I read an article recently by an Irish journalist. I can’t remember his name and I can’t be bothered referencing him anyway. This is blogland after all and if I’m not being paid for this, I’m buggered if I’m going to follow journalistic ethics. But he was about my age and said that our generation was cursed by having to emigrate twice in our lifetime.
I have of course lived up to this prediction, as I’m now experiencing my second emigration. However, describing it as a curse is slightly over the top. I left Ireland for the first time in 1988 as a callow youth desperate for the bright lights of London. We were smothering in the dank stench of depression at the time, but I have to say that the economy was low on my list of departure reasons. I had a need for adventure burning within and a desire to escape from my Mum’s cooking.
Besides, 1988 was a year when everyone seemed to be getting out. Apart from being poor, Ireland was a place of puritan Priests, corrupt politicians and awful weather. The Government imposed a departure tax to suck some final revenue from its fleeing population. This was the last straw for me and like some Vietnam draft dodger; I slipped across the border into Northern Ireland and left for London from there.
My parents saw me off at Belfast Airport. My mother had been stoic until then but she cracked when my flight was called. Throwing her arms around me, she made one final plea. “Why are you going to that God forsaken nation of Child Molesters”?
I had no answer. I couldn’t tell her that I hoped that English girls put it out a bit more than their Irish counterparts, or that I had the possibility of eating food that hadn’t been boiled for four hours. Of course I should have said that she had little right to question the morality of England when our puritan Priests were topping the world charts on molestation. But that was 21 years before the Ryan Report on Child Abuse in Ireland was published and we were largely oblivious to the degenerate cess pool in which we lived.
I stayed away for eight years that time and came back in 1996 as Ireland seemed finally to be catching up with the world. We had figured out a great wheeze for making money by selling the whole country to the Americans who used it as a vast assembly plant for the import of goods into the European Union. We then hitched a ride on the great Euro bandwagon and realised that we could live on credit provided by German and French pensioners to buy hacienda styled mansions and bouncy castles.
With the benefit of hindsight, I can now say that I always knew it was a charade. A bubble of South Sea proportions that would eventually come crashing down. If I’m honest of course, I have to admit that I enjoyed some of the fruits of the Irish boom. I bought my first house for example and watched giddily as it leaped in value. I migrated from a ten year old VW Golf to a slick two litre fuel injected monster and I developed a chicken curry fetish that expanded my waistline and left me addicted to MSG.
In my defence, I did see the crash coming from a long way out. I put my house on the market and noticed that no one was camping in the driveway to snap it up, as they had been two years earlier. Much as I wanted to come to Australia for the sun and relaxed lifestyle, I was also aware that my homeland was about to crash, even without the help of Lehman Brothers.
The rest of the country seemed to be in denial. One of my final outings before coming to Australia was to attend the General Election count in Dublin. I had hoped that my countrymen would come to their senses and elect a Government which cared about ordinary people. The ruling party however, created a mirage whereby everything seemed dandy and changing horses in mid stream would be disastrous. The long procession of victorious government candidates being chaired from the election centre sent a chill down my spine and was as good an incentive as any to get out.
Through the wonders of the Internet, I can now watch Ireland’s descent into doom and gloom on a daily basis. I didn’t have that luxury back in 1988. Occasionally, I’d pick up a copy of “The Sunday Press” if I happened to wake up in an Irish suburb of London (which happened a lot in those beer soaked days) and read about the latest factory closure in Limerick or Galway and how interest rates had rocketed to 25%. My only other source of economic news came through my weekly phone call to my mother. She measured all progress by the price of petrol and whether people were heading North or South to shop. Ironically, she was a lot more accurate than “The Sunday Press”.
But the Internet isn’t the only change to back then. The recession of the 1980’s came on the back of a pretty miserable 1970’s and the 60’s weren’t very clever either. So when the recession hit, it came on top of a very low base. People didn’t have two pennies to rub together and certainly no property to fall back on.
