There’s such a lot of world to see

I didn’t really know what to expect on arrival in Queenstown. I’d heard it was the adventure capital of New Zealand, the home of the Bungee Jump (yeah, thanks for inflicting that on the world, guys), and close to a lot of good ski resorts. But apart from that, none of which was my thing, I knew nothing. Nothing new there, then.

The journey there was great, really great. I’d booked on a bog standard Intercity bus, but the drivers were worth their weight in gold. It became like a tour. They gave us commentary about the areas we were passing through (including some of the areas used in the Lord of The Rings films), and, when we passed a particularly scenic spot, would stop the bus for 5 minutes while we all got off and took photos. Marvellous, a real credit to the company.

We arrived in Queenstown, and I was instantly dazzled by all the sun (and bleach) bleached hair. LOTS of adventure junkies around, with trousers you just want to yank up, and who say “dude” far, FAR more times than is necessary (i.e. never). I’d chosen to stay (and thankfully, nobody talked me out of it this time) at the Lakeside YHA – unknowingly following in Andy’s footsteps – which was great, big kitchen, nice views, nice staff. Poifect. I really wanted to go over to the coast and see Milford Sound, which I knew would be a huge daytrip but probably worth it, but I arrived too late to book it for the next day. So the next day I spent happily getting lost and wandering round Queenstown, which surrounds a very pretty lake, then heading back to the hostel to relax with my book.

I was up bright and early the next day, had my toast and peanut butter, and was ready and waiting for the bus to take me to Milford Sound. As soon as I saw it I dashed out the door, eagerly asking, “Milford Sound?” “Yeah”, the guy sighed, “But it’s not happening”. He explained further – apparently the road leading to Milford Sound had been closed due to a very high avalanche risk. Darn. There was no chance of getting near it that day (poor bloke didn’t get paid either, so I tried not to be TOO much of the pouting princess). So, there went my plans for the day, and I don’t respond well to not having plans. I rebooked for the next day (even though it was unlikely to happen), and meandered aimlessly around the town again, though I was quite excited to find another Hitchen – albeit in the wonderfully picturesque graveyard.

Another early night, this time in the hope of Milford Sound the next day, though that hope was fading fast. And I was right. Despite another early start, another early round of toast and peanut butter, the trip was no-go yet again. Damn avalanches. Realising I would continue to be scuppered by the weather (and yes, feeling a bit sorry for myself), I decided to call a halt on the South Island and head back to Christchurch the next day, and so booked a bus.

The rest of the day in Queenstown was very good. I made the journey up the Gondola, and was rewarded with some pretty spectacular views.

Up at the top, I took a half-hour (steep!) walk on a circuit that again, took in some lovely views, only this time less crowded. Well worth the effort, and lovely to get the feeling that nobody else has been there for a long time.

So, the next day saw yet ANOTHER early start, only this time with purpose. I headed back to Christchurch and the blissful familiarity of family, booked myself on a flight to Wellington a couple of days later, and enjoyed Sheila’s incredible hospitality yet again. I was headed North, to meet up with old friends – well, not my old friends, but they would soon become them.

It was really sad to say goodbye to Sheila (even knowing I’d be back later on in my travels), but I was also excited.  I would be leaving Christchurch on the Tranzalpine train, which goes from Christchurch in the east to Greymouth in the west, via the mountains that run down the middle of the South Island.  I’d heard so much about this train journey, mainly from Mum, who’d completed it on her visit to New Zealand early last year, and who’d told me many stories about how her, Sheila, and Phil had, by all accounts, disgraced themselves by giggling like children all the way there.  Shocking behaviour.  Andy had also done the journey when he was in NZ and again, had told me how great it was.  I was really looking forward to it.

It didn’t disappoint in the slightest.  For very good reason is it classed as one of the top rail journeys in the world.  The scenery is just spectacular, no other word for it.  To pass by so close to beautiful, snow-capped mountains, and over incredible viaducts, well, is just wonderful.  And best of all, they serve muffins!

I’d been told about the muffins in advance – a lovely lady at one of the stations bakes them, so they get them fresh and warm every day.  As soon as the announcement came over the tannoy I was off, elbowing old dears out of the way (don’t look at me like that, as if YOU wouldn’t do the same), and soon settled back into my seat eating my delicious orange and choc chip delight. Mmmm.  Much of the rest of the time I spent either getting blown to bits on the observation carriage (open to the elements, I was glad I’d brought my wooly hat!), or sitting and happily daydreaming from my seat, watching the world go by.  Real Middle Earth stuff.

