Christmas has come!

Christmas has come to Wincobank! As you leave the M1 at Junction 34, duck down between the northbound carriageway, turn left and left again then you will find our beautiful tree, glowing with pride at the bottom of the hill. Tonight we walked down, not up, joining together with others for a lantern procession and to sing traditional Christmas carols beloved by many, half-remembered by most, but completely unknown to the children. Some words may be obscure but there are a few catchy tunes in the collection that have lasted a hundred years or more but it looks like they will fade slowly into history as the jingle bell rock takes over.

Over the hills...

This is the the brow of the hill where I live. My little house is just down the road and round the corner. If you were to walk off to the left of this picture you would reach wonderful Wincobank Hill. If you want find out more about the hill the besy place to start is http://www.wincobankhill.btik.com/

In the distance are the beckoning foot hills of the Peak District. Tomorrow I have to make the decision whether to drive over those hills, over the Woodhead Pass then on to Cheshire.

Woodland Wonderland

My journey to work this morning started with a mile long walk down the steep side of my hill; the view across the snow clad industrial Don Valley, breathtaking. One bus carried me through Brightside into the centre of Sheffield, then another took me south along the Abbeydale Road.

As I disembarked with colleagues, the driver announced that the bus company was calling all vehicles back to base due to the dangerous conditions. We were quite possibly stranded. But walking uphill from the main road I could only smile with delight as the pathway wound through the woodland fringe to the old school building where I am based. I realise how fortunate I am that I am able to enjoy this unique urban countryside but ashamed that it takes snow to make me do so. I am resolved to walk more as was my intention when first I came here. Slow down and look around. Count my blessings. Breathe.

Forest fantasy

From our northern seaside home I moved to the green, organic city of Sheffield where roads snake through the scraps ancient woodland and the forest fathers sleep beneath the concrete, waiting for their time to come again.

Winter has swept in with the full force of Mother Mature's hand to remind us that we are guests on this planet and our sophistication is no match for frozen water. The traffic has stopped, the schools are shut, the streets are silent. It is as though the years have spun back to the time before the industrial revolution when we lived by the rhythm of the seasons, subject to the power of the sun. In those days we died of cold and some will do so still. We are so small, insignificant.

Looking back

I went back to Tyneside for the first time since selling the house nearly three years ago. I wasn't sure how I would feel face to face with our family home once so busy and full to bursting. I parked my car outside the house and walked through the town, invisible, unknown, down to the quayside where for fourteen years we had watched fireworks, filmed festivals and where on the dawn of the new century I had waited for the rising sun to fill me with new energy.

This time the sun was setting and I waited till it grew dark to see again the reflections on the water then walked back through smart streets that twenty years ago had been derelict, past the community garden I had imagined and now has come to be. All things change and so do we. Our children grew and flew, we all moved on, going our separate ways into the rest of our lives, to new adventures, into the unknown.

England

And so to England. We reached Manchester with the dawn and looked out of the cabin into the grey morning cloud. After 15 minutes circling in a stack we made our landing and giddily I said goodbye to the beautiful Singapore cabin crew, the elegant young women in full length national dress and the young men in the smartest of suits.

For Pete, the rain was depressing but to me it was a refreshing blessing after the oppressive Singapore heat. By the time I had dropped him off over Birmingham way and set course for Sheffield there was sunshine, blue sky and white fluffy clouds. Just as the sky should be.

My journey has been, like every good day of my life, a fascinating lesson. Australia seems a long way away because it is. It is half a world way. We are lucky to have long evenings here so before I went to sleep I cut the overgrown lawn and then walked to the top of my hill to ook out over the city and then back through the woodland of oak, beech and birch. Today when I stepped into my tiny garden and felt the soft English grass and rich dark soil I could see it as the wealth I learned about when I was a child.

Our rain is the water of life. We are a rich nation despite the deficit. I am filled with respect for the Aboriginal people who hollowed tanks in the cliff top rocks to catch the rain and collected dew from the trees. The Singapore water is imported from Malaysia and they are experimenting to introduce 100% reclaimed and intensively purified "New Water".

We may have a colder climate but we have had so many resources that it is easy to take for granted and now I can better appreciate the struggle of the early Australian settlers to make peace with such an alien landscape and the hardship endured by the forced labourers transported for such trivial crimes. I am amazed by the vision of the entrepreneurs and engineers who have created the thriving commercial cities of both Sydney and Singapore and in awe of the resilience of those who earn their living from the land. Those who live there have earned and enjoy a good life.

