Do not pass Go. Go directly to 45:42

 

 

In this rare video you can experience the very best of the Cape York Peninsula from the delights of historic Cooktown to the mining giant that is Weipa. Travel to "The Tip" via the exciting challenge of the Overland Telegraph Line and marvel at the natural wonders of the region's national parks, the magic of the verdant rainforest of Iron Range, and the rivers and streams that are the everlasting images of Cape York.

However, if you want to see where almost fifty years ago I lived in one of the most exciting places I've ever been to and worked in one of the least challenging jobs I've ever worked in, then go straight to 45:42.

 

 

The upstairs window to the right of that big tree was my office from where I gazed across the azure waters towards Horn Island whenever what little work needed to be done had been done. A perfect tropical sinecure but not for a young man in his "Sturm und Drang" years with many places yet to go. Staying would have been fatal to my ambitions.

 

I took this photo in 1977. My office window is to the right of the big B in IIB

 

Robert Frost expressed it so well ...

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

 

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When the cat's away ...

 

Like mice I do like my cheese, and there's nothing better than an improvised lunch of chunks of cheese washed down with a glass (or two or three?) of Retsina. It's still Easter Sunday; it's still all very peaceful and quiet; and the cat's still away ...

I've been reading Simon Winchester's book of his journeys to the surviving relics of the British Empire: the British Indian Ocean Territory and Diego Garcia, Tristan, Gibraltar, Ascension Island, St Helena, Hong Kong, Bermude, the British West Indies, the Falkland Islands, and Pitcairn, and I did so without any interfering groans of "Not another tropical island!" from You-know-who (she's just rung to say she'll be late; I said "Please take your time!", with a strong emphasis on PLEASE).

 

 

"Outposts" is an enlightening and enlightened ramble through the remains of the British Empire. As Simon Winchester puts it in its introduction: "It is at this point that I have to struggle to suppress a certain chauvinism which inevitably rears its head. For it seems to me today, after almost two further decades of hindsight and further wanderings and reflection on matters colonial, that of all the recent European sea-borne Empires - the French, the German, the Dutch, the Portuguese, the Spanish and the British - it is, singularly, the British Empire that managed to leave behind the kind of legacy of which, dare one say it, some might still be rightly proud." And so dare say all of us!

Just to confuse Simon Winchester fans, it was also published under the title "The Sun Never Sets" which is where you can find it at archive.org.

Grab a chunk of cheese and a glass of Retsina and I meet you there!

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Looks good mown, eh Lisa?

In April 2017, Canturf erected a sign suggested by a Gundaroo farmer – ‘Putin the seed and it comes up Trumps’ – in reference to Russian digital manipulation of the 2016 US election.

 

There is a town or, as it is now styled in deference to its tourist potential, a village just outside Canberra by the name of Bungendore. It is inhabited by urban refugees, Aussie battlers and people with cow-shit on their boots.

Even though Bungendore and Canberra aren't more than a couple of hours' driving away - I used to do it in just over one hour IF I wasn't stopped for speeding! - I haven't been back to Canberra in almost twenty years. I don't really want to see the place again but we'll have to go there soon to renew Padma's passport at the Indonesian Embassy.

When I still commuted between Nelligen and Canberra, the only thing that brought a smile to my face during the long and boring drive were Canturf's advertising signs on either side of Bungendore. Back then their signs were intentionally saucy with sexy inuendoes which today's wokism has put an end to, but it's still safe to engage in the odd political pun.

 

Other political puns were " It's Greener than Brown" and "Remains Green ... With No Labour" with a nod to Canberra which has a reputation for being Green.

 

As I wrote before, I was always in too much of a hurry to either get home or back to work to take any photographs but from memory I recall "Mown and Grown in Fyshwick" and "Feeling Lawnly? Pickup at Fyshwick" which were thinly disguised references to the capital city's brothels.

 

 

If you wonder who comes up with all those puns, the answer is, "You do!" If you come up with an original saying and think it would be a good Canturf sign, send it in to them via their webpage. You may pick up an easy $250 which you could spend in Fyshwick. Now, there's a challenge!

As for their sign, 'Looks good mown, eh Lisa?', it was posted on a German travel website trying to explain Australian slang to prospective visitors.

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“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after." — Henry David Thoreau

 

This little wooden cabin cruiser has been anchored off "Riverbend" since yesterday and I think I know what its occupant is after: peace and quiet and a bit of solitude which is what I'm getting by the bucketful today because Padma has gone to the Bay for an "Easter Breakfast" with some friends. All that peace and quiet to do what I want to do when I want to do it!

Cooking my porridge was first on the list; then feeding the resident possum-mum and her joey; then feeding the ever-increasing number of water fowls by the pond, including a very fat goose which seems to have adopted us as her new home; then cutting up bits of corned beef for the flock of kookaburras that arrive regularly by mid-morning; then Gonzo the resident water dragon climbed onto the verandah to claim his share.