The current recession feels worse because we are falling from a much higher point. The reality is that most people have something to fall back on this time. The ones who bought several properties in places like Bulgaria and the Ukraine will suffer. But it’s hard to feel sorry for them. If you only own the house you live in, then you’re probably sitting on a nice piece of equity from previous houses, even if your current home is worth less than you paid for it.
If you manage to keep your job, then you can probably hold onto the car and the big TV. If that’s not enough, then there is always your internet connection which will allow you access to as much gossip and pornography as you want and the chance to email me. The poor boy who had to emigrate twice.
Monday 25 May 2009
Thursday 14 May 2009
The Australian Budget Fairytale
Milton became chief of Soco Island when he was 21. Not because he was the smartest or the son of the previous chief. The Five hundred people who lived there voted him boss because he was the fattest and on Soco that’s how they did things. They had no Television, so they weren’t influenced by the body fascism of modern media which celebrates skinny models who look like a good feed would kill them.
Milton enjoyed the free fish that came with the job but he was weighed down by the responsibilities. The islanders were having lots of babies and there was only so much fish to go around. And it wasn’t only food that his people were interested in. The braver ones had been to the big island 50km away and came back with wide eyed stories of four wheel drive trucks and mobile phones.
So Milton got into a boat himself and travelled to the big island to meet the chief there. He wasn’t crazy about what he found, particularly the fish which arrived on his plate covered in batter and rectangular in shape. Milton didn’t get his feet wet much, but he reckoned he’d never seen a fish that shape.
Nevertheless he realised that if he wanted his island to develop, he’d have to embrace some of the nastiness of the big world. The big island chief offered Milton a loan. “Money”, he said, “makes the world go round and if you don’t have it you’ll fall off”.
The big chief loaned him $1,000,000 and said he could pay it back in ten years. But in the meantime, he’d have to pay $100,000 a year in interest. Milton reckoned that would mean paying back the money twice, so the big chief sat him down in front of his wide screen TV (something else that was new to Milton) and showed him a DVD of the Sopranos. “If you don’t like my offer, you can borrow the money from those boys.”
Milton got the message and took the cash back to the Island. He called a tribal meeting and told the elders to split the money between their families and to invest it wisely. The elders scratched their heads. They had never seen money before and the word “invest” didn’t exist in their language. They were nearly as confused with “wisely” until one of them remembered old man Lopopo who could tell if the rains were coming. He was considered wise, but only because nobody knew that he had rheumatism.
Milton saw their confusion and said, “I don’t know. Build things. Houses that tourists can stay in, landing strips that the American air force can land on. Massage parlours for the air force personnel and maybe a garage in case someone buys a car.” The elders shrugged and went back their villages. But money burns a hole in whatever pocket it is placed in and pretty soon the island had a new jetty where expensive tourist boats docked and cafes and restaurants were they ate the fish the islanders used to use for fertilizer.
A year later, Milton had to travel to the big island to pay the first interest instalment. He called the elders together and asked for contributions. They grumbled about having to give up their new found shiny God, but Milton threatened to ban alcohol which had recently become popular on the island and they were happy to cough up.
When he got to the big chief’s house, he found that another visitor had gotten there first. “This is Mr. Reagan from the International Monetary Fund. We’ve been a bit loose on the big island Milton and it looks like we’re bust. We’re handing everything over to these guys including the debt you owe us. So he might have a few questions.”
Mr. Reagan studied Milton for a moment with the cold eyes of an assassin. “How much does your island owe to the outside world?” he asked.
“I guess we owe them $1,000,000”, Milton answered as he glanced at the big chief for support. The big chief was busy studying his own feet however and was clearly embarrassed at having dragged Milton into the sorry mess of Capitalism.
“And how much did you pay out to your people this year and how much did you collect from them”.
“Well I gave them the $1,000,000 and yesterday they gave me back $100,000”.
