The Bill and Ben

As we waited for the greyhound from Coffs Harbour to our next stop of Byron Bay we had a pint at the local inn and soon found ourselves talking to a group of old guys who, in between offering to drive us round the area, assured us that Byron was "the worst dump on the coast - and that's fair dinkum mate!" (they actually did say that). We can only assume that they were not fans of beautiful, walkable towns with sensational beaches and great ice cream because after three days we certainly had no complaints. While continuing the "out of season holiday town" theme we've established on this trip we had a very relaxing stay (for the most part), and with the drive north providing a crucial couple of extra degrees we got to spend a lot of time lounging on the beach.

Megan as Ursula Andress:

Me and a yoghurt pot reconnecting with my inner 8 year old:

The only incident of real note occurred on our first full day shortly after we parted ways on a run around the iconic local lighthouse. As Megan headed home to our hostel I turned back for another lap of the hill - this time to include the steep path which takes you right out into the water at the very tip of the headland on which the lighthouse sits. A short while later I arrived at what is officially Australia's most Easterly point just as the sun began to set over the sea and the long wintery shadows it cast on the afternoon waves were absolutely spectacular. June to November is peak whale and dolphin season and I had just begun to see if I could spot any of the tell-tale plumes when I realized that... I was standing in one of several piles of human sick! The moment immediately spoiled I looked around for a possible author and sure enough, just a few feet away, were sprawled a guy and two girls (English of course), who seemed much less concerned about their various regurgitations than I was. Annoyed, and somehow believing that in my running gear I cut some sort of imposing figure, I told the guy that he was doing the reputation of Queen and country no favours. By way of response my compatriot, who despite his state seemed to have made a much better appraisal than I of our disparate sizes, punched me on the nose. Four times.

I don't think I've ever been punched in the face before which, while an odd realization for a 29 year old guy, may explain my reaction. The interval between punches one to two was spent being pleasently suprised at how little it actually hurt, two to three was spent wondering if I should be trying to "duck and weave" (and how I might go about doing this), and three to four was wasted appealing to two nearby fisherman who clearly regarded one Englishman punching another as saving them a job. With my fight response clearly on holiday I eventually got around to flighting and made my way back up the hill wondering what else I should have done. On my way back though the sensible option presented itself and I ducked into the local police station for what I assumed would be the usual lengthy wait followed by a round of form filling in. To my surprise however, as soon as I mentioned the words "drunk Englishman," four burly examples of New South Wales' finest appeared out of a back room, dove into a van and charged back up the hill with me in tow. Sure enough my friends hadn't moved and after a brief comparison of accounts he was led away to what I was told would be a $350 fine and a permanent file leading to some awkward questions should he ever apply for an Australian visa again - they don't mess around Down Under.

A crimewatch reconstruction:

In case anyone's worried that having survived India and south east Asia we are somehow attempting to engineer some drama for the blog I can assure you that the rest of our sojourn in Australia passed very pleasantly and without police involvement. In fact we've become quite domestic and, having kitchens at our disposal for the first time in several months, have taken the opportunity to cook up some of our specialities:

Despite being a decade older than many of the guests we also took full advantage of our hostel's free Sangria night and as well as mild hangovers the event provided the first of what was to become a series of encounters with slightly odd Australian raconteurs. I forget why we first spoke to Damian but we spent much of the evening being regaled with stories of how he had spent many years earning a living crafting fairy stars from cardboard and glitter (so far so normal for a hippie town like Byron Bay), how he owned the largest collection of Charlie Chaplin paraphenalia in the world, how he had managed to acquire the only case of Don Bradman commemorative beer to have avoided being smashed by the teetotaller's lawyers and how Damian Marley was named after him (we were as skeptical as you until he produced a fistful of photos of a younger himself and Bob). We finally escaped as he began to tell us about the flying saucer he was building utilizing secret government plans but he was an entertaining guy and as an interaction it was definitely an improvement on the day before.

From Byron Bay we took the Greyhound north once again along the Gold Coast and through my old home town of Surfer's Paradise. While another sun-drenched evening made the coastal drive an enjoyable trip down memory lane it was with some trepidation that we approached our final stop of Brisbane - our guidebook had described the Queensland capital as "excelling only in mediocrity, lethargy and unreliable public transport"(!) While it's certainly true that Brisbane lacks an Opera House and for some inexplicable reason any real beaches, it was actually a great stay though we didn't get far beyond sightseeing from the river and strolling the beautifully landscaped South Bank area. We also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Steve, our couch-surfing host for all three days, who looked after us very well and gamely put up with hosting a Brit for the first three days of a very promising Ashes decider.

For our final night before heading to Middle Earth we had decided to experience that most Australian of obsessions - live sport! For a truly cultural evening we decided that the accompaniment to our pies and chips would be the end-of-season Aussie rules football clash between the Brisbane Lions and the Port Adelaide Power. The game is hard to explain but seems to involve huge numbers of sleeveless Aussies chasing each other and/or a rugby ball around a cricket field for an amazingly long time. Sometimes they punch the ball, sometimes they kick it and most often they fumble for it as it bounces around their feet before getting jumped on by members of the other team. I'm told the game was a very exciting one and Brisbane certainly came back from a long way down though we might not have thought their situation so hopeless if we had realized before trying to leave at halftime that they play for four quarters.

And with that we are already at the end of our time in Australia. When we made the decision to stay longer in India we knew it would be at the expense of this spectacular island but I don't think either of us regrets the decision. Australia is definitely a country we could come back to and its popularity as a holiday destination is easily understood given its spectcaular scenery and laid-back lifestyle. That said, after the sensory overload of our first three months, living in a country that is so familiar has itself been a little disorientating and the feeling that there is a temple somewhere we should be exploring or a unique food we need to sample (four and twenty pies do not count), has been hard to shake.