It takes a few hours to get to Greymouth, but I didn’t hang about there, and instead booked myself on the next bus to Franz Josef.  There are many glaciers in New Zealand, but Franz Josef and its neighbour, Fox, are the two most accessible.  I’d heard and read about the glacier climbs, and was planning to go on one the next day, but first I had to survive the bus journey.  Not only was I getting very, very travel sick on the twisting New Zealand roads, but I’d also been inexplicably tagged-on-to by the coach doofus, I’ll call him Geoff from Brisbane (because that’s his name and where he was from).  He spent most of the journey telling me stories of how he’d been mean to other people, and only when I threatened to throw up on him did he shut up.  Unfortunately, he’d overheard me tell the driver I hadn’t booked anywhere to stay that night in FJ, and so he persuaded me to stay at Rainforest hostel, rather than the YHA as I’d initially planned (note to self: must learn to say “no”).  The hostel was fine, but it wasn’t as good as the YHA, which even had a sauna (I ended up transferring there a couple of days later).  The wonderful staff there put me in the same dorm as Geoff, so I had a fun couple of nights with him farting every five minutes and not even attempting to hold it OR disguise it, he just kept saying “pardon me”.  I even ended up on the same glacier climb as him.

We had to set off early for the glacier climb, and be at the HQ for about 8am.  Looking gloomily out of the window, I noticed that the incessant heavy rain showed no sign whatsoever of stopping.  Once there, we were fully kitted out with waterproofs, boots, spikes for the boots, hat and gloves.  The gear was quite heavy, and quite hardcore.  I started to be a bit concerned about what the day would hold.

We drove the short distance to the glacier car park, then walked for about an hour before we got to the glacier itself.  By this time, the rain was really coming down, and before too long, the waterproofs gave way, and we were literally soaked to the skin.  We’d been advised to wear three layers – I was wearing four – and every single one of them was sopping wet through.  Not only does this add to the weight of all the equipment you’re wearing, it also makes things uncomfortable and, to say the least, cold.  Ideal for climbing a glacier, eh?

It’s really tough to get the hang of walking on the ice.  You’ve got to dig your toes in hard so that your boots can grip it, otherwise you slip all over the place.  The first hour or so we were walking on marked paths, often with a rope to either guide us (or stop us falling down deep crevaces, in which we would surely die), but after that, we went off-path, with our guide choosing where to take us.

I have to admit, I should have done more homework on the subject.  When I thought of a glacier walk, I had a mental image of Sir Ranulph Fiennes trekking across the ice, led by a team of Huskies.  Yes, I’m THAT stupid.  Instead, it was sliding through skinny gaps between ice walls, using a pick to pull yourself through, convincing yourself you won’t make it, stepping on a loose bit of ice that gives way and plunges your foot into a puddle.  Am I selling it enough?  Truth be told, it wasn’t the greatest day of my life.  Yes, the scenery was, admittedly, spectacular:

but I spent the whole day shivering, soaking wet, pretty miserable, and glancing at my watch every 10 minutes.  Going off-track meant waiting around a lot of the time for our guide to carve his way through the ice to give us a way through, which exacerbated the coldness.  I was one happy bunny to get off the glacier, I can tell you.  Maybe it’s for some people, but definitely not for me.  Still, I’ve done it, and it’s one to cross off the list, for sure.

I had another couple of days in Franz Josef, which I started to enjoy a lot more after a scalding hot shower.  Geoff left the next day (yay!), so I mooched around town, transferred to the lovely YHA, and generally enjoyed the small town.  My next stop would be Queenstown, the adventure capital of New Zealand, so it was important to me to enjoy the peace and quiet while I could.  Little did I know that the weather would continue to work against me.

After a lovely, homely couple of days at Sheila’s house during which I caught up on my long overdue Australia blogs and drank a literally endless supply of tea, Sheila set about showing me round this lovely part of the country.

Our first stop was Christchurch itself.  I loved the city immediately, because it was instantly, gently familiar.  I swear, if someone had blindfolded me and set me down in the middle of Christchurch, I’d have thought I was back in England.  The river, overhung by weeping willows, meanders through the centre, occasionally punctuated by barges punted along by university students earning a bit of beer money. 