But I am made for the wind and the rain, I have a fair skin specially for grey skies. I was ready to go away, sad to leave my friends but I am happy to be home. There is much to be glad about here, especially my family and my friends.

Signing off now - 2.45am in Sheffield, 1.45am in Munich, 7.45pm in Singapore and 5.45pm in Brisbane. Over and out.

Munich

Munich is a most beautiful airport but best avoided at 5am on a Saturday morning when staff are scarce and those that are there are stern. Above all it is best to be in the right place at the right time and definitely not a good idea to nearly miss the plane or you will be reprimanded in no uncertain terms.

In my defence, it had been a long night, flying through the darkness with the orbit of the planet so that daybreak was always behind us.

Singapore Airlines missed no trick to occupy us and at I awoke at the dead of this endless night to be offered a choice of turkey sandwich, peanuts or chocolate bar. Thus it was I passed over Africa eating a Snickers bar in my sleep, a surreal moment I only just remember. This journey seemed twice as long as the outward trip and despite my super socks my legs hurt and my hands went numb, everything ached and I could only doze and suppose that you get better with practice as some around me seemed sound asleep in extraordinary poses.

It was a relief to be served with a 10 part breakfast at 9.30am Singapore time and 3.30am Munich time. So when we disembarked with the German travellers to go through the strict security routine perhaps I could be forgiven for being a bit confused. Absolutely not.

Serenity

Underpinning the perfectly planned parodoxical state of Singapore is a calm surety that seems to transcend the Western rat race.

Just as I found the coolness of the stone built Museum of Asian Civilisations soothing and the workmanship of the ancient artefacts therein breath-taking, I sense that this very young nation, only in its 45th year, stands on foundations that run deep.

Dream City

The extraordinary Marina Sands building consists of three skyscrapers and a top deck which has full size trees growing on the roof. the small inverted dish structure to the left is a museum approximately the same size as Sydney Opera House. The wheel is pretty big too.

Singapore is an architect's dream and a builder's nightmare. Countless construction workers toil in the tropical heat to create crazy tilting buildings, gardens in the sky, air-conditioned open spaces, canopied walkways and spiral shopping malls. All is cool and beautiful. Except the air which is humid and heavy, and very very hot.

Silver bullet

Saturday morning in Singapore and once more we are on a train, a superb, gleaming, squeaky clean silver bullet. No need for safety signs as the waiting passengers are sealed off from the platform edge by sliding doors which only open when the train has arrived and is stationary.

Even more perfect than the trains are the passengers who do not chew gum and do not drop litter. The $1,000 penalty for first time littering is probably for the benefit of foreigners - I do not believe the residents would even think of doing such a thing. On each journey young people rose to their feet to offer their seats and smiled at our surprise at being treated with such respect. More stunned shock than surprise.

Romance

On the way home I was delighted to be a guest at the wedding feast of two more old friends - Vanessa and Franco. I watched the film "Letters to Juliet".

I fell in love with Vanessa in when I saw her dance and die as Isadora Duncan. When I went to see her in the film version of "Camalot" I became seriously besotted with Franco Nero and daydreamed away many boring school lessons in my fantasy romance - although I think I was more in love with Lancelot than with the actor.

I discovered only recently that these heroes of my teenage years had had a secret liaison at that time and that a love child was conceived. Many many years later they were finally reunited and now star in this beautiful film about the enduring power of love that is far stronger than the enchantment of age. These two lovers look even more beautiful grown up than in their wilder youth. I wept with sentiment, joy and hope.

Farewells

Friday came too soon and after much weighing and repacking of luggage we found ourselves too soon at Brisbane airport saying our goodbyes.

It was heartening to see Pete looking so much better than he was just a year ago
and though parting is always sad I am so pleased that he made the trip here to see his family.

Now for the long, long journey back.

Plain Aussie

Thursday. Up bright and early and heading into Brisbane for a last chance stroll through the South Bank gardens alongside the river, we caught the train to the city and were impressed by the plain speaking safety signs. No gobbledygook here.

