Farewell Petra: Business Associate, Friend, Cat

Petra, 2003-2015

This is the blog post I knew I'd have to write one day, but dreaded writing.

Last Saturday our cat Petra passed away.

She'd been with us for twelve years, nearly a quarter of my life.

We adopted her from the Lort Smith Animal Hospital in North Melbourne the same week I became a freelance writer, in January 2004.

As a result, I thought of her as my "business associate"; a kind of silent (well, not so silent) partner who did her thing while I was doing mine.

She was also a friend. Our interaction was limited by communication barriers, and by the very different ways our brains worked; but we communicated just the same.

At my desk, in November 2011.

I didn't need to be Doctor Dolittle to figure out what she wanted most of the time (generally summarised as "attention").

Interrupting my packing in April 2015.

For her part she reminded me that life wasn't all about me, and that I should get up from the desk occasionally and do things other than write.

It was partly this mysterious interaction that made me decide to become vegetarian this year; she made me see animals as emotional beings with whom we can connect.

I learned a lot from Petra, and I think she had a good, fulfilling life and knew that she was loved.

She's gone, and she's left a hole in our lives. In my working life, too. The home office seems so still this week.

She's gone, and I miss her so much.

Why Are Trains So Sexy?

Aboard an InterCity train from Łódź to Warsaw, Poland.

A few years ago, a politician here in Victoria was bemoaning the public's desire for increased rail transport, compared to its disdain for buses.

"We have to find a way to make buses sexy," he said.

The dining carriage of the Indian Pacific, Australia.

Not long after that, the government built major new rail and bus terminals on Spencer Street in the city centre.

The railway station, named Southern Cross, was a light-filled glass and steel modern-day cathedral with a billowing curved ceiling. It won various design awards.

The bus terminal, right next door, was a dark, gloomy concrete box beneath a shopping mall. As far as I know, it hasn't won any awards. When arriving there on the airport bus, you can't wait to get out on the street.

The contrasting buildings speak to an underlying truth - that bus travel is relegated to second-best in most people's minds. Train travel is generally preferred to bus and to air travel too, where it's a practical alternative. But why is it so?

Dining aboard Le Massif in Quebec, Canada.

For a start, I think there are practical reasons to prefer trains over buses.

Generally speaking, trains have more leg room, allow more easy movement along the vehicle while travelling, travel more steadily, and nearly always have toilet facilities (albeit of varying standards of cleanliness).

But I think there are some solid psychological reasons as well. Compared to air travel, rail offers more interesting human-scale views, which can be seen by everyone on board.

And compared to buses, train travel feels part of, but separate to, the world seen through the windows.

Because trains run on their own dedicated track, they're not caught up in the mundane frustrating road delays that afflict car drivers and bus passengers alike.

View of the the Rocky Mountains, Canada, with the front of
The Canadian visible from the back of the train.

More significantly, a train feels subtly removed from the world outside, immersed in it but soon to flick on to new scenery; a travelling, self-contained town on wheels.

It's perfectly attuned to a traveller's state of mind when starting on a journey: detached from everyday worries, forging a path into the future. And paying attention as you go.

Rainforest views on the West Coast Wilderness Railway, Tasmania.

What are your favourite rail travel memories? Does a particular route stand out? Have your say in the comments below.

The Unpublished 16: Phillip Island for Adults

In 2009 I stayed for a few days on Phillip Island, a popular family holiday destination southeast of Melbourne, Australia. I wrote an article about what the island offered adults travelling without kids, but due to a travel magazine's change of editors it was never published. Here it is; and all the places mentioned remain great places to visit:

Massage centres are usually placed in idyllic locations - in rainforests, perhaps, or overlooking the sea - so I’m a little surprised to find one above a shoe shop and cafe on the main street of Cowes, the principal settlement of Phillip Island.

But it seems that, as in many spiritual philosophies, shoe shopping and wellness treatments form a kind of cosmic balance.

“Groups of four female friends will often come in together,” explains Patricia Hanrahan, owner and chief masseur at Aromatherapy in Action. “Two of them will get a massage while the other two go shoe shopping, and then swap places.” And have a coffee afterward, no doubt.

As my wife Narrelle and I wait for our scheduled treatments, I’m reflecting on the stereotype I had of Phillip Island as merely an old-fashioned fish ‘n’ chip-driven holiday town for families.

Although that’s still true to a degree, over the next three days I discover that the island has been quietly updating itself to match the tastes of couples on a weekend away, becoming a place to keep it slow, natural, romantic and playful.

Keeping it slow

It’s a beautiful day on Churchill Island, cool and crisp with the promise of sun later. The island, attached to Phillip Island by a narrow bridge, seems even more detached from the outside world than its big sister, its profile resembling a whale breaking the surface of Western Port Bay.

It’s the perfect place for the monthly Churchill Island Farmers’ Market that’s set out on its grassy flanks, with a view down over the water and the mainland beyond. As we saunter past its stalls, we spot emu oil, homemade biscuits, chutneys, chilli sauces, Dutch pancakes, and fruit and vegetables for sale.

We buy a coffee from the cafe of the adjacent heritage farm, sit on a grassy rise next to the market, and watch slowly moving shoppers. It's a delight to be here, enjoying the view and the pleasures of slow food at the same time.

