Avoiding the bush fires.

Byron Bay is a bit of a blur. We arrive at midnight, exhausted, prepared to leave at midnight the next day. Another overnight bus awaits. We have recently set about planning our remaining time in Australia and found ourselves extremely short. The result is quick stops and overnight buses.

Byron has as alternative, nay hippie, feel to it. A short drive away is Nimbin, the cannabis capital of Australia. We do not have the time to make a trip. We get up in the morning and I feel as tired as I did when I went to bed. The hostel seems chilled out and relaxed, an old man with a long white beard wanders around aimlessly in his pajamas. He looks like he has been here for a long time.

We head into town, first stop the farmers market. This place is right up my street. People wander around in harem pants and I can only see one place that sells any sort of meat. We stop at a delightful little stall and the woman convinces me to buy a goats cheese and aubergine tart, some frittata, a pear and raspberry muffin and a passion-fruit slice. I should never buy food when I'm hungry. It is all divine though and well worth the price.

We wander around Byron Head along sands of black and white that meld and merge into each other with every step. The waves roll in high and strong and two small children yell in delight as they are engulfed by water far above their head. An Australian family happily let their young girl get taken out by one particularly large wave in the aid of a good photo.

Surfers abound!

Byron Head is bold and dramatic. It protrudes from the mainland, the most easterly point in Australia, and houses Byron Head lighthouse. No mention of dinosaurs in this one. We approach the lighthouse and see a young couple getting their wedding photos taken. The heavens open and the photographer takes one last picture before we all dash madly indoors, the bride failing to cover her hair with a bouquet of flowers. We shelter in the lighthouse for a while but eventually grow bored. We decide to brave the rain, turning beach-ware to rain-ware with a casual ease that astounds the dripping masses...

We spend the evening in the hostel trying not to fall asleep (when we arrived in Byron we fell asleep and almost missed our stop - I awoke to the noise of the driver closing the luggage compartment). Amy makes a new best friend and learns of break-up's and miscarriages. The manager locks our bags in the luggage room then leaves the hostel. The resident old man sits on the sofa, stoned, a wondrous look in his eyes as the Animatrix blows his mind.

We make it to the bus stop, bags reclaimed, and watch the wonder that is Byron at night. Every type of person you could imagine walks past us. Surfer dudes and guys in trackies, hipsters and most of all hippies. Some sit in a tree just down the road. Every now and then someone cycles past in a rickshaw, lugging drunken tourists around the town. They blare music out into the night. One floats past, 'Barbie Girl' drifting through the air. I wonder whether Byron is real. Perhaps I went to Nimbin and ate something I probably should not have.

Everyone's favorite song.

The next morning I awake on the bus just outside of Newcastle. Despite my somewhat sporadic sleep I am feeling surprisingly rejuvenated. We leap off the bus, the sun is shining and the air is clear. The day seems full of promise. Byron feels a dreamy haze behind me.

Parts of Newcastle remind me a lot of parts of England. The brick buildings are older than much of what you see here. It has the feel of an industrial town that is trying to find a new purpose. I like it. We have a relaxed day around the city, wandering the streets and the foreshore. We visit the old jail, currently home to an art exhibition. The man behind the counter clearly doesn't get out much and insists on taking us around the whole place despite the fact he doesn't seem to know anything about it. He points at a picture and tells us it's a picture, he points at a tape measure fashioned into a sculpture and tells us it's a tape measure, he points where a piece of film is projected onto the wall and tells us it's a piece of film. He follows us outside and insists we go with him to the carpark. He proceeds to point at a blank bit of wall and tell us there used to be horses there. We tell him we leave Newcastle the next day and have a lot to see so must get going. He ushers us back inside and hands us each a leaflet of an evening ghost tour of the town. We tell him we'll think about it (we won't) and he looks at us confused then says that it's not on tonight. It's only on one Saturday a month. Today is Friday.

The next morning finds us on the bus to Sydney. Shortly outside of Newcastle we see a landscape that looks burned out and hollow. Soon a verdant green returns, cut by wide blue rivers and long clear lakes. We see no more evidence of the bush fires. Chvrches, a band from Glasgow, sing Scottish tones into my ear. Buildings multiply and we enter Sydney. I can't contain my excitement. I see the Harbour Bridge before me and leap across the bus to try and get a view of the Opera House. The song explodes into joy and promise. I catch sight of white crests and know I am here. The view from the bus is awful and obscured but it does not matter, I will see it properly soon.

Our first two days in Sydney are to be out at Bondi Beach. Then we are to have two days in the Blue Mountains, currently on fire, and finally two days in the central Sydney before we leave for New Zealand. When we are in Bondi the weather is beautiful. The sand shines and the sky glows. Surfers glide back and forth across the waves.

We walk along the coastal path, currently cluttered by a huge exhibition called 'Sculpture by the Sea'. There must have been hundreds of sculptures, some interesting, some inspiring, some amazing. Inevitably though, some awful.