Our journey was enlivened by a party of about 60 immaculately behaved school children each in their uniform complete with sun hat and everyone carrying an enormous school issue backpack.

History

Wednesday, and we finally made it to a remarkable not for profit enterprise - a Historical Village where there are remarkable collections of just about everything that supported life in this community over the past hundred years including tractors, lawn mowers, cameras, mincers, kettles, axes, houses and old Australian vehicles. In a fascinating conversation with a jovial chap called Greg we learned that the project was started about 30 years ago by a group of "old blokes" and since then has involved an increasingly wide group of volunteers who collect, restore, organise and bring alive these treasures through re-enactment. After hearing about my involvement with our local history project at home, Greg presented me with a weighty centenary celebration book about the district, tracking the local history back to before the first settlers. Fascinating.

Avocados

Avocados are currently held to be a wonderfood here. Not only are they cheap, plentiful and delicious, they are also full of health-giving properties. You probably know this but I only know avocados to be calorie laden.

Whilst hereI have eaten them tossed in salad, sliced on toast with poached egg, in a cheese aubergine and tomato toastie and most amazingly spread straight from the skin, in a turkey, camembert and cranberry sandwich. I shall be feeding all my guests avocado with everything from now on.

A parting shot

Sunday, and my last morning in Sydney. After an exhausting battle to fit everything in my suitcase and a last glance around the hotel suite for lost socks, I turned my attention to the dilemma of how to spend my last two hours.

Working on the principle that I should do the things I have never done or am unlikely to do again, I bought a ticket to board the star vessels of the Australian National Maritime Museum. The great grey destroyer HMAS Vampire, in service from 1959 to 1986, already has the feel of a historic artefact with its huge Bakelite telephones and manual typewriters, the padded captain's chair (complete with ashtray) and the huge lightbox chart tables. The tiny kitchen, impossibly small to cater for the necessary crew for this size vessel, demonstrated all the essential for small space living but even this seemed vast in comparison to the facilities on the submarine HMAS Onslow which consists of one corridor with bunks and lockers either side, torpedoes at one end. periscopes in the middle and and an eating area at the other end.
I learnt that submariners offer themselves voluntarily for service below the waves and a full eight months of the preparatory training is devoted to the psychology of small space living. Although there are currently six Australian submarines there are only trained volunteer crew for four. Up to 90 people co-exist in this cramped space for many months at a time. I expected to feel claustrophobic, instead I felt cosy. But that was without another 90 people alongside me.

So it was relief that I climbed back into the sunshine to explore the replica of The Captain Cook's "Endeavour", a working duplicate that will soon be circumnavigating Australia with a lucky crew of hand-picked sailors who will pay for the pleasure. Surely there will be a TV reality show about the year together onboard such a magnificent magnificent sailing ship, but hopefully never from the unimaginable world within a submarine.

Party politicals

I have spent my last evening in Sydney watching the Australian election results come in and it is becoming a spookily familiar replay of our own political nightmare. There are two parties one of which is already a coalition between Liberal and the National Party. Then there are are a few minority parties who are already aligned with one or other of the main parties. A party needs 76 seats to have a clear mmajority. At present the Australian Labour party has 70 seats and the Coalition has 72. The commentators say they haven't a clue who will win as there are still a number of results to come in over the next few days but it looks as if the balance of power will be with the four independents from rural Australia. The city held to ransom by the outback where only a tiny proportion of the population remain. They say in Downunderland everything happens backwards.

On this rocky crag stands a Quarantine Hospital where until relatively recently immigrants who had been in contact with infectious diseases on their journey were allocated accommodation fitting to their station in life and had to wait out the designated period in tantallising sight of
Sydney. Just down the coast is the popular Manly Beach where beautiful young things really do play beach volleyball in the sun. And just a little bit further on still is Queenscliff where Tom Joynson and his fiancee Sara are now established as newly arrived skilled immigrants with permission tp stay indefinitely.They make the daily ferry trip to work in Sydney and spend their weekends in the paradise that is Manly. Tom was at school with my Tom - they were cub scouts together - and I have had to ask myself how I would feel with a child on the other side of the planet. This week I have been watching BBC World service TV and I realise that the world is much smaller than I thought.