Keeping it natural

Once the Wildlife Coast Cruises boat passes Nobby’s Point, we’re into Bass Strait and the water is considerably more active than along Cowes' northern shores.

Reaching Seal Rocks, we’re suddenly joined by dozens of seals, mostly young pups, who throw themselves into the sea to swim playfully between us and their rocky base. There’s only some ten metres between boat and land, and I’m struck by the dramatic colours of the scene - dark blue sea, light blue sky, and pure white foam as waves break against the black rocks.

As the boat moves slowly along, it seems an interesting question as to who is viewing who: you can imagine the seals welcoming their daily human diversion between the morning feed and the late afternoon nap.

Keeping it romantic

Our couples massages turns out to very pleasant. Lying on benches a metre apart, we each have a masseur working away at soothing our aching muscles, applying aromatherapy oils of Patricia’s own invention. I drift off into the happy near-trance massage state in which I cease thinking about anything but the present, but am just conscious enough to shift limbs when prompted.

Both refreshed and relaxed, we’re in the right frame of mind for a romantic dinner at The Foreshore restaurant in Rhyll, a tiny settlement on the island’s east coast. For mains, Narrelle chooses the whole snapper while I have the bangers and mash.

While my choice is a tastily upgraded version of the old favourite, featuring locally-made sausages with beef, thyme and mustard seeds, the real winner is my entree: Atlantic salmon cured in fresh dill, flaked salt, lemon juice and vodka.

We sit enjoying the food and the water view in the big, timbered interior and life seems pretty relaxed. And romantic.

Keeping it playful

Humans also have a playful side, and Phillip Island doesn’t fail us in indulging it. One afternoon we pitch up at Amaze’N Things, a family-friendly attraction which features a large outdoor maze. But what really works for us are the fascinating halls of illusions and puzzles within the building.

It’s amazing how engaging an old-fashioned hall of mirrors can be when supplemented with a little technology. The Gravity Room is fascinating, with its perspective-bending properties which totally confuse the brain (“Is that table leaning, or am I?”). And the confusing expander disc makes us see each other in an entirely new and distorted light.

We walk out of the place amused and laughing. The place is family-friendly, but you don’t need to have kids in tow to enjoy it. And the same can be said for the whole of Phillip Island.

Disclosure time... on this trip I travelled courtesy of Destination Phillip Island.

Delhi: Waiting for The Moment

New Delhi, India’s capital, is paradoxically both a very walkable city and a difficult place to get around on foot.

It’s walkable because the British built the spanking new capital for their Indian empire (inaugurated unwittingly in the last years of The Raj in 1931) on a very flat landscape south of old Delhi, and linked it with straight roads meeting at circular intersections.

That these roads are largely lined with shade trees, particularly in the residential areas, is another positive for the stroller.

There are some fine things to be seen on a walk through New Delhi’s streets. Yesterday, on a cool winter morning, I took a long walk from the Taj Mahal Hotel up to the monumental India Gate erected for India’s war dead after World War I; headed west along the broad ceremonial avenue known as the Rajpath toward the President’s residence; then north past the 18th century Jantar Mantar observatory into the commercial area centred on the concentric circles of Connaught Place.

It was an interesting walk, but with two challenges for the determined walker.

The first are the very many citizens of Delhi who wish to sell to the passing tourist their goods or services. Though generally good natured, they are persistent and it can be a challenge deciding how to deal with the non-stop offers, especially as you approach the touts’ paradise around Connaught Place.

In the course of a few hours I was offered many taxi rides and shoe shines, and a variety of products including the portable head massager, a kind of flexible metal whisk which is pushed down over your head to stimulate your scalp.

These traders can be a nuisance due to their sheer numbers. If you’re not interested in what they’re selling, however, a polite negative and then a steely determination not to engage any further, moving forward relentlessly, seems to do the trick.

The other challenge is not so easy to dismiss: the ferocious traffic which makes crossing a road here seem a Herculean task. There are many painted pedestrian across roads where there are no traffic lights, so there’s no guarantee of an enforced pause. At other places, there’s no designated crossing but a need to get across.

Standing for the first few times at the edge of a seemingly unceasing traffic flow, I felt puzzled as to how to proceed. Usually I’d keep an eye on my fellow pedestrians and cross (sometimes at speed) with them.

Then, on my own, I observed the traffic more closely and realised that the key was in recognising one thing: The Moment.

Inevitable, no matter how busy the traffic flow, there would come a moment when then was a gap in its pattern, long enough to allow one to get across the road. Sometimes The Moment was very clear - a large break in the traffic that allowed me to briskly walk across.

At other times The Moment might require a quick sprint. And there was occasionally The Hidden Moment: when the traffic flow seemed unabated but in fact contained a pattern of gaps that would allow one to alertly cross.

All the psychologists say we should be living more in the moment to aid our mental wellbeing. In New Delhi, being entirely focused on The Moment can also help you get around.

Disclosure time: On this trip I travelled to New Delhi courtesy of Thai Airways and received discounted accommodation at the Taj Mahal Hotel.

