Brussels (and not a sprout to be seen)

And so I found myself at Heathrow airport, sleep-deprived, time-confused and in desperate need of a shower. Unfortunately my journey had not yet ended - I still needed to get across London, the destination being The Cousin's flat in Clapham. Joy of joys, I was to lug my case and bags in and out of a multitude of trains. First, I needed a UK SIM card for my mobile. After enquiring in Boots, I was directed towards a vending machine - yes, it seems vending machines are not just for highly calorific snacks and drinks, but also for SIM cards. How very Japanese of us. It cost me £10 so naturally I assumed that it contained credit. Not wanting to waste any more time, I zoomed down to the Heathrow Express (after purchasing a disgustingly expensive ticket for the fifteen minute journey) and hopped onto an awaiting train. So far, so good. Knowing that I would be heading straight for the tube (which, being built over one hundred and fifty years ago, does not have mobile reception) I texted The Cousin to let her know approximately when I would be arriving so she could meet me at the station. I pressed send and nothing happened. I pressed it again - nothing. It would appear that in England £10 will only buy you the SIM and not any credit. This was going to be an expensive holiday.

As soon as I got to Paddington, I rushed into W H Smiths and bought some credit, texted The Cousin and went through to the Tube (not before getting my case stuck in the turnstile,causing an alarm to go off, holding up everyone behind me and getting told off by the mean attendant for not using the disabled turnstile). Now the fun began. I had to change trains twice, navigating my way through narrow tunnels, steep staircases and crowded escalators with a large, heavy suitcase, a handbag and a holdall. Of course, Londoners are far too busy to be able to stop and help a clearly struggling woman with her bags. Big, beefy men would rush past me, barely glancing my way as I hauled my case up one step at a time. On top of all this, I was roasting in my jeans - the Tube is a sweaty, sticky, smelly place to be in the summer. I was not having fun.

I eventually arrived at Clapham Common station to find no sign of The Cousin. I pulled out my mobile to find a text message reading 'Who are you? I don't know you. Have you got the wrong number?' Unless The Cousin had had a severe case of memory loss, she should have realised that it was me texting her so the only assumption to make was that I had the wrong number for her. After making a fraught call to her mum, I got the correct number and called her. By this point, two and a half hours had passed since I had landed so she was beginning to think that she had indeed lost her memory, completely forgetting which day I was arriving. She whizzed around to the station and walked me back to her flat. Finally, I could relax. After a cup of tea and a shower I was feeling much better. After a couple of glasses of wine I was feeling better still. And after a pub meal and half a bottle of very nice rose I was feeling just fabulous.

Thankfully, I slept well and woke feeling almost refreshed. Today I was to meet The Girls at St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar to Brussels. C'est plus excitant! St. Pancras was hit by several periods of high-pitched squealing as one by one we met up for the first time in eighteen months. This happy reunion was only slightly blighted by the fact that I found I couldn't withdraw any money as the bank was declining authorisation. After a twenty minute conversation with them that got me nowhere, we had to board so one of The Girls very kindly lent me some euros (it later turned out that I had been sent a new visa card in January which clearly didn't get to me). Shortly after boarding the train we popped the pink fizz - deemed absolutely necessary for such a momentous occasion - and I began relaying to them all what life is like in Australia. Our carriage seemed to be the quietest in rail history so I'm sure everyone on the train knew my entire life history by the end of the journey.

My suitcase, which I have now named The Beast, proved to be tricky to get down the steps of the train so I made a lot of 'this is very heavy and I am having difficulty lifting it' type noises and, lo and behold, a kind man helped me - the first since I had arrived. I don't think he was from London, so that's probably why. Brussels Metro caused me further suitcase problems, but at least most of the stations had lifts, albeit officially the slowest lifts in the world.      

