Karaoke!:



The Bridge, from a 2am Opera House viewpoint:



Alex and Eli, indulging in the culinary art of choosing Maccers:

Sydney: April 1st to 5th

The acquisition of friends gives travelling a certain routine. Get up, call each other, go out shopping or to the beach, go home, shower, meet later at the pub. This kind of routine changes the way your current location feels. For me, Sydney becomes a much more comfortable place. By now I am a connoisseur of the bus system (Jessamie, my wise teacher), am beginning to know where many of the city's streets and parks are, know the best time of day to visit Bondi or Circular Quay, and remember the location of some of Sydney's cheapest watering holes.

I wake up on Sunday morning with a headache and a writhing stomach. It seems that's Jessamie, with the help of Passion Pop and Bundaberg Rum, got me ever so slightly drunk last night. I lie still for a couple of hours, wondering how my body is still running when my blood appears to have been replaced by alcohol. Midday rolls round and I decide to kick my hangover to the curb and visit Bondi Beach for the first time.

Bondi, for all its hype and celebrity, is actually somewhat of a muted sight. It is more sprawling than Cogee, and seems to embody, to a certain degree, the idea of faded glamour. The first thing I notice is the skate park by the beach. Take a visit to most skate parks in rural England and you will find a dull mixture of nervous and talentless eleven year olds, large packs of chavs with no visible skating equipment, and groups of giggling girls huddled around boys whose trouser crotches almost touch their shoes. This is not so at Bondi. I sit down and watch with amazement and envy and kids and adults alike flip, spin, roll and fly their way over various obstacles, performing tricks I can't even pull off on Tony Hawks's computer games. It's the deep bowl to the left that holds the real excitement, and I watch disbelievingly as older but positively not wiser men drop in a fly out. There are several painful looking bails, causing a middle-aged skater with a ginger beard and mohawk to sigh and say, "I wish you'd wear pads you mad buggers".

I pass the rest of the day lying in the sun, and exploring the Bondi beach front. I recklessly buy an expensive hat from the market where Justine is working today. It was calling out to me and I seemed to have misplaced my will power. Before I know it, it is time to meet my new friends for dinner.

As I approach Alex and Elinor, waiting and chatting inside Central, I smile. It feels a little like meeting up with friends at home. Rachel joins us a few minutes later, but Ryan pikes (a very useful Aussie word meaning 'drops out') due to a crippling hangover. We wander through China Town being yelled at by restaurant owners to come and eat at their identical establishments. An incredibly enthusiastic and wonderfully camp Chinese waiter grabs Alex's arm and practically drags him to a table but we manage to break free and make a run for it. Eventually an offer of free soft drinks makes us choose an establishment at the top end of the road. One hour later and I am arguing with the hostess- Eli had a scrap of metal in her dinner, and we found a caterpillar hiding in Oxford's- but to no avail. No free meal for us. Let this be a lesson to you: never eat somewhere simply because they offer you cheap knock-off cola for free. It has, however, been one of the most amusing dinners I've ever had so we forgive and forget as we wander into a very Australian pub filled with middle-aged people singing karaoke.

Now. Karaoke can usually be one of only two things- either it is immense fun or it is arrestingly embarrassing. The decision as to which of these situations will prevail on any given night is usually made by how much beer you manage to consume before your name is read out. Tonight however, neither of these two usual case scenarios occur. This pub is full of men and woman at the greying end of middle age, all drunker than we are, and not a single on of them can sing. I can not imagine what would have to happen to cause embarrassment in this company. Everyone is very sweet though and no one seems to mind when we all start dancing with slightly too much enthusiasm, using bar stools as props and generally throwing each other around. Alex and Elinor sing that karaoke classic, 'Summer Nights'. Oh what a joy. Alex substitutes the line 'she got friendly down in the sand' for 'she got friendly down in my pants' and the Swede nearly falls off the stage laughing.

Later, Eli, Oxford and I perform a spectacularly crap rendition of 'I Will Survive'. Laughing we spill out of the pub at closing time, roping a bouncer into having his photo taken with us, and are all grabbed by the feeling of not wanting to part just yet. And so, still laughing and singing, we skip and heel click our way to the Opera House- quite a walk. The city is sparkling from this vantage point, but it is two in the morning and all except the lights are sleeping in Sydney. It is, after Maccers of course, time for bed.

