Ride the high country

Want to see some pictures? Here's the link for Leconfield:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/onegoesmad/sets/72157622872272841/
These are some of my favourites off the CD they made up for us so we didn't have to carry around cameras the whole time. Oh, and there are some of me too - not so much my favourites but at least you get the idea of what I was doing!

Whole Lotta love

Back from Leconfield and a week on horseback, and I'm just about walking straight again (I was using muscles where I didn't know a person had muscles). Aches, pains, bruises and scratches aside (including a rather neat mark from a calf's hoof on my thigh!), what a fantastic week. It turned out I really didn't have to have horseriding experience, as my horse knew what was what without my input. Tim (the school's owner) paired me up with Lotta, a beautiful tall chestnut who was (mostly) a sweetheart. In fact, she and I had a fair amount in common: she liked to eat all the time, hated going up hills, and didn't suffer fools gladly - the fool in this case being me! We'd be riding off to muster sheep or cattle, and she'd stop and look round at me with this expression on her face that just told me to stop trying to direct her and let her get on with it. By the end of the week, though, we'd reached an understanding - she sometimes listened to me, and always let me check her hooves and groom her, and even had a bit of a nuzzle and a whinny, bless her heart.

When we weren't riding out to far-flung parts of the farm to round up sheep and cows, we were doing all sorts - wrestling sheep to the ground and shearing them, putting in fencing, shoeing horses, slaughtering and butchering sheep, lassoing, whip-cracking and calf-wrangling. The latter was indeed the most rugged part of the course - especially when I was paired up with Philipp (another glasses wearer) and we were told to take off our spectacles in case they got broken in the scrum. The plus side, of course, was that we couldn't see the hooves coming, but the minus side was that we couldn't see the damn animal all that well! Still, we got it down on the second attempt (once I'd got hold of the tail and hung on for dear life), and then they castrated the poor little bugger. It was all very red in tooth and claw, with that outback spirit of no-nonsense make-do-and-mend. Plus we ate the balls later on that evening - just like crackling, and rather tasty!

Sadly, without the Jackaroo school the farm wouldn't be viable - there just hasn't been enough rain for too long; all the horses and cattle have to be fed extra because the pasture won't sustain them on its own, and that's 400-plus acres. And that's not their only problem - during the week there was a haze of smoke on the horizon from 5o bushfires in the Tamworth area, and it's only the start of the summer. The previous week they'd all had to spend Saturday night fighting a fire on their own property too. What makes up for the harsh existence, I guess, is the slow pace of life and the amazingly beautiful scenery. Certainly the staff seem to like it - they're all backpackers who've stayed for months to get experience, notably Robbie, the manager, who was in road construction back in Holland but now shoes horses and castrates cows with aplomb! And we pupils had a great time, eating round the campfire and being woken at 6.30am from our wooden bunks in the shed with country music.

For me it was a truly memorable experience, and despite being kack-handed at just about everything we tried (except the sheep - I was quite good at that!), I wouldn't have missed any of it for worlds. Tomorrow I'm off to Canberra and a post-Impressionist exhibition that's on loan from the Musee d'Orsay, but I might well be hankering for the cowboy life...

Even cowgirls get the blues

Proving once again that Australia is a land of contrasts, I've come to Tamworth, the country music capital of Oz, where I'm preparing myself to be turned into a Jillaroo (Australia's version of a cowgirl) over the next five days. So far I have the hat, and tomorrow morning we're all going to pick up the second-hand clothes, but beyond that I'm apprehensive. I asked one girl who's on the course if she had riding experience. "Oh, no," she laughed gaily. "Just dressage and showjumping, not Western." Which was distinctly daunting for yours truly, who hasn't so much as been on a donkey ride down the beach. The nearest I've been to riding, in fact, is reading "National Velvet". Still, I'm here now and stiffening my upper lip as we speak. After all, I'm a good sturdy girl from good sturdy peasant stock, and if I don't shine at the riding and mustering, hauling sheep about should be no problem!