Our group of seven friends from uni were in Brussels, the capital of Belgium and the administrative centre of the European Union, to visit our good friend Cath, who has been living over there for a couple of years. To be honest, it is a miracle that all of us managed to get ourselves over there together - we're hardly ever available all at the same time, obviously especially now that I live on the other side of the world. We spent a wonderful long weekend walking the streets of Brussels, taking it all in and visiting the main sights, making a day trip to the beautiful city of Ghent, and of course eating waffles and moules frites and drinking copious amounts of Belgian beer - well, we had to try as many different ones as possible, it would have been rude not to! One such beer was called Westmalle Triple and was 9.5%, nearly as strong as wine.I drank this at the end of the night which, in hindsight, was probably not a good idea and probably explained why I was seeing four of one of The Friends' heads later on. It later became clear that 9.5% was nothing - the strongest Belgian beer is a whopping 12%. Definitely one to be approached with caution and respect - you certainly wouldn't gulp down a pint of wine and similar restraint must be upheld with beers of this strength. We had the chance to try a number of different beers at a bar we were taken to on the second night which sold over two thousand beers - now, that's a challenge! Unfortunately, my jet-lagged body would only allow me two, both of which were very nice. I avoided the one that smelt and tasted of a rugby player's armpit for obvious reasons. I left earlier than some of the others and apparently missed dancing on tables, free hugs given by a random man, and a girl wearing a sequined bikini. One of The Girls fell as soon as she stumbled into the bedroom, before proceeding to crawl across the floor, ending up getting herself stuck in the wardrobe. Another danced in the toilet to her i-pod for an hour, pausing to tell her roommate that 'I just need to dance it off!" As you can imagine, there were a few feeling slightly delicate the next day. I, on the other hand, felt the freshest I had since arriving in London, and felt extremely smug about it - it's not often that I am one of the few not hungover.

I don't know whether it's over-consumption of beer by its officials, but Brussels has some very odd statues. The city's main landmark is the Manneken Pis, a small bronze fountain sculpture of a little boy peeing into an urn below. That is weird enough but what is even stranger is that they like to dress him up in different costumes. When we saw him he was wearing what could either have been a bee-keepers outfit or a fencing costume. If you feel so inclined, there is a museum in which you can see the hundreds of costumes that have been made for the urinating boy. There is also a statue of a peeing dog somewhere in Brussels - they obviously have a thing for wee. There also seems to be quite a lot of it in the Metro but that's another thing entirely.

Brussels is a lovely city, defying the often derogatory comments made about it. Much of the beautiful Gothic architecture has been kept, there are hundreds of little cafes, bars and restaurants in squares and down twisting cobbled streets. It's packed full of character and, being home to so many different nationalities, has a wonderfully cosmopolitan feel. The international food festival was taking place while we were there, and representatives from ever European Union nation were present, hosting stalls bursting with produce from their countries. We ate food from all over the continent, as well as trying a few sneaky wines and beers. The highlight of the day has to be the German male choir, made up of pensioners with fantastic moustaches. They sang sea shanties and wore sailor's uniforms and we fell in love with them. Like groupies, we shyly made our way over to them as they came off stage and asked to take a photo with them. A number crowded in, probably loving the excuse to feel up a bunch of young ladies, and one of The Girls asked a woman to take the photo for us. Misunderstanding, she moved to get in the photo herself. "No, no, no" she said, pointing to the camera. It turned out that, of all the people at the market, she had asked a blind woman to take the photo. And not only that, but she had cut her down with not one but three nos when she tried to get in the photo. I don't think I have ever laughed so much in all my life, or tried so hard not too. This is the same friend who, earlier in the weekend, wondered why a group of tourists were all wearing bright blue bibs with the word 'Tourist' emblazoned on them - not the best way to blend in, was her astute observation. The bibs actually read 'Tourist Information' and were designed to stand out for that reason. Amazingly, this friend is a lawyer working for a top firm. I won't give her name for fear she may never be given a case again.

Upon arriving back in England, I once again struggled with my luggage to board a train bound for Solihull, home of The In-laws, where I was to spend a day with The Mother-in-law. Luckily for me, she is not a fire-breathing dragon and we spent a lovely day shopping, eating and drinking wine. I am about to depart yet again, this time for The Grandparents' in North Oxfordshire where I shall chill out in their countryside retreat before a night in London and a weekend in Somerset. Who knows when I shall next get to blog again but as soon as I am able to, I will. My tour of Britain continues... 

