Dust storms!

Ok this was a few weeks ago but I am still finding little piles of red dust. Areas I haven't cleaned, ornaments I haven't moved, books on bookshelves bringing a new meaning to dust covers.


I woke to an eerie orange glow coming through the blinds. Armageddon it wasn't but spooky it was. If I hadn't seen the news the night before I might have been forgiven for thinking that climate had changed - well rather more suddenly than the scientists think. But actually it was of course a weather problem, a slipping along the continent of usual red centre life.

Cycling along to work, I was struck by the thought of pea soupers, green fog, and how this was a more modern version, possibly carrot and orange or pumpkin and cumin. Boats loomed out of the cinnamon harbour, waves slapping hollowly against the harbour wall.

Yes, the dust finally lifted and the silly souls who had to rush to the carwash to clean their soiled people movers were feeling even more silly the next day when another storm moved in.

Sydney Harbour Bridge

Some readers may have spotted that the iconic symbol of Sydney recently hosted a picnic on especially brought in turf to celebrate a city-wide food festival. Unfortunately we were not some of the selected 6,000 to enjoy the fresh fruit, live music and ogle the small herd of cows.

But we were lucky when a few years ago it celebrated its 75th birthday. Ho hum, you may yawn but my family and a resident backpacker felt very privileged to take up the challenge and walk across, free from traffic and trains.

‘You’re not even Australian,’ my work colleagues proclaimed, ‘why would you want to be in that crush?’

‘You’ll be a perfect target for terrorists’, said another.
Yes the wave of fear has crested in Oz too. Well we survived as did the 250,000 others who turned out on the lovely Autumn morning of March 18th. Families from every part of Sydney, indeed from all parts of Australia whose origins seemed very diverse walked across. The overall impression was one of order, of civilised behaviour, a unity of purpose.

Some took the opportunity to demonstrate quirky behaviour. For instance there were the three couples who took time out to play a hand of bridge in the middle. Others dressed up. There was a Father Neptune, a brightly dressed young lady with metallic streamers, two silver painted and clothed young men holding high a wonderful sculpture of the bridge.

The rest of us became a living sculpture in our yellow caps. We looked like so many ducks bobbing on the stream of a charity race, an endless ribbon of yellow turning to streamers of light in the evening thanks to the small LEDs on each hat.

There was something strange about walking the bridge, looking down at the harbour beneath a grating, looking up to see helicopters pictured in blue framed by gunmetal grey struts and girders and waving at those fortuitous enough to be walking up over the top.

Next year I want to be chosen to breakfast as this might become an annual event.

Backpackers

Backpackers – how Australia loves them! About 500,000 visit each year and bring in an outstanding $2.4 billion into the country. Over half of them come from Dorset alone; well that’s what my long-suffering Aussie partner has expostulated on more than one occasion. So the Tighes Hill B & B sign has kept swinging as old friends, new friends, cousins, children of friends, cousins of friends have all found refuge over the past few years. Short stops between Cairns-bound buses, a quick barbeque before the next trip, short stays, stays extended by illness, long stays, protracted stays – we’ve had them all.

I blame Richard Branson. He of the acclaimed Virgin Airlines encouraging all those outrageous adventurers. Not content with an island and a visit to space he has recetly commissioned a very large ocean-going super-yacht, anchored in Newcastle Marina at present, to whisk away luxury-loving stars to destinations unknown with hot and cold running champagne. With rental of approximately $100,000 a week you'd want hot and cold running everything! So all those adventurers wing their way here.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love the adventurous gap year, the fluttering of the wings before roosting. I love the Dorset accents, oh yes they now sound like accents. I love to reminisce. I love to catch up on the news. They even help around the house, cook the occasional meal and buy the occasional grocery item. Most off all they love lounging in the sun spotting or evading the Australian wildlife; the quite needlessly large golden-kneed garden orb spiders being the most feared if not the most venomous. Without a doubt our visitors' abiding memory of Tighes Hill will be the prolific guava crop. I have given them guava jam, guava chutney and now guava mixed with apple juice. This latest story may have reached Bridport and what chance do I then have of attracting the visitors I, not my daughters, wish to come to Australia? I had better be quiet on the subject of snakes.

From Bridport to Bridport

There is a Bridport in Tasmania they tell me. A bleak, windswept northern coastal town; most unlike people’s general perception of Australia. A town I one day propose to visit but until that time when I can provide a detailed comparison of the two Bridports, I would like to offer some views of life here in Oz from the view of a Bridport expatriate.

I would like to say that life here in Newcastle, New South Wales is less hectic, less busy; that time passes slowly and every minute is savoured. The opposite seems true as days race at a frantic pace sweeping events along and dropping milestones into a calendar with relentless regularity. Then again maybe life hastens as your reflexes slow?

Spring holidays are upon us, so soon after winter ones. There is a warming in the air but we are still snuggling with the duvet (doona as they say here). There are always some words you just can’t change. Pronunciation is the next divider. Yoghurt and project with a long ‘o’ smack of Americanisation but then again maybe just old English.

Novacastrians (those living in Newcastle) have generally not heard of Bridport or even Dorset but happily nod when you point out Billy Bragg’s house on a photo of Burton Bradstock cliffs. The mention of P J Harvey evokes a similar response and last year we even welcomed Ben Waters to a concert in the Honeysuckle workshops with a placard stating ‘Evershot rocks!’ Conversely I suppose many people in Bridport will be unlikely to place the antipodean Newcastle. For those having difficulty, we are about two and a half hours north of Central Station, Sydney, a Mecca for hostels and backpackers. But then again, perhaps I shouldn’t advertise too freely. Now that brings me to another column for next week!