Note: If visiting Delhi and feeling indisposed to walking, I recommend hiring taxi driver Kapoor by ringing local mobile number 099 58637588. He's a good driver who can be hired for a few hours for a negotiated fee, or for short trips at the usual taxi meter rate.

Poland 1: Cinematic Exit

You expect change when you visit a city regularly. However, it’s still jarring when seemingly permanent elements of that city disappear.

That’s what I discovered in Kraków, my first stop on this year’s Lonely Planet assignment.

For the next few weeks I’ll be travelling around the whole of Poland, updating the Poland chapter of the Eastern Europe guidebook.

I began in the Polish city I know best, having lived here in 1994-95 as an English language teacher.

Kraków is an effortlessly beautiful city and its main attractions never change: the sprawling main market square, the Rynek Główny; mighty Wawel Castle; the narrow streets of Kazimierz.

However, in my own mental map of the city there are other fixtures, one of which was the tiny Kino Pasaż. Slotted within an arcade leading off the main square, this 42 seat cinema was a shabby little gem.

When Narrelle and I lived here in the 1990s, this was the place where current releases went to die, providing a last chance to catch them before they left the big screen altogether.

To be frank, I was expecting the Kino Pasaż to be closed when I returned to Poland as a travel writer in 2006, having been away for 11 years.  

Single screen cinemas were under pressure in city centres everywhere around the world, and this had no particular architectural charms that might have saved it as an art house venue - it was just seven rows of six seats (or was it six rows of seven?) in a scuffed old room.

So imagine my surprise to find it was still functioning in 2006, then in 2007, and in 2008. By now it had entered my own private folklore of the city, an eternal piece of Kraków’s furniture.

Then, last Thursday, I walked through the arcade to discover that the Kino Pasaż was no more.

The letters spelling out its name were still attached to the wall, and there was even a relatively recent film poster pasted on the door. But there were clear signs of closure, and I was able to peer through a recently uncovered window to see the battered old cinema seats within.

A woman working in a nearby office confirmed that the cinema had closed the previous year. As I stood there contemplating its closure and the likely removal of those big metal letters that had been there for god knew how long, I felt a distinct pang of grief.

Its closure wasn’t at all unlikely, after all. In an age of modern cinema multiplexes and boutique art house outlets, an ugly duckling like the Kino Pasaż was always living on borrowed time.

But still, it was a part of my life in Kraków in the 1990s, when Poland seemed much more foreign to me than it does now, as a comforting place to take in an English language movie.

And it was comforting to keep encountering it as the years went by, a tiny fragment of my own life’s narrative. I distinctly remember seeing Rapa Nui there, for example, an obscure Hollywood flick about Easter Island; an experience which provided context when I finally visited Easter Island a decade later.

So the Kino Pasaż is gone, and in a few years almost no-one will remember it was once there. But it lives on here, and in my mind.

The Readers Strike Back

This week I'm featuring responses from Aerohaveno's followers to two recent competitions - one about travel disasters, the other about travel to movie locations.

First up, let's hear from the readers re their experiences when travelling to silver screen locations:

Justine: "I'm embarrassed to admit it now but I went on the Sound of Music tour in Salzburg when I was a wee lass. And I loved it! Made me want to make a dress out of old curtains and hang out of a tree. The locations were stunning. Austria is gorgeous."

Alison: "Bells Beach was a location in Bruce Brown's epic surf film Endless Summer and is one of the great surf spots anywhere, anytime. Although it comes to life at the Rip Curl Pro held each Easter, the best time to enjoy its waves are when the surf circus has moved on, the autumn winds and lowering water temperature have sent the sissies north and it looks like rain.

Then as the corduroy sets roll in, it's just the other desperados and yourself carving your names on the waves. You come in when you can't recall how many waves you've caught, your arms are like spaghetti from paddling, your feet are blue and you can't feel them any more. Bliss."

Carole: "My movie location was Universal Studios in Los Angeles; lots of action, actors and scenes from great movies. It was fun to wander around and see Marilyn Monroe and other greats, ride the train around the set, and see duels, action and the flashing lights of movies. Next stop Universal Studios in Osaka, as I'm in Japan."

And finally, here's the winning entry in the competition to win a copy of Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?. The task was to write about a memorable hassle while travelling. The winner is Serehfa, with this fine remembrance:

"Quite a few years ago now I took a holiday in Egypt, partly on the invitation of my North African boyfriend who was going home to visit family in the next country and would meet me there.

Booking a trip went smoothly, my departure flight and arrival posed no issues. The trip however held some challenges. I actually managed to stay healthy for a few days before succumbing to the usual, 'Egypt Belly' in this case. That was manageable.

Snorkelling on the Red Sea coast was amazing; desolate desert above the waterline and coral paradise beneath. However when you forget to put sunscreen on the back of your legs, it can be awkward. By evening I couldn't walk. I was very surprised not to have blisters but somehow I escaped.

It was agony though, and I couldn't sleep and could barely eat my dinner. Of course, there was no help to be had - the tour guide only stopped places where the tour company got a kickback and was not the least bit interested in helping any of the party who got into trouble. She was an Aussie too!

Two days later we had a scheduled camel ride through some mountains; I lasted about 30 seconds before experiencing agony from the 'saddle' - actually a bundle of small logs with a rag draped over them, presumably designed to be as uncomfortable as possible for mount and rider!