Mr. Reagan pulled out a calculator from his briefcase and furiously punched numbers into it. “I’m afraid your situation is quite dire Mr. Milton. You have a current account shortfall of $900,000 and a deficit of $1,000,000. If you’re looking for support from the IMF, we’ll have to insist on taxes of 50% and all public servants getting sacked, as well as hospitals being closed down and pensions being abolished.”
It took Milton a moment to digest all this. The words being thrown around were not common in his village. “The thing is Mr. Reagan, we don’t have a hospital. Old mother Kidolo is good with herbs and she can normally fix you up. We don’t have a pension because old people get looked after by their families and the fishermen give them all the fish they can’t sell. I don’t have any public servants, unless you count Bidolo the village idiot who bangs the gong when I want to summon the elders. I could sack him but I don’t pay him anyway. He just likes banging the gong.
“Anyway, Mr. Reagan, I’m not looking for your help. I just came to pay this year’s interest. My people are prosperous and we’ll pay back this debt in no time”.
Milton got a receipt for his payment and made his back to his own island, basking in the glory of having seen off the big world for another year at least. When he got there, the elders were waiting on the new jetty looking excited. “We had a visitor while you were away. Some guy called Kevin Rudd was here. He said he’d heard about the money you gave us and how we all became rich. He said he has to write something called a budget this week and he will base it on us”
“That’s great”, said Milton. “I’ve just said goodbye to the big chief. He’s made a mess of his island. So he’s heading off to somewhere called Ireland. They have offered him a job as Minister for Finance”.
Milton enjoyed the free fish that came with the job but he was weighed down by the responsibilities. The islanders were having lots of babies and there was only so much fish to go around. And it wasn’t only food that his people were interested in. The braver ones had been to the big island 50km away and came back with wide eyed stories of four wheel drive trucks and mobile phones.
So Milton got into a boat himself and travelled to the big island to meet the chief there. He wasn’t crazy about what he found, particularly the fish which arrived on his plate covered in batter and rectangular in shape. Milton didn’t get his feet wet much, but he reckoned he’d never seen a fish that shape.
Nevertheless he realised that if he wanted his island to develop, he’d have to embrace some of the nastiness of the big world. The big island chief offered Milton a loan. “Money”, he said, “makes the world go round and if you don’t have it you’ll fall off”.
The big chief loaned him $1,000,000 and said he could pay it back in ten years. But in the meantime, he’d have to pay $100,000 a year in interest. Milton reckoned that would mean paying back the money twice, so the big chief sat him down in front of his wide screen TV (something else that was new to Milton) and showed him a DVD of the Sopranos. “If you don’t like my offer, you can borrow the money from those boys.”
Milton got the message and took the cash back to the Island. He called a tribal meeting and told the elders to split the money between their families and to invest it wisely. The elders scratched their heads. They had never seen money before and the word “invest” didn’t exist in their language. They were nearly as confused with “wisely” until one of them remembered old man Lopopo who could tell if the rains were coming. He was considered wise, but only because nobody knew that he had rheumatism.
Milton saw their confusion and said, “I don’t know. Build things. Houses that tourists can stay in, landing strips that the American air force can land on. Massage parlours for the air force personnel and maybe a garage in case someone buys a car.” The elders shrugged and went back their villages. But money burns a hole in whatever pocket it is placed in and pretty soon the island had a new jetty where expensive tourist boats docked and cafes and restaurants were they ate the fish the islanders used to use for fertilizer.
A year later, Milton had to travel to the big island to pay the first interest instalment. He called the elders together and asked for contributions. They grumbled about having to give up their new found shiny God, but Milton threatened to ban alcohol which had recently become popular on the island and they were happy to cough up.
When he got to the big chief’s house, he found that another visitor had gotten there first. “This is Mr. Reagan from the International Monetary Fund. We’ve been a bit loose on the big island Milton and it looks like we’re bust. We’re handing everything over to these guys including the debt you owe us. So he might have a few questions.”
