Down Under

Update: 26

The problem with Australia, from a travel writing perspective, is that it's so damn normal. There are no amusing bus stories about goats in overhead lockers, no street vendors selling dog stir-fry, no cowboy guides ramping bicycles off the sides of mountains and no con artists trying to pass you counterfeit banknotes. Just a whole lot of people obeying the rules. So, with a notable absence of oddballs and weirdos, we settled for the next best thing. We checked in with some family.

First stop though: Sydney with our mates from the UK, Nicola and Rob. Nicola being an eloquent English rose, Rob being a Dutchman who mocks my accent. I let that pass, because there's a certain amount of humour in hearing English spoken in a slow, sober slur. And besides, we both agree we should own a yacht. I'm terrified at revealing what we got up to in one of the world's most beautiful cities and premier tourist attractions: not a hell of a lot.

• Harbour bridge - check
• Opera house - check
• Botanic gardens - check
• Aquarium - check
• Bondi beach - check
• Lunch at The Rocks - check
• Vast amounts of eating and drinking - check
• Not much else - check

Melbourne. Finally time came to cash in on those Aussies who'd crashed on our London floor. While we offered them a sleeper couch in our front room next to a bottle shop just off Garrett Lane, hospitality was returned with change when Bobby and Leo provided us with a room of our own at the end of their passage (you walk past the second bedroom, then the study and there, next to recording studio one of two, is guest room number whatever with a bed the size of a London garden). So that was a step up from La Posada del Viajero with its sub zero central heating and blocked toilet. This was my introduction to The Italian Way. Not in the break your kneecaps sense, more in the "please, I'm begging you, no more food" sense. It's been nearly a month now and I'm still digesting Janine's picnic. You've got to love the Italians: every day's an occasion with these guys.

Doctor Dom picks us up from the airport and stops off at his place for us to catch up with Janine and their new baby. Janine then provides what in most circles would be considered lunch, but in Thornbury, Melbourne is a light snack before we head off to Bob and Leo's for some serious eating and a housewarming party especially planned to coincide with our arrival. Somewhere in between all this I was talked into buying (our Christmas present to ourselves whether I like it or not) tickets to a Kylie Minogue concert the following day. The party went of without a hitch: nothing was broken and nudity was kept to babies having their nappies changed. We're grown up now. Apparently.

The following evening, inside the Rod Laver arena I desperately searched out a fellow sufferer which was not easy amongst all the prepubescent girls, their moms, big sisters and drag queen uncles. I thought I spotted one but when the guy three seats away from me turned around and, after giving me enough time to read the sequined lettering of "I'm a showgirl" on his size-too-small vest top, winked at me, I realised I was out of my depth and resigned myself to grin and bear my Christmas present like you would a visit to a dentist.   

At Melbourne airport while checking in for the Adelaide flight, I was instructed politely, but firmly, in the kind of tone used by the London Transport Police when arresting unsuspecting fare evaders at Blackfriars station on Tuesday mornings that "under no circumstances was I to sit in seat B." I had to sit next to the window in A and Tam in B because there was to be an unaccompanied minor in C.

So that would have foiled Rose West and Myra Hindley.

I thought of saying something like that or "don't worry, I'm only going to take pictures" but if there's one thing I've learned in this safer, post 9/11 world it's that a good sense of humour is not a requirement for employment as an airport official.

Happily we arrived in Adelaide where my cousin did trust me with his children.

After an indulgent Christmas where headway was made into destroying Mark and Tracey's wine collection, we made our way into the Barossa Valley where my (ok, bear with me here) brother's girlfriend's parents and brother hosted us on a day of wine tasting. Admittedly we did drop Peter and Angela (parents) off for a few hours to attend a funeral while Jules (brother) took us to some vineyards. By the time we met Angela and Peter again for lunch, I was two sheets to the wind and, not wanting to ruin my brother's chances with their daughter, acutely aware of myself taking just that little bit longer to think before I spoke cautiously treading through any of those conversational minefields that only come to one's attention a sleep and two aspirins later. 

My brother has subsequently informed me that he and Ingrid are still together so a job well done.

Running the risk of forceful eviction, we left Adelaide after ten days for Perth. Again with family. Family has special privileges. They're the only people who are allowed to call you chunky. DO THEY NOT KNOW I'VE BEEN IN ARGENTINA? THEY EAT MEAT THERE! LOADS! I CAN'T HELP IT!

So, we were met at Perth airport where my cousin's (another one - is there anyone left in southern Africa?) husband was waiting to meet us. Only later did it materialise that he'd needed to phone Kate (my cousin) to confirm "is he a chubby bald guy?" when nearly everyone had collected their luggage and there was - apparently - a larger than average chap with very, very short hair walking around aimlessly while his wife nagged him about confirming their collection...

As with all our hospitality in Australia, Perth was faultless. Kate and Andrew made us feel right at home, and their toddler daughters also made sure we were included in any activities whether we wanted to play at 6.30am after a red wine bonanza evening or not.

My mate Jubbs (of Jubber's Hat fame) let us know at the last minute that he'd be making an appearance in Western Australia for us. I knew he was coming for the beer, but he maintained it was for us. Nevertheless, the invitation came out via text message to join him in Guilderton (or Moore River - he wasn't sure) with Mike, an old school mate, and his family. Directions went as follows - and I quote from the note I made myself:

• Come in past golf course on left.
• If you stand in the river and face out to see, the house is behind you
• It has blue pillars

When we pulled into Guilderton (it's not called Moore River) I realised that I could pass the golf course on the road that goes to the left. I could also pass the golf course so that it was on the left.

The thing about facing the sea is that all houses are behind you.

They all have blue pillars.

We found it and shared the front garden with four other tents. A bit like Woodstock but with plumbing.

Kate had lent us her car and Mike kindly lent us a tent which, for the price of a six pack, he lent us for our last week Down Under. Taking a tent to a campsite is fairly rational behaviour. Arriving at the same campsite with a double sofa bed mattress, white duvet with lace trim, four pillows and two wok-box special fry Phad Thai takeaways wouldn't be so out of place if the couple next to us weren't sharing a one-man swag tent and cooking beans in the tin.

I felt awkward for a minute while Tam made our bed, but then we tucked into the food, smacked a bottle of Margaret River's finest and crashed into a bed fit for a princess. To those guys dealing with each other's bean-induced wind in their crowded one-man swag I say: Life doesn't have to be so hard.

We're in Singapore now and flying to Cambodia tomorrow at the ungodly hour of 7am. It's late now, so forgive me if this is rushed...