High Fliers

Firstly, I must give my thanks to The Mother for her wonderful guest blog whilst I was away. I'm sure all my regular readers will have appreciated another insight into life in Australia. However, I must just add that Northbridge (the area cited by The Mother as having been 'troubled by street gangs and violence in recent years and best avoided') definitely looks better by night (the only time Expat Wife has been there), when the restaurants look romantic and cosy rather than rundown and seedy. Besides, we did come across the Chinatown that we all thought didn't exist in Perth, so it wasn't a totally wasted trip. And it wasn't like we got mugged or anything. Okay, there was that funny-smelling, dodgy-looking, bearded man who looked like he may jump us but he didn't so there was nothing to worry about. Anyway, I made up for it by finding that cute little open-air bar/coffee shop with adorable mismatched china. Perth is full of tiny little independent bars, restaurants and tea shops, often down alleyways or narrow side streets, easy to miss unless you keep an eagle eye out. This of course has the added bonus of meaning that they are normally only frequented by those in the know - Perthites and not Japanese tourists.   

Perth truly is a lovely city, one in which The Husband and I could easily see ourselves living. It is super-laidback for a state city - unlike other major cities, no-one seems to be in much of a hurry, even in the Central Business District. The streets are packed at 5.05pm, full of office workers beginning their journey home. In how many first-world cities do people leave their offices at 5pm on the dot? But this is how it should be, Perth has got it absolutely right. They have got their work-life balance spot-on. It obviously works as it is a wealthy city - the number of designer shops, trendy bars and fine dining restaurants is testament to that. The rest of the world needs to take a leaf out of Perth's book - it would be a far happier place. And Perthites are clearly happy - you can see it in their breezy attitude, their healthy, golden complexions. They lead an outdoor life thanks to the numerous parks, beaches, walking trails and of course the fabulous weather. We were there in the middle of their winter and it was in the low twenties most days, with brilliant sunshine and blue skies. Yes, I do believe that Perth is the dream.

I left Perth with mixed emotions - dread of the horrendously long journey that awaited me and excitement about setting foot in England for the first time in eighteen months. We were on the pink fizz while waiting for our flight - the only way to end a holiday, I feel - so were wonderfully relaxed by the time we boarded (by this point I had already thought I had lost my passport approximately three times so this was a necessary measure). We were delighted to find that the plane was barely a quarter full, giving us the space to lie down fully across the seats. Before that, however, we had our final meal together. It was only airline food but it was rather good, especially accompanied by a couple of mini bottles of red wine. Qantas lived up to the stereotype by employing only gay male flight attendants and one of them definitely aided our alcohol consumption. As he came round offering coffee or tea ('or me' I half-expected him to say, with a wink at The Father), he immediately noticed that we were still drinking vino. "Ooo, look at you on the wine!", he exclaimed, flicking his wrist in a fabulously camp manner, "I'll bring you another shall I? I think a selection would be best. Lovely!" At least all that wine helped us sleep and before we knew it, the crew were pulling up the blinds ready for our descent into Hong Kong.

After leaving The Parents (and, as The Mother mentioned, I almost had a heart-attack thinking I had somehow left my passport at the airport bar in Perth) I made my way to the gate to await my next flight. It was very strange to be in Hong Kong airport, amongst Hong Kong Chinese people, passing Hong Kong shops, but not actually, technically, be in Hong Kong. I was, by this point, feeling weary and dirty (it was Thursday morning, I hadn't had a shower since Wednesday morning, and I had walked around Perth and slept on a plane in that time), so I was more than overjoyed to be told that I had been upgraded to Premium Economy. Result! What a difference an upgrade makes, even just to Premium. The seats are twice the size, as is the leg room - I had a rather fat man sitting next to me, which in bog-standard, cattle-class economy would have been hell on a fourteen hour flight, but I barely noticed him in Premium. It also meant that, when I needed the loo, I didn't have to either wake up the girl sitting next to me or climb over her, inadvertently shoving my bum in her face as I passed - never a nice thing to suddenly wake up to - as there was enough room between her and the seat in front to easily edge my way out. The personal screens are much bigger, the perfect size for watching back-to-back movies. The food is of a better quality than in Economy and is presented on proper plates, with proper cutlery, all on a white tablecloth. And I mustn't forget the constant availability of Champagne - bubbly at 7.15am? Why not?! Why anyone would choose orange juice over Champers is beyond me.