Mr. Reagan studied Milton for a moment with the cold eyes of an assassin. “How much does your island owe to the outside world?” he asked.
“I guess we owe them $1,000,000”, Milton answered as he glanced at the big chief for support. The big chief was busy studying his own feet however and was clearly embarrassed at having dragged Milton into the sorry mess of Capitalism.
“And how much did you pay out to your people this year and how much did you collect from them”.
“Well I gave them the $1,000,000 and yesterday they gave me back $100,000”.
Mr. Reagan pulled out a calculator from his briefcase and furiously punched numbers into it. “I’m afraid your situation is quite dire Mr. Milton. You have a current account shortfall of $900,000 and a deficit of $1,000,000. If you’re looking for support from the IMF, we’ll have to insist on taxes of 50% and all public servants getting sacked, as well as hospitals being closed down and pensions being abolished.”
It took Milton a moment to digest all this. The words being thrown around were not common in his village. “The thing is Mr. Reagan, we don’t have a hospital. Old mother Kidolo is good with herbs and she can normally fix you up. We don’t have a pension because old people get looked after by their families and the fishermen give them all the fish they can’t sell. I don’t have any public servants, unless you count Bidolo the village idiot who bangs the gong when I want to summon the elders. I could sack him but I don’t pay him anyway. He just likes banging the gong.
“Anyway, Mr. Reagan, I’m not looking for your help. I just came to pay this year’s interest. My people are prosperous and we’ll pay back this debt in no time”.
Milton got a receipt for his payment and made his back to his own island, basking in the glory of having seen off the big world for another year at least. When he got there, the elders were waiting on the new jetty looking excited. “We had a visitor while you were away. Some guy called Kevin Rudd was here. He said he’d heard about the money you gave us and how we all became rich. He said he has to write something called a budget this week and he will base it on us”
“That’s great”, said Milton. “I’ve just said goodbye to the big chief. He’s made a mess of his island. So he’s heading off to somewhere called Ireland. They have offered him a job as Minister for Finance”.
Friday 8 May 2009
And that's why they call it the blues
They say that sport is theatre. But I think it’s more than that. We all know that Juliet is going to die at the end of the play for example. But who can say with certainty how a sporting event will end? That’s what makes sport magic. That even the participants don’t know how it will finish.
I got up early (very early actually) some weeks ago to watch Ireland challenge for the Grand Slam. It could have gone either way and in the end it very nearly did. It came down to one last kick and as with penalty shoot outs, last minute corners where the goal keeper comes up and any time David Beckham stands before a free kick, half the watching public will be praying for a miss and half for a score. On the day of the Grand Slam, I was hoping for that last kick to miss and indeed it did. In my ecstasy, when that kick fell short, I jigged around my dark sitting room oblivious to the feelings of millions of Welshmen who were sitting with their heads in their hands.
Well fate got its own back on me last Saturday. Again, a kick fell short and this time I was the one to be found with head in hands while thousands of fans from the opposition were copying my dyslexic dance.
Australian Rules Football is a team sport with all the elements of catching, kicking and tackling that appeal to those of us reared on the unforgiving concrete of school playgrounds. I went to a game on my second day in Melbourne and was instantly hooked. I have a soft spot for Setanta O’hAilpin who plays for Carlton. He was a fine young hurler in his day and despite the fact that he can’t kick an oval ball properly or hand pass to save his life, he is a sort of folk hero among the Irish Diaspora here. The Blues were also bottom of the table when I got here, which appealed to my underdog sensibilities and also guaranteed that I’d be following a team that could only go up.
They finished 15th (out of 16) that first season and 11th last year. Their slogan this year is “They know we’re coming”, so expectations are high. I was sold and signed up as a season ticket holder before the season started. AFL is an amazingly democratic sport. Salaries are capped and new players are allocated to clubs on the basis of their lowly positions over the previous two years. Luckily for me, Carlton were crap for the five years before I got here, so they were entitled to a number of high draft picks. These superstars are now maturing into a half decent team and have started the season well.
