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!