Our main destination that day was the Arts Centre, a wonderful set-up with lots of stalls selling uniquely crafted, quirky products – jewellery, clothes, smellies, ornaments, all find their place amongst the stalls here.  We wandered for a long time but – unusually – didn’t buy anything (I was still feeling the hangover from losing my card in Melbourne, and my new one wasn’t yet delivered).  After stopping for a delicious lunch, we wandered into an artist’s shop.  The rooms were full of her brightly coloured, warm paintings, including copies of one that had ended up with Bill Clinton.  We spoke to her for a while – she was a friendly and interesting person – and, somehow, realised that all three of us had a shared admiration for the music of Alison Moyet.  Us being us, this somehow transpired into a sing-song, where all three of us blasted out an acappella version of “Love Letters”.  Not sure how it would have sounded to anyone else walking past, but to us, it was perfect harmony!  Such good fun.

The next day was another shopping day, this time at the Westfield Shopping Centre in Riccarton, close to Sheila’s home.  Again, nothing bought (although future purchases were eyed up by both of us), except a NZ Sim card for my phone.  We rounded off the day there by going to the on-site cinema, to watch United 93, a very moving account of the plane that crashed on September 11th, in an attempt by the passengers to take control.

For our big sightseeing day, we collected Jimmy, Sheila’s dad, who’d be joining us.  Our first stop was up in the hills surrounding Christchurch and the Canterbury Plains, from where we had spectacular views down over the city.

The views were nourishing and breathtaking at the same time, and we were definitely rewarded by the weather which, though cool, was sunny and clear.  A perfect day for sightseeing!  We then travelled on to a town on the other side of the hills, where we stopped for lunch, before continuing on to a beautiful, deserted little beach with the wonderful name of Taylor’s Mistake.  Apparently, many moons ago, somebody (called, you’ve guessed it, Taylor) stopped there thinking it was somewhere else.  I love that name.  The beach was gorgeous, as were the surrounding hills.

At the end of the day, it was back to Jimmy and Sheila’s for yet another delicious meal, and many happy hours reminiscing and swapping stories.  Wonderful.

The next day, I decided to catch the bus into Christchurch by myself, as Sheila was in work, explore a bit more, and catch up on a bit of shopping.  The bus service in Christchurch is excellent and easy to navigate, so I got there with no problems at all.  My first stop was a small jewellery shop, in which I’d spotted a lovely jade pendant when I’d last been in town.  My heart sank at first as he had no more on display (at the sale price he’d displayed them at over the weekend), but he kindly agreed to give me another at the same price.  It’s gorgeous, dark green jade, with the Maori symbol for ‘togetherness’, an everlasting twist.

I mooched around some more shops, and took in some more sights; sadly the museum was closed, but I took plenty of snaps of the rest of the city centre.  And this is where things got a bit odd.

You see, that day, a meteor burst into the atmosphere just above Christchurch, causing a terrifyingly loud ‘boom’ to all those who heard it – all those in the area.  It was heard for miles around.  Apparently, many people thought there had been a plane crash.  And me?  Eyes-of-a-hawk, Ears-of-a-bat Hitchen?  Heard nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  It happened around 3pm, when I was DEFINITELY still in town, and by my guesstimates, I would have been in the cathedral.  So it’s odd, even inside the cathedral I would have heard it, and seen the windows rattle (it was that loud).  The only thing I could possibly think was that it happened when I went to the loo, downstairs – no windows, you see, and underneath the solid cathedral floor.

So, where was I when this momentous event occured in a city I just happened to be in?  I’ve got absolutely no idea.

My family is huge.  Simply huge.  Or, to be more accurate, the amount of people from my family who I know is huge – the actual family is probably only the same size as everyone else’s; what makes us unique is the fact that we all know, and see regularly, distant cousins (and class them all as cousins – believe me, trying to work out what relationship you have to someone whose grandmother was your maternal great-grandmother’s sister is no easy task).  Without exception, they are all wonderful, wonderful people, and my life would be immensely poorer without them.  So it is always especially lovely to meet those from our clan who live in far-flung areas, such as America, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, or Wales.