Once again no assistance was forthcoming; I slid off the standing camel to the ground and was left to walk back to the highway, and sit for hours in the middle of nowhere until the tour returned and the bus showed up.

Even that, though, was manageable.

The final joy was the boyfriend. We had some new people join the tour for the last week, one of whom was a wealthy Rhodesian woman who was obviously there for a good time. Boyfriend started flirting with her to the extent that at one point they disappeared together in the evening... and at the same time he started to become physical towards me in an unpleasant way.

I had been warned about cultural differences, and here were my first row seats to the show. He had earlier insisted we say we were married to save his pride - so I was caught between the twin humiliation of revealing a lie or putting up with the antics.

There were parts of the trip that were excellent, however, and some lovely people on the tour with whom I did not get to spend enough time.

All up it was an unforgettable experience; no matter how hard I try!"

Thanks to all who entered the competitions!

The Fins of Glenelg

Steven Spielberg has a lot to answer for. In directing the 1975 hit movie Jaws, he ensured a generation of kids couldn't take to the surf without worrying about a great white shark encounter.

But Spielberg was far from my mind when I travelled to Glenelg Beach on a hot Sunday in 2004 in Adelaide, South Australia.

I’m from Melbourne, and the prospect of enjoying a day at a real beach, and swimming in a real ocean, had me dizzy with anticipation.

Glenelg is a distinct and pleasant Adelaide experience (and also a palindrome). It was the place where the first British settlers landed in 1836, and aspired to be Adelaide’s main port. In the end, it settled for sustaining the role of a charming Victorian-era seaside town.

I had, of course, little idea of the adrenaline rush waiting beyond its shores.

The tide was out when I arrived, so it was a long way to deeper water. As I waded, I thought about my wife Narrelle’s aversion to sea bathing, attributable to the terrifying aquatic stylings of the aforementioned Hollywood director. I noted the reassuring presence of surf lifesavers, and their clearly visible flags.

As I got deeper, I regretted Narrelle not being here. If she came to Glenelg one day, I thought, I would point out the lifesavers, the flags, the clarity of the water. There would be no need for fear, and she would laugh off her girlish fears.

Then, chest-deep, I gazed out toward the horizon. About 20 metres away, a large fin cut suddenly out of the water, attached to the back of a sizeable sea creature. As quickly as it had arrived, it disappeared beneath the waves.

I froze. Then I looked around. No-one else was panicking, on the nearby jetty or in the sea around me. Everyone on the beach looked pretty relaxed. And, come to think of it, that fin had been elegantly curved, in the style as worn by dolphins. It must have been a dolphin. Surely.

Still, discretion beat valour and I trudged back to the sand as quickly as I could manage without looking like a coward. There were plenty of people between me and the mystery creature, after all - surely it would chew one of them first, and the jig would be up?

On the way, I asked a stout young lifesaver if they saw a lot of dolphins in these parts. He confirmed that they did, following the coastline. I laughed in a careless, knowing way, but I suspect it came out a bit thinly. Well, I had to know if the alarm should be raised, didn’t I?

It was a faintly embarrassing episode, but thank god Narrelle wasn’t there after all. It would’ve taken ten years off her life and put her off seawater forever.

So thanks a lot, Steven. Thanks to you, I’ve had a dose of that strange modern syndrome in which your life has no meaning until it feels like you're part of a Hollywood movie. Fish and chips, anyone?

On Platform 2: The 8.05 to Adelaide!

In 2007 I underwent a journey of discovery regarding interstate train travel in Australia. In March I took the overnight sleeper from Melbourne to Sydney; and in September I headed to Adelaide on Australia's oldest interstate (once intercolonial) train journey, the 828 kilometre Overland route, established in 1887. This is what it was like:

The early morning scene at Melbourne’s Southern Cross station is suitably atmospheric; there’s a chill in the air, and passengers are beginning to gather on platform 2 for the train.

The location is majestic, the great curves of the station roof undulating way above our heads. On the other platforms, scuffed V/Line trains are pulling in at regular intervals, disgorging tree-changers commuting to work from their country homes.

I feel that every great rail journey should begin early in the morning, just a little before you’d comfortably like to be up and about. Because train stations are open to the elements, there’s none of the antiseptic claustrophobia of airports. The chill in the air, the bustle of commuters, the grandeur of the setting and the proximity to the city means the journey takes on a certain importance... even if it were just a holiday jaunt.

If you’re overimaginative like me, you can hear a mental echo of the great days of rail, of Agatha Christie novels and Sherlock Holmes stories, of exiled Russian princesses and shady American magnates with obscure motives.

The Overland, a survivor of the 19th century, has two sit-up classes of travel nowadays; in May 2007, the old sleepers were swept away in favour of daytime-only travel, either in standard seating (Red Service) or the more roomy Red Premium carriages.

There’s also a dash of dagginess - or alternatively, homeliness - as part of the mix. As we travel, a recorded commentary pipes up from time to time, with service announcements and information on the destination we’re passing through. The commentator’s smooth tones dance the line between cheery and cheesy, with gags like “GSR has some of the finest train staff in the world... unfortunately they’re not on board today”. Sophisticated it ain’t, but the older audience likes it and it raises smiles.

