A Sideways Glance at NSW

It was a relief to return back to a humane climate after the baltic stroll in China, and Australia was certain as to provide warmth in abundance. I would be staying with my friends from University Matty and Katie at their new apartment in Kings Cross. Luckily, having stayed in Sydney the year before I was aware of the carnival atmosphere of that particular district. I managed to dodge the temptations of the mature and sore-ridden ladies whose virtues were questionable on route to the flat as flocks of backpackers and camper vans careered by. Before Matty and Katie finished work I had time to spare to take a breath and mop my sweaty brow in a Cafe nearby called DOV. I was amazed to see that none other than Izzy Hoyland from Neighbours was sat reclined in large chair opposite me alongside a lank haired douchebag. Bizarrely enough, the year before I had spotted her at Sydney Airport on Christmas Day taking the same early morning flight to Melbourne. She was most probably pleased to see me once again. However, her choice of a steak sandwich at lunch eroded any chance she had with getting in my good books.

Matty Rees-Jones. He eats.

After I finally spotted the lean figure of my long suffering ex-housemate Matty in his unusually smart office attire approaching on Victoria Street, he welcomed me in to his generous bosom and guided me to his roof terrace, showcasing the birds-eye view of the Harbour Bridge and Opera House whilst firing open a bottle of champagne to ease me back into the Western world.

Guilty

Nothing says hanging around with Matty more than taking a football out to the park and showcasing our clumsy kick ups and inevitably falling over on to the dry grass when the sight of nearby pretty company distracts us. We jogged to Hyde Park and were not quite successful in attempting to avoid belting the ball disastrously towards the main road whilst running energetically in the shadow of the towering Captain James Cook monument. I was surprised to learn from the rusty plaque by his statue that he was born in Marton in Yorkshire. So little do I know about my adopted County of birth, and so marginal guilt I have for this either.

As the weekend peered around the corner, the three of us, including Paul - a friend and work colleague of Matty hailing from the gold leafed pavements of Staines in London, rented out a Toyota (the brakes worked, thankfully) and took her for a spin to the wine region of the Hunter Valley. I will always be amused at my previous thoughts on the landscape of Australia, I made grossly mistaken presumptions of arid plains as opposed to the sub alpine woodlands and dense forests amid the swooping plateaus of the region that enveloped the trail to our destination.

This pose was a mistake, the bunch of grapes had a hint of dung

We had hinted that our wine-tasting tour would kick off at sunrise, but instead took a rather more cautious approach towards our day of highlighting our judging skills. By 11am we had inhaled, oxygenated and taken in around ten samples of local produce. The areas famous Semillion taking an early lead in favour of the panel. Amusingly, at Tullochs, one of our first wineries that we held ransom to, we were distracted by a sudden door swing as a man ran into the reception area, out of breath and calling for the Manager. The man, it transpired, was a sweat ridden and sallow eyed groom-to-be who rather desperately bellowed down the hall as to whether today was the day he had booked his afternoon wedding for. Much to his utter relief it was indicated that his ceremony was pencilled in for the following day. The beau, it is hoped, will already be prepared for a pot-holed journey through matrimony.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the legendary Mr. Audrey Wilkinson

We managed to drive by a further six more wineries that afternoon, amassing a treasure chest of jade green bottles as scalps from each. Our inebriated footsteps leading towards a late night barbecue by our villa (by villa, read trailer) accompanied by a surge of warm water rain dampening our chicken kebabs but certainly not our appetite.

The rain had mostly cleared on Sunday, and so we decided to take our worn tyred silver machine to the Northern Beaches. I must say that I feel honoured and privileged to have ambled down the same soft golden sands of Palm Beach as such luminaries as Alf Stewart, Donald Fisher and Pippa, as well as gazing starry eyed at the slight frame of the Summer Bay Surf Club.

The Club Official would be proud

Hunter Valley Song of the Day: The Jackson 5 - I Want You Back

As close as you can get to the perfect pop song. The car erupted in off key harmony as we glided past the wineries and broken down cars of the Hunter Valley. 3T, a band featuring the three sons of Tito, came mighty close to rebuilding the Jackson dynasty, but their success was unfortunately short lived, even after penning the sound track for Free Willy and Free Willy 2 - which ironically was their Uncle's favourite snack at Neverland.

i-Pod Song of the Day: Damien Rice - Dogs
Uncharacteristically Damien sweeps away the vitriol and introduces some sweetness in this little number from the bleak 9 album.

She lives with an orange tree the girl that does yoga / Got a wolf to keep her warm when he comes over / She gives he gets without giving anything to see / And the day it ends / And the day it.. / And the day it ends / And there's no need for me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsW-cVy62pw