Straya Day, 2008

This year, we decided to forgo the national day of public drunkenness that is Australia Day in favour of a more relaxed weekend of relatively private drunkenness. Had it not been for the unfortunate demise of Trevor Drayton in an unplanned winery explosion, we would not have been researching his family history on line and would not have followed the link to the Eagle Reach Wilderness Resort. Thus, we most likely would have had a repeat of last year’s hands-and-knees-crawl through the rancid albeit historic pubs of The Rocks. Instead, we spent the long weeKEND in blissful communion with nature atop a mountain ridge overlooking an idyllic valley that alternately cured and worsened my homesickness in regular 15 minute intervals.

Spending some quality time in a quiet A-frame lodge, listening to a symphony of insects, birds, and breezes while relaxing upon an expansive wooden deck illuminated a surprising revelation: The discomfort of my adjustment to life in Australia has less to do with living in a foreign land than with having moved from the peaceful solitude of the bush to the constant noisy grind of the hustle and bustle of city life.

City life comes with many distinct advantages such as convenient and diverse take-away food, serviceable public transport, and easy access to a variety of culturally enriching venues, which, although they often cause me to frown, also provoke thoughtful reflection and spirited discourse. But nothing soothes my soul like clean open vistas, air spiced with trees and wildflowers, while communing with (read: feeding junk food to) abundant native fauna.

Our first night, we had dinner at the TreeHops Restaurant, which boasted the culinary talents of Stephen Hitchings, Sir Richard Branson’s former personal chef. I’m not entirely sure if listing one’s former employment, particularly with an eccentric such as Sir Richard, is an endorsement of one’s talents or illustrative of one's shortcomings – after all, if it was such a good gig, why are you now working in the remote wilderness, and if it was a such lousy gig that it would drive you into the remote wilderness, why are you bragging about it? Regardless, the food was delicious and paired perfectly with a local 2006 Chambourcin, which had distinct barnyard characteristics and an unmistakable finish of pig manure (it’s not for everyone). We were distressed to learn the vineyard had recently been purchased by a wealthy woman with a love of horses who had immediately desisted all farming and wine making activities upon the property. We made a mental note to purchase a souvenir bottle to take home with us.


After a dark and peaceful sleep that was not bookended by the sound of inbound trains at 1:37 am and 4:47 am, we indulged in a hot breakfast before joining the guided walk through a unique pocket of rainforest beneath a canopy of noxious vines and obnoxious birds. Invigorated by the steep but short circuit, we opted to tackle the more strenuous Moonabung Trail. Several sweaty kilometres later, we were moping over the prospects of the return hike to our car when we encountered another couple coming the other way who informed us we were a mere fifteen minutes from the reception lodge and the bounty of free bicycle hires therein. The bicycles were total crap, but that was of no concern as we glided all the way down the road to the carpark. With feelings of triumph, we had earned a bottle of wine, a soak in the private hot tub on the rear deck of our cabin, and a couple of massages at the on-site spa.

Exhaustion from the previous day’s exertions pre-empted the next day’s plans for kayaking. No drama after an inspection of the lagoon revealed it to be not much bigger than an Olympic sized swimming pool, though it was covered with lovely water lilies and served as home to a large goose, who had been quite a nuisance to paddlers prior to the mysterious disappearance of his girlfriend. Instead, we opted for a country drive through the rolling green hills of the Allyn River Valley on a route which just so happened to include a couple of boutique wineries - and also a lavender farm (which may be the most overrated scent of modern day history) where we sampled a concoction called “Driver Reviver”…who wouldn’t become suddenly alert after being spritzed in the face with a potion distinctly reminiscent of the odour of cat piss. The highlight of the drive was a visit to the friendly owner/operators of the Camyr Allyn Vineyard, who upon hearing of our infatuation with the now obsolete Chambourcin, immediately got on the phone to their newest neighbour and helped her “unload” a case of the reviled liquid for a mere $100. Considering we spent $39 a bottle at TreeHops – and were prepared to spend it again – we were quite delighted with our good fortune. So delighted, that we felt obligated to buy some of their own delicious wine.

After a brief pit stop at the local olive farm (heh), we returned to our tranquil ridge-top lodge to complete the corruption of the dietary habits of large Australian marsupials and to further contemplate our past, present, and future positions in life. As that turned out to be way too heavy, we decided to try our hand at yabbie fishing instead.

For $5, we purchased a yabbie fishing kit consisting of a length of string, some frozen red meat, and some rather optimistic recipe suggestions. The staff advised us that the trick to successful yabbie fishing was to ‘flick’ the yabbies out of the pond and that this could be facilitated by tying the string to a “random stick or odd branch”. I opted for a random stick. They neglected to mention how I was supposed to keep the bait away from the ravenous long-necked turtles and swarms of hungry minnows, but it did not take me long to perfect my technique - much to the dismay of the two blokes on the other shore who had been trying in earnest to catch dinner for several hours. We suggested they try using an odd branch, and indeed their success rate improved dramatically. They soon caught their second yabbie of the day, and then left shortly after I flicked my fifth yabbie out of the pond…though in retrospect it might have had something to do with the inordinate amount of shrieking and giggling that accompanied each catch.





On Monday, always searching for a road less travelled, we followed a winding and circuitous return route to Sydney. Oddly, the road was extremely well travelled, considering the fact that we were really in the middle of nowhere. As we traversed a mountain pass into the insignificant town of Wollombi (pronounced ‘Wollombi’), we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the chaos and congestion of a small town market day. Many rural communities have monthly markets, which are apparently a more significant social event than I ever would have imagined. With the promise of goofy antiques, local produce, and grilled onions atop fried sausage sandwiches (with coleslaw for a mere $3.50, proceeds benefiting the Wollombi Rotary Club), we braved the stifling mid-day heat and meandered through the crowds.

As nap time beckoned, we returned to the road but opted for the less travelled ‘Old Pacific Highway’, an endeavour that proved immensely satisfying as the road twisted across the traffic jams of the F3 Motorway. (Which was closed for five miserable hours the next morning following the explosion of a truck.)

Overall the weekend was tremendously fun, as evidenced by the number of bruises, bites, and scrapes with which I returned home. And, I will forever cherish the memory of Kevin making out with a Macropus robustus robustus...