Tag: travel

The best hangover cure.

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The Kaya bar in Yangshuo touted $1.50 tequila shots and an ambiance that’d rival avocado-harvesting season in Mexico. A local bucks party was rocking on and the crew from my hostel were indulging in a rather wild Saturday night. Naturally, I joined the party.

I woke with a shock on Sunday morning at 8.45. I was supposed to meet some mates at 8 for my 9am Chinese calligraphy class.

I grabbed some coin and headed into town on my bicycle in last night’s dress, reeking of the previous night’s festivities. I’d missed breakfast, of course, so made do with a petite glass of water.

When the ambitious Aussie/French couple had asked me whether I was interested in learning to write Chinese characters with a brush and ink, I was immediately intrigued. I seized the opportunity, but did not anticipate I’d try to master the age-old art with a booze-riddled body.

I did not hold out much hope for the day, but I’d committed myself.

It started off well: with snacks and tea. Our teacher, Lucy, was a kind and generous soul. She sat us down and explained the materials we needed to write for the emperor. An ink stone, a brush, see-through paper and a steady hand was all we needed.

She explained the brush strokes as she was training a young pooch. “Sit, sit sit, sitting, sitting,” she’d say as she moved her brush with bamboozling precision.

Then it’d be “stand, stand, stand, standing,” as she increased the angle of her brush. Each stroke needs to be done a certain way.

I had little idea what was going on and that was obvious to Lucy. She’d try to be diplomatic. “Yes, you have a very interesting style,” she told me.

The others in the class were standing up to write, apparently this is the best position for holding the brush. I was slumped in my chair dreaming wistfully of fried rice and a rehydration sachet, piecing together the events from the previous night. What were the names of the Canadian folk I met, I wondered.

I gave it my best, determined to get my character perfect. We were prqactising fu or luck as it uses every stroke movement. Occasionally, I’d do something well, miraculously.

“Oh, well done. Yes, yes,” Lucy would say, delightedly and hold up my piece of paper for everyone to see. I felt like a kid who’d dressed themselves for the first time and basked in her approval. Still, it was a blur of splotches for me.

The other tutor would often shake her head and laugh at my attempts. Then when I’d do something that would have made the emperor proud, Lucy would gush. “You are improving so quickly.”

Her companion chimed in, “we are very surprised,” she nodded at me, her face grave and encouraging. Clearly, my potential at the beginning of the class lacked some lustre. Perhaps it was my un-brushed hair?

The surprising thing was how calming and meditative the activity was. Gradually, my hangover receded, but my hunger was like an elephant on heat, rampaging.

After we’d completed fu a few times and Lucy had helped me find my “own style – it’s more carefree,” we indulged in some reverse psychology bargaining. She wanted 60 yuan for the class. We insisted on giving her 80 each. Then we debated over who would pay for lunch. In the end a local school teacher shouted our group, as a welcome to the town.

We sat in her loft and drank tea after the class, snacking on dried flowers, taro, exceptionally strong ginger and other local snacks. It was a truly beautiful moment and a highligh, so far, of my China trip.

The local noodle shack she took us to had some strange-looking meat in the window. I thought it was lamb. No, it was goat. And it was delicious. Alongside the pale meat some cubed pieces of slippery red stuff had me confused. “What are those,” I asked, innocently. “Oh, that’s goat’s blood,” she replied, offhandedly.

It was delicious and immediately remedied my nausea.

I was impressed with the goat meal and told some of the folk from the Kaya bar about the strange food. Then, I recalled that we’d snacked on some street food as we marched home at 4am. “What did we eat,” I asked the Belgian and Swiss guys who’d walked me home.

“Oh yeah, you had a few sticks of snails.”

Snails, huh. I was impressed by my tequila-fuelled abandon, but completely revolted.

So, in one day I’d eaten snails, goat, goat’s blood and mastered one of the Chinese characters in my own new style. That’s what I call a good hangover day.

I want to ride my bicycle.

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There is only one activity I loathe more than cleaning red wine stains off white shirts.

It’s biking. I hate it. And I hate that I hate it.

It’s such a romantic, breezy, green activity; I should be a biker, really. I love the idea of getting around two wheels and talking bike trips across the desert or on a guilt-free cheese tour of Tasmania. I don’t mind lycra, either.