I'm going to be out of contact for the whole week - we're on a farm in the outback hills, and there's no mobile phone reception or internet - so if you're interested in seeing how I'll be spending my time, this is the link: http://www.leconfield.com/ The calf-wrestling looks particularly rugged, I must say! I'll do a post on the whole experience when I'm back in Sydney next weekend... It's all a far cry from the Eastern beaches cliff-top walk from Bondi to Coogee, or the chi-chi Paddington markets on Oxford Street, but I can certainly say I've never done anything like this before! Wish me luck, guys and gals. Yee haw!

My Blue heaven

Up in the Blue Mountains, and I've got my groove back. I lost my zest for a while there, but a few days of crisp, clean air and hiking through wondrous scenery has brought it all back again! I'm staying in the most amazing hostel - it's like a Swiss chalet, all wooden walls and polished floorboards, jolly paintwork and roaring fires (I don't know why I thought the mountains would be hot - the clue's in the name after all; I've had to invest in another fleece when I brought frankly unsuitable clothing up here!). It's small and friendly and great to come back to after a hard day's hiking.

Talking of which, yesterday I climbed down the Giant Staircase (I was going to go back up again, but by the time I'd got to the bottom my legs were trembling and I figured I'd be stranded halfway up the side of the mountain; these are really steep steps, and there are a lot of them). Then I walked along the valley floor among the tree ferns and climbers, with the sunlight filtering through the foliage, the previous night's rain a distant memory. And after a quick trip up to the top via cablecar, I wandered past the Katoomba Falls and along the cliff walk to the Three Sisters (Aboriginal princesses who were turned to stone to save them from their father's enemies, but tragically he was killed before he could turn them back).

Today I'm heading into Leura - to browse the second-hand bookshops and antique shops if the rain doesn't ease up, or to explore another part of the cliff walk if it does. It doesn't really matter - the walking is beautiful, and the towns are charming, so I'm in heaven whichever I do. Truly, this has been one of my highlights - I absolutely love it up here.

Harbour lights

I've reached Sydney, and spent yesterday being the cheesiest kind of tourist there is - great fun. I'm staying with my friend Keir somewhere to the north-west of the city, in the most idyllic apartment. He's right on the water (really - you can see the ferry stop three floors below), and I have spent much time soaking up the sun on his balcony, watching coxless fours being bullied across the water by men with megaphones and powerboats, and generally being cosseted with home comforts and bulging fridges. All in all I feel a bit like a baby seal, waiting on the beach while more grown-up and responsible seals head out to sea to forage for food, losing their bodyweight and leisure time in the process. Puritanism is battling hard with hedonism, and hedonism is winning.

The most energetic I've been so far was when I packed up my camera and a guidebook and headed over to the city on the ferry (great public transport!). I spent the day pottering around the Rocks (where the colony began), along the waterfront under the bridge, and down to the Opera House, where I hung out on the steps for a bit, soaking up the iconic scenery. Then it was down to the Botanic Gardens, Hyde Park, and through the business district, before heading back to the opera house for an evening of avant-garde ballet. Thank God I'd put on a dress - everyone was dressed to the nines in honour of the venue, which was as smart as the clothing.

The ballet itself was pretty great, too - it was a trio of pieces, the first one a response to dance in 16th/17th century Spain, with beautiful costumes and haunting music; the second was a comic piece with all the traditional Royal Ballet moves and scenery (my favourite); the third piece was frankly puzzling. It was by Wayne MacGregor, the top billed choreographer there, and was the kind of piece where everyone dances in white undies to discordant music and represents polar exploration. I admired the technique and athleticism, but the dance itself left me cold. Am I simplistic to prefer narrative and melody? On second thoughts, don't answer that.

Sadly the journey home brought me back to earth with a bump - first, my travelcard got swallowed by the ticket machine, and I've been waiting in all today for it to be returned to me (it's a weekly pass, and too expensive to let go); and second we were treated to more performance art from a former squaddie who'd wet himself, who bellowed "Waltzing Matilda" all the way from Darling Harbour to Chiswick. I was feeling sorry for him, too, until he weighed in about "the Muslims", at which point I just wanted him to get off. I felt right at home - just like being on the 149 through Dalston!

