As a young slip of a lass she had decided to leave old Blighty, donned rucksack and made for the far east before tiring of living in paradise on 50p per day and moving on to Australia.
Arriving in Sydney, she says, was like coming home and she spent the next eight months here, forging a new life before being denied citizenship by the merest of margins.
This necessitated a return to the UK which in turn led to motherhood, reducing her beloved country and city to a comforting and sustaining memory, a place to be visited again when time, money and circumstances permitted.
Therefore, when we booked our mid-life crisis addressing jaunt it was a given that we should take in Sydney, though with its reputation we probably would have anyway, even if it wasn't such an important staging post in Kerry's psyche and a convenient stepping stone between South America and Melbourne ensconced lamb chops.
Last Thursday, having lost a day of my life by virtue of crossing the international date line and having sat bolt upright on a plane for fourteen hours, I wasn't in the best of states as we emerged into the balmy New South Walian evening and took a cab to our hotel.
Nevertheless, on the odd occasion that my brain would engage it told me that I was in Australia, news that excited me greatly, not least because at last we could speak in our native tongue.
Speaking pidgin Spanish and struggling to understand and be understood had really begun to get on our thruppeny's of late and on more than one occasion since Paraguay one of us had venomously spewed "I can't WAIT to get to Oz and just speak bloody English", or words to that effect.
It was perhaps ironic then that our cabbie was an immigrant (I know everyone who isn't aboriginal is technically an immigrant but you get my drift), a middle-aged Frenchman with a heavy accent who was exceedingly difficult to understand.
It didn't really matter, I wasn't up for a conversation anyway. I only just had enough energy to simultaneously keep my head up and to breathe so to engage in pointless prattle may have been life threatening at that stage.
We checked in to the hotel, took the lift to the sixth floor, negotiated the rabbit warren and found our room. The doors were opened by those credit card things that you put in the slot, a mechanism perhaps best described as 'potentially iffy', especially when the magnetic card is in possession of a lady who has turned street lights on or off simply by walking past them and has made more electrical items malfunction simply by holding them than anyone I know (apart from her daughter).
We inserted the card and.....nothing. We tried again, and again and, after uttering profanities and looking at each other as if to both say "please do something" we tried again and....success!
A massive sense of relief engulfed us, we high fived each other, slumber awaited.
There was something wrong with the room as we conducted our customary initial scan though, but I didn't know what it was.
Kerry had booked it online and had been advised that she had qualified for a $1500 per night discount, a total saving of $6000 for our four night stay.
This amused us considering that the total price for our stay would be about $440 and on looking around that room we wondered how on earth they could ever apply the full price.
I suppose it's a marketing ploy to make you think you're getting a fabulous deal, a bit like those ridiculous furniture sales where they advertise a dining table for £2000 for a week and then put it down to £250 in "the sale" by way of reeling in us gullible punters.
Anyway, it had a bed and it was our bedtime so we put our packs down and began to prepare for a blissful sojourn to the land of nod.
Our over garments were strewn around the floor and we were resplendent in our undercrackers as Kerry made for the bathroom to clean her teeth.
Her sleep deprived brain took a couple of seconds to determine that there didn't appear to be a bathroom and another two to announce this to me.
Confused, I inexplicably drew the curtains and looked out of the window, possibly for inspiration but also to look for the missing loo.
Kerry opened the wardrobe, just in case these crafty cobbers had cunningly concealed our facilities in there.
No dice.
We had been given a room without a bathroom, when our email confirmation expressly stated that our room would be en-suite.
We got dressed and lugged our cases back downstairs. A conversation ensued where the receptionist informed us that the mistake was the booking agent's and there was nothing he could do until I pointed out that perhaps, given that we were half crazed with tiredness and not in complete control of our functions, he may think it prudent to speak to someone of a higher authority and resolve this situation in the interests of both customer primacy and of him not being head butted.
Common sense eventually prevailed and we were allocated a room, replete with kazi, on the eighth floor.
We took the lift, negotiated a new rabbit warren and inserted the credit card in the door.
Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
Again, again, again, again.
Whilst I rocked back and forth on my heels, weeping uncontrollably and holding my hair in my hands, Kerry went back down and got a new key.
Thankfully this one worked and we were in, in bed and passed out in a matter of minutes.
I woke up at 0250, lunchtime yesterday according to my body clock.
I'd given up trying to nod off again by 0400 and was reading a book when Kerry stirred at 0415.
After breakfast we planned to take in some of the most iconic sights on the planet, never mind this city; the Opera House, Harbour Bridge and Royal Botanical Gardens to name just a few.
A kindly hotel employee tipped us the wink about the weather though, today would be a blood boiling 38 degrees, with cloud and only 25 degrees forecast for the next two days.
That changed our plan - we would go to the beach today instead.
You are spoilt for choice for world class beaches in Sydney and Kerry was keen for me to see three different ones. First up was the mother of all beaches, possibly the most famous in the world and home to more honed torsos than you can shake a stick at - Bondi Beach.
We took a train to Bondi Junction, a bus/train transport hub and then joined a plethora of young Sydneysiders, equally intent on some quality time spent lounging on golden sand beside a tepid turquoise ocean.
And what a fine bunch they looked with their sun bronzed skin, perfect complexions and friendly demeanour; their only apparent flaw being stereotypical use of Antipodean Questioning Intonation:
"We're going to the beach today?"
"It's the best weather for ages?"
"I'm not sure about the surf today though?"
If you have teenage children you probably recognise it.
My children don't do it though?
I managed to beat it out of them before they moved to Australia?
They've probably picked it up now though after two years living there?
We jumped off that bus and skipped across the road to get the best view of the beach, excited as two eight year olds on Christmas morning.
What a vista!