Instead, I recoil when someone mentions a Sunday afternoon cycle or the appealing-but-annoying idea of riding to work.

But down here in Yangshuo in southern China, biking is rampant. Chinese and foreign tourists compete with scooters, dump trucks and the occasional tuk-tuk to see whether bells or horns are more effective.

Horns win, every time.

The landscape down here is some of the best I have ever seen. The endless karst rocks that disrupt the rice paddies are stunning. I love searching the horizon and thinking of what must be on the other side of the hills. More than a few times I’ve caught myself feeling incredibly happy and content here. The scenery and the vibe are enrapturing.

On the back of such bliss I’ve mustered some enthusiasm for cycling.

It seemed natural to join the bike-mad hoards. It’s quieter and cheaper than scooters, you can cover more ground than your average walker and, this is probably the clincher, I once read a romance novel about a couple riding through southern China and fancied myself a shoo-in for the lead role in such a story. It had emotive appeal, weirdly, even though it’s such a sweaty, bum-paining activity.

Despite my delusions, a day’s cycling has almost converted me to the bike brigade.

Breezing through the rice paddies with a river on one side, huge rocky peaks on the other and easy conversation flowing between my fellow cyclists was awesome. This did mean that I had to endure the excitable Yank’s lurid stories, but that’s all part of the journey, right.

It was a soul-cleansing day and it measured up to my romantic expectations. The wind whipped under my new hat and the sun beat down on us all, hilariously burning the Swedish guy to a deep shade of burgundy.

Of course, it was not without difficulties. The bike Gods had planned their vengeance for my cycling cynicism. I was provided with a kiddie bike, instead of an adult’s bike.

My scooter-with-handlebars was the joke of the day.

One of my companions remarked it was “like you’re on a pony and the rest of us have horses.”

A few hours later he asserted to all and sundry that my bike had come from Maccas with a burger.

I looked like a giant, too, next to my tiny steed.

I am certain I had to spin those pedals twice as hard as the rest of the crew. Obviously, there were no gears (kids don’t go up steep inclines), so I looked an ever bigger fool walking my toy bike up the steeper hills.

Going downhill was truly treacherous. I constantly feared I’d be spat off the bike and sent underneath one of the adult bike’s wheels. My hands are a little blistered from eight hours clutching the handlebars as tightly as a father shakes his future son-in-law’s hand when they meet for the first time.

Actually, the entire ride was hazardous. They drive on the other side of the road here, so that’s confusing. But, if it’s too hard you can just ride on the wrong side of the road. In layman’s terms, people going everywhere. Chaos.

Dodging the trucks and buses and, worst of all, the pedestrians that would do more damage to my rented bike than I’d do to them, made me feel exceptionally vulnerable. Helmets have not been thought of here yet, of course.

Best of all, I felt alive cruising around on my over-sized skateboard. The exercise factor cannot be ignored. It’s an honest way to get around and immerse yourself in a place – huffing and puffing around the paddies. It makes the gym look like a prison camp.

But I can sense, already, that my enthusiasm for getting around on two wheels may spin away when I set foot on Aussie soil again. Or maybe this is one of those things I need to follow through. I will continue to sing the bike song every morning.

I may even ride bikes on a Sunday instead of crying over spilt wine. I could even indulge in a cute new bicycle with a basket and flowers on the front.

And the romance of Yangshuo; then we’ll see whether it was the bike or the mountains.

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Conquering Mount Huangshan with the rest of ’em.

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Imagine stepping back in time a few thousand years and going on a quest. Oh, there’s fun to be had tapping into that side of your imagination. You could find a few handy companions, a dodgy map and pack yourself some provisions. Then you’d set out to conquer an ancient mountain.

That’s what I did a few days ago, but with a little less ancient mystique and quite a few more Chinese people. And a couple of Norwegians.

Mount Huangshan is a good spot for such an expedition. It’s about a 6 hour bus-ride or 13 hours on a comfy train south of Shanghai. (Of course, I took the longer route.)

On this ancient mission you should not forget your wallet. You’ll need a fair bit of coin to survive on the mountain. Most notably, you’ll need to fork out 230 yuan to get in the gate.

All you have to do is find your way to the other side.