Heading west

The first part of the journey, to Geelong, is a familiar trek, with Melbourne’s western suburbs giving way to flat, scrubby countryside punctuated by the odd little town. I always find this landscape faintly melancholy for some reason, imagining it as a wasteland between the two cities.

At North Shore we pull over for a while, opposite a maze of equipment in the industrial complex opposite. I can see from the schedule that we’ll be biding our time in a number of sidings today as the single track on most of the route gives priority to freight trains. It’s not really a problem, as the passengers on this ten hour journey are clearly vacationers out to enjoy the company and the passing scenery.

The clearest contrast to the more businesslike Melbourne-Sydney train is the Overland’s very pleasant cafe carriage, a notable omission from the Sydney train. It has comfortable table seating, and I sit here for a while with a coffee, talking to an older couple who are on holiday (On the way back, I share a table around sunset with a Muslim student from India, who breaks his Ramadan fast as the towers of Melbourne’s CBD appear on the horizon).

West of Geelong, industry gives way again to picturesque grassy, gently rolling fields lined by gum trees, though livestock seems thin on the ground. The light rain creates a mist across the horizon, softening the view and giving the suggestion of an Impressionist work. Around 11.30am we pass some fields dotted with rocky outcrops that look like worn remnants of ancient stone circles, happily ignored by lambs prancing about their mothers.

The commentary continues to flick on and off occasionally, giving info on passing towns and remarkable features, in the announcer’s best commercial radio tones. The attempts at folksiness also continue... a segment on SA’s wines mentions “great-tasting plonk” and concludes with the sound of clinking wine glasses.

Border crossing

Lunch arrives and is good - a tasty and crisp chicken caesar salad and excellent apricot cheesecake, served in bowls with a bubbly pinot noir chardonnay on the side. All for $24, which seems reasonable for long-haul transport in both price and quality. As the remains are cleared away we pass the red-brick Dimboola station building, a classic country station of the old school with its all-caps sign.

The crossing of the South Australian border is an anti-climax, announced by the driver after it’s happened. And, unsurprisingly, eastern South Australia looks much the same as western Victoria - green fields alternating with bright yellow fields of canola, interrupted by the occasional farmhouse.

At 2.15pm we pass through the aptly named Bordertown, the first town on the SA side of the border. Sadly, the charming old stone and timber train station, painted white, is boarded up. It seems an unnecessary derelict given the town’s role as the gateway to South Australia... perhaps it could become a visitor centre, or a museum?

South Australia’s passenger rail system has clearly declined since its glory days (there are, in fact, no passenger services outside Adelaide except the tourist-orientated interstate trains), and we pass more abandoned stations along the way. There may be nothing more depressing than a mouldering old platform with a pair of bare metal poles which once supported a destination sign. At least Tailem Bend station, reached about 4pm, is evidently still in use; I find out later it’s being restored as a visitor information centre.

Hills and vines

Ten minutes later, the landscape suddenly becomes dramatic. The consistently flat farming country gives way to hills, and the train begins to climb. Below, as we rise, I can see floodplains and grazing cows. Along the way we pass a peacock in someone’s backyard and a bathtub washed up somehow in the middle of the plain, then cross the Murray River on a spectacular 1924 bridge which carries us high above the plains and crops directly into Murray Bridge station on the opposite bank.

From this point the terrain becomes ever more hilly, as we head toward Mount Lofty and the Adelaide Hills, with rocky outcrops of silvery gum trees growing out of reddish soil. We soon have brilliant views over fields far below us, undulating distant hills, and a highway with cars driving past farmhouses, sheds and dried-out sporting grounds.

At 5pm we get our first glimpses of vineyards, lots of them, forming geometric patterns up and down the slopes. We’re also starting to see winery signs, neat stone houses from colonial times, and other types of farms hugging the hillsides.

Just after 5.30pm, nearing the end of the journey, an amazing view opens up from the heights above the city, looking down onto the vast flat plain with a cluster of tall buildings within the central business district. It feels like we’re truly in Adelaide’s orbit now. We slide down into the city and reach the interstate rail terminal, in the fairly unattractive industrial surrounds of Keswick, close to 6pm.

My verdict? The Overland takes time, but if you want to give air travel a miss in favour of a more relaxed approach involving non-stop scenery, canola fields, vineyards, evocative old stations and drinks in the bar with fellow passengers, it’s a great way to go intercolonial in the 21st century.

Tim Richards travelled courtesy of Great Southern Railway. The Overland travels between Melbourne and Adelaide three times a week in both directions. For more info, visit GSR's website.

Geelong: Seaplanes & Wooden Horses

On Wednesday afternoon, I went up in a seaplane for the first time, circling high over Corio Bay and the city of Geelong. It was a clear day, and I could match the landmarks below with the map I’d become familiar with by walking the streets.

I love doing that, there’s something seemingly miraculous about a printed piece of paper coming suddenly to life. Intellectually, I know it must depict the streetscape accurately, but to see its 3D detail from the air is emotionally satisfying.