If I could bottle the feeling that engulfed me at that moment and engendered involuntary whooping and clapping in my exhausted carcass then I would be a very rich man indeed.
We hurried down to the sand, burnt our feet on it as we sought a good spot and then whipped our kit off to reveal two of the least appealing midriffs for several hundred yards.
Never mind, lying down saw the excess skin and flubber roll under our backs and all that mattered anyway was that we were on Bondi Beach, cooking in the sun.
We soon had to take a dip to cool off and what a beautiful temperature that water was.
In Uruguay and Chile it had been too cold to stay in for long but here it was perfect.
A soft, sandy, gentle shelf and a total lack of seaweed completed the idyll.
It was so hot on the beach that after two hours my ever growing forehead was signalling that it needed a break, despite my having slavered it with sun cream.
We went for a spot of lunch and had a look around the town, a beautiful little place with a great vibe.
I was so enchanted I was persuaded to part with a large amount of money to replace the flip flops that had almost fallen off my feet due to the corrosive effects of the Bolivian salt pans.
Yes, Bondi thoroughly deserves it's reputation as one of the best beaches and resorts in the world.
After lunch we went to Coogee, a few miles down the coast and somewhere Kerry lived for a while. We found the building where her flat was and I watched as months worth of memories flooded back into my beloved's head.
It was lovely to see her so excited by it all and for the past she so often refers to to come to life.
The sea front here had changed quite a bit in the last 24 years and Kerry was particularly upset that the shack selling prawns and chips was no more.
We lay on the beach for a bit and had a quick swim but, for me, it wasn't a patch on Bondi.
By about 1700 we had the appearance of zombies and we were desperate to get to bed. We knew we had to stay up as late as possible in order to begin combatting the jet lag so we had a coffee and then a shower before going out for some nosebag in a lovely Greek restaurant.
What a joy to be in a western city where we could choose any meal that our hearts desired!
Our extreme fatigue saw us in and out of there in about 40 minutes, an unseemly display of haste ill-befitting such a beautiful stifado, but we simply couldn't cope any longer without getting into bed.
By 2045 I was snorting and drooling for England and Kerry wasn't far behind me.
Despite being so tired the jet lag saw me bright eyed and bushy tailed at 0310 - a 20 minute improvement on yesterday but still a ludicrous time to be awake. Kerry Van Winkle managed a healthy 0545 stirring, testimony to her genetic gift of sleeping ability.
With beaches done yesterday, today was city sightseeing day and we began at the ANZAC memorial in Hyde Park which was very close to our hotel.
Continuing through the park we came to the quite beautiful Archibald Fountain and then walked past nationalistic pride inducing statues of Victoria and Albert and some buildings of real imperial majesty.
It was about here that I proclaimed that I had fallen in love with this city.
We walked on, into the lovely Royal Botanic Gardens and around to Mrs McQuarie's Chair from where you have the classic view across the water to the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House.
The bridge was completed in 1932 and provides a perfect backdrop to the quite stunning Opera House, one of the most iconic buildings there is.
As far as budgetary failures go, this must be one of the worst. When commissioned in 1958 the estimated total cost was $7m but by the time it opened in 1973 the venture had actually cost $102m.
There had also been sufficient argy bargy between architect Jorn Utzon, a Dane, and the Australian government meaning that Utzon was not present when Queen Elizabeth officially opened it.
Having drunk our fill of these wonders we wandered round to Circular Quay and were drawn in to not only watching street performer 'Psycho Sam' but I was picked from the audience to help him with his big finale - blindfolded juggling of lit torches and knives whilst sat atop a homemade robot that a burly fellow called Doug and I were supporting.
Once I'd finished milking the applause from my street theatre debut and signed a few autographs we walked round to Darling Harbour for lunch, then hopped on the soon-to-be-decommissioned monorail and completed a full circuit.
I don't know why they're doing away with it but it seems a great shame. It's somehow fitting that such a fantastic place has the archetypal futuristic mode of transport running through it so to my mind it will be a tremendously sad loss.
With that box ticked we made for the awesome Queen Victoria Building, essentially a rather upmarket shopping mall but that does it no justice whatsoever.
The exterior of the building is ornately carved and in perfect condition. Inside there are five levels of arcades set beneath a glass roof, stained glass domes and two unbelievably beautiful clocks. Tiled floors, tastefully painted walls, breathtaking stairwells and a pianist tickling the ivories on a grand piano complete this sensory overload.
On a metaphoric high from this experience, we then went for an altogether more physical one, taking the lift up 300 metres to the top of the Sydney Tower Eye for great views of perhaps 40 or 50 miles in all directions.
Unsurprisingly after such a full-on day, we were about done in by now and crawled home for another early night.
Out cold by 2100, I was awake at 0350, listening again in the dark to Kerry securing an extra couple of hours.
Sunday was our last day here resulting in mixed feelings; we felt we could have stayed here for a while yet but of course, we were desperate to crack on and meet my daughters.
In another assault we went to Kings Cross to see another of Kerry's old stamping grounds, took the ferry past the Opera House to the wonderful suburb of Manly Beach and then, once back in town, by foot over the Harbour Bridge for a quick visit to the North Shore.
Manly was particularly enjoyable: a thriving beach resort with sun creamed kids competing in various sea based races, palm trees, cleanliness, clear water, souped up classic cars trundling past, a sausage roll to die for, street performers and a great atmosphere.
It was faultless really and another wonderful facet to this truly great place.
Though it had half killed us, we had crammed an inordinate amount into our short stay in Sydney and I'd seen everything that Kerry felt was really necessary?
Job done then, and a new place to try and fit into my top 5 places of the whole trip?
Another conundrum to resolve was when exactly will we return, for we surely will?
Looks like an Oz move in order Fisxy . .
ReplyDeleteJoan