Rainforest

Charles Darwin came to this place, long before he started writing his book. He was only 27 and already he was searching out new experiences and asking questions. Today I walked the same path and stood at the same waterfall as he did and probably stood beneath a similar tree and thought - I've seen something like this before - not a palm tree but a fern tree, just like the fern on any English common but grown to dramatic height as part of the rain forest canopy to block the sun and contain the moisture from the precious rain allowing moss to cover the rocks and a completely different set of vegetation to thrive beneath the shade than in the hot sun and wind.

The strange case of the sad sisters

This picture postcard place is on the edge of the area known as the Blue Mountains, so called because of the strange blue haze from the eucalyptus trees. But stranger still is the ancient Dreamtime story of the Three Sisters encased in the rock by their father's spell to save them from abduction by evil spirits. They have been waiting for millennia but will their father ever return? Or is he also entombed in stone, powerless to speak the words to set them free. A parent's nightmare.

Sleepwalking

This was what I saw when I wandered out of the Opera House after an evening with Vincenzo Bellini (deceased), giddy from the soaring, shrill trilling and swooping of superhuman singers. The sight of the beautiful bridge spanning the shimmering water was a perfect end to a perfect evening.

As you may know, I am only a beginner opera goer, with just 6 hours of Wagner under my belt. It is a pleasure I have not been able to afford previously, opera like ballet, being so expensive to produce. Apart from the breath-taking principal artistes: a betrothed couple, a jealous ex, a rakish count and a distraught foster-mother, there was a full chorus of gossiping villagers, active participants in the unfolding scandal, all dressed in period costume of the 1900s. I warmed to the nostalgic sight the umbrellas which, in Act III, the Italian villagers took with them when they set off through the forest to pay the Count a visit so they could check out whether or not he had compromised the virtue of the sleepwalking bride-to-be when he had stayed at the inn on the eve of her marriage. You will be glad to know that her honour was saved when the count spoke up for her, but only just as the groom was off on his way to church with an alternative. All ended happily (except for the reserve bride who was dumped for a second time). But even she shrugged and kissed the bride. They just don't write stories like that any more.

Despite the definite resemblance of the Opera House foyer to a municipal car park, the auditorium is pretty impressive with its huge canopy and the seats are the best I have ever sat in. The orchestra pit stretches far back beneath the stage and it all sounded perfect. Too perfect really. The night time scenes were so dark, the voices so rich and the seats so comfy ......I only missed a few bits. I think.

Rosalind

Back at the Opera House and delighted to meet up with Rosalind again after 36 years. In the 1970s we both worked at the Dancers Shop in Wimbledon and it was our employers, Robert and Jo, who encouraged me to step into the magical world of the pantomime which led to 6 years of theatre work, another 6 as a TV stage manager and then eventually into education via the arts. As a teenager I was in awe of Rosalind who lived my childhood dream and went to White Lodge, the Royal Ballet School. She posed for studies for my A Level Art but we lost touch when I moved away for my first job. She is now a Producer of contemporary dance with a new piece opening at the Opera House in September and we are standing beside her poster while some kind passers by take our photo with both our cameras at once. I truly never thought I would catch up with either Jessica or Rosalind ever again. How lucky I am to have had this opportunity.

Of Earth & Sky

Success! I managed to secure a last minute ticket to see the wonderful Bangarra Dance Theatre's production "Of Earth & Sky'. I seemed to be one of the few who invested in the beautiful programme booklet that provides not just stunning photographs but interpretative commentary for the indigenous stories and traditions for which this phenomenal company is renowned. Before the interval was over I had also bought the CD of David Page's imaginative and evocative soundscape. The two together cost nearly as much as the ticket. I told myself these were a gift for Tom but it will be hard to part with these perfect components of a perfect experience. I am in total awe of the dancers who for me are each far more impressive than the most successful sports personalities. Just watching them morph through incarnations from boomerang to locust awoke every physical memory from my more agile past and I departed the Opera House with a firm resolution to eat less, exercise more, move faster and grow younger.

James

This is no ordinary holiday. Each day something changes me, makes me feel and think differently. It is good to learn something everyday, and grow. Today I went to Flourmill Studios in Newtown, to the office of Iris Pictures and there I watched a 50 minute documentary about Alix, a girl with a radiant beauty that masks unimaginable pain. The writer and director of this film is Alix's half-sister, my friend Jessica Douglas-Henry, and it is a courageous and moving exploration of their journey to cope with the unexpected suicide of their teenage brother James. Not a conventional holiday activity but a strangely positive experience that will stay with me all my life. This is a taboo that needs to be broken, a story to be heard, a film to be seen. I have a copy.