And seeing a city from the air tells you something about its nature. As I looked down from on high, Geelong’s distinct street grid spoke of its Victorian-era founders and their need to impose order on an alien land, and the low-rise spread of the suburbs said a lot about how Australians have preferred to spread out rather than build up.

A plenitude of sporting grounds in prominent locations pointed out sport’s prominent role. Kardinia Park, Geelong’s Australian Rules Football venue, drew the eye as an island of verdant green in an otherwise dry environment, and the streets next to the nearby Richmond Oval seemed subordinate to the sporting field, bending around its shape.

Half an hour later, I was seated on a wooden horse, oscillating up and down as I travelled in circles all by myself on a restored carousel on the Geelong waterfront. I’d taken the place of a group of seniors who'd been experiencing a second childhood on the painted ponies as I’d arrived. As I went round, and up and down, it occurred to me: I have a weird job.

It’s human nature, unfortunately, that whenever you achieve a long sought-after goal, you immediately begin to regard it as mundane, and overlook what drew you to it in the first place.

Travel writing is such a competitive field that it’s essential to be as efficient as possible: making lightning visits to places while writing notes and taking photos, joining media trips with packed itineraries, and calculating how to get as many stories as possible out of the material to hand. There’s a fair bit of stress in making ends meet, and a lot of admin to deal with (BAS statements anyone?). So, unfortunately, there’s a tendency to be focused on the practicalities of work.

However, every so often I’m lifted out of my work mentality and reminded how marvellous it is to be out of my office, travelling and being stimulated by the new.

The first place I visited in Geelong was its Botanic Gardens. All notable Victorian cities have these, and they’re usually attractive; but I wasn’t expecting anything special.

My mistake. The Geelong gardens are composed of three sections constructed in three different centuries. The newest, at the entrance to the gardens, is a fascinating oval-shaped garden filled with plants that use very little water. It was constructed as a response to climate change and our sharpened awareness of drought, and a renewed interest in indigenous plants and the natural balance of the environment we find ourselves in (rather than that of the ‘Old Country’).

It’s a fascinating contrast to the earlier European-style gardens at the back. Though it’s low on grass, it’s a beautiful space and very calming, its greenery contrasting neatly with the dry gravel surface in its centre. There’s something meditative about the placement of plants and benches among its curves. A guide told me that they’d planned for the new garden to use 10% of the Botanic Gardens’ water supply, but in fact it’s turned out to only need a fraction of that.

And that’s the other thing I like about my job: regularly talking to people who care deeply about their work. Too few have that enthusiasm or are bold enough to show it, so I always appreciate people sharing it with me. In talking to a gallery owner about his customers and their collecting enthusiasms, or a guide in a top hat who enjoys leading schoolkids around the city’s streets and explaining its history, or a pilot who gets to share his love of flying, I’ve been tapping into the passion behind a city like Geelong.

Tim Richards travelled courtesy of Geelong Otway Tourism.

The Sound of Wanderlust

Melbourne singer and songwriter Andrew McUtchen recently released his debut album, Down With Wanderlust. A provocative title, I thought, as I regularly bang on about the love of travel right here on this blog. So I asked Andrew to explain himself...

Q: Why the title? What inspired it?

A: The title refers to what I had to do to make the album. It was Down with Wanderlust, and Up with Songwriting, Recording and Sitting Still! Travel is phenomenally inspiring, but I suppose as a writer, or a creative generally, you have to watch that you don’t end up with a shelf full of notebooks and no finished works.

Travel provides the flashpoint of inspiration, but returning home for me is about processing what you’ve seen and experienced and then re-expressing it in words or music.

Q: Do you think a love of travel can be a harmful thing?

A: I reckon travel is an intoxicant and should be treated as such. Travelling keeps you in a childlike state of awe at the world, which is so refreshing after a period of routine. But for me, the movement needs a counterpoint to have real value.

Was it Wordsworth who said “Emotion recollected in tranquillity”? I think it only becomes harmful if your love of travel, like your love of single-malt whiskey or hard drugs, is just an escape from boredom, responsibility, or real, deeply rooted relationships with the people around you.

Q: How can you balance travel with putting down roots? (And would you agree it’s ironic that you left for South America just after the album was launched?)

A: Some pointers:

• Get a job that relates to travel;
• Get a girlfriend who loves travel as much as you do;
• Find a vocation that can be developed on the road;
• Write quality, PERSONAL emails to your best mates and family (CCs do as much damage as good, I hate getting CC:ed travel emails). I actually became closer to one mate of mine through our epic correspondence. He ended up writing our joint memoirs into a novel.

Yes, true, I left for South America less than 12 hours after my record launch at Pure Pop in St Kilda! I designed a quick international getaway in order to feel like a rockstar on a world tour. But no, I beg to disagree, it’s not that ironic, it was my first major OS trip in ages; I’d managed to push my wanderlust down for three whole years!

Q: Which of the tracks on the album address travel most directly?

A: Probably Freedom Hymn. The chorus has a chanted refrain of “Freedom is anywhere you want it to be”, which is intended to mean that true freedom is a mental state, not a dusty suitcase, a plane ticket and a passport. Though these things, in concert with an unencumbered mind, is the ultimate combination.