The New Zealand (South Island) faction are made up of the Johnson and Milne families – Jimmy and Sheila Johnson, their daughter, Sheila, and her son, James (who is now based in Auckland but due to his musical talents and work, is often on the road).  Jimmy and Sheila knew my grandparents well, and Sheila is the same age as Mum, so it’s always a delight to hear their stories.  I’d met Sheila (jnr) when she visited the UK, but had never met Jimmy and Sheila (snr).

So, after a shortish flight from Sydney in which my sleep was interrupted over and over again by too-helpful hosties, “Tea or coffee, Madam?”  “Ummm, sleep please”, I was glad to land in Christchurch, where I would be met by family.  First, though, I had to get through New Zealand customs – by far the most inquisitive to date.  First thing, their in-house Beagle who is trained to sniff out illegal foods being smuggled in took a liking to my handbag.  I honestly couldn’t think of any food that had been in there, so the Beagle Handler made a mark on my Entry Card that was obviously code for “Tomato Smuggler” or something, as I got questioned about a million times after that.  Firstly by the customs stamp lady.  “I see you’ve been travelling a lot through Bangkok.  Are you carrying any drugs today?”  were her EXACT words.  I know, I know, I thought of all the obvious smart answers as well – “Well, not today, no!  Now, if you’d have asked me yesterday”, “Why, yes, I am.  Would you like any?” “Are you being racialist?” – but managed to smile sweetly and answer “No”.  Likewise, another lady (job unspecified) was very interested in my travel plans, and made notes of when I would be leaving the country and so on.  I’ve only just arrived!

Eventually making it through customs, I was delighted to see Sheila and Jimmy waiting for me, so delighted I even forgave them waving Liverpool scarves at me!  It’s now a traditional greeting for family members arriving, so I was glad to see it.  Christchurch Airport seems to be really close to the suburbs, so after a really short car journey, we were at Jimmy and Sheila’s house, where we would stay the first night.  It was absolutely wonderful – warm and cosy and homely, exactly like being at family’s house back home.  We had a fabulous home-cooked dinner, and spent the evening catching up, getting to know each other, and swapping stories.  I even got tucked in to bed that night, a wonderful gesture guaranteed to make me feel at home, despite being on the other side of the world.

The next morning, Sheila and I nattered for ages whilst lying in bed – we both share a love of the English language and its uses (correct and incorrect!), so we had plenty to talk about and laugh about it – Sheila’s a real giggler, and according to Mum, she always has been; it’s impossible to spend time with her and not descend into wonderful silliness.

After breakfast, we headed round to Sheila’s house, a wonderfully welcoming place that would literally become my home from home in New Zealand.  The first couple of days were spent catching up on all my late, late blog entries from Australia, and then we got started on the tours of the area – and I was soon to discover that Christchurch was very like home, as well.  The perfect tonic for homesickness.

If any of you have tried to read my blog over the last few days (if you have – the cheque’s in the post – if you haven’t, I want full reasons, in writing, or a note from your mum), you might have noticed something strange going on. And indeed there was. The server at this blog site was (accidentally, obviously – I hope) wiped, without any record of any blogs after mid-August. This has caused no small amount of panic across the boards, and I admit I reverted to my usual drama queen ways. There were tears and tantrums, dear reader, and it wasn’t pretty. Fortunately, after a few harsh words from “friends” including terms such as “perspective”, “Oscar Annie”, and “much bigger problems in the world” (yeah, yeah, whatEVER), I got my sensible head on.

Thanks to my wonderful Uncle, who does truly sterling work in keeping my family website afloat (and if you’ll have been reading this any length of time, you’ll appreciate what a big, worldwide family it is, and how much work such a website would take), I’ve been able to retrieve my lost posts. Uncle Anthony had been copying and pasting all my blog entries on to a special section of www.Rhianva.org.uk, so I’ve been able to copy and paste them back here. Thankyou Uncle Anthony, as a thank you you can have the Mars Bar I gave away in an earlier competition but the winning answer has been lost into the ether, so it’s all yours!

What’s still missing, though, are all the wonderful comments people have made here in response to my blogs. I’m grateful anyone at all even reads this, let alone finds the time to comment, so I’m very sorry indeed that they’ve been lost – they always make me smile, often make me laugh, and never fail to make me feel loved, even such a big distance away from my family and friends. Thank you to all who comment, and those who read and don’t comment – it means so much. If any of you can find it in your hearts to repost comments to these blog entries, I’ll appreciate it forever and may even fork out for some more Mars Bars.