That means strapping up your boots at the Mercy Light Pavilion, climbing a few thousand steps to CelestialPeak, cresting LotusPeak on your way to the Heavenly Sea and then finally reaching the hotel at Bright-Top Peak. Then you can find the room that you’ll share with 20 others, includingh 17 friendly locals.

The Chinese have made this much easier by attaching concrete pathways to the side of the sheer cliffs on Huangshan. And the prehistoric mountain, with its exceptionally steep slopes and sharp granite outcrops, is as easy to navigate as a brand spanking shopping trolley.

In China, accessibility means people. The domestic tourists swarmed around the peaks like greenies at vulnerable old gum tree. They were ubiquitous. Many are wearing yellow hats that are themed for their special tour group and they follow their flag-waving, yelling-Chinese-into-the-microphone-so-the-people-in-Shanghai-can-hear-but-no-one-one-the-mountain-can-hear-their-own-footsteps guide fastidiously.

The Mandarin is like the buzz of your next-door neighbour’s lawnmower on a Sunday morning. It can be annoying, but you learn to tune out and both are non-negotiable.

The people were a mixed bag. Some charged up the hill, and it’s a bloody steep hill, as if there was a pot of gold at the top.

Others were less keen on the hiking and paid men to carry them up in chairs attached to bamboo poles.

In fact, the Chinese tourists came in many shapes and size, from the hard-core Adidas-shod athletes to the pretty ladies strolling up in Dior shirts, tight jeans and heels.

It was a strange sensation to be atop a stunning mountain, with peaks cascading upon each other all the way to the misty horizon, with thousands of other people.

I’m impressed by their enthusiasm for the outdoors and that they take the time to visit these places. On the flip side, it’s overwhelming. And it seems ironic to have a swanky four-star hotel in such a mystical place.

But, hey, that’s China. It’s modern and ancient, simultaneously.

The biggest surprise for me was that I already knew this place. It’s one of China’s most famous landmarks and features on many of their oriental paintings. It’s what I always imagined China to look like, but without the tourists and the cable cars.

Still, the mountain has myriad charms. The scenery is exceptional, especially at sunrise and sunset, and the place names are something else entirely.

On your way down the Huangshan you’ll need to keep Flying–Over Rock on your left as you head towards the Black Tiger Pine. The trick here is not to go to the White Goose Station, but instead go straight down to the CloudValleyTemple via the Scenery-Inviting Pavilion.

If you get lost, which I did, of course, you can make your way back to the Black Tiger Pine by the Beginning-to-BelievePeak and the Harp Pine. It’s best not to take the path to the Stone Monkey Watching the Sea. Instead you should take the sign to the North Sea.

Of course, if you were on an ancient quest there would probably be no signs and fewer tourists to ask advice from, but you should never let the facts get in the way of a good imagination.

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Gold fever.

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“There’s plenty of gold there. I reckon we just head down to the creek and try our luck.”

That’s the first thing I hear on Easter Sunday.

I’m politely ignoring my brother in favour of my bacon and eggs. Then my mother chimes in.

“Do you think that’s going to be the best place to find the gold?”

“Yeah, that’s what the guy said yesterday at the festival. He said he got 100 pieces of gold at the creek near Nundle,” he replies.

“OK, well what are we going to use. We don’t have a pan.”

The seriousness in my mother’s tone alarms me. “Hang on,” I say. “We’re not seriously going panning for gold, are we,” I ask, disbelieving.

My mum assures me that we are indeed going prospecting.

“Down Fossickers Way, Pen, that’s where we’re heading,” my brother declares, referencing a local road that has obviously taken his eye.

It’s always alarming when you are forced to wake up before you are ready, but it is even worse when you discover your family fancy themselves as nugget hunters.

There will be gold, my brother assures me. There’ll be plenty to go around. It’s just waiting for us to find it.

Yeah right, I think.

He fancies himself as some sort of modern-day pioneer.

I wanted to say something witty and cynical, but the savvy part of my brain stopped me. What if we actually found some gold? They’d laugh and say they told me so and I’d be gold-less and they’d all be rich.

This is what happens with gold fever, it sucks you in like a half-price packet of donuts at the end of a long day

My brother’s enthusiasm, as usual, is contagious.