Sand Dunes is the epic travel song though, in the sense that it’s really long, and is, lyrically speaking, a travelogue about a guy trapped inside Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road (incidentally, probably the best song ever).

Q: Does your day job involve travel?

A: Yes, I’m the managing editor of two high-end in-room hotel magazines: Destinations Victoria and Destinations Australia.

Q: Where have you travelled most recently?

A: Uruguay. I much preferred it to Argentina. Cleaner, greener, less corrupt and the coastline is studded with great little Mexican-style seaside villages. Did I mention the horses? Lots of horses!

Q: Is there a place you long to return to?

A: I probably shouldn’t mention it, because it’s quite busy enough, but my mind always goes back to Český Krumlov in the south of the Czech Republic. There’s something about the softness of the light in summer, the taste of the beer and the way the afternoons pass as slow as the waters of the Vltava River that runs through it; it’s just magical.

Not to mention that if you get a room with a wooden windowsill you are looking, every day, at a real-life Van Gogh painting; all those rustic golds, fields and swirling blue skies!

Q: How has the album been received so far?

A: So far so good. For me, the best thing about reviews is hearing who people think my influences are and what my music ‘sounds like’ to them. False humility aside, as a singer you honestly have no idea how the sound that’s coming out of your mouth settles in other people’s ears.

Some references are difficult to take (John Mayer always smarts a bit, but I know it’s the “air” my voice) and some are flattering (Cat Stevens, Paul Simon, Nick Drake, Ryan Adams), but all interest me for their subjectivity.

More info:

• Down With Wanderlust can be purchased online via iTunes; or order the CD from Rare Records.
• In Melbourne, the CD is also available from Rare Records, 82 Acland Street, St Kilda; Pure Pop Records, 221 Barkly Street, St Kilda; and Greville Records, 152 Greville Street, Prahran.
• You can read more about Andrew and his music here.

Phillip Island: The Child Within

Where is a handy niece or nephew when you want a good reason to indulge your inner child?

But let me backtrack. I’ve been visiting Phillip Island over the past few days. The island, southeast of Melbourne in Western Port Bay, has long been a summer playground for the city’s inhabitants.

As a result, it still has some of the aura of holidays past about it - numerous fish and chip shops, gaudy mismatched architecture, and classic old pubs like the Isle of Wight.

To be fair, it also has promising signs of the 21st century along its streets, including some excellent modern restaurants and wellness services such as massage. But what most intrigued me were the attractions that caught my imagination and reminded me of the fun of being a child.

Foremost among them were the interiors of the A Maze’n Things. As the name suggests, this attraction's chief element is a large maze, but the outdoor timber construction is hardly as interesting as the rooms of puzzles that lead up to it. They’re an interesting mix of old and new approaches, both electronic and manual.

I particularly liked the model train layout which consisted of a large-scale projection of two virtual trains onto a hilly layout. The trains are controlled by large real-life levers, with the implicit invitation to try to make them crash (a little anarchy that made me laugh).

But what really interested me was the so-called Gravity Room. Its floor is set on an angle, and various objects within it appear to slope uphill: a pool table, kitchen sink, and a fish tank. However, they’re all actually sloping downhill, as proven by rolling a ball along the pool table or watching the water in the sink apparently flowing upwards as it spills over.

It was baffling - although I knew it must be an illusion, I just couldn’t force my mind to correct the visuals, even when I saw Narrelle leaning at a distinct angle while actually standing upright.

Even more amazing: while my brain was thoroughly fooled, my body wasn’t. When I turned on my camera to take a photo of the fish tank, I instinctively held it so that I could see through the viewscreen that the tank was indeed level, not on the weird tipped angle my eyes couldn’t shake.

It was, even without a handy nephew in tow, fascinating. You might even say I saw Phillip Island from a new angle.

Tim Richards travelled courtesy of Destination Phillip Island.

Borneo: Visions and Reality

When I was a kid, I collected stamps for a while. I'd inherited a collection from my mother, and there were stamps in there that went back to the 1930s.

Among them were stamps from a place called Sarawak. I had no idea where in the world it was, but by crikey it sounded exotic.

Sarawak was still around when I was growing up in the 1970s, but by then it had stopped issuing its own stamps. In the 1960s, Sarawak became part of Malaysia. And Sarawak, I later found out, is in the north of Borneo.

And Borneo is where I'm writing this. Even better, I'm in Sarawak; so that stamp collection has come full circle.

There's something alluring about the word 'Borneo' - a suggestion of dense jungles, headhunters, curious animals and hidden mysteries (Kong! Kong!). It's made me ponder how some locations (Easter Island is another) pick up this allure. And about what happens when you finally set foot on the exotic land you've dreamed of.

Common sense would suggest disappointment would follow. After all, what place, no matter how wonderful, can compete with your imagination? No matter how exotic, even the most far-flung locale will have reality TV shows and Coca-Cola, won't it?

Well, yes it will. And in my experience, the reality of a place is often very different from what you idly imagined it to be. However, it's not a case of smashed illusions; more that the illusions fade into nothing and are replaced by a new, vibrant picture of what the place is really like.

With Borneo, I only had an imprecise impression of jungles within a mysterious interior (and yes, some vague thoughts of King Kong - wasn't it set there?).

