After two grateful days of roadside parking in the glamorously, exclusive leafy suburb of Longueville, North Sydney, we quietly switched on the engine and breezed out into the Big City.
Actually, it was 4.30am, the diesel engine coughed into life, and Tony set to revving up the first gear. The camper’s horn blasted out a series of ear-splitting goose honk parps to remind us that the hand-brake was still on. Like naughty schoolchildren, we skulked out of suburbia wrapped in shame.
I don’t think that Mel will be missing us already.
We had enjoyed yesterday’s Australia Day celebrations from a distance, Mel’s back garden treating us to spectacular views of the Sydney Opera house by night. Today it was time for the Real McCoy.
We nipped across the Sydney Harbour Bridge and parked up (illegally) at the roundabout right by the Opera House. Campers weren’t encouraged in the city centre, not least for anything less than a good few Aussie Dollars and two feet of metal shaved from the roof.
As we had both previously lived in Australia, we had no burning desire to re-visit the more traditional tourist landmarks.
My own memory of Sydney’s Harbour is from the first ever morning that I set foot on the hallowed turf of Oz. Travelling alone on a one year working visa, I had met an over-weight, over-jolly Dutch girl at the airport the day before and I followed her meekly to a backpackers flea-pit in Kings Cross. She had come to Sydney specifically for the Crowded House Farewell to the World (free) gig, here at the Opera House steps.
So, I joined her for the day as I quite liked the band and she had mentioned the sacred word “free” to a backpacker. The concert was amazing, a perfect mix of sunshine, alcohol, world-class venue and sing-along tunes. My major recollection was of a really tall bloke standing in front of me, obscuring my view and spoiling my fun the whole time. Well, months later after meeting and falling in love, Tony and I returned to mark the exact spot where we had each stood during the concert and amazingly we were just inches apart. He was my annoying tall bloke, obscuring my view and spoiling my fun. And yes, he has continued to do that ever since. Boom! Boom!
I had to make a token effort for the kids, though. In Japanese tourist mode, I marshalled the kids to a suitable photo opportunity, ordered a “Say cheese” moment, clicked the button and ran off to the next appropriate point of interest. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Kids, do you remember the day we visited the Sydney Opera House?”
“No, Mum.”
“Remember, the ice cream you dropped on the floor, the ferry boats bobbing into dock, the crazy sea gulls swiping your baseball cap from your head?”
“Erm, no. We did manically run around a jetty with fake grins pretending to be having the time of our lives.”
“Yes, that was it.! How fun was that?”
“Right.”
Yes, it was a pointless exercise, but we were so close to these incredible tourist attractions it seemed criminal not to take a photo as proof of travel. We did get some freebie Berocca drinks from the early morning promo girls at the harbour, so does that lend some credibility to my actions?
Piling back into the camper, we headed for Bondi Beach, where Tony and I first officially met. Paolo, Sandra, Linda, Kiwi Emma, Nikki, Tony and I had shared a our quiet apartment for two with several hundred cockroaches. The cockroaches were still there, but any flicker of the happy times we shared here were long gone.
I dragged the family to the hostel where I had spent some of the happiest months of my life – the Lamrock Hotel (wittily re-named The Shamrock by it’s guests). By night, I waitressed in a Greek mafia-owned strip club in King’s Cross, enjoying the life of a rich playboy bunny, Sydney-style. Perhaps more of those tales in another blog. By day, I slept off the inevitable hangovers and deposited my $100’s into the bank. They were very good times.
Nostalgia-box ticked and we hit the world-famous Bondi Beach. It was 8am the day after the big Australia Day bash, where over 60,000 backpackers, surfers and Sydneysiders had partied hard. The beach itself had a hangover, with 1,000’s of empty VB cans and Toohey’s beer bottles littered across the golden sands.
A beach clean-up tractor suctioned up the rubbish like the manic custard-loving vacuum cleaner from the Teletubbies. Round and round he trundled over the mess, seconds later leaving a manicured trail of pristine cleanliness behind. If only my own house could be tidied up in the same way. Shucks, I don’t have a house.
The kids spent ages jumping across a huge hole in the sand, dug, I suspect, by partygoers who buried their pals up to the neck and amusingly poured beer down their throats. (That’s what I would have done anyway.)
Too early for the ice-cream shops to open, with a heavy sigh, we dropped off the camper near the airport and waved goodbye to OZ. As always, I have had a fantastic time and would emigrate here in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, we are both unskilled bums with about three visa points between us – one for each offspring.
From Sydney, we would set off for Hong Kong. With baited breath we crossed our fingers at the check-in desk. Our two rucksacks had produced their own babies en route across the world. Our five luggage items were rammed full of essential plastic Disneyland soft drink cups and “Welcome to Las Vegas” snow shakers. The kids were now fully trained on check-in procedures at the airport: smile cutely, chat to the attendant about Santa or something charming, meanwhile distracting her eyes from the 30+kg numbers flashing at her from the luggage belt.
Unfortunately, when the kids are tired (therefore most airport check-ins, to be honest), they strike up a conversation with check-in lady, managing only to mumble into their feet and say that the place they are leaving is rubbish, listing the reasons why.
Today was not our lucky day at the desk. Exit left and pile into the disabled toilets, shake off the sandals and the shorts, pile on the hooded sweatshirts (as befits Sydney in the Summertime), and wrap the new Mexican blanket round you for good measure – well, the air-con can get a bit chilly on flights sometimes. Check-in Take Two.
All aboard, and we settled into the penultimate flight of our 12 leg journey, hand-held gadgets poised for the off. The blonde Liverpudlian cabin crew lady asked us to put them away for take-off, and she suddenly brought home that we were being slowly dragged back to the UK like the archetypal moth to a flame. Tears were blinked away as Tony reassured me that the book would shortly be closing on Chapter 1 of our journey, and not The End.
Twelve hours later and we arrived in Hong Kong. I hadn’t swotted up on the map, so I knew we couldn’t wing it on the local public transport system. “A tuk tuk for 5 people, please!” Did they have tuk tuks in Hong Kong?
After 15 minutes of driving, we travelled towards a large winding river, housing row after row of industrial container ships. At its waterfront an army of modern skyscrapers stood to attention - a hybrid of old and new industry working together in harmony. Across the bridge and we waved at two 100 foot electric neon bunnies dancing on the office block windows. This is going to be weird.
We pulled up outside the plush 4* Harbour Plaza Northpoint Hotel. Thirty floors up, we gazed out between the frontline hotels and watched the junk boats drift by in the cold, dark early morning hours.
A cup of green tea in hand, I looked over at the children tucked up in their king-size bed, lost in a precious few hours of much-needed rest.
Tomorrow will be an incredibly big dash around the place, much like Challenge Anneka, except I imagine her clues were much easier to read.
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