An elemental day

The black bits in the water are whales. I now have many photos of sea and sky as these teasing creatures didn't appear for more than a fraction of a second until the boats turned for home and we had put down our cameras. Then they leapt from the sea and waved us away, flipping their giant tails with what seemed like a good riddance flick, or possibly something less polite.

Who can blame them? Out on the Pacific Ocean, bobbing about in a piece of fibre glass and polystyrene, one has to be conscious of the teeming life below and remember that however intrepid, we are visitors in another world.

After my exhilarating afternoon I spent an even more amazing evening sitting in what the cashier told me was the absolutely best seat before in what was claimed to be the largest IMAX screen in the world, with an astronaut in my lap. At least that is how it seemed. The incredible images from the extraordinary documentary Hubble 3D had me literally spaced out. From the title sequence on I was hooked as I found myself steering my own private capsule out into the infinite, marvelling at the persistence, resilience, patience, self-control, bravery and good humour of the team who volunteered to conduct the equivalent of brain surgery in oven gloves on the giant space telescope that orbits Earth scanning space for the next Australia.

As I later sat beside the roaring flame of a Firestick patio heater in a restaurant overlooking Darling Harbour, sipping a free cocktail (Absoluteness) and waiting for my supper of prawn and chilli noodles, I reflected on my day that had encompassed all four elements. At the Maritime Museum I had read the stories of some the first immigrants, forced, eager or just desperate, who have arrived on Australia's shores - including children virtualy kidnapped to create a workforce. I think I can begin to understand the importance of the race to find an alternative haven far out in space before our earthly paradise turns forever sour.

A shining city

Nestled between these mirrored towers are squat and solid heritage buildings, remnants of an uncomfortable colonial past. Sprinkled here and there are galleries of Aboriginal art and museums of shameful truth. This shining city has grown from rocks once home to the extinct Cadigal people who lived in family communities and fished on these shores. The rock was hewn into building blocks by convicts transported for often minor misdemeanours, lucky to still be alive. Difficult to know who was treated worse.

Sparkles

Yep, the water really does sparkle. In fact, everything sparkles here. Light bounces from every reflective surface and even a car park becomes a place of glistening wonder.

The bridge is very impressive and I am content to watch from a distance the chaingang from below as they inch up and over the arch. But I am looking forward to riding the ferry out onto that sparkling sea.

Sails in the sun

The extraordinary thing about the Opera House is that it has a different number of sails depending from the angle from which you view it - sometimes only three but turn around and suddenly you can see seven. Just like a giant sailing ship, it changes with the wind.

From the outside it is indeed quite stunning but when queuing at the box office inside the foyer I have to say it reminded me of a municipal car park.

I am looking forward to the thrill of sitting centre in the stalls for Wednesday's performance of Bellini's Sonnambula. And meeting my friend Rosalind here on the Lower Concourse beforehand. She tells me it is a fabulous place to meet especially in early evening in the Spring. I haven't seen Rosalind since 1974 when she was a student at the Royal Ballet School and we worked together at The Dancers Shop in Wimbledon. Now that's a long way away and a long time ago.

A fishy dish

A weekend of fine food prepared by my old friend Jessica and my new friend Juliet was rounded off with a shared fishy dish at the Sydney Fish Market: giant prawns, lobster, crab and calimare - with lashings of lemon juice and a layer of fresh salad. And my first oysters - delicious.

The seagulls hovered greedily but got nothing. We ate it all, cracking shells open and scooping out the meat with our fingers.

Later, wandering round the market, I felt really bad when I passed a tray of crabs awaiting their inevitable fate. In a corner of the tray one resilient fighter was trying to wriggle free of its bonds and was waving its claw towards me whether in anger, entreaty or reflex, I couldn't be sure, but for a briefest of moments the thought came to me that I would rescue it. Then I walked on.