And so the search begins for appropriate tools. We do not have a pan with the proper ribs on the side for jiggling the gold around, but a barbeque pan and a water filter will suffice.

A quick Google search reveals that plenty of optimists have tried their luck around Nundle. The prospects have even evoked the ire of a notorious land-owner enigmatically named Nundle Guy. He is not a fan of prospectors and has a history of threatening people wishing to cash in on the 160-year record of gold finds.

The hunt has become even more ridiculous as we concoct stories of what Nundle Guy will do when he hears about our nugget. Surely enough, I’m pulled into the expedition.

We improvise a few tools and head off to have a quick barbeque on Chaffey Dam, which is between Tamworth and the gold-hunting spot, before our days as middle-class folk are traded for a nouveaux rich status.

The snags are lovely and as I’m sitting amongst the gum trees quietly reading Mao’s Last Dancer and, of course, enjoying the serenity, I begin to think of how exciting it would be to find a large gold nugget.

Earlier today we had discussed some famous discoveries, such as the Welcome Stranger Nugget that was found in the 1800s in Victoria. It weighed about 71kg.

I imagined myself really excited, like when a Mangrove Jack is on the end of my line or when I find an eggplant in the fridge that I had forgotten about. If those sorts of events make me scrunch up my face and jump up and down, what would happen when my brother and I dug up a big nugget?

I could not even imagine how many dumplings such a nugget would buy.

I find in luck-centric money-raising ventures, the money is often spent before it is found. Mum had already picked out her camper van and dad was purchasing a winery in the Hunter for me to play on. Naturally, I would trade in my old car for a sexy motorbike.

On the way to the creek it was peak hour at Nundle. “You guys look like a pack of dudes traipsing off to the creek with your shovels, a barbeque pan and a water filter,” my mum commented about our crude equipment.

Indeed, we were a ragtag bunch.

Snake-fear was paramount as we waded through knee-high grass to find a suitable creek bank.

We fell down the narrow, muddy banks straight into the icy water. With high spirits, we waded across the jagged rocks, sensing gold just beneath our bloodied feet.

My brother and I could barely keep our excitement at bay. Concentration levels were akin to eating fish with bones in them.

We panned and panned with little idea what we were doing. The rocks bounced about in the big old water filter and I was certain I was propelling a large nugget to the bottom of the pan.

I’d scour the bottom of the makeshift pan as if I was searching for a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. As usual, the search was fruitless.

We did not find any gold on Easter Sunday.

We returned to find mum and dad in their deckchairs on the side of the road. People had stopped to ask if they were ok, “yes, we’re just waiting for our kids. They’re down panning for gold,” my mum told the friendly strangers. Wickedly, she said to us later; “they probably thought we were very irresponsible parents, leaving their kids to go panning alone.”

“The might not have expected to find a 30-year-old and a 24-year-old by the creek,” my dad remarked, ever so proudly.

And so we ended the day laughing at each other for heralding such child-like, hopeless ambition. We were jovial, but, ultimately, defeated.

For now, anyway. I suspect the gold may not be so elusive next Easter.

 

A festival with a flogging.

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Street theatre, gold panning and local honey. The Go for Gold festival at Nundle, about 15 minutes from my folks’ house or half an hour from Tamworth, shot to pieces my expectations of a country shindig. I know these people like to party, but I did not expect the show-bag collection to outdo the Sydney Royal Easter Show.

I also didn’t expect to find a Chinese festival in the middle of the New England, especially five days before my flight to China. But, as sure as my brother can light a fire, the Chinese rolled into Nundle to celebrate the gold rush in years gone by.

Of course, there was dancing. The Chinese rocked out their dragon costumes to an adoring crowd.

I was delighted by the Chinese lanterns strung up across the town. The country pub, especially, was a paradox. It looked like a timeworn establishment being dragged, reluctantly into multicultural Australia.

But, if the difficulty getting a park is anything to go by, it was good for business.

For a town with an official population of less than 300 people, it was 289 at last census; it has its fair share of amenities. This included the aptly named Mount Misery Coffee Shop. These guys had a gold panning gig happening with sediment from the local Peel River. As if on cue, we passed a few local kids with pans on our way to the festival. This place is the Real Deal.

On the back of a helpful volunteer’s tales of finding 100 pieces of gold while panning yesterday, my brother has found a new career.

