It may not have escaped the notice of some amid my loud laments and complaints that the end of December was a little stressful for me. Of course, the way I carried on; no one had ever been so stressed in the history of civilization, thus I was justified in reciting my to-do list to anyone foolish enough to stop and ask me ‘how are ya, Chris?’ Well… But between all the work and moaning I at least had Australia to look forward to; my very own hotter-than-the-surface-of-the-sun light at the end of the tunnel. And I’d ask people who’d visited Australia; Jennie in London, Sarah at school: what’s Australia like? ‘Oh lovely,’ they’d say, ‘really great.’ Yeah but why, I probe, what sort of thing. The black cloud of mock papers is mounting behind me, I need escape and fast – paint me a picture. The food’s really good, they’d say, and it’s really clean.
But I needed more. So having been in Canberra a week, I can now tell you exactly what ‘clean’ and ‘good food’ mean.
Let’s get it out the way, it’s bloody hot here. Mid 30s is your high point, they said, and it’s a dry heat. Whatever the hell that means. Well, it turns out it means that in the shade, it’s pretty comfortable. And the minute the eye of Sauron (sun) is covered by a life-giving little rain cloud with all the spiritual significance to me as the post diluvian olive branch, again it’s pretty nice. But this week the forecast is 40degrees, 41, 40, 41, 39. Shit. So look, that just means it’s hot whatever you do. Oddly though, in the sun, 27degrees and 35 seem pretty similar to me. No UV, so the sun just reminds you that you’ve got about 15 minutes before you vanish into nuclear shadow.
But onto clean. When you’re sat comfortably in the shade, preferably on the grass by the lake with a brisk breeze coming off it, all that searing sunlight makes the whole place fecking dazzling. The sky is so blue it makes your eyes hurt and the bright, fresh green of young leaves in voluptuous bloom that are almost a succulent yellow green in the sun positively makes your mouth water. There is no litter. Colours are bright and sharp, and pierce their way into your eyes and your heart and make ya wanna paint, or write poetry. The fine French lace shadow of these oaks skipping on the pavement is the sort of purple of the Impressionists. The green goes on and on, and deepens to emerald as it races up the hills beyond, and deepens again to turquoise blue on those distant mountains that are there to just grace the skyline for the aesthetic benefit of the place, and also pales to a yellowed peridot between rocks and the sparser trees. That yellow that tells the foreign imagination ‘Australia,’ where it mixes with red earth. The blinding bone-white brightness of tall, elegant Eucalyptus trees that crowd hillsides and pavements alike, metaphors for eternal youth as their rough dark bark strips off in long brown and red ribbons, scattering at the roots to reveal the smooth, perfect clean trunk underneath. The palette of this part of Australia is blue, green and white.
So continuing with clean, there is barely no road that is not lined with trees. Therefore now, that dusty dirt of summer we feel in August, seems absent in this strange Jan-uly. The city; well it certainly ain’t no Paris or Turin; architecture here isn’t on the baroque or medieval or Georgian European style. Think your local town centre of the late 80s. Like Grays. But overrun with trees instead of pigeons, with nice umbrellas and outdoor seating instead of white plastic chairs and the smell of chip fat. Roads are wide and quiet. The centre is pedestrianised, fountained, decorated with bright paintings and sculptures and untroubled by cars, and if you want to cross a four-lane road, you only need wait about 5 seconds before there is precisely naff all coming. Then there are the tall, swanky looking blocks, apartments and offices but these are roughly kept to a tight circle that is at most, 2 buildings deep, then open space again. In England, there are urban green spaces, but in your average town you’ve got about 1 and you either live on it or you don’t. Here, there is a park every 10 minutes, and even if not, the wide grassy verges and walkways between roads are so cluttered with eucalypts that from a 3rd floor apartment, you appear to be living above a veritable forest. Weaving between larger roads and swanky hotels are wide suburban looking residential roads, with dear little bungalows nestled amid hydrangeas, roses, agapanthus and tall, shade giving bushes. Like Billericay, but nicer. Quieter and greener and wider. I have not smelled a whiff of diesel or felt the need to hold my breath when crossing roads. On that, no one seems to smoke either, so easy breathing all round.
Then there’s the wildlife. So it’s the obvious thing, the Kangaroos, wallabies, koala bears and all. Well everyone knows that already. It’s the birds here that are unexpected. Magpies look like members of Kiss with their black lipstick beaks and they make this otherworldly sound like a flute in an electronica band that is so heart breaking. Wander through a park at any time and you realise you’ve not seen a sparrow or crow or pigeon, but bright red rosellas, the glowing yellow of sulphur crested cockatoos, pink headed galahs. Even your standard little brown jobs that most birds fall into I stare at fascinated thinking ‘what ARE you?!’ as I have no frame of reference for this long tailed, yellow stomached, red cheeked wattle bird, or a blue chested but-otherwise-looks-like-a-moorhen swamp hen. And the bats here make some sort of evening progress about 20.45 and languidly flap their enormous wings the size of freakin’ red kites from across the lake and away under the moon. I could watch them for hours.
And so in my most sunny boating afternoons when I have dangled off a lock gate and nearly wept for the sweeping chilterns either side, the glimmering canal and its butterflies, swallows and herons and grand ash and oak dappling shade above me, I do not feel that the Molonglo river or the mountainous home of the Ngunnawal people is making me homesick with the loss of beauty. Ashridge can do one.
SO: food. Now the food is great and let me tell you why. There are always at least 3 fish options everywhere. There are always at least 3 salad options everywhere. And interesting ones, like cauliflower and chickpea quinoa with rocket and coriander. Fresh, lovely nutritious salads are an institution. Even in your equivalent of tesco express out here, there is a deli counter half taken up with no fewer than 9 fresh made tubs of salads you can just put in a pot and have for lunch. They’re everywhere. And considering I am a homeless unemployed immigrant, with no kitchen to make food in, this is a boon. Otherwise I’d be living off dry tesco sandwiches and getting scurvy. Then restaurants – not seen a chain so far. Which makes me reflect on how damn ubiquitous they are in England. Tell me, is there a single pub in England that doesn’t offer fecking ham, eggs and chips and hunter’s chicken? Narrowing down the stuff you want to eat to about 3 things. We’ve eaten Mexican tacos, incredible Chengdu beef soup, crispy coated flat head fish, poached eggs and avocado (so like this is the ham, egg and chips equivalent out here), aubergine curry, Asian noodle salads and a hell of a lot of fresh vegetable and fruit juice. Mmmm mmm mmmm.
So these are my impressions of this fine country. I am looking forward to reading books on Australian poetry, history, visiting the museum to explore aboriginal art, walking the miles of hillsides and forests and learning more about this beautiful place that describes its white, usurping population as ‘rootless.’ Well the great feeling about growing up in Thurrock is giving yourself a feeling of belonging anywhere you please. I am somewhat troubled by finding myself comparing things to England in my western centric perspective and have a horror of imposing this narrative in a D.H. Lawrence sort of way, but so long as I skip opinions on the Jewish, women’s orgasms and Australian men in shirt sleeves, I should be fine.
For those who are interested we have climbed Mount Ainslie to see the epic sunset and spotted a wallaby, climbed through Namadgi park to Booroomba rocks, cycled bikes 17 miles around the lake and through the wetlands (so basically it’s like cycling in the countryside with none of the inconvenience), been to the art gallery and two great breweries. Tonight is a pub quiz. Hurrumble.