Of course, whatever class you're in, long-haul flying is always going to be a total mind and body rollercoaster. You eat at weird times, drink at weird times (although, as I have just said, there is never a weird time to drink Champagne - what was slightly odd was consuming a couple of glasses of Shiraz shortly after waking up), and sleep at weird times. When we eventually arrived in London, my body didn't know what time it was. I was just thankful to be there. Home, or at least what was once home. Only time would tell if it still felt that way.     

Guest Blogger - By Invitation Only

As Expat Wife is currently off-line while she is enjoying a reunion with some of her uni friends in Belgium The Mother was honoured to be asked to contribute a few words. I will continue from where Expat Wife finished with our arrival in Perth. After checking into our serviced apartment we were given the keys and told quite clearly to go up in the lift to room 607 - simple enough we thought until we looked at the keys which were clearly labelled 604. At least we were not in some of the other apartments which apparently are managed by another company and whose occupants are strictly forbidden (by way of a notice in the lift) ..to approach the reception desk. We decided to risk entering apartment 604, having no wish to risk the wrath of the receptionist, and then spent the rest of our stay wondering if some other guests would appear in our rooms.

After a delicious dinner in one of Perth's trendy restaurants and a good night's sleep we decided to spend the day in Fremantle - we planned to go there on a river cruise and return by train, but Expat Wife's eagle eye noticed that on the afternoon cruise there would be free wine tasting which clearly could not be missed. We had a delightful day in Fremantle, which included our first ever tour around a prison, a place that made the prisons in Prison Break seem a piece of cake - we were slightly surprised to be told that the tour is popular with ex-inmates - strange! That evening Expat Wife treated The Parents to tickets to the show "Rock the Ballet" as belated Mother's and Father's Days' presents, which was extremely entertaining and even The Father enjoyed himself along with the other two men in the audience, though he did find it a little disconcerting to have a group of 40 year old women sitting behind us screaming constantly at the very fit and handsome male dancers who started to resemble the Chippendales towards the end when they ripped off their shirts, and he certainly would have preferred to see more than one female dancer, particularly as she resembled a Thai bar girl! The show finished just before 10pm and we left the theatre looking forward to dinner in one of the nice looking restaurants we passed on the way - foolish us to expect anywhere to be open. It appears that the citizens of Perth go to bed early and nothing is open after 10. Ironically, the only restaurant we found after a lot of trudging about (and increasing grumpiness) was right opposite our apartment.

The following day was spent walking (and walking) about the lovely city of Perth. By the end of the afternoon The Mother (as usual) was gasping for a cup of tea. Expat Wife suggested we walk some more to the area of Northbridge which she assured us was a bohemian and trendy suburb where we would definitely find a nice coffee/tea shop. After yet more walking around a rather run down and seedy area we retraced our steps to the main part of the city and found a very bohemian tea shop and had a lovely cup of tea. While waiting for the tea The Mother had a look at her guidebook which informed her that Northbridge is an area that has been troubled by street gangs and violence in recent years and best avoided. The Parents will think carefully in future before following Expat Wife's advice.

That brought our sojourn in WA to an end and we headed to the airport to return to Hong Kong. Expat Wife was with us on the flight which was probably the emptiest plane any of us have ever been on (there were only about 10 other people in our cabin). At Hong Kong we bade farewell to Expat Wife who was continuing on her way to London, though only after a major panic  (giving us all heart palpitations) when she thought she had lost her passport only to find it safe and secure in her handbag.