“It’s lucky you weren’t born in the 1860s,” my mum remarked, “because you would gone chasing gold as soon as you could walk.”

We left him at BCF looking for a pan.

I thought I’d be better suited to a career as a witch.

The local woollen factory, which looks like an antique museum from the outside, is a carefully-crafted, high-class shop on the inside.

Plus, the novelty value of the looms is irrefutable.

Unsurprisingly, the Chinese festival attracted a few foreigners. By a few, I mean a handful, but check out this beautiful Pakistani family who were ambling around.

The ten-gallon hats and country music was abundant. My dad, an avid connoisseur of country music, could not shift from the front bale.

And those bales do not make comfortable chairs, of that I am certain. Seriously, spiky hay, who thought to sit on that?

But, my dad’s shirt sums up why he can hack the hay bales and I cannot sit for more than a moment on them.

That’s not to say the music wasn’t rockin’.

The band had this lady’s foot tapping. She said the colourful vest came from a stall at the festival.

Further down the street I came across the obligatory honey stall. Dorothy and Max are manning this stall. These guys are a very cute, country couple.

I introduced myself as Penny, “like the coin,” I said, trotting out the usual cliché I employ for almost-deaf folk. I underestimated Max. Instantly he came back “you may be called Penny,” he said. “But you look a million dollars.”

It’s the hat. Some people in Tamworth will love you instantly if you’re wearing an Akubra.

Dorothy was not going to be outdone with the country hospitality. She wondered if I was related to Betty Langfield. “She lives just down at the end of the no through road. She used to be married to Fred, but he passed away a few years ago. I think her family is from Grenfell.” I am not certain of how my heritage could be linked to the lovely-sounding widow, but Dorothy’s bachelor son sounded slightly more interesting.

And the best, of course, was the street theatre we caught on our way out. Watching a man being chained up, stripped and given 14 lashes was highly entertaining. I was even enlisted to count the lashings.

The Cat of Nine Tails whistled through the air delivering a sharp blow that gave a macabre touch to the afternoon. “This flogging has been bought to you by the Nundle Festival,” the Sergeant at Arms yelled through the pedestrian-filled main street, lightening the mood.

“You were the best counter we’ve had all day,” the Sergeant told me. I skittered off, delighted at my booming voice.

This place, it is deeper than it looks at first glance across the lucerne paddocks. Its history, the charming folk and the ubiquitous flowering poplars are enchanting.

Country music aside, I am besotted, already, with Tamworth.

It’s not all beer and skittles.

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We’ve all had them and we’ve all hated ’em. I’m talking about those day. Those days that need no explanation except a shake of the head, a shrug of the shoulders and a frown to explain.

You know the ones. I’m talking about the days when plans of mooching around and getting an all-over tan are replaced with plans for a mercy dash to see a sick relative. That’s never great news, but it does not always spoil the day.

It can deepen, however, when you smash a precious heirloom while vacuuming. Mum still does not know about that one.

If, at that stage, your day still looks redeembale, you should probably go the the hairdressers and spot the gray hair in the your fringe.

To be clear, this was my reality a few days ago. It’s not my first gray hair, but certainly the first one I’ve seen from a distance, not from combing back my hair with a magnifying glass searching for some subtle hint that I could be growing up. It was a shock and it did not improve the day.

It’s not over yet.

A five-hour drive from Tamworth to Sydney at night was waiting for me after I’d done the school run and picked up my mum.

Driving at night on a winding road where drivers see it as a personal challenge to drive as close to your bumper as possible adds another edge. That’s not a good time to put on the this-is-how-hard-Chinese-Mandarin-is-and-you’ll-never-learn-it CD. That does not really bolstered confidence. I guess I should have started earlier learning that particular language.

This is not a day which will end with a deep blue cheese, a vintage Merlot and the sunset.

So, clearly, not every day is a winner. And if it’s going downhill, chances are it will pick up speed. Attitude is everything on these days.

When I was working as a barista, I remember one customer splashing coffee all over herself. A big, piping cup of brown milky goodness was splashed across her white shirt. She shook her head in resignation. “It’s been one of those days,” she said, clearly reigned to the fate of her day. I was having a splendid day and imagined her missing the bus and tripping over her dirty clothes, but I sensitively tried to hide that.