1. Andy Jones is not gay. That I know of.
2. He asked me to write this.
3. Yes, he is a middle child. I’m saying nothing more.
4. Andy – now please will you explain the concept of a Valley Day Out? Ta.

Bit late with these final thoughts, I know, but in a way it’s good as it’s given me a chance to reflect and regroup my musings.  Or, that’s what I’m telling myself so I don’t feel guilty about leaving it too long again.  I’d be grateful if you could play along, thanks.

You know what?  I loved Australia.  Absolutely loved it.  Far, far more than I expected to.  Not that I didn’t expect to like it – far from it, I’d heard such good reports from everyone I knew who’d been there that I knew there had to be something in it – but there were countries I wanted to see more than Australia, fool that I am.

Right from the word go, it was wonderful.  I admit, this might have something to do with the amazing reception I got from Mike and Sheila in Perth – what a blessing it is to have such a huge, warm, welcoming family all over the world – but I don’t think it was only that.  Of course, I got to see the best of Perth and the environs, thanks to the marvellous tailor-made Rollos tours, but I think I would have fallen for it regardless.  Immediately, though cold (especially after the sultry mugginess of Asia), Australia seemed clean, well-ordered, with a good dollop of that famous laid-back attitude.  On the very first day, the people we were speaking to at the vineyards were funny, relaxed, interested and interesting.  They seemed delighted to welcome me to their country.

I’ve written earlier in these blogs about the wonderful sights of Perth, and these will stay in my memory forever, but a small incident sticks in my mind.  Things like this always endear a place to me, and, on the few occasions in my trip that it’s happened, I’ve immediately and irrevocably taken the place in question to my heart.  I was about to cross a road in the city centre, and had my map out to check I was going in the right direction.  A complete stranger came up to me, and simply asked, “Do you know where you’re going?” I did, but thanked him profusely for asking the question.  In fact, that’s one of my resolutions for when I get home, and if I could persuade just one other person via this blog to do the same, I’d be delighted.  If you see someone in your hometown with a map, or looking a bit lost, it takes just two minutes out of your day to check they’re ok, but I promise you, they will be grateful for a very long time to you.  Sometimes it’s the smallest things that can make someone’s day.  This will.

Sydney is the most fabulous city.  It’s jumped right up there with Paris and Hong Kong in the ‘cities I would live in’ league.  It’s both modern and historical, friendly, and … well… those sights bring a shiver to your spine, no matter how travel-jaded you are, no matter how many times you’ve seen them on tv.  Everyone seems to be happy in Sydney (maybe the council put happy pills in the water or something), and I think I would be permanently happy if I lived there as well.  Of course, the extra bonuses in Sydney equal, more than equal, the wonder of the city – my birthday, the BridgeClimb (I’ll say it again – DO IT DO IT DO IT), and meeting Andy – all mean that Sydney will always, always have a very special place in my heart, and I know for sure that I will be back.

Melbourne was of course wonderful because of the chance to meet up again with Alice and Hugh – the first people from my travels who I’ve met up with elsewhere, and on their home territory indeed!  Their hospitality was again outstanding, and I can’t wait to return the favour when they come to the UK (guys – get booking those tickets!).  Melbourne was also lovely because it reminded me of home, of Manchester.  Yes, it was cold and raining (so is Manchester), but the architecture, the trams, everything, made me feel at home instantly.  Add to this the whole Neighbours hysteria and, well, you’ve got yourself a pretty fine city.

And then the camper van – not only one of the highlights of Australia, but one of the highlights of my whole trip.  Everything – the freedom, the independence, the strangeness of the van, the singing all day long, the laughing, the camp sites, all conspired to make this feel like a holiday within a holiday.  It was incredibly nostalgic as well, reminding me of those much-loved caravan holidays as a child.  Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and everything!

Some of the towns we visited on the way up the coast showed a different Australia.  In many ways, the country reminded me of America – prosperous, happy, warm and friendly.  I guess this was perpetuated by some of the small, isolated towns we went to that were like small town America – some of them were more than a touch Redneck, and there were some curious stares in our direction as the strangers in town.  This, though, I guess is only to be expected, and I’m not so naive as to think that the same small-town mentality doesn’t exist in the UK – in fact, I know it does.