Goodbye Karratha, Hello Perth

The four days following our Karijini adventure were spent in Karratha and we packed a lot into that time. A hike into a gorge strewn with Aboriginal art-covered rocks (but I won’t mention the panic-stricken argument The Mother and I had with The Father and Brother when the light started to fade and we were still wandering on an unknown path – somehow we were perfectly capable of looking after ourselves in the wilds of Karijini but at the edge of the biggest town in the Pilbara we managed to get ourselves into trouble!), a visit to an abandoned ex-pearling town, fish & chips by the sea, walks along the sand dunes, sunbathing on several different beaches, yet more snorkelling, a boat trip on a twelve-metre ketch around the islands of the Dampier Archipelago, not to mention barbies and bubbly!

All too soon the time came to say goodbye to The Brother as he flew off to see the family in Adelaide. The Parents and I followed a few hours later, Perth-bound. I would not see The Husband for three weeks. He, of course, was grief-stricken, tears flowing freely down his face. Ok, so that’s not quite how it went. He came back in his lunch hour to take us to the airport in the work ute (the hard hat resting between the front two seats, stained upholstry and a general manly odour pervading the interior apparently made The Father feel like a Man – it just made me feel dirty) and dropped us off at the entrance with a meer peck on the cheek. I’m sure he was crying inside.

Pulling around Karratha’s car park, I was suddenly glad that a) I didn’t have to find a space in which to park the car, and b) I didn’t have a ute to find. The car-park was absolutely chocka – not a spare space in sight. In fact people had parked on the curbs, up against trees, anywhere they could find space, official or not. And 90% of the vehicles parked were identical white utes. Just like The Husband’s in fact. It would be nigh-on impossible to find your ute here. Someone once told me that they had even been informed where their ute had been parked and it still took them 45 minutes to find it. This truly is ute country.

Karratha airport is tiny - it’s only a country airport, after all. However, they still apparently deem it necessary to have a VIP lounge. And what a VIP lounge it is. Essentially, it seemed to be a broom cupboard in the corner containing a couple of chairs and some newspapers. That’s VIP Karratha-style.

When we disembarked at Perth Arrivals, we were surprised to find The Brother waiting there for us. His flight from Karratha apparently didn’t exist so he was put on the next available one, which meant he missed his connecting flight to Adelaide. How he was originally booked onto a ghost flight no-one knows but it meant him having to wait around a couple of airports for hours on end, which isn’t anybody’s idea of fun. After a lengthy hug for support, we left him to wait further as we hopped into a taxi to take us to the centre of Perth to our serviced apartments.

The Terrifying Road Of Death

We left Karijini bright and early in the morning, eschewing breakfast but not steaming cups of coffee, deemed necessary both to revive our sleep-fuddled minds and warm the cockles – cockles are definitely best warm and mine were in danger of turning to ice. Tom Price wasn’t much better – the town famed for being the highest in WA was very, very cold at 9 in the morning in the middle of winter. We made a beeline for a café where we devoured piping hot egg and bacon toasted sandwiches, sat with our faces turned up to the sun like sunflowers, desperate for some warmth.

We were taking the Tom Price railway access road, which runs alongside the railway used to transport iron ore from the mines in Tom Price to the port in Dampier where it is loaded onto the ships. It is the most direct route from Tom Price to Karratha but is privately owned and maintained by Rio Tinto which, due to Australia’s crazily tight health and safety laws, meant that we had to watch a video before we were given a permit to drive it. The twenty-minute long video turned out to be one of the best comedies I have seen in a long time. And no, I don’t think it was intentionally funny. It began with some dramatic music, the type that would accompany a disaster movie. Then came some scenic shots of the Pilbara, presumably designed to relax you, to lull you into a false sense of security much as might happen on the road itself, before you are bombarded with a montage of images of wrecked cars – overturned, crumpled, on fire, they had it all. Cue deep-voiced Australian narrator with the chilling words, “ordinary people just like you didn’t make it out alive.” He then proceeded with a list of anything and everything that could go wrong, resulting in death or at the very least a long stay in hospital and permanent, debilitating injuries. Now, none of us had driven this road before and, granted, it is an unsealed road running parallel to a railway line but we weren’t about to traverse a crumbling, thousand-feet drop cliff edge or drive through a war zone. It was as if they were intentionally putting the fear of God into us, trying to persuade us not use their precious road. It was the most melodramatic information video I have ever seen. We all burst out laughing several times over the course if it, clamping our hands over our mouths in case we were refused the permit on the grounds that we weren’t taking this potentially fatal road seriously enough.