The best part about one of those days is that they finish. And the next day, you can make it a winner – that’s the trick!

The Everest surprise.

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When I thought of visiting Mount Everest I truly thought I was headed to the peak. Oh yeah, I had my Aussie flag packed to stick into the summit. I was even concerned about whether my camera would work in such harsh conditions.

Alas, I did some further reading and realised that journey would require a better jacket and infinitely greater experience. I would not be getting so deep in the snow.

My expectations of the hike to Everest base camp and the Cho-Las Pass nearby were limited by my ignorance and lack of research. Looking back, it was definitely the hardest, most gruelling physical challenge I have ever taken part in. That was not superbly surprising.

There were a feww surprises. The enthusiasm the porters showed for shovelling snow was top of my list.

The porters in the Khumbu (Everest) region blew my mind. Originally I had planned to carry my own backpack, but I struggled to get it off the conveyor belt and through customs and I didn’t rate my chances of getting it up a mountain. Reluctantly, I decided to particiapte in the Nepalese systems which demands the men and women carry huge loads on their back and heads, often wrecking their spines. I saw one sturdy young chap carrying 116kgs. In thongs! 

I’m still not sure of the moralities and wonder whether I made the right decision to hire a porter. What I am happy about is that I met Manbadhur. He was a real character with a twinkle in his cheeky eyes, a penchant for the local rice wine, a very handy sense of direction, a deviousness with cards and a bag of roasted corn that he’d share.

Often the porters help out at the lodges. I’m not sure if this was community spirit or to earn their keep. But, on day seven, the snow shovelling that was entertaining the rabble of porters enticed me. It seemed a good team-building exercise.

It’s a suprisingly satisfying activity, if a little precarious in thongs. An honest day’s work, Shorn Lowry would probably say.

Nepalese people are habitually hospitable, I reckon.  I passed one sign in Kathmandu that read “Tourist is God.”

I was not entirely comfortable with the approach. My egalitarian nature took over and produced some interesting results. Manbadhur and I had a ball with some shovels and a decent patch of snow that needed to be moved. We might as well have been slugging back tequila shots and eating tacos, it was that fun.

But, the owner was quite embarassed and begged me to stop helping. Naturally, I obliged, at least once the good photo opportunities were exhausted and the bottoms of my last pair of fresh pants were sopping wet.

And, with all the snow gone, the next day Manbadhur joined us for the day hike up the Gokyo Ri, a spectacular mountain overlooking the world’s highest freshwater lakes (at least that’s what the sign says).

I enquired about taking a dip in the lake, but our conservative guide informed me that’s it’s Holy and swimming, of course, would contaminate that Holiness. I guess I can get my hypothermia fix elsewhere.

 

And, even though I did not stand atop the mighty Everest, I did glimpse it a few times. The first was after the gruelling pre-dawn, pre-breakfast hike up Gokyo Ri.

The surprise here was how close it looked. And how barren Everest is compared to its close neighbours.

Of course, Manbadhur was by our side. He may have forgotten his shovel, but could still pose like a Playboy model.

Mooching made easy.

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I can almost hear the vegetables and the grass growing out here. It is luscious near Tamworth at the moment. And the ardent agriculture provides the perfect backdrop for some mooching.

Early in the mornings I like to go out and check how much rain we have had. I see little sense in this country routine. I guess it’s more spectacular when there is something in the gauge to check. For now, it seems like polishing boots and putting them back in the cupboard. An utterly useless pursuit that makes you feel like you’ve done something useful.

After I have confirmed that, yes, my suspicions were correct and, no, there was not a spectacular weather event in the night. I will ponder the horizons for a moment. Mostly this involves walking around the house very aimlessly.

It’s not a bad view, really, for my morning espresso. Strangely there are no men in lycra in these parts.

Inevitably, I’m drawn to dad’s vegies like a kid to vending machine. This is dad’s killer tomato that I mistook for a pumpkin. I think he is waiting for the Tomato Festival so he can show it off to all the other vegetable-growing freaks around here.

The other garden is still in that phase I liken to a baby before it is crawling. It looks so neat and tidy, but it is not actually able to bring anything to the table, yet.