Leichhardt

I'm in an architectural paradise. A fascinating variety of deceptive dwellings from 1800s to the present day. each taking up the smallest frontage but most stretching far back, room behind room, as through the years they have been altered and extended without losing the dainty frontage and individuality that makes a stroll down any residential street a delight. I couldn't stop taking photographs. "What you taking Charlie's Bar for?" asked a boy on a bike. "It's interesting" said I. "No it's not, it's normal" said he. Normal is delicate filigree iron work, verandas, balconies, tiled roofs, shutters and exotic vegetation. Normal is quite frankly, amazing.

Citylink

Sydney Citylink has double decker trains! This is a train. The lower floor is half below ground level. What a brilliant idea. I feel like a little kid and can't stop taking photos of trains inside and out. The conversations are good too. I overheard one very young Mum on her mobile telling her mum about the new outlets she is going to open for her business venture and later sat next to a student as he read a legal document out over the phone detailing the process for liquidating his business. Fascinating.

The plan for today was a visit the local heritage centre, the Caboolture Historical Village, but gale warnings and the lack of a bus service tipped the balance and instead I attended to the more mundane tasks of packing my case for my trip to Sydney tomorrow and having my hair cut.

I have just tried to put a photo of me with my new hair on the blog but it just pinged like a bubble into thin air, which is probably just as well. I now have a bit of a fringe and look like someone else. I don't look like me today but probably by tomorrow I will have become the person with the fringe. Come to think of it, I haven't really looked like myself for sometime.

But then it doesn't really matter whether I look like me because Jessica, the friend I am visiting tomorrow, hasn't seen me for 35 years. I can be anybody next week because nobody knows me as I am. In any case, tomorrow I will be someone else. Life is all about change.

Brisbane

Sunday left me nostalgic for our refreshing rain so Monday it poured all day. As Katie Fortune and I rode the train for the city today we passed puddle after puddle and a few lakes too. We were dressed for the weather, with coats and umbrellas but I was perplexed to see many elegantly attired young ladies waiting at the stations along the way, all in designer dress and most wearing exceedingly high heels. Finally my curiosity was satisfied when I learnt that this is the day of Brisbane's Ekka Show and these young ladies were off to the races, to paddle in mud and clutch umbrellas to protect their feather headwear.

Katie and I were content to visit the Museum and the wonderful Queensland Art Gallery where I was entranced by the work of both Hans Heyson and Joe Alamanhthin Rootsey whose exhibitions presented contrasting perspectives of the same beloved landscape and gave me just a glimmer of an insight into life on this vast continent. The paintings provided the stark context for the museum exhibition on the incredible journey of Burke and Wills who in the 19th Century travelled south to north and back again, straight through the centre of Australia, only to die from exhaustion just kilometres from the coast.

Families are forever

This the fab family I have come all this way to visit. From the left - Tegan, Nik and Jared, Mandie, Katie, Pete and Matt. It is lovely to be part of a big family even if disconnected. When you are divorced must you lose a whole family? I think not.

Nik and Mandie whom I knew as children are parents now, both older than their own parents were when I first met them. Pete is older than Pop was but I am still me. Growing up is a great mystery.

Forest with no rain

A rainforest without rain, one of the reasons that this is a protected area.
But nevertheless an extraordinarily wonderful and eerie place. The airwaves are crowded with invisible birds each with their own peculiar call - no tweets here. On a 4 km walk I spotted only one yellow robin despite the cacophony.

The strangler figs throttle the life from all but the tallest of trees and their strange root-like tentacles seem to be lifting the captive trunks from the ground.

Being a well-behaved tourist I stayed on the path, which is as well, as even in this National Park those who stray have been known to disappear, perhaps to fall asleep and then awake find themselves imprisoned within a cage of woody stems with wild birds cackling menacingly. Perhaps that is how the trees find their water...

Bunya

This is a bunya tree. Maybe the hand reaching skyward is trying to pick the bunya nuts which is a much better idea than waiting underneath for the 10kg cluster to fall on your head.

In past times the Aboriginal custodians each looked after a tree and were the only ones allowed to climb the tall trunks and shake the branches until the nuts fell to the ground. Every third year, when the crop was most plentiful the custodians would invite the neighbouring tribes over for a party - until the white settlers discovered the value of the timber crop and decimated the rainforest, taking only the straightest part of the trunk and leaving three-quarters of the tree to rot. Now it is a conservation area and plans are being made to reinstate the Bunya Festival but the Aboriginal people seem strangely invisible so one wonders what part they will play.