Last Saturday however, presented the biggest challenge to date. Hawthorne are the reigning AFL champions with a couple of forwards who stand as giants and scare me even when I’m sitting in the 4th tier of the stand. They also have the biggest membership in Melbourne so the chance of a bumper crowd was also on the cards.
The weather did it’s best to help. We awoke to the sort of crisp, clear autumn day that you find in novels about New England. The early winter had disappeared and tee shirts were rescued from storage. Melbourne has nearly as many major sports venues as Dublin has pubs. Saturday’s game was held in the daddy of them all, the MCG, which was only fitting considering the epic that was about to unfold.
Hawthorne had the better of the first half but it was still close enough to allow fans from both teams to enjoy their half time Pot and Pie. We came back suitably refreshed for the 3rd period, or the ‘premiership quarter’ as it is known here. Apparently good teams only start playing after half-time, as though the proceeding period was just a rehearsal. Carlton used it to pull within 1 point of Hawthorne and it seemed they had obtained what our American cousins like to call, the ‘Big Mo”.
The Hawks weren’t reading the script however and Premiership champions don’t just lie down and die. They came at us like a train and were quickly 25 points up. Time was running out but as with all great sporting events, the true drama came in the last few minutes. For the first time all day, the bounces seemed to be going our way and we hit 5 scores without reply. This left us 5 points down with a minute left on the clock. Team sports are psychological at heart. Fear and courage can spread through teams quicker than the flu in a Mexican pig factory. Hawthorne drifted back towards their goal line as Carlton marched forward. The final winning play seemed inevitable.
And then it came. A long, looping pass that hung in the evening sky for an eternity. A gaggle of Hawks defenders stood beneath it, surrounding Carlton’s star forward, Brendan Fevola. As in most sports, defence is easier than attack. The defence just had to punch the ball away. Fev had to catch it cleanly and claim a famous mark.
As the drama demanded, Fevola caught it and stepped back to kick the winning goal. It was from an easier position than the eight successful ones he had already kicked. 70,000 people held their breath. The ball has to go through the posts cleanly in this game to count and at the last minute it grazed the post and with it our chances of one of the great comebacks disappeared.
Half the crowd went wild and the rest of us were left to wonder about the agony and ecstasy of sport. Except Fevola. He lay on the ground for ages as the crowd disappeared. And he seemed to be thinking that if sport is theatre, he always seems to find himself acting in tragedies.
I got up early (very early actually) some weeks ago to watch Ireland challenge for the Grand Slam. It could have gone either way and in the end it very nearly did. It came down to one last kick and as with penalty shoot outs, last minute corners where the goal keeper comes up and any time David Beckham stands before a free kick, half the watching public will be praying for a miss and half for a score. On the day of the Grand Slam, I was hoping for that last kick to miss and indeed it did. In my ecstasy, when that kick fell short, I jigged around my dark sitting room oblivious to the feelings of millions of Welshmen who were sitting with their heads in their hands.
Well fate got its own back on me last Saturday. Again, a kick fell short and this time I was the one to be found with head in hands while thousands of fans from the opposition were copying my dyslexic dance.
Australian Rules Football is a team sport with all the elements of catching, kicking and tackling that appeal to those of us reared on the unforgiving concrete of school playgrounds. I went to a game on my second day in Melbourne and was instantly hooked. I have a soft spot for Setanta O’hAilpin who plays for Carlton. He was a fine young hurler in his day and despite the fact that he can’t kick an oval ball properly or hand pass to save his life, he is a sort of folk hero among the Irish Diaspora here. The Blues were also bottom of the table when I got here, which appealed to my underdog sensibilities and also guaranteed that I’d be following a team that could only go up.