The following day the gang come to Cogee. I am filled, strangely, by the desire to show people how much nicer it is than Bondi, and so am glad when Elle, Oxford and Alex love it. Jessamie's hospitality and her wonderful flat have made me fall head over heels for this suburb. The weather is perfect, it's a storybook day. The water is crystal clear and we swim first in the bay, then later in the natural baths. Easy conversation in the sun colours both my mind and my skin and as I float, hands behind head, watching Eli cuddled in a towel sit on a rock above me, Alex fiddling with barnacles by the breaking waves, and oxford deep in contemplation in the shade of the cliff, I wonder why some people don't travel. There are moments as simple but incredible as this to be had all over the world.

The next day I awake with the best intentions but, as usual, I am sidetracked by the sun, laziness, and Maxibon cookie ice creams. Plans to do the Bondi to Cogee coast walk melt away as Eli, Oxford and I never get any further than Bondi's grassy banks where we lie for hours in the sun, discussing how we miss Alex who has departed for Uluru, and many other subjects. I seem to be spending more and more time horizontal these days. Pretty soon I'm just going to have to sleep in the park so I needn't bother rising at all.

This evening I have my first experience of World Bar, a place I am instantly taken with. The Bridport Massive would be right at home here. This large club in King's Cross (slightly dodgy but fun area of Sydney) is a haven for backpackers- good music, cheap beer, free stuff and friendly people. And, most importantly, karaoke on Tuesdays. Tonight, I realise with a gulp, is Tuesday. Thankfully though the list for singers is already full and so the torture this evening comes not from my own mouth, but from hearing various people from all over the world (and most especially Holland) wail their way through "hits" by artists as diverse as Bryan Adams and Evanescence. Rachel attaches herself to the face of a fellow Scot and we see little of her this evening (I suspect her male friend sees a great deal more) and Elle introduces me to a lad from Aberdeen named Steve. Friendly, inquisitive and open, I like him instantly. Somehow it is 3am and after meeting a bunch of weird and wonderful people, drinking shots from tea pots (six shots in a tea pot for A$10!) and generally enjoying myself, I leave Eli (Rachel is long gone) and walk to my bus. Before arriving home a Sri Lankan guy I point the bus timetable out to asks me back to his for a beer. Men are so funny. Needless to say, I choose my bed.

I arrange the next morning to do something truly shameful with the Swede. Yes, today we are going to Ikea. Being on the other side of the world makes no difference to the appearance of this megastore. The Swede, however, is like a kid in a candy shop. She pulls books from the shelves and reads happily aloud in Swedish. She explains what all the furniture names mean and dives in and out of the little show apartments, discussing how she will deck out her future home with floor to ceiling Ikea. I laugh and ask if she will have a flat pack family also, remarking that she reminds me of Edward Norton in Fight Club. We find a particularly comfy bed in the linen showroom and lie down for a long while, forgetting for a time that we are in a shop. A swift reminder comes in the form of a couple who are interested in actually buying our resting place, and so we run through lighting and into the food shop where Eli buys all manner of unappetising looking sweets. The evening I pass at a little party for Justine's flatmate Tristan, a fabulously stylish, amusing, and sweet boy who is turning twenty two today.

The next day, as I wander around Paddy's markets with Eli and another Swede name Natalie -Paddy's is a huge indoor market that runs Thursday to Saturday, a regular treasure trove of tempting tat- we chat about perhaps travelling together for the next few weeks. Deciding on the house rules of travelling we reach a decision that it would be a great idea. Later though, as we browse for jumpers on George Street, the work Elinor didn't think she was going to get called and the dynamics change. She must now stay in Sydney and work. This is a shame, but I know now that it is time to go. Time to see something new. Time to explore.

And I am excited.

Pictures to accompany the blog below. Enjoy.