Possum Lodge

This little hideaway boasts a ghost - or more probably possums on the roof. And there were parrots in the trees that made repeated attempts to steal my sandwich, grazing wallabies that seemed never to sleep and tiny joeys snug in their mamas' pouches that would have made the sternest face smile.

Possum Lodge was our home for two chilly nights and a sunny Sunday. The woodburning stove made a cosy cabin and walks by starlight made the dark nights special. And then there was a huge barbecue supper, Boggle, The Borrowers, and breakfast for eight.

Before moving to Sheffield I lived on the Northumberland coast for fifteen years so it is good to feel silver sand between my toes again and to paddle in the edge of the ocean. But it was especially nice to see Pete, who stayed with me all last winter and was at times so frail, striding out in the sunshine with Mandie and Katie.

I first met Mandie when she was the age her own daughter is now. She had a cheeky smile and danced about in red wellies. Katie is just as lively, very independent and self-assured. She reminds me of my perplexing son Tom who when young questioned everything and would only do anything in his own way at his own pace much to the frustration of all who did not take the time to listen to him and realise that there is more to life than conformity.

Mandie and Matt have made me very welcome in their home. I have spent an evening or two this week ironing plastic with Mandie to devise an art project for the children with whom she works. I am in my element surrounded by heaps of coloured scraps and discarded experiments. They use their spare room as an art room and their house is full of their vibrant and imaginative paintings. I love this family.

This weekend we are off to the Bunya mountains with Mandie's brother Nik and his children Tegan and Jared. Katie has promised to bring her very special copy of The Borrowers so that we can read it in the evenings. I am very excited and am tucked up in bed early as I have been having trouble getting up in the mornings. It was 11 am today before I emerged from my cosy burrow and it was past noon before I slipped into the sparkling pool in the winter sunshine. Now that did remind me of home and the chilly North Sea.

Night fall

Night falls swiftly here. One moment you are sitting in the sunshine, then it turns chilly before the darkness descends. There is only the briefest snatch of evening, no time to say twilight before the sudden rush of sunset has faded away to black leaving only familiar neon lights.

Today I went by bus to the coastal town of Redcliffe where the cliffs are really red. The route ran along a dual carriageway through mile after mile of retail outlets until finally we reached the sea. This was where the earliest Queensland convict settlers were landed in 1854. Thirty convicts are named on a memorial as are the military personnel who came, with their families, to guard them.

Now the sea front is lined with cafe restaurants and tourist shops until the road runs into the residential area of smart apartments which tower above the older wooden bungalows. A picnic on the boardwalk, a walk along the beach then back on the bus. It's a nostalgic feeling, dozing on the bus as it rolls along on the journey home. I feel as if I am passing from one film set to another but I cannot quite remember the story.

Fiction

Possums playing tag in the roofspace, fruit bats circling overhead at dusk, friendly spiders allowed to live in the shower because they gobble up the baddies, palm trees posing against blue blue sky. Pinch me.
Rosy sent me away with some holiday reading - Nevil Shute's A Town Like Alice, a novel set 60 years back in the dusty outback - where a girl from Ealing sets out to create a bustling community from a few scattered homesteads. A period piece. At least that's what I thought until I sat down this evening and watched the first episode of "A Farmer Wants A Wife" a matchmaking TV series where six lucky stockmen (and one woman) from isolated outposts each invite three city chicks or chaps to try out as prospective life partners. So far we have only seen episodes of sheep handling, rabbit trapping and tractor washing - but enough to illustrate to scale of the landscape and make me wonder at the power of the sun and the vastness of the blue blue sky.

$10 prize

Today I bought a $10 raffle ticket for a house. This extraordinary raffle which is held several times a year, raises funds for Endeavour, a charity which supports young people with special needs leaving education and entering employment. The houses are built by workers for the charity, opened as show rooms for a short period when viewers can buy tickets and then given away with additional cash prizes as incentives to buy multiple tickets. I will find out if I have won the day before I am due to leave. I will not be allowed to live here even if I wanted to but would be able to sell the luxury bungalow with tiny "lap" pool and minute garden.