Now I've got my travelcard back Sydney is my lobster; tomorrow I think I'll head on out to Manly, or the Bondi clifftop walk if it's not too hot. More soon, folks...

Dead poets' society

I've reached Byron Bay, and spent the afternoon exploring the literary landscape - notably the plethora of bookshops (which I scoured for more in Shane Mahoney's Murray Whelan crime series; having picked up the first one for free in a hostel, I've fallen in love - again - with a literary character, and this one has a few film spin-offs too. Why is passion so expensive? Or is that just my passions? Still, Murray is the modern Australian Philip Marlowe, wisecracking his way through sinister situations that are none of his making, and he's my kind of hopeless gumshoe. How could I resist?).

The road names, too, have a certain literary air - they run the gamut from (naturally) Byron Street to Browning, Ruskin, Kingsley, Cowper, Tennyson, Jonson, Carlyle and Keats Streets. Sadly - unless I manage to find the Arts Centre, which apparently has a cinema with bean bags - that's about where the artiness ends. I know the place was set up by hippies as a radical art community, but it's long since become a seaside resort. A very nice one, though - and apparently there's a literary festival in August.

Still, I got some culture in on Brisbane's South Bank - seemingly modelled on London's, right down to the concrete monoliths and big wheel, but with warm weather and places to swim! The Art Gallery of Queensland, in particular, was superb - a wonderful collection of Australian art from a Western perspective, tracing its roots from the colonists to the modernists of the Sixties and beyond. Plus a lovely collection of international art (covering my darling Stanley Spencer, who seems to be something of a hit in Australia, plus Picasso, Matisse, Van Dyck, Hepworth, Rodin, Reynolds...) and the most informative labels I've ever come across in a gallery, with the minimum of pretentious art-speak in them. I did venture out of the arty area, but not for long - I have to say, I think that's the best of Brisbane (though it's pretty damn good).

Tomorrow I'm upping the alternative ante and heading out to Nimbin, plus a quick trip through the rainforest (again! Hopefully no leeches this time). And then I have another day to explore the beaches here, and some more of the walks around town. I'm a lucky girl...

Don't let the bed bugs bite

So here I am in Brisbane, and I've had my first real hostel horror. As soon as I walked in to the Yellow Submarine late yesterday afternoon my instincts were telling me to walk straight out again - the dingy paintwork, the grotty sofa in reception, the abject mess in the room, the snapshots of people at toga parties lining the walls... All of this spoke of a place that would be my personal hellhole - but I put it down to being tired from the journey and pressed on. Until I sat on my bed and was bitten seven times within half an hour. I told the lady in reception that there were bed bugs, and after she'd insisted that they were mosquitoes (I know what mosquitoes look like, and it's not like that), she said that it was probably lice - certainly not bed bugs. When I answered rather dryly that I wasn't all that keen on sharing my bed with lice either, she got rather shirty with me and implied I'd brought them along myself. At which point (and buoyed up by a pep talk from Mum - thanks, Mum!) I cut my losses and booked in to the YHA down the road.

And what joy it has been. Spread over five floors with lifts and maps detailing all the amenities, it's a little like living in an airport lounge - I certainly wouldn't want to stay at places like this all the time, as it's not very friendly. But it's blessedly, blissfully clean, and the laundry room is so luxurious I was almost - almost - tempted to do some ironing. Tomorrow night is movie night, and tonight I'm going to stretch out in my little bunk to read by the light of my own reading lamp (fellow hostellers will understand the wonder of this).

I'm trying not to let my opinion of Brisbane itself be coloured by this: one dirty hostel (and more traffic than any other Australian city I've yet seen, plus the poor opinion of everyone I've yet met) shouldn't put me off. Tomorrow I'm going to go for the sightseeing like a demon and catch up with as much of the nice stuff as I can in a day, and then it's on to the next destination. Poor Brisbane - I have a feeling that it never gets a fair go. But onward and upward...