It has been ten long days without posting and I know the people, you, the reader, have been clamouring to read more about my travels/absconding/retiring without the finances to do so. I know you’ve been clamouring because you, the people, the reader, have told me you are waiting with bated breath for the latest instalments of what I think my reader(s), the people, you, all hope is the final act of this multi-year mid-life crisis.

Okay so one of you has asked when I next plan to write something. Well… two if I include the one of you I prompted to ask about the blog. But I digress…

Either way, it’s been a busy 10 days with my first stretch of travelling solo on this adventure and then meeting up with my old pals J and Laura. I said sayonara to Dad, have travelled to new places, made new friends, and continued to watch the ongoing humiliation that is the Ashes 2025/2026.

Life’s a beach… and then you lie (on your arse cos the shoulder is still screwed)

Twas an early start to depart the apartment in Brisbane to catch the twelve-hour train to Newcastle. Despite it being 4am, the heat and the humidity was truly appalling and had me questioning my decision to walk the 25 minutes to the station with all my shit hanging off my back and my front. A penny saved is a penny earned and all that but my God was I disgusting on arrival to the train station. Dripping. Appalling stuff. Still, the aforementioned twelve hours presented a good opportunity to dry off.

The views from the train were stunning. This country is so immensely vast and full of such varying landscapes. I saw my first Kangaroos in the wild. Rolling hills. Cutting in and out of rainforests in between expansively plains of cattle, horses and long grass. On the other side of the glass, in the carriage, there was also plenty to look at. When the woman in front of me repeatedly consulted ChatGPT to determine whether she’d be better off eating the mushroom linguini (microwaved) or the chicken chow mien (microwaved) it became apparent to me that it ain’t all Gen Z we need to worry about. The Boomers are not alright.

I dumped my bags at the pub above which I was staying to explore the town. I must confess that it was the first time in many months, if not years, that I’ve been on my own in a way where the basis of that isolation has not come from a feeling of depression and wanting to shut the World away. I found it very unsettling and nerve-wracking. Throughout the last couple of years, those times when I’ve felt alone have been as much in a crowd as when I have spent whole days and weeks in bed on my own.

This time of seeking solitude was a choice- a positive choice- and I was surprised at how difficult I found it at first. The love and reassurance on the other end of the phone back in the UK pepped me up such that I was able to hurl myself into strolling round Newcastle, exploring, and braving the bar on my own. Unsurprisingly, this solitary confinement did not last long. I ended up meeting some local(ish) tradies who were in town as one of them was undergoing minor(ish) surgery at the local hospital the next day. We got absolutely trashed and when I staggered back into the Inn at half 2, I was grateful for the schooner of beer provided to me by Ian the manager to settle my stomach. I appreciated more his very slowly and clearly articulated instructions on how to then find my bed.

A fantastic pub crawl, recreation taken from the floor (which I shall not explain further), splitting the G, and an instruction in the gambling culture of Australia (it ain’t good folks) rendered me decidedly sore and hungover the next morning and well into the afternoon. Day two in Newcastle (technically day one I suppose) was therefore spent predominantly feeling sorry for myself in my room, in between recovering at the ocean pools in the pissing down rain. This was followed by a decidedly early night.

On the third day of Newcastle, the climate sent to me some absolutely stunning weather allowing for a proper exploration of the town. First with a run along the coast to the end of the spit, and then an afternoon lounging on the beach, falling in and out of sleep, with the necessary topping up of factor 50 SPF.

The evening soon played out like the first. I began by chatting to/at some locals in a cocktail bar before having without doubt one of the finest meals of my life. So good in fact, I did the unthinkable and photographed two sets of food- the food and drink I paid for, and the stuff they gave me for free. What a fucking hypocrite I am. I was sat at the counter looking into the kitchen and already on my way to drunken stupor thanks to the cocktail bar. I was exceptionally well looked after by the chefs, the front of house and the rest of the team. Good chat (from them) free food (from them), free booze (them), and my wine glass was kept full throughout the evening (by them). They were kind enough to then invite me out for post-work drinks, and I repaid them by not disgracing myself in the way I had already done earlier that week in Newcastle.  

Days four and five were spent reading Poirot (both of which I bought from a book fair in Newcastle (not entirely helpful for getting rid of the mini-personal library I have been lugging around Australia)), sleeping and swimming at the beach, and checking out the oldest ocean pool in Newcastle which was originally dug out by the convicts sent to settle the then colony. The surfing in Newcastle looked unreal and I was dead chuffed with the photos I got though my sodding shoulder has continued to limit my ability to get on a board. Rewatching Nicolas Cage’s ‘The Surfer’ whilst being ocean side can only get me so close to the real thing. God let it be better in ‘Nam.