I was the designated driver for the first part of the journey and so scared had they made me that I was very jittery to begin with, and drove nervously and shakily – surely the opposite of what they wanted to achieve. Around every corner I expected a six-trailer beast of a road train to plough towards me, over every crest a Rio inspector to interrogate me. I waited in terror for the bumps and furrows in the road to tip our car over, or throw us towards an oncoming train. They had shown every imaginable (and unimaginable) disaster that could possibly befall us and made it seem likely that at least one of those tragedies might occur. After thirty minutes of nervous driving, I realised that the car probably wasn’t about to spontaneously erupt into a fireball of flames, nor were we likely to roll across onto the track and be crumpled by a seven-mile long train. During the three-hour drive to the end of the permit zone, we encountered a grand total of four vehicles, of which only one was a (very short) road train. The journey passed completely without incident and we were left wondering what on earth they were going on about. This was truly health and safety gone crazy. Still, I was pretty proud that I drove the entire length of the road of death all on my own - *cue dramatic music* we were ordinary people and we did make it out alive. What a survival story.

Gorging On Gorgeous Gorges

Karijini National Park is another of WA’s hidden jewels. Unheard of by most of the world, this park is a goldmine of dramatic red gorges, tumbling waterfalls, secret pools of crystal-clear water and a host of wildlife. Karijini is truly a kaleidoscope of constantly changing colours – with the gradually changing light, or even just a bend in the road, the landscape switches from reds to oranges to greens to blues to purples. Jagged wounds slashed through the heart of the land form the gorges, the constant stream of water flowing through them the lifeblood which sustains the gum trees, spiky spinifex bushes, and tall reeds trying the eke out an existence in this harsh climate. Layer after layer of red, craggy rock stacked up to the sky, ripples of chocolate coloured rock topping a waterfall, liquorice allsort-like slabs of rock tossed here and there. Each gorge was different, each had its own character. It is impossible to get gorge fatigue here.


The nights were shockingly, nose-numbingly cold, which forced the need to wear an entire wardrobe in bed. The early mornings weren’t much better – we had to wolf down our cooked breakfasts in a futile effort to eat them before they went stone cold - and it was incredibly hard to imagine stripping down to shorts and t-shirts but that we did. As the sun broke through the clouds and rose higher in an increasingly bright blue sky, the temperatures also climbed. It made hiking pleasant but we still weren’t hardy enough to venture into the icy cold waters of the pools and streams deep in the gorges. From the screams emanating from each person jumping into the frigid water, we were sane not to. Instead, we clambered over rocks to venture deeper into each gorge. I felt very Lara Croft. Except, that was, when I followed The Brother up the wrong path trying to get out of one of the gorges and bashed my knee against a particularly sharp-edged rock. I don’t think Lara Croft whimpers at the sight of blood. She probably also wouldn’t manage to get herself locked in a public loo, then panic that she’ll never be able to get out and will have to spend the rest of her days sitting next to a smelly drop-toilet.

The trails we followed ranged from fairly easy to an unsteady scramble up a steep gorge along barely discernable paths – the sort of one wrong foot and you’re a gonner type of walks. We didn’t even attempt the class 6 trails, for which you needed to be a competent abseiler and rock-climber with your own gear. Others do, some more successfully than others. The nearest town to the park, Tom Price, operates a volunteer rescue service for those trapped down in the gorges after an accident or because they thought they could handle more than they actually could and have got stuck. One sad reminder of how this beautiful park can turn deadly is a memorial to one of those volunteer rescuers (a husband with two children) who died trying to save a visitor who couldn’t make it back up the gorge. We knew our limits and were careful but it would be so easy to slip on one of the loose rocks or misjudge how much room there is to anchor your foot as you pull your body up a virtually sheer rock face. Luckily, the little cut on my knee was the only accident to befall us in Kairijini. And that was bad enough. What? It really hurt!