Then on to the beach of Bribie Island for a walk against the wind in the silvery sand, a distant view of the Pacific beyond the shadowy mountains on the far side of the inlet. August winds are blowing cold thought the sun is hot. Leaves on the yellow flowered Hibiscus trees are thinking about turning red. At times this winter is warmer than our summer but out of the sun it is chilly with the temperature ranging from 8 - 21 degrees celsius. Layers are definitely the dress code and quite a picture I must have looked in pedal pushers and shawl. I think I may be wearing every item of clothing I brought. Probably all at once.

Flying through time

After a day when I really thought I would be spending August walking in Wales some last minute magic by Trailfinders resolved the issue of my missing Visa and now after sleeping though 18 hours of flying time I am here on the other side of the world with my niece Mandie, her husband Matt, ten year old daughter Katie and my ex brother-in law Pete. Phew. Time to slow down, look around and enjoy myself.

Ah...

There is a weighty feeling that drags like a plummeting lift when you realise that an essential piece of the preparation for a project is still unfinished the night before or worse still , has not even been started. As day dawned after a very short night I had no visa to enter Australia. An e-application is lodged but progress halted at Friday teatime. At work with on a project 90 children this morning it was easy to slip back into denial and pretend that I wasn't even booked into Oz at all - maybe I'll be bicycling round Anglesey after all. But tickets are booked, car park pre-paid, hotel confirmed, seat T18 in the stalls of Sydney Opera house has my name on it, for one day at least.

Epic effort for a Master

An amazing day yesterday - Tom,who organised tickets for the BBC Proms as birthday gift, arrived about 9pm on Friday evening. After a late night session swotting up with a DVD of Wagner's Die Meistersinger (helped down with bread, cheese and a bottle of German lager) we went to bed at 2 am, got up at 6 and zipped down the M1 to Potters Bar where we touched base with big sister Liz who leapt into her car to lead us in to Potters Bar Station. Racing against time, we jumped on a train to Finsbury Park, changed to the Piccadilly line for South Kensington just making it to take our seats in the Recital Room of the Royal College of Music for 11am and an illuminating talk by historian Tim Blanning about the historical context of this fascinating, entertaining and once you have a translation to hand, thoroughly accessible masterpiece.

The Meistersingers and Guildsmen of 15th century Nuremburg seem to have had much in common with the Little Mester Cutlers of Sheffield who were held in high esteem before the magnates of the industrial revolution ensnared them into dependency and transformed the once green and pleasant Don Valley into a reeking vale of filth from which it is only just recovering. I could see where Wagner was coming from in his critique of a society defensively clinging to the rituals of the past. The struggle of the creative and passionate to shine through a protective layer of restrictive rules and regulations is an issue now, as as ever.

Tom had to prod me awake a few times in the following two talks which were only slightly less inspiring but I am pleased to say that I was fully recovered by the time we took our seats in the choir stalls in the grand Royal Albert Hall, possibly I ws sitting in the very seat where my Grandad Logan once sat when he sang with the Royal Choral Society in the 1930s. Fortunately I wasn't required to sing, just to sit back and set free Bryn Tervel and the awesome Welsh National Opera Company on the stage of my imagination.

The next six hours flowed by in a most civilised manner with tea interval for a picnic in Kensington Gardens. Too soon we were streaming out of that magnificent building with 6,000 others and heading back by Tube to drive back up the motorway and fall into bed at three o'clock this morning. Thankfully the 6,000 others went home by another route.

This morning I find myself humming the cobblers' anthem. Maybe, now I have a full set of instructions from a Master, I shall write my own travelling song.

Fifteen days ...

Fifteen days till take off. Some travelling to do first. Last weekend Maidenhead, Cheptstow and back to catch up with family. This Friday down to London with Tom to immerse ourselves in Wagner. My first Prom, first Wagner, not quite the usual introduction - five hours or so of Die Meistersinger in German, a concert performance so no story, no lavish costumes or magnificent set - just the music.We get a masterclass and an introduction to Wagner talk beforehand but I somehow think we will be revising as we drive.

Got to plan, got to pack ...

Just four weeks until I set out for Australia and I'm busy every day until I go.
I've got a ticket so that's a good thing. A passport and a visa too. I've a birthday gift of Australian dollars to buy myself a treat and I've bought two books - no three: Australia , Brisbane and Sydney. I hope I read them before I get back.

I've pulled my suitcase down from on top of the wardrobe, opened it and closed it again. It's full of the blankets I'm saving for the ice age.
I've got four weeks.