 

 

After all those chores, it's time for me to relax while watching a movie. "Mit dem Zug von Berlin nach Peking" offers just the right mixture of "Fernweh" and "Heimweh" because, unlike the occupant in the little cabin cruiser who has since weighed anchor and gone, I'm not going anywhere. I am exactly where I want to be: at home, avoiding people.

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When day turned into night

Go to 14:15 where day turned into night

 

It was at midday on New Year's Eve 2019 when the skies turned pitchblack for just a few minutes (or was it only seconds?), and then an apocalyptic fireball erupted in the forest across the river which sent burning ambers across to "Riverbend". Moments later every blade of grass and every tree on "Riverbend" was ablaze!

We were too busy packing our survival packs (passports, insurance policies, bank records, tax returns, address book, etc.) to take photos but a more tech-savvy neighbour up the lane took a whole series of video clips and put them on YouTube where I discovered them only now.

I had visited him that same morning, suggesting that he should join us with some other neighbours at a safer place. He had been in our small community since 2007 which seemed to have been long enough for him to exclaim, "I'd rather burn to death than meet any of my neighbours!"

 

 

He didn't burn to death then; instead he got killed in a motorcycle accident while on holidays in Thailand three years later - click here.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

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P.S. Paul Parker of Nelligen achieved instant infamy with this outburst:

 

The best-reasoned opinion yet on why the VOICE referendum - luckily! - failed

If you find the text too small to read, click on each image to enlarge, then press the CTRL button and, without taking your finger off, press the + button, which will enlarge the text. Keep doing it until you have a comfortable reading size. (Use the - button to reduce the size)

From Issue 44 of the South Coast History Society's RECOLLECTIONS.
To be emailed a regular copy, send a request to Peter Lacey at
southcoasthistory@yahoo.com

 

The unlikely voyage of Jack de Crow

A.J. Mackinnon was born in Australia in 1963. He got a Diploma in Education and a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, Linguistics and Anglo-Saxon from the University of Adelaide. His teaching career started at Westminster school, Adelaide, where he taught English and Drama for four years. After this time he traveled overland England by yacht, hitch-hiking, river-canoe and even horseback - spending a brief time in a Chinese prison after accidentally swimming into China and being attacked by Komodo Dragons, amongst other experiences. In England he taught at Sherborne and Cheltenham before becoming Head of Drama at Ellesmere College, Shropshire, where he also taught English. From Ellesmere he launched his unlikely voyage aboard his dinghy Jack de Crow. He is currently teaching English and Drama at Geelong Grammar School in Australia where he also coaches sailing.

 

Truly hilarious books are rare. Even rarer are those based on real events. In "The unlikely voyage of Jack de Crow" A.J. Mackinnon, charming and eccentric guide, takes you on an amazing voyage in a boat called Jack de Crow.

A couple of quiet weeks sailing the River Severn was the intention. Somehow things got out of hand – a year later he had reached Romania and was still going ... Equipped with his cheerful optimism and a pith helmet, this Australian Odysseus in a dinghy travels from the borders of North Wales to the Black Sea – 4,900 kilometres over salt and fresh water, under sail, at the oars, or at the end of a tow-rope – through twelve countries, 282 locks and numerous trials and adventures, including an encounter with Balkan pirates. Along the way he experiences the kindness of strangers, gets very lost, and perfects the art of slow travel.

 

Read the book online at archive.org
or listen to a pre-"listen" of the audiobook here.

 

It's just the sort of book to read on a quiet and peaceful Easter morning, tucked away in "Melbourne" and surrounded by the river on two sides.

 

 

Even though a Mirror is to the sailing world what a Volkswagen Beetle is to the world of motoring, the nearest I ever owned to a Mirror dinghy was a Heron, and that was in Lae in New Guinea just before I left for landlocked Rangoon in 1975. It's such a long time ago that I've racked my brain to recall the name of my little boat but to no avail. Not forgotten are the many days I sailed the empty Huon Gulf, far away from land and without even a lifejacket let alone an EPIRB. The things I did when I was still young and foolish and felt immortal (these days I am only foolish!)

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P.S. I've only just remembered the name of my little Heron: it was called "Flipper". How flippant of me not to have remembered it!

P.P.S. I had parted with my beautiful hardcover copy of the book when the "bookthief" Peter Johnson, skipper of SY EKAZA, visited "Riverbend" - click here - because that's what I do: I read book and I pass them on - and it was nice to find another copy at Vinnies to read again over Easter.

 

I'm on my best behaviour in the pool

 

I've been on my best behaviour in the pool for the last few visits because one of the recent newcomers is a retired parole officer. His name is Ian and he is a Yorkshireman who came to Australia in 1985.