Glamping - The Only Way To Camp

Expat Wife sincerely apologises for not blogging for over a week but, frankly, I’ve just been having too much fun. We left Exmouth on Sunday for the long drive over to Karijini National Park, sadly having to bade farewell to The Husband en route – he did have a car, we didn’t just leave him at the side of the road to thumb a lift back to Karratha. To reach Karijini we had to drive directly inland, a multi-hour trip during which we passed perhaps five other vehicles. This was the real Australia. Gum trees with papery white bark, miles and miles of rich red soil, a dingo scarpering across the road, a huge sky which wasn’t, for once, blue. The weather had turned slightly, bringing with it pregnant clouds, and the distant hills looked almost purple under the dark, brooding sky. As the journey drew to an end, the sun, low in the sky, cast an orange glow over the red mountains of the park. At least, that’s what we could see when the clouds of dust from other vehicles cleared – as we entered the park, the road turned into a red dirt track, causing a red dust-storm whenever we passed a car.


Our destination was the Karijini Eco Resort, slap-bang in the middle of the park. We were booked into their eco tents. Now these weren’t ordinary tents but huge rooms equipped with proper beds, bedside tables, a table and chairs, and an outdoor, partially covered bathroom. This was camping Expat Wife style. Yes, we glamped it, and I am absolutely unashamed to admit it. To be able to come back from hiking all day as the sun was setting and it started to get cold, it was absolute heaven to step into a hot shower right from the tent (and a hot shower from which you could look out over the red hills of Karijini to boot) – no queuing, no traipsing across the campsite and back again, no trying to avoid other people’s hair balls in the drain. Perhaps most importantly, no getting up in the frigid night, stumbling about in the dark to find shoes, jumper, torch, trying to avoid snakes, spiders, and holes in the ground as you step carefully over to the ablutions block to do a middle-of-the-night wee. The Mother later informed me that she would have just squatted by the side of the tent if we were camping and not glamping, but in Australia I really do not think that wise. This is the land where deadly creatures could be behind every bush, beside every structure, however flimsy. I don’t think she would have coped very well with a snake bite to the bottom.

The first night was cold. No, that’s a lie. It was absolutely bloody freezing. Being in the wilderness, we were determined to sit out under the stars (which were pretty amazing – not just constellations but other galaxies, they filled the sky completely) so we gathered on the verandah outside The Parents’ tent for pre-dinner drinks – yes, a G&T is mandatory, even out in the wilds of the bush. We were all wearing pretty much every item of clothing we owned and I also donned a thick blanket. The problem was that the blanket swathing my arms and hands made it very difficult both to grasp my drink and play a hand of cards. This would have been the perfect moment for that noughties favourite, the Snuggy - the blanket with arms, what a genius invention. Lots of laughter could be heard coming from our tent that evening, mainly of the hysterical kind caused by the biting cold. After a few swigs of red wine for warmth, we ventured out to the on-site, al fresco restaurant where we all opted for the roast beef set – wonderfully warming comfort food, we all thought. We devoured the thick, piping hot, home-made pumpkin soup but merely nibbled at the so-cold-our-teeth-hurt salad. The roast beef that we had all been so looking forward to was rock hard and drowning in thick, almost solid gravy. It was accompanied by the sort of tinned mixed vegetables school dinners are famous for and all decided that the self-cook barbecue meals would be a better bet the following two nights. It turned out that they were fantastic options. Barramundi , steak, and an outback game tasting plate consisting of crocodile (which I can officially reveal tastes like a cross between firm white fish and chicken), kangaroo and emu were all tasted. And actually, it was lovely and warm standing by the barbie. Just the ticket for the sub-zero temperatures that hit Karijini in the dead of night. It’s a bloody good thing the days were nice and hot.

