from proper blog content lately).

And then there was another couple, Shari-lee and Keith who are adult leaders from another cadet unit (yes cadets again). And then there was Paul another adult leader. Probably the tenth Paul I have met over here and pretty much like all the other Pauls, he was good company although for one reason or another, I couldn’t remember who, what or why he was here, but he was, so we happily put up with his presence.

Anyway, armed with camera, coffee and a lone muffin between two, we strolled through the entrance just in time to feed the 100 or so Lorikeets that lay in wait for us. Lovely wild birds in their multi-coloured splendour but none the less, trained to ‘turn up’ for a freebie sugar laced meal they couldn’t possibly refuse while crapping on all and sundry beneath them. And yes, we were included in that last statement but fortunately, their diet had rendered their doo-dahs to be nothing more than watery splashes rather than the muddy white and black offerings rendered us in the more usual crow dusts and duck oils of the real world.

After that was the short wander through a gateway to the petting zoo where we saw (and could join in with had we wanted to) lambs, sheep, goats, guinea pigs, chickens and miniature ponies all desperately pleading to be fed with overpriced pellets and straw (available at a nature reserve near you at no extra cost). The usual stuff you would find in petting parks all around the world. There was however one slight difference here, this one had free range kangaroos (OMG they do exist) surrounding it.

Now before I go any further I have to relate that my only experience of these spring loaded beasts was that of Skippy the 3 foot tall bush version from 1970’s television. BUT… I also know they can grow as high as six or seven feet tall in optimal conditions. No such luck here though, the highest we saw was around four foot standing on its hind legs so as to pose no form of threat to us foolhardy visitors.

Among the kangaroos (reds and greys – mmm, a bit like squirrels then) there were their smaller cousins, the wallabies and their too big for roasting tins neighbours, the emus and ostriches. And then there was also “Look at the size of the nut-sack on that big boy”, Jodie scaring away parents with small children with her more audible of observations on the roo's tackle bags.

From there we were herded to the Birds of Prey pavilion for a flight show including falcons, owls (two kinds, barking and barn), sea eagles, and eagles (of a fashion – the ozzie interpretations of). Cool birds and a cool way to meet them for sure. But alas not half as long as one would have liked it to be which meant we were soon looking for more to see. But first it was time for din dins in the restaurant area that was besieged with hundreds of bush turkeys and water lizards. Well it felt like hundreds.

When lunch was at an end, it was time to take in a few more of the indigenous animals of Australia. There were koalas (not bears by the way), wombats, snakes, turtles, lizards, monitors, crocodiles, sheep dogs, dingoes (not many people with kids there), Tasmanian devils, flying foxes bats, and a platypus for us all to witness as well as numerous hooked beak type birds with their parrot-phenalia (you may groan here) to be observed.

Besides all the animals, the place also went out of its way to help educate its visitors with sheep dog and shearing exhibitions, the bird of prey show, a scale and tails show (snakes and crocs), a koala presentation, platypus feed and keeper presentation and a Tasmanian devil presentation.

All in all, it was another great day out with plenty to see and do. It wore out the kids (which is always a bonus), and because of its very outdoory nature and the 30 degree sunshine in near blue overhead skies again, it almost got me burnt some more. Almost I said… It really needed Cath Slater to have pulled that sort of thing off more successfully.

And so it is with a heavy heart at being wrong, that this whinging pom finally stands corrected. There are animals in Australia, real ones too, but they hide themselves well from all lily white skinned tourists like me. In all honesty, most of the creatures are dawn or dusk types which is probably why I have done so well to avoid them which is good too really.

I mean, if a wild and unpredictable 7 foot tall kangaroo decides it’s a good idea to dive out in front of your moving motor (putt-putt in our case), it can really do some serious damage to it in the process of having its arse going through its brain like that of a fly. And with that in mind, you want to see the size of the roo bars (more aptly named bull bars for UK and American markets) they have on the front of vehicles over here.