They finished 15th (out of 16) that first season and 11th last year. Their slogan this year is “They know we’re coming”, so expectations are high. I was sold and signed up as a season ticket holder before the season started. AFL is an amazingly democratic sport. Salaries are capped and new players are allocated to clubs on the basis of their lowly positions over the previous two years. Luckily for me, Carlton were crap for the five years before I got here, so they were entitled to a number of high draft picks. These superstars are now maturing into a half decent team and have started the season well.
Last Saturday however, presented the biggest challenge to date. Hawthorne are the reigning AFL champions with a couple of forwards who stand as giants and scare me even when I’m sitting in the 4th tier of the stand. They also have the biggest membership in Melbourne so the chance of a bumper crowd was also on the cards.
The weather did it’s best to help. We awoke to the sort of crisp, clear autumn day that you find in novels about New England. The early winter had disappeared and tee shirts were rescued from storage. Melbourne has nearly as many major sports venues as Dublin has pubs. Saturday’s game was held in the daddy of them all, the MCG, which was only fitting considering the epic that was about to unfold.
Hawthorne had the better of the first half but it was still close enough to allow fans from both teams to enjoy their half time Pot and Pie. We came back suitably refreshed for the 3rd period, or the ‘premiership quarter’ as it is known here. Apparently good teams only start playing after half-time, as though the proceeding period was just a rehearsal. Carlton used it to pull within 1 point of Hawthorne and it seemed they had obtained what our American cousins like to call, the ‘Big Mo”.
The Hawks weren’t reading the script however and Premiership champions don’t just lie down and die. They came at us like a train and were quickly 25 points up. Time was running out but as with all great sporting events, the true drama came in the last few minutes. For the first time all day, the bounces seemed to be going our way and we hit 5 scores without reply. This left us 5 points down with a minute left on the clock. Team sports are psychological at heart. Fear and courage can spread through teams quicker than the flu in a Mexican pig factory. Hawthorne drifted back towards their goal line as Carlton marched forward. The final winning play seemed inevitable.
And then it came. A long, looping pass that hung in the evening sky for an eternity. A gaggle of Hawks defenders stood beneath it, surrounding Carlton’s star forward, Brendan Fevola. As in most sports, defence is easier than attack. The defence just had to punch the ball away. Fev had to catch it cleanly and claim a famous mark.
As the drama demanded, Fevola caught it and stepped back to kick the winning goal. It was from an easier position than the eight successful ones he had already kicked. 70,000 people held their breath. The ball has to go through the posts cleanly in this game to count and at the last minute it grazed the post and with it our chances of one of the great comebacks disappeared.
Half the crowd went wild and the rest of us were left to wonder about the agony and ecstasy of sport. Except Fevola. He lay on the ground for ages as the crowd disappeared. And he seemed to be thinking that if sport is theatre, he always seems to find himself acting in tragedies.
Sunday 3 May 2009
Macropus Giganteus
Winter came to Melbourne this week, with all the grace of a drunken sailor. One moment it was a sunny 22c and then in a flash it had all changed. It seems like only a few weeks since we were worried about bush fires and record temperatures and now nearby Mount Hotham has 30cm of snow.
Shakespeare said that “summer’s lease hath all too short a date” but he was talking about England. In Australia, summer lasts forever, or so it seems. I stopped wearing a jacket to work last October and after a few months of rainless days and temperatures of more than 40c, I thought I’d never have to wear one again.
Hanging out in shorts and t-shirts is all very well, but it’s amazing how nostalgic you become for a little precipitation and the opportunity to wear a jumper. That all changed this week when the mighty rain Gods deigned to visit our parched City. It has rained persistently for the past four days and in a state that has been in drought for twelve years, that’s no bad thing.
Unless you get caught out in it of course, like I did on Saturday. It has rained a few times since I got to Australia in 2007, although you have to look pretty closely to notice. Saturday was my first experience of being under it when the clouds opened and to be honest it felt good. That was until I realised that my perfectly rain-proof jacket was delivering all the water onto my non rain-proof trousers.