Our friend Mark visits us from Melbourne and that night we go out in Sydney. I say we. Amy and Mark fall asleep (pass out?) at ten and I end up going out by myself. Five a.m. finds me walking back through the city, taking in the night-time sights. I walk through one of the posher parts of town and find large tree lined streets and grand houses. At one point I see two people jump over the fence of a house on the other side of the road. One appears to have a baseball bat. The sun rises and I make it to bed.

We have a relatively inactive day around Bondi. It seems fun. There are lots of small cafe's and unique clothes shops, none of which we can afford to make use of. We are now on a strict budget. We head to the Blue Mountains having been assured that only one part of them was affected. We see no evidence of any fires.

I instantly fall in love with the hostel here. We arrive and are offered a fresh cup of coffee. We are led through a common room that oozes cosy. There is a wood burning stove and a large red sofa; rag rugs and carpets line the walls and floor. The corner of the room brims with guitars, hand drums and didgeridoos. This seems to be a place where people stay for a long time, changing free meals and accommodation for a few hours helping out the couple in charge. I can picture myself doing this, writing in my spare time. I mentally note it down for my return to Australia.

The Blue Mountains are named for the mist that hangs in the air, exuded from the local flora, hiding the distant mountains in a blue cloud. We approach the edge of town and the land drops away before us. Infront of me is a vista the like of which I have never seen. We stand upon the brink of another world. Cliffs plummet from our feet and an endless green valley stretches to forever, lined by distant blue mountains. The haze in the air both obscured and enhances the view. It lends the place an air of mystery and of age. It feels a timeless place, completely separate from the modern world but ten minutes behind me. I imagine great stepped pyramids and marauding dinosaurs. Ancient powers and old gods, long forgotten to the world. Anything could be down there.

The rainforest climbs and clambers up the sandstone cliffs as if trying to escape from containment. A vast swarm waiting to cover the world in endless green. We are not allowed down into the valley due to the fires so instead walk along the edge of the precipice. The noise of Cicadas in the air is almost deafening. At the end of the day my ears are ringing. I feel like I've been at a concert, right next to the speakers, and I find myself talking louder than normal.

Listen to the Cicadas!

This place is huge.

 That evening everyone in the hostel sits outside, around a camp-fire and under the stars. The owner makes salad for all and barbecues any meat people bring along. It is relaxed and peaceful and for the first time in a while we get a truly good nights sleep.

The next day sees us in a different section of the Blue Mountains National Park where we take a route named the National Pass. This is a path that has been amazingly and daringly carved half way up the cliff face, and runs along it for a few miles between the Wentworth Falls and the Empress Falls. We descend down to it just before the Wentworth Falls and the sheer scale of this mountainous plateau is revealed. Half way down the cliffs we feel closer to the landscape than yesterday; we still have the drop to rain-forest below but now we are also dwarfed by towering cliffs above. The only place I have encountered that rivals this in terms of scale is the Grand Canyon. This feels more feral though, wild and untamed. We pass the Wentworth falls between the first tier and the second. They tower for three hundred feet above us and drop for almost another three hundred below.

  

Having been suitably blown away by the beauty that is the Blue Mountains we return to Sydney the next morning. We spend a day wandering the city centre. The Opera House and the Harbour Bridge feature prominently. Sydney, upon first impression, seems a city that would be slightly harder to get to know than Melbourne, if only for its size, though I have no doubt that if I did I would love it just as much, if not more. The harbour is beautiful, and the novelty of having such an iconic building proudly astride the spit of land protruding into it did not wear thin the entire time I was there. The Opera House's white peaks shine beneath the sun during the day and glow softly but boldly at night. It is ever present and you cannot help but stare. It is smaller than I would have expected, as I find many famous buildings are, but in its size it does not seem to lose an ounce of its prominence. It is the jewel of the Sydney Harbour and nothing can take that away.

Our final day in Australia dawns and we cross the Harbour Bridge. The North shore is beautiful and expensive. Boats fill harbours surrounded by forested hills while colourful houses cling between the trees. It could as easily be Italy as Australia. We visit an area called Manly, almost an hour on buses north of the centre. We had been told not to bother with Manly if we had been to Bondi but I am almost instantly glad we did. The journey there takes us through stunning bays brimming with a clear water. We both think we prefer Manly to Bondi; the streets are wide and lined with fountains and the beach feels more relaxed (if such a thing is possible).

That night we go for a final drink in Australia at the bar of the Sydney Opera House. We sit by the shore, white domes gleam above. Across the water the Harbour Bridge looms dramatically, challenging the Opera House for supremacy. A live band plays nearby. What I would give to live here for a while, on a decent wage, and be able to enjoy this every day.

Our plane takes off and we leave Australia behind us. For me I know it is only for a few weeks but for Amy it could be forever. Amy and I are only half way through our travels together, a thought that encourages me, Melbourne feels so long ago. I consider all the places I have been and the distance I have travelled and I am still amazed by how far away I am. New Zealand appears through the clouds below, endless mountains capped with white. Already I can believe that this will be the most beautiful place I will ever see. We touch down. I cannot begin to describe my excitement. Linlithgow and my home are eleven thousand six hundred and two miles away. I stand at the door of the plane, New Zealand stretches before me. All I can think is one thing.

“If I take one more step, it'll be the farthest away from home I've ever been.”