This morning he mentioned the movie "Oppenheimer" which he had watched on some subscription channel - I think it was Netflix -which he highly recommended (the movie, not Netflix). We've only have access to ABC TV and, of course, my huge DVD collection to which I'm about to add by buying a copy of "Oppenheimer" which I found on ebay for $21.

 

 

After all those $2-DVDs I've been buying at Vinnies it seems like a lot of money but I've just banked my half-yearly BHP dividends and feel rich again - and how could I not heed the advice of my parole officer?

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Cliffy

 

 

Another great Aussie movie was recently shown on ABC television tonight: Cliffy, the true story of the 61-yer-old Cliff Young, an oddity from the small Victorian regional town of Colac. For a start, he's a vegetarian. And he's a teetotaller. Add to that, he's a virgin and still lives on the family farm with his mother.

Cliff scrounges out a meagre existence farming potatoes and a few dairy cattle. That's not so odd in these parts. But when he's not battling the fickleness of nature, Cliff doesn't head to the pub or the footy ground like most. He spends his time running, covering vast distances in a single day. On one of these runs, he meets a local girl, Mary, and an unexpected connection is formed.

When the potato crop fails - again - Cliff enters the inaugural 550 mile Sydney-to-Melbourne footrace in 1983. He hooks up with his old friend, Wally, who hasn't trained a decent runner in years, and who now lives a sad existence alone.

This unlikely duo set out to defy the doubters and qualify for the gruelling race. But waiting for Cliff in Sydney are the world's greatest distance runners and a media that views his ramshackle entourage with wide-eyed incredulity.

 

The real Cliff Young

 

Foregoing sleep, Cliff runs eighteen hours a day. When he hits the wall and can't go on, Mary is on hand to help him through. When he takes the lead and shuffles on, Australia is utterly transfixed. Five days later, a nation celebrates when Cliffy wins by the proverbial country mile.

 

 

In memory of Noel Butler

 

Noel (left) and I at Wewak in New Guinea sometime in the early 70s

 

Basically your friends are not your friends for any particular reason. They are your friends for no particular reason. The job you do, the family you have, the way you vote, the major achievements and blunders of your life, your religious convictions or lack of them, are all somehow set off to one side when the two of you get together.

If you are old friends, you know all those things about each other and a lot more besides, but they are beside the point. Even if you talk about them, they are beside the point. Stripped, humanly speaking, to the bare essentials, you are yourselves the point. The usual distinctions of older-younger, richer-poorer, smarter-dumber, male-female even, cease to matter. You meet with a clean slate every time, and you meet on equal terms. Anything may come of it or nothing may. That doesn't matter either. Only the meeting matters.

Noel Butler was such a friend. Some friends are more or less replaceable with other friends. Noel was not. I last heard from him on this day exactly twenty-nine years ago. He'd sent me a "Greetings from Childers by Night" postcard which was all black except for those words. On the back he had written, "Hope your outlook on the future is not as black as this; mine is but that's inevitable." I was then far too young and far too busy and far too full of myself to think that this was more than a funny card. Four months later, Noel was dead.

Rest in Peace, Noel! Your memory lives on at "Riverbend" and so does your card which, beautifully framed, sits on top of the mantelpiece.

As long as we live, they too will live,
for they are now a part of us,
as long as we remember them.

 

 

I'm all chocolate-ears to hear about your Easter

 

Some shopper at Woolies had an early Easter and ate the ears of a chocolate bunny and washed it all down with a half-drunk can of Coke. They may not have paid for it now but will no doubt pay for it later in life with their obesity. Happy Easter!

My own Easter came early when I found a copy of Thomas L. Friedman's "The Lexus and the Olive Tree" which is about the struggle between the drive for prosperity and development, symbolised by the Lexus LS, and the desire to retain identity and traditions, symbolized by the olive tree.

 

 

My other early-Easter discovery is Christopher Kremmer's "The Carpet Wars", an absolutely rivetting and timely account of a decade spent living, travelling and reporting from Asia and the Middle East. If you haven't a goldcoin to spare, you can read it for free on archive.org.

 

 

I'm all set for Easter! I'm all chocolate-ears to hear about your Easter.

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Public Housing Scheme inspired by the AUKUS submarine program

 

In a desperate bid to lure the Federal Government into addressing the housing crisis, welfare rights groups - inspired by THE SHOVEL - have proposed new submarine-shaped public housing blocks, which they say will lead to hundreds of billions of dollars in extra funding.

“The trick is not to tell policy makers that they’re houses,” campaigner Natalie Kusama said. “Instead we’ll say they’re high-tech military devices personally approved by the US President. The money will flow immediately”.