Jamison Valley:



Three Sisters:



Oxford, thinking smart thoughts no doubt:



Stupidly scenic:



The intrepid explorers:



Wentworth Falls:



Ryan, ever the gentleman:



The Blue Mountains. It's not Colmers:



Hot stuff:



Alex. Counting rice. Yes, really:



The top. And Alex, picking his nose:

Blue Mountains: March 28th to April 1st

Notes: For this blog I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to use your imagination, as neither my words nor their accompanying pictures will help your fully understand the beauty of this place. Also, as I write this blog with a pen in my notebook then type it later, people are referred to in different ways. In this blog, Elinor may also appear as Eli, Ellie, Elle, the Swede or Buster. Rachel might appear as Oxford. You'll get the idea.

One thing that is true about the Blue Mountains in that they are big. And, it has to be said, somewhat blue. This phenomenon is apprently caused by eucalyptus mist hanging in the air above the forest. The train ride to Katoomba, the mountain town that is my destination, takes under two hours from Sydney but might as well be a world away. I arrive late afternoon, bright eyed if not bushy tailed. The air has that deliciously clear quality brought by altitude and a shining sun that illuminates Katoomba, a small Wild West looking town packed with second hand book shops, curiosity stores, and art deco cafes. The steeply sloping main stree leads to my hostel, a large converted dance hall that will give you warm place to sleep, a kitchen to cook in, and a large amount of sofas to lounge on for ten quid a night.

A few hours of relative lonliness I fill with bed making and food shopping are ended by Rachel, an eighteen year old Scot, also travelling alone. We meet on the sofas and shyly exchange small talk for a while, before we are joined by two more solo travellers, thirty five year old Gizmo, and Peter, an older man taking a five week vacation from his wife. Conversation becomes comfortable and enlightening -Gizmo served a year and a half in Iraq and Afghanistan,, Rachel is going to Oxford University in the autumn- and the evening falls away into night.

I wake in the morning slightly disgruntled -one of the women in my dorm is a regular juke box when she sleeps- and rise to a warm but greay day. Rachel and Gizmo and I eat breakfast together before Gizmo departs for New Zealand, and Rachel and I head out on one of the Blue Mountains' many bush walks. We stroll for twenty minutes down to the Three Sisters, a trio of giant rock forations at the edge of the simple enormous Jamison Valley and it's many sheer cliffed mountains. It is quite a view. Down the left hand side of the Sisters, nine hundred stairs plummet us into the rainforest. We walk for perhaps two hours before our plans are cut short by the path dropping away before us into a landslide. Apparently there is a way around this problem but as we are both British and believe firmly in Health and Safety, we turn on our tails and head back the other way, past the bottom of the stairs and onto the leafy, rocky path to Leura Falls.

Rachel, it transpires, is excellent conversation, and we cover all manner of subjects as we trek through the trees, lingering on philosophy, a shared passion. We reach a waterfall and are confronted by steeply ascending steps, unavoidable and seemingly endless. As we climb, the water cascades past us, countless mini-waterfalls and crystal clear pools lining our path. The stairs, however, are merciless. Up and up and up we go, over wooden steps, metal ladders, natural rock, all on a mission to kill my calf muscles and reduce me to tears. After quite some time and a good deal of whinging, I ask a man bouncing down the track past us if we have far to go to the top. He stops, looks at me for a moment, then starts laughing before continuing on his way down the stairs, still chuckling to himself. All hope drains from me as I turn back to the cliff. Here we go again. Eventually, mercifully, we reach the top and a view almost worth climbing up for. Back at the hostel Rachel and I eat buns and sit on the sofas moaning softly and gazing forlornly at our aching feet.

The most magical thing about hostels is that they get you to socialise with people you would never otherwise have had the opportunity to meet. Tonight Rachel introduces me to a cheeky, friendly and energetic boy, our age, called Alex. The three of us bond with Ryan and Dan, two lads from Leeds, over a game of pool and suddenly there's a group of us, talking as if we'd known each other for years. There is something about their scruffy outfits, northern accents, beards, and the vast amount of beer they consume that makes me underestimate Ryan and Dan. After several hours of conversation it becomes clear that they are both very interesting, knowing huge amounts about music, sport, films and the like. Ryan turns out to know something about pretty much everything, and is immense fun to talk and listen to. I enjoy the feeling of having my initial judgements proved wrong and go to bed with a smile on my face.