Getting soaked is nothing new to me of course. I come from Ireland after all. A country where it only rains twice a week. Once for three days and once for four days. But it’s a different experience in Australia. It’s such a big country that when you’re caught out in the elements it can be kind of scary.
We were 10km into a 20km hike when the weather turned. Grey clouds gathered over the twelve apostles and mist crept in from the Southern Ocean. The white horses on the crashing waves below us seemed to grow in intensity with each movement of the tide. With the wisdom of an old farmer reading an Almanac, I studied the sky and said “There’s a change on the way”. It duly came, washing over us with goblets as heavy as lead.
We were hiking along the Great Ocean Walk, which by its nature, takes you to parts that the Great Ocean Road can’t reach. We were miles from a road, house or even a suitably leafy eucalyptus tree that might provide shelter. So we had to soldier on. In fairness, this wasn’t too difficult once you got used to feeling like a wet sponge.
The scenery certainly made up for it. 20km is an awfully long way to walk. My dear old mum used to baulk at even driving that far and for a whole generation of Americans walking is as quaintly old fashioned as darning socks. We four hardy souls were made of stronger metal however and we set off in the morning with the enthusiasm of Napoleons’ army on the road to Moscow. Six hours later, we would look more like those soldiers on the retreat from Moscow. But in between it was fantastic. Long sandy beaches, sandwiched between imposing cliffs and the crashing surf. Cheeky seals perched on rocks and soothing themselves with the cleansing water of the incoming waves. And mile after mile of stunning headlands and virgin forest.
The Great Ocean Road was opened in 1932 as a means of providing labour in the depression years and to open up this amazing coastline to the masses. While it is a majestic drive, you still feel a tinge of disappointment that so much of the road does not actually run alongside the ocean. The walk allows you to see those bits that the road doesn’t touch. So as I made my way up the last incline on Saturday, burdened by soggy pants and fading muscles, I was emboldened by the thought that I was one of very few visitors to this part of Australia to actually see the coast line in all its glory. For every 1 million people who drive down the Great Ocean Road, perhaps only 500 walk it. When you sit on a cliff top 10km from the nearest road and study the beauty of a nearby headland, you get a huge sense of pride that you are one of the very few people in the world to have ever basked in that beauty.
The light was fading as we made our way back to the cars and headed for the comforts of Apollo Bay. As we drove, my attention was drawn to a nearby field. There, in the gathering gloom I could see a herd grazing in the newly greened paddock. For a moment, I thought they were cattle as they moved and chewed in the same laconic way. Then one of them looked up from its evening feast and bounced towards the fence.
Suddenly, I realised that my long search was over. I had discovered Macropus Giganteus. The cousin of Skippy and the national emblem. The Kangaroo! After almost two years in Australia, I had finally seen one in the flesh. And not just one. There were bloody hundreds of them! As I grappled with my camera in an attempt to save the moment for posterity, one of the Roos looked up and stared as though he was asking “What kept you?”
I got back into the car and we headed back to base for a steak (not Kangaroo I hasten to add) and some beer that didn’t touch the sides on it’s way down. We finished the night off with some Baileys before an open fire. Suddenly, the rain was forgotten and aching muscles seemed less of a concern as the conversation turned to the next walk. The Great Ocean Walk is 91km long and can be done in five stages. Once you start it, you kind of have to finish. And not even the on-set of winter or end of the great kangaroo search will stop us from doing that.
Shakespeare said that “summer’s lease hath all too short a date” but he was talking about England. In Australia, summer lasts forever, or so it seems. I stopped wearing a jacket to work last October and after a few months of rainless days and temperatures of more than 40c, I thought I’d never have to wear one again.