It is expected the plan could net up to $350 billion, which could fund as many as a million new homes. “We’ll probably have to agree for the apartments to be designed in the UK, use US technology, be built in Adelaide and then shipped to where they’re needed. But it’s the only way we’ll get the proposal over the line”.

Kusama admitted the plan was inspired by the AUKUS submarine program, but said the two project were quite different. “These apartments will actually get built”.

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We are our memories

 

Yours truly outside the ANZ Bank Kingston A.C.T. in 1969

 

We don't just treasure our memories; we are our memories. And yet, memory is less like a collection of photographs than it is like a collection of impressionist paintings rendered by an artist who's taken considerable licence with his subject.

I wrote elsewhere about my years with the ANZ Bank - click here - and living at Barton House - click here - which shaped my future like no other period in my life, and I will always be grateful to the late Mr Robert Reid, the then manager of the ANZ Bank in Canberra, who hired me as a youngster, fresh off the boat from Europe, and gave me the chance of a new start in a new country.

While Mr Reid made the initial decision to hire me, it was John Burke as my immediate boss who had to make it work by putting up with my 'German-ness', both in accent and attitude, although he never took himself too seriously to make me feel that he was the boss. In fact, while I was just a lowly ledger examiner and trainee teller, John was a consummate teller - a teller of jokes, that is.

For us Germans jokes are no laughing matter. Maybe it's because we lack the flexibility of the English language whose vocabulary and grammar allow for endlessly amusing confusions of meanings, or because we killed all the funny people, but we simply fail to understand the rhetorical trifecta of irony, overstatement and understatement, of which John was - and still is - a past master. He just had to mention the war or say in a Monty Python-kind of voice "I haff a funny joke for jew and jew vill laugh" for my head to go down to suppress a convulsive giggle.

Back in those days I knew nothing, so John taught me all about the importance of the comma ("eats roots and leaves") and how to know when "you're in love". He also introduced me to psychoanalysis ("I talk to the trees, that's why they put me away") and politics (I can't remember which party it was he wanted me to join as a country member) and let me in on a banking secret ("once you withdraw, you lose all your interest"). John was a fun-sort of a boss. He got things done not by cracking a whip but by cracking a joke! Under his tutelage, my compulsory two years in Australia simply flew by.

I still knew a good German joke - just the one but I won't repeat it here because I know you won't find it funny - and could compound nouns with the best of them, but slowly the voices in my head began to speak in English and I learnt that "I'm sorry but all the banknotes are the same size" wasn't the correct answer to a customer asking for larger ones.

At the time, everyone over the age of thirty looked middle-aged, and everyone over fifty looked absolutely ancient, but here we are, almost sixty years later, belonging to the same category of the non-young, and turning our pasts into anecdotes which is one way of not losing the plot when you get old. I always thought growing old would take longer than this.

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Last of the Summer Wine

 

 

A quiet start to the weekend at "Riverbend" with the sort of grey and overcast weather so often seen in "Last of the Summer Wine", the longest-running British sitcom set in Yorkshire created and written by Roy Clarke and originally broadcast by the BBC from 1973 to 2010.

After all the blood and murder in "Death in Paradise" and "Midsummer Murders" - not to mention the recently binge-watched "NCIS" which I had never heard of until Padma introduced me to it - "Last of the Summer Wine" brings a layer of calmness and contentment to life which is sometimes hard to find these days. Add all that beautiful scenery, and you have a masterpiece. Whenever I watch this show, it makes the world a gentler and simpler place. As Clegg remarks, "Suddenly, life is like first-class mail. There doesn't seem to be any urgency anymore."

There are quite a few of the altogether 295 episodes of "Last of the Summer Wine" on YouTube, although not all of the finest vintage, and you may prefer to buy your own DVDs - or do as I did and track them down at your local Vinnies where I found the complete series 11 and 12.

 

Yours for $149.98 - click here

 

And then there are the books that take you behind the scenes: "Last of the summer wine : the inside story of the world's longest-running comedy programme"; "Last of the summer wine - the finest vintage"; and "Last of the Summer Wine - The best scenes, jokes and one-liners"

Here again is the famous theme song. You are allowed to sing along!

 '

 

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Bigger than "War and Peace"

 

Seasons in the Sun" is the final 1000-page volume in this great tetralogy of Britain's history since the war, and, on paper at least, the bleakest. It covers the period from March 1974 to May 1979 – the last Wilson administration, the advent of James Callaghan, the IMF crisis, the Lib-Lab Pact and the Winter of Discontent.

 

Read it online at www.archive.org

 

I picked it up at Vinnies Moruya after our usual Friday roast beef lunch at the bowling club. What are my chances of finding the preceding "State of Emergency", "White Heat", and "Never Had It So Good"?

They are on www.archive.org but who can read 3000 pages online?

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