As I was packing up to hit the road to Sydney the following day, I began to receive messages from friends and family just double checking where I was, and if I was at Bondi Beach. I wasn’t. Only after the fourth unprompted location question did I turn on the TV to see the horrific depravity of a father and son slaughtering innocent Jewish people as they celebrated Hannukah. I don’t really know what to say here that hasn’t already been said. We headed down to Bondi Beach at the end of last week and whilst it was, as you’d expect, unusually quiet, there was a profound sense of solidarity in the face of the most horrendous antisemitism. As you’ll read further down, I was pleased we went. But I didn’t want to write this post and not identify the circumstances in which we were there, and that the community were working their way through responding to a murderous attack on their citizens- attacked because of their Jewishness.

Metaphysics at the Paradox Hotel

Being the left-wing version of Jeremy Clarkson (I hate it. I hate it so much. But the comparison has been made and lodged in my brain now) I took immense pleasure in speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway from Newcastle to Sydney. The views were stunning, the road near empty given the motorway alongside it- imagine the M40 but with beautiful bends, stunning sunshine, and things to look at other than the midlands from the M40. And rather than a services, I stopped at one of the God knows how many beaches and ocean pools along the way.

I arrived at the Paradox Hotel which, paid for by my comrades of the Electoral Commission, is the poshest hotel I have ever stepped foot in. The valet parking was a first (and only: seventy-five dolllaridoos a night meant I was moving the car to the cheapo car park the next morning) as was the repeated insistence from the bloke in the foyer that he would carry my bag. I refused and, in forgetting how hard it is to move that bag, ended up looking a right twat harrumphing it down the corridor to the lift.

Regrettably Fortunately, J and Laura are both exceptionally clever, reflective, and stimulating conversationalists and it has been wonderful hanging out with them over the past week, and I am very much looking forward to Christmas with them. This reads as if I am being sarcastic but I am not. It’s been really great. I must admit my brain has faced a level of stimulation that has been reserved, up to this point of my travels, for my liver.

Whilst only in Sydney for a few days, we managed to take in all of the Botanical Gardens, the Zoo, art galleries, the State library, some cracking architecture, and a guided tour of the Sydney Opera House. Rather bizarrely, and not a new phenomenon, there continues to be a particular type of tourist who attends these guided tours without seeming to have any interest in the topic which is being addressed. So weird. Like- why go? Who is that for? Anyway… I rather embarrassed myself by asking repeated questions of the tour guide about the chair infrastructure- how many seats each auditorium holds, how often the layout changes, the means of removing or installing seats (alan keys apparently.)

Bazball from Bondi Beach

As noted above, the three of us then headed down for a few days in Bondi Beach. I’m glad we went- the last thing it seems, to me, for a community of the size of Bondi is for people to stay away. The horror of the attack was an ever present but more prescient was the resilience and rallying around exhibited by the Jewish and wider community of Bondi. Laura, a proper writer, has written far more powerfully than I could on what has happened and has centred the Jewish community in her writing. You’re better off reading that than anything I’ve put down here.

The beaches were absolutely beautiful as were, frankly, the people. It’s gross. They could all be fitness influencers and frustratingly J and Laura are also well put together people who maintain a level of fitness and health that is not going to happen this end. I did not go running in Bondi.

Nor, again, did I surf. But I did swim. Beautiful blue waters and golden sands. I also ate well, drank well, and spent a chunk of time sat on my arse in the bar watching the third test between Australia and England. We lost. Again. The Ashes are over. I cannot be arsed to write about that.

Before heading onto Canberra for Christmas (‘Christmas with the Canberries’ current working title for a future blog post- needs workshopping I think), I took in my third Aussie cricket ground of this trip with a tour of the Sydney Cricket Ground. Cracking tour guide and I imagine a beautiful place to watch cricket. Shame we’ll already be 4-0 down in the series by then. I’ll already be in Vietnam. Thank the good Lord.

I finish up this overly long, over-written, and overdue post from the room J and Laura have so kindly put me up in here in Canberra. They’re terrific hosts and great friends, and I’ve already seen plenty of the city and caught even more cricket with my pal Chris. I’ll get round to writing that up come Boxing Day when I fly down to watch even more Bazball (Dear God let the bell toll for that) in Melbourne.

Merry Christmas!