The day is broken up when Ma and Pa return from their jobs in Tamworth City. This means dad sits in an office and dreams about his country music career that has been cruelly halted by his love for mowing the lawn. As soon as he is home it’s straight to the mower for my dad. He is never happier than when he’s just had his afternoon fix behind the Rover.

After this, we watch the sunset. Out here they seem more crisp.

 The colours don’t linger quite so long.

And, as soon as the sun disappears behind the hay shed it is instantly chilly.

Hibernating at my parent’s house is, obvioulsy, fairly relaxing. It’s also nice, because it gives me an insight into their lives. I’ve been blessed with some pretty awesome parents. They’re great fun and nicely open-minded. As their kid, I’m lucky in that they still seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

All around the house I have spotted the places where Ma and Pa (I used to call them mum and dad before they moved to Tamworth, FYI) hang out. It’s very cute.

This must be where they sit and have fires, I have surmised.

And this is the sunset-watching possie.

Or, as it happened yesterday, that’s also the spot Ma and I took up to watch dad mow the lawn.

So, you see, there’s plenty to do in the country

Let the adventure begin.

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Driving out of BrisVegas this morning after saying a final farewell to an era, a seven-hour abyss stretched before me. I was a mixed bag of emotions, but I had plenty of time to sort the Wizz Fizz from the snakes on the way to my folks’ place at Tamworth.

Herein lies the brilliance of a road trip. Time is your friend. I could indulgently ponder saying goodbye to Brisbane, the great mates I had there and other important issues, such as whether tequila shots would be ok with limes or if it definitely has to be lemons. Of course, due to the driving I could not test out the limes versus lemons issue, but I could certainly think about it at length.

I’m a big fan of car trips. It’s a product of my childhood. Every school holidays Ma and Pa would lug my brothers and me to Sydney or Cowra or Bundaberg or Pindari Dam. They would go anywhere, as long as it meant at least eight hours a day in the Commodore.

Cricket season was the best, at least according to my Dad. We would start the driving about 20 minutes before the first ball and stop for sangers when the cricketers were called in for lunch. The cricket commentators were great company.

Sometimes we’d arrive at a location, park a few streets away and listen to a nail-gripping finish, all packed in the car like prisoners being transported to a new facility. At least it felt like prison to a young girl keen to play with her dolls and get away from her stinky brothers after eight hours of noogies.

Today, there was no cricket. But I managed to get through with help from Triple J and a bit of ABC Radio National. There was one rather interesting radio documentary about why humans have hair and why women get it waxed. It was incredibly interesting. And the best part was I could dedicate the entire stretch between Tenterfield and Gen Innes, which takes about an hour, to thinking about why a woman should or should not get a Brazilian wax. Fascinating stuff.

I had time to think about the mammoth clean we did at the house yesterday. Ten hours of wall scrubbing wore Shorn, Amber and I to thin shadows of our former selves. Today I marvelled at the sense of achievement you get from cleaning and Lowry’s ability to turn anything into a game.

Cleaning the fridge, for example, involved seeing how far away you could be from the Westinghouse and still stick a magnet on it through Frisbee-like throws.

A pile of rubbish on its way to the tip becomes Junk-enga.

Reflecting on those sorts of shenanigans and the underlying optimism took up a good 20 minutes.

The scenery and sunset also impressed me. Of course, it’s no Tasmania but the area around Warwick is stunning as it looks out to the ocean. The shadow of Bluff Rock near Tenterfield was eerie. Luscious pastures turned to burnt brown grass like a game of Wheel of Fortune as I meandered south. Further into the New England hinterland the lanky poplar trees in a stunning autumn-yellow reminded me of my time at university Armidale. Recalling the goon-fuelled shenanigans took up at least an hour.

I even drove past an entire field of sunflowers. That was like staring at a sea of smiles.

Stopping in for a few cuppa at the Driver Reviver, that really put a smile on my face. I mean, it’s tea and it’s free. Wow!

And my car, a 22-year vintage Holden Apollo, she purred down the highway, pleased to be unleashed from the shackles of city driving.

The whole trip was lovely really; exciting, thought-provoking and relaxing. It was all of those good things until I was about 50 kilometres from Tamworth. That’s when time stood still.

I busted open my second bag of carrots (emergency rations) and called my Mum. She was getting dinner ready. “Anything you’d like,” she asked me, excitedly. “Yeah, maybe some tuna and steamed vegetables,” I replied.