Ningaloo Reef: The Best Aquarium in the World (but you don't really want to come here)

Watching breaching hump back whales dance, play and show-off, dolphins fly gracefully in and out of the air, flying fish buzzing just above the surface of the water, the dark, menacing shadow of a tiger shark prowling. Swimming with thirty manta rays, a host of tropical fish, turtles, an oceanic white-tipped shark. Oh, and the biggest fish in the world, the regal, utterly breathtaking whale shark. It was a pretty crap day really. If you hate seeing all the sea has to offer in a single day then don’t come to Exmouth. In fact, even if don’t, please don’t come to Exmouth. What made a perfect day even more perfect was that we were one of only a few boats out there. Unlike the Great Barrier Reef, which attracts droves of tourists from around the world, all packing onto massive catamarans so that you share the ocean with hundreds of others, in Ningaloo you are one of a lucky few. The world doesn’t know about the Ningaloo Reef yet, and that is just fine by me.

Road Trip!

There is nothing quite like beginning the day with an early-morning walk along the beach as the golden orb of the sun rises above the sea. And that is precisely how we started our first day in Exmouth, gateway to the Ningaloo Reef. Our 560km journey south began at 8am yesterday morning, after having packed the car up (not without its own dramas – The Husband has officially been named the Packing Nazi) and filled it, and a can with petrol (when there’s only a petrol station every couple of hundred kilometres, you really can’t be too careful). Extra fuel? Tick. Fifteen litres of water? Tick. A stack of CDs? Tick. Three days worth of sandwiches, dried fruit, cereal bars and sweets? Tick, tick, tick and tick. We were ready to hit the highway.


As soon as we left the outskirts of Karratha (which took about three minutes), a feeling of immense freedom hit me. Living in a small town can give you cabin fever and in three months we’ve only made the occasional day trip out. The prospect of travelling hundreds of kilometres, through as-yet unchartered terrain, was exhilarating. A few minutes out of K-Town we passed a sign that read ‘Caution: Stray animals for 280km’ – that’s a long time to keep your eyes peeled for. By the end of the journey we realised that many people weren’t able to – the road was littered with road kill. There were, of course, the ubiquitous mushed kangaroos, but we also saw dead cows (we ourselves had to avoid a live one when it stopped in the middle of the road and stared us out, almost daring us to hit him), and other creatures made unidentifiable by the level of squishedness . At one point, we passed a long-dead roo that had dried out in the sun so completely that it could have been worn – roo-leather jacket, anyone?

Along with road kill, we also passed dozens of grey nomads – Australian pensioners who see out their remaining days travelling around the country in their caravans. It’s almost a rite of passage here – like backpacking for school- and uni-leavers, only with earlier starts and less drinking games. The Husband spent most of the journey working out the best way to raise his fingers in greeting to fellow drivers. It’s always a tense moment as he approaches a vehicle, the question of will they/won’t they wave back always in the back of his mind. He would get upset if he was ignored and was particularly despondent when three or four in a row didn’t return his greeting. That was made up for though when the next driver raised her whole arm and waved enthusiastically, as if they were long-lost friends. He was like a giddy schoolboy for the next hour or so.

The scenery, although fairly samey, was quite spectacular. We passed miles and miles of flat nothingness, peppered with spinifex and the odd gum tree, but all of a sudden a cluster of hills would emerge, rocky outcrops lording over the land. It is not the best landscape in which to play ‘I spy’ – that game ended very quickly. After ‘sky’, ‘rocks’, ‘bushes’ and ‘road’, there weren’t many options left. Occasionally the land would become greener and trees would pop up in far greater abundance – before we have even seen the sign, we know that there is a river or a creek nearby, creating little oases in the vast barren outback.

As we neared Exmouth, the terrain became noticeably greener and greener until we sighted grass – real, wild, grass that hasn’t been planted and watered twice a day just so that a few patches might sprout up. It was an exciting moment. Then came the termite mounds – huge brown sculptures reaching up to the sky. And they were everywhere – hundreds dotted the flat terrain, like a Salvador Dali landscape. With the grass also came our first sheep-sighting in eighteen months. The car filled with the sound of bleeting. Ok, yes, that was just us baaing away in excitement.

And so we arrived at Exmouth and sang the obligatory “I can see the sea!”. The holiday begins!

NB: The soundtrack to this journey? Mumford & Sons, of course – all that banjo-playing provided the perfect soundscape. This is yee-ha country!