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.