Still, this can by no way, shape, or form tarnish my view of Australia.  The people, the weather, the scenery, all add up to one big ‘WOW’ factor.  So I say this now – I know for most of you it is literally the other side of the world, but those hours in a plane will be more than repayed by good times and memories.  You’ll love it.  Trust me, I’m a converted Aussie-cynic.

I landed in Sydney airport at about 11pm, and, knowing I’d have to be back there by 6am to check in for my flight to New Zealand, decided it wouldn’t be worth heading out to a hotel or hostel. So, not for the first time, and no doubt not for the last, I settled down to a night in an airport.

And boy, was it grim. Worse than Bangkok, if that’s possible. At least there I was left to my own devices. Here, we were all corralled into a tiny area, actually locked in (if I’d have got there any later, I wouldn’t have been able to get into the international area from the domestic terminal. It was cold, being just near the doors, and I ended up pulling on my bobble hat just to keep me a bit warmer. Also, Sydney was experiencing unprecedentedly heavy rains, so the roof kept springing leaks. With that and the goodbye in Brisbane, dear reader, I was not in my most joyful of moods.

This got even worse when, around midnight, security guards came, woke us all up, and asked to see tickets and passports. I can sort of see the logic, but believe me – even if I was a hobo, I can think of more pleasant places to spend the night. One guy started arguing with them as to their authority with regards to seeing the passport, which provided a mildly amusing diversion.

Needless to say, I got barely any sleep, and as soon as the doors to the desks opened at 4am, I was up there, desperate to check in. I had to wait an hour or so, which I passed by kicking my heels and looking pitiful, until they finally let me check in.

Thankfully, my flight to Christchurch left on time, and, thankfully, I had something wonderful waiting at the end; for the second time in as many months, I was going to see yet another branch of my wonderful family. Look out New Zealand, here I come!

We always knew it would be a long haul to get back down to Brisbane from Airlie Beach in two days, but it was the only option to us if we wanted to see the Whitsundays. I had an early flight out of Sydney on the 7th, which meant getting a late flight from Brisbane to Sydney on the 6th. So, no choice – I had to be back in Brisbane by the 6th. We were really sensible and careful about the driving, doing two hours on, two hours off, and taking rest stops as and when we felt we needed them – or, rather, when the other one insisted that we take them.

Part of our plan was, on the last day, to go to Steve Irwin’s Australia Zoo, about 70km or so out of Brisbane. We’d been planning it since the start of the trip, and were both pretty excited. So I’m sure you can imagine our reaction when, a few hours into the first day’s driving, the reports started coming through that he had been killed by a stingray off Port Douglas. I guess our first reactions were the same as everybody else’s – disbelief that someone with so much energy could be killed. In a sense, though, considering his job, I suppose it was waiting to happen. Our immediate thoughts and sympathy were, and still are, with his wife, children, parents and friends. What a horrible thing to go through. Some of the other reactions, though, I have to admit, brought a grim smile to my face. The comparisons to Princess Diana, the offer of a state funeral, weren’t really what we were expecting to hear for a guy off the tv who wrestled crocodiles. I also smiled at the constant assertions that stingrays weren’t dangerous animals. Erm, did you or did you not hear the part that said he was killed BY A STINGRAY? Case closed, surely?! We were determined still to go to the zoo if it was still open, though, knowing it would have been “what Steve wanted”…

The first night we stopped in Gladstone, at the friendliest campsite to date, with a legendary guy called Stan running it. Out for a Chinese and to polish off a bottle of Everton wine! We both got very excited about this. Again, too long in a camper van.

More of the same the next day – two hours on, two hours off, flying past all the stops we’d made on the way up. We were aiming for Noosa and there were definite high fives for Team Bowie when we made it, and in good time. This was nearly the end of the road, but we like it so much the first time round we stayed there again.

We went out for the most perfect night out – cocktails, dinner in the most wonderful plush restaurant (check us backpackers out!), followed by strolls on the deserted beach lit only by the moon. Blessed by happiness, yet again. A moment to remember for a lifetime.

And so, the last day with the campervan, the day we would go to the Australia Zoo and my last day with Andy. One thing at a time.