Hanging out in shorts and t-shirts is all very well, but it’s amazing how nostalgic you become for a little precipitation and the opportunity to wear a jumper. That all changed this week when the mighty rain Gods deigned to visit our parched City. It has rained persistently for the past four days and in a state that has been in drought for twelve years, that’s no bad thing.
Unless you get caught out in it of course, like I did on Saturday. It has rained a few times since I got to Australia in 2007, although you have to look pretty closely to notice. Saturday was my first experience of being under it when the clouds opened and to be honest it felt good. That was until I realised that my perfectly rain-proof jacket was delivering all the water onto my non rain-proof trousers.
Getting soaked is nothing new to me of course. I come from Ireland after all. A country where it only rains twice a week. Once for three days and once for four days. But it’s a different experience in Australia. It’s such a big country that when you’re caught out in the elements it can be kind of scary.
We were 10km into a 20km hike when the weather turned. Grey clouds gathered over the twelve apostles and mist crept in from the Southern Ocean. The white horses on the crashing waves below us seemed to grow in intensity with each movement of the tide. With the wisdom of an old farmer reading an Almanac, I studied the sky and said “There’s a change on the way”. It duly came, washing over us with goblets as heavy as lead.
We were hiking along the Great Ocean Walk, which by its nature, takes you to parts that the Great Ocean Road can’t reach. We were miles from a road, house or even a suitably leafy eucalyptus tree that might provide shelter. So we had to soldier on. In fairness, this wasn’t too difficult once you got used to feeling like a wet sponge.
The scenery certainly made up for it. 20km is an awfully long way to walk. My dear old mum used to baulk at even driving that far and for a whole generation of Americans walking is as quaintly old fashioned as darning socks. We four hardy souls were made of stronger metal however and we set off in the morning with the enthusiasm of Napoleons’ army on the road to Moscow. Six hours later, we would look more like those soldiers on the retreat from Moscow. But in between it was fantastic. Long sandy beaches, sandwiched between imposing cliffs and the crashing surf. Cheeky seals perched on rocks and soothing themselves with the cleansing water of the incoming waves. And mile after mile of stunning headlands and virgin forest.
The Great Ocean Road was opened in 1932 as a means of providing labour in the depression years and to open up this amazing coastline to the masses. While it is a majestic drive, you still feel a tinge of disappointment that so much of the road does not actually run alongside the ocean. The walk allows you to see those bits that the road doesn’t touch. So as I made my way up the last incline on Saturday, burdened by soggy pants and fading muscles, I was emboldened by the thought that I was one of very few visitors to this part of Australia to actually see the coast line in all its glory. For every 1 million people who drive down the Great Ocean Road, perhaps only 500 walk it. When you sit on a cliff top 10km from the nearest road and study the beauty of a nearby headland, you get a huge sense of pride that you are one of the very few people in the world to have ever basked in that beauty.
The light was fading as we made our way back to the cars and headed for the comforts of Apollo Bay. As we drove, my attention was drawn to a nearby field. There, in the gathering gloom I could see a herd grazing in the newly greened paddock. For a moment, I thought they were cattle as they moved and chewed in the same laconic way. Then one of them looked up from its evening feast and bounced towards the fence.
Suddenly, I realised that my long search was over. I had discovered Macropus Giganteus. The cousin of Skippy and the national emblem. The Kangaroo! After almost two years in Australia, I had finally seen one in the flesh. And not just one. There were bloody hundreds of them! As I grappled with my camera in an attempt to save the moment for posterity, one of the Roos looked up and stared as though he was asking “What kept you?”
I got back into the car and we headed back to base for a steak (not Kangaroo I hasten to add) and some beer that didn’t touch the sides on it’s way down. We finished the night off with some Baileys before an open fire. Suddenly, the rain was forgotten and aching muscles seemed less of a concern as the conversation turned to the next walk. The Great Ocean Walk is 91km long and can be done in five stages. Once you start it, you kind of have to finish. And not even the on-set of winter or end of the great kangaroo search will stop us from doing that.
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