The next day I rise later than usual and eat breakfast with Oxford. My legs, sadly unfit, do not think walking is a very good idea. One must always obey ones muscles and so I decide to pass the day with a stroll to the Three Sisters with Alex, lunch out with Jess who is up on a field trip with uni, and postcard writing. In the evening, Ryan returns from a mammoth walk and Rachel from waterfall spotting, and we resume sitting around and chatting- practically a sport in Katoomba. Another new friend in the form of Gill, a thirty year old North Londener, is comandeered and a decision to walk down at 9pm and see the Three Sisters lit up is reached. Gill invites a new roomate, twenty one year old Elinor from Sweden, to join us and as we walk down, I marvel a the speed with which bonds form. Ryan strolls behind, chatting to Gill, Rachel and Ellie walk ahead discussing their trips, and Alex and I quietly tell one another the rudest jokes we know.

The Sisters, lit by a huge orange light, look as magestic as ever, but it is the valley, lit sparingly by a full moon, that makes the view worth gasping for. The trees are a deep blue and we all gaze at the stars above them and wonder at the sheer size of this place.

Back at the hostel the six of us sit and talk until after midnight. Six people who would never have sat talking back at home. Some go to bed but Ellie, Alex and I laugh together until 2am, at which point it is most certainly time to give ourselves some rest in preperation for a long walk the next day.

Even meeting Sir Ian McKellen two years ago did not feel more like being in Lord Of The Rings than walking the National Pass the next day. A short train ride to Wentworth Falls brings us to the start of the walk. The entire day is like a scene from some beautifully shot adventure movie and several times I am called upon to loudly sing the Indiana Jones theme tune. Gill, Elinor, Alex, Ryan and I all attend the walk which starts, as so many do in the Blue Mountains, with a steep descent down stairs. Being Australia, these aren't just any stairs. They edge down the side of a waterfall- sparkling, animated water, wet stepping stones, creeping vines, the whole package. The bottom seems to have been created simply as a photo opportunity, it's hard to keep a grin off my face.

The walk climbs halfway back up the cliff face and we begin walking a path worn into the rock, half way up, warm sun filling the valley for a picture postcard view. The rock towers above, at one point hollowed out into an immense bowl, lik standing at the bottom of some godly kiln. The path stumbles on and the Swede and I chat of beer and the advantages of living in a society that accepts midday drinking. Suddenly, out of nowhere, comes our first view of Wentworth Falls. English, full to the bursting with words though it is, simply does not have enough adjectives to describe this sort of vista. It is awesome in the old fashioned sense and as we clamber over to the mid-section of the falls, I feel a strange sense of achievment.

We sit for some time, Alex and I chomping on pizza rolls, everyone enjoying packed lunch, before the Wentworth Falls photo shoot begins. This is a half-hour long exercise in which we all strike various ridiculous poses standing by the falls, and spend a long time trying to get photos of the water itself that do the pictures from our eyes justice- an impossibility of course, but always worth a short (no pun intended). And then it is time, once again, for a load of bloody steps. What else? This is the Blue Mountains afters all; the trailblazers here had clearly never seen June Whitfield in the highly convincing Stannah Stair Lift adverts or they would have installed one right away. These particular stairs -if you care, which I certainly don't half way up them- are cut into the cliff face in a dramatic fashion, and I smile weakly at first the still breathtaking view and second the hordes of significantly fitter hikers bounding happily past me. Bastards.

Gill, angel of the North (London) coaxes me up and then we are at the top, gorgeous of course, and site of much more photo taking. I look at the people passing us downwards with pity in m eyes. Poor fools. They have no idea that there are twice as many steps at the other end to come up.

A 2.4km walk through the broken sunlight of the Darwin bush trail (supposedly once walked by the great man himself) returns us to the railway station. Later, after checking out and bidding farewell to Gill and Oxford; Eli, Alex, Ryan and I catch our train back to Sydney. We become that group of people that everyone hopes they don't have to sit next to on trains as we talk continuously and loudly, laugh without restraint, and argue playfully over topics ranging from yawning to what hell looks like. We hug godbye at Central Station and arrange to meet, and a suggestion from Alex and I, for dinner the following night. Standing alone waiting for my bus back to Cogee, warm Sydney breeze blowing and music in my ears, I feel a ridiculously strong hit of happiness. Even the most beautiful places, it seems, can be made more so by good company.