The zoo was poignant, I guess, with all the tributes left outside. We left our own – Andy had a Welsh flag spare (don’t ask), on which we wrote Goodbye Mate, Crikey! Or something along those lines. Most amusing to write on the Welsh flag from Andrew (Wales) and Suzanne (England). We laid it down and, as we stood looking at the other tributes, the photographers started clicking away. Andy kept muttering in my ear, “don’t look now, but they’re taking our photo”. Lots of them. We stayed there, looking sad, for as long as possible before we got a very inappropriate fit of the giggles and had to go inside.

Life inside the zoo was business as usual. All the regular shows were carrying on. It was strange to see Steve’s face everywhere, but that’s just the way it is, I suppose. We saw Graham the crocodile, and a couple of lovely tigers (reminding me of the time I took Gabi to the zoo when she was a tot, and she exclaimed, “Oh, what a lovely tiger”). It really is a good place, with a heavy emphasis on conservation, and I’d urge anyone in the area to go.

Before long we were back in Brisbane, and had the sad job of handing David Bowie back to his owners. Goodbye David, we had some golden years (golden days, really) with you, and have had an absolute blast. One of the outstanding highlights of my trip so far have been those nine days in the campervan.

Andy was staying in Brisbane for a few more days, so he settled into his hotel and then, a couple of hours later, it was time to set off for the airport. I’ll spare you all the details but the goodbye was sad and not pretty. So Andy, goodbye for now, miss you, bach. And thank you. I’ll remember this forever.

Initially, I wasn’t sure if we would make it up the coast of Queensland as far as the Whitsundays but, knowing how much I wanted to go there, Andy persuaded me it was possible, provided we drove for two days straight at the end of our trip. It would only give us a taster, something to come back and explore on the next trip to Australia, but I was really glad to go.

It was quite a drive up from Rockhampton to Airlie Beach so, after kick-out time from the campsite of 10am, we stopped in Rockhampton for a fortifying breakfast and a “spot the mullet” competition. Not that it was a competition, really, “spot the non-mullet” would have been more apt.

We mosied our way up the coast, singing our heads off to all our favourites (those same songs again, plus a few other star turns – the Punkrocker song got a few outings), and marvelling at the long, long stretches of road where you don’t see another vehicle for the longest time. You really get the sense of the sheer size of the country then, and can only imagine what it must be like to head either inland or further round the coast to the more remote areas. There were a couple of times when we cheered with relief at the sight of a petrol station.

We had planned to stop for lunch in Mackay, the largest town (well, technically it’s a city) between Rockhampton and Airlie Beach, but driving into town, we got a bit spooked. There was nobody about. Nobody. And this was mid-afternoon on a Saturday. The streets were deserted. Everything was shut. Honestly, it was like there’d been some kind of evacuation. It was a little bit American Warewolf in London for our liking – there might be life on Mars, but is there life in Mackay? Definitely not. Not feeling any love from Mackay, we hopped back into the Bowiemobile and headed back up the highway, stopping instead at MacDonalds. Needs must.

The weather came out in force to greet us to the Whitsundays. Rain, that is, and fog, and mist. I was on the last shift driving that day, and my windscreen wipers were working overtime. Never mind, we had made it. The end of the road. We settled in to our camp site, and headed out to a restaurant for the most delicious meal, lamb rubbed with Indian spices and served with roasted veg and mash. We were both still dreaming about it the next day. We went out to sample the nightlife of Airlie Beach and, after a couple of false starts, found a great bar, Paddy Shenanigans, playing our favourite tunes and, yet again, showed the people of Airlie Beach how we dance it up in the UK.

Even though our time in the Whitsundays were short, we wanted to see a bit more of them, and so went on a trip the next day to Long Island, the nearest and most accessible island to Airlie Beach. We were dropped off at a plush resort so, feeling a bit out of place, went for a wander to see more of an island. This idea soon went to seed, however, when we heard some strange noises, looked up, and saw the trees above us and round us were covered, literally covered, in the biggest bats I have ever seen in my life.

This was exceedingly freaky, and we soon did a sharp about-turn and headed back to the plush resort. We spent the day lounging around there, day-dreaming, watching the sea, and being amused by the kangaroos hopping around. It was an idyllic day, and it was lovely for once to be warm enough to be in a vest and shorts.

We tried to get more of the lamb that night but, alas, alas, the restaurant was closed. Still, we lived it up again, Whitsundays stylee, putting off the inevitable when we would have to turn round and set off for Brisbane the next morning.