“Well you’ll just get what you’re given, Pen,” she says. Looks like it’s oven-roasted spuds.

So after saying goodbye to my mates and a few hours behind the wheel, I drove into Ma and Pa’s. Dad came out in his boxer shorts and directed me into the yard as if my car was a Jumbo Jet. “Penny! Welcome home,” he yelled. I was so pleased to see him.

I know in this adventure, indeed in our life, it’s all about the journey, not the destination. I know that, but seeing my folks tonight put the field of sunflowers to shame.

Travel through the ages.

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Seize the day. Live in the moment. Don’t let opportunities pass you by. Chase your dreams.

Blah blah blah.

For all the motivational talk going around it has not become easier to tick things off the bucket list.

Leaving family behind; that’s always going to be a clincher. Take a squiz at this photo of my Ma and me before I left for South America. I was 20 and casually heading to the other side of the world by myself. Freaked out doesn’t cover it.

 

And then there’s leaving your mates. Essentially saying ‘well, it’s been nice partying with y’all, but I’m off.’ Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

 Leaving work, a house, packing things into boxes and throwing stuff out. Rarely do cheesy slogans tell you what needs to go in different sized boxes. Figuring out how to get your bond back is an entirely different Google search.

Posters are more likely to be a romantic ride-off-into-the-sunset, meet-you-at-Machu-Picchu affair. Still, if you are inspired, the practical details will work themselves out.

 Today’s story is about a man I met in Ecuador. Possibly one of the loveliest, most inspiring and good-humoured men I have ever shared a pot of tea with.

 I met Chris (and, yes, that’s his real name) at a youth hostel in Quito. His disposable income, which was definitely heads above the other clientele, made this guy stand out. Plus, he had a wicked southern English accent and was about 40 years older than everyone else.

 

As an engineer he’d ticked off most of the places he wanted to see. He’d travelled to every continent. I recall that he built a dam in Afghanistan and lived in the States for a few years. He’d seen more of Australia than I had. But Latin America had, so far, eluded him.

Ecuador appealed to him for its dexterity. In four weeks he’d be able to fit in a few days in dugout canoes in the Amazon, see the mighty Andes (he managed to climb to about 5100 metres in gumboots), and, of course, frolic with the big turtles on the Galapagos.

Honestly, Ecuador is one of those afternoons when you manage to combine blue cheese, crunchy crackers, sweet quince paste and a good red. It caters to every sense.

So Chris and I met in the hostel and then ventured off to climb a mountain. This man had a serious adventurous streak. Perhaps he is Bear Grylls’ dad?

We arrived at the mountain retreat and went on an almighty scramble up a river to see a waterfall. It was a treacherous route with a glacial stream running past us. No worries for Chris. The dude was stubborn enough to make it places a city kid wouldn’t look at twice.

Unsurprisingly, Chris managed to keep up with the steady flow of red wine later that night.

He was bright-eyed in the morning, perhaps still glowing from telling us all about his Triumph car and motorbike. Both had been bought new and carefully preserved.

More hilarious tales ensued on the hike up Mount Cotopaxi, one of the world’s highest active volcanoes. We made it to the glacier together. It was a triumph for me, at 20.

The look on his face showed the immense satisfaction at making the hike as  60-year-old.

Later, we did a coy little swap. I gave him an ugly beanie I had intended for my ex and he shouted me a trip back to town. I think I saved 10 bucks and was thrilled.

We said farewell and he headed off to do some hunting with a native tribe. I headed into the forest for some zip lining.

On a whim I ended up in the Galapagos. We met again serendipitously on a busy street and told tall tales of mermaid antics with seals.

This dude was glowing. I have never seem a man in his 60s look so youthful.

He had conquered diarrhoea, altitude, been at sea for days and had done it all on a timetable that would have freaked out the most frantic working mother.

So, thinking of Chris still motivates me. If he can see the world, so can I, I think. And look how happy he is – I want that.

But what I can’t forget is that there’s no hurry. Don’t forget to live life in between. Don’t live for the holidays. Instead make the routines and everyday moments the stuff of dreams. And those other dreams, the riding-off-into-exotic-sunset dreams, they’ll come too.

After all, Chris was a patient man.