But yesterday, I saw orangutans swinging through the forest above my head; saw peppercorns drying in the sun at a local village; went kayaking for the first time in my life down the Sarawak Kiri River through mountainous green landscape; and met an amusingly over-the top cat statue dressed up for Chinese New Year in the state capital Kuching (which means 'cat' in Malay).

There was even a traffic jam on the way out of the city - you don't find those in visions of the exotic. But I didn't care. Borneo the hypothetical had been replaced by Borneo the real, and it was infinitely more interesting.

In letting go of your preconceived vision of a place through travelling there, you lose its perfection - but you gain a complex, vibrant reality in its place. I call that a bargain.

Tim Richards travelled courtesy of Tourism Malaysia and Malaysia Airlines.

Getting Away From It All

Last year Narrelle and I pioneered a new travel concept (at least, for us): the 'technology detox' vacation.

The problem is, as a travel writer, that most travel I do becomes a busman's holiday.

Rather than relaxing, I research, contact tourism officials, set up a tightly-packed itinerary and run around seeing sites, interviewing people and writing notes.

I know, I shouldn't complain. It is great getting too see those places and meet those people, and good to be paid for writing about them. But at times of the year when I'm really burned out by work, it's anything but relaxing.

So in February 2008, we headed to Apollo Bay, a holiday town on Victoria's Great Ocean Road.

An unexpected bonus payment had come in, so we could afford to stay for ten days in a spacious modern apartment on the top floor of a three-level bock, with a view over the bay and the Southern Ocean beyond.

As for the techno detox, it was actually quite simple. I left behind my laptop and Palm, and had my mobile phone in my pocket for emergencies, but turned off. Once we arrived there, I also took my watch off and placed it in a drawer.

It was good being out of touch in a way we rarely are nowadays. I even made a point of ignoring the Internet access in the building's reception area. Being able to focus only on where we were, and the present rather than the future, was enormously refreshing.

To my surprise, however, it was the discarding of the watch that had the most impact. There was no real need to tell the time, as we had no appointments and nowhere in particular to be. There was always somewhere open to eat at, and groceries in the apartment, so there was no need to worry about opening hours. The beach, of course, was available 24/7.

It was remarkable the difference it made. We got up when we felt like it, ate when we were hungry, lay around reading or went out to the town or beach, slept when we felt tired. There was something extraordinarily liberating about being freed from the relentless drive of the freelancer to write more, achieve more, earn more, to the mental backdrop of the ticking clock.

In a world wherein the Blackberry is often referred to ruefully as the 'Crackberry', and in which it's still impossible to persuade everyone that they don't need to be connected to the world during a 90 minute cinema screening, shutting ourselves off from communication and the tyranny of the clock was immensely powerful.

Even if it was for just ten days.

Familiarity Breeds Content

I was in a train station when the revelation hit me.

But before I get to that, let me backtrack to the previous evening. I’d been in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania for a few days, and was waiting outside the main train station for the overnight bus to Warsaw, Poland.

There were no benches nearby so I seated myself on a lower step. It was an interesting place to loiter.

It was an early Saturday evening so young people were on their way out of the station for a night on the town, others were returning home after a day out, and in front of me a steady stream of trolleybuses was picking up and dropping off passengers, including the occasional trademark Eastern European old lady with a scarf around her head.

After a while, a few more people started hanging around the bus stop sign. First up was a young slim guy with a long ratty ponytail, and what appeared to be his mother and younger sister, towing a lime green suitcase. I drifted into eavesdropping range and detected Polish being spoken, so dropped in a few words about going to Warsaw. We all nodded.

It is strange how little change of perspective is needed to make people into kindred spirits. In Poland I was the foreigner, trying to understand the place and its people; but in Vilnius the Poles and I were all outsiders, having to get by with English because we didn’t know the local language.

The bus tore off through the night about 10pm, scheduled to stop only at Lithuania’s second city Kaunas and the eastern Polish city of Bialystok on its way to Warsaw. I was awake as we crossed the border, and was amazed to see the complex of customs houses, sidings and truck bays I’d dozed through a few days earlier.

What was more remarkable was the way in which we ignored these empty buildings and joined a convoy of trucks threading their way between them. As both nations are now part of the border-free Schengen zone, there are no border crossing formalities between them. Bypassing the redundant border checkpoints was an exhilarating experience – as borders are imaginary lines set by humans, so may they dissolve.

But that wasn’t the moment of revelation. About 5.30am we pulled into the bus bay behind Warszawa Centralna, Warsaw’s communist-era main train station. I walked into the lofty ticket hall, bought a ticket to Lublin, the next city on my Polish itinerary, then took the escalator into the labyrinth of corridors that run beneath the station.

Low-ceilinged, lined with dozens of shops, and linked to further pedestrian tunnels leading to tram and bus stops, these corridors are inherently disorientating. But I realised, as I walked through them, that I’d finally (after many years) worked out their basic configuration.

I strode unerringly to a particular cafe I was looking for, and stepped in just as they were opening. I ordered the same coffee I always ordered there, then sat in the same chair at the same table I always sit in when I’m killing time before a train journey from Warszawa Centralna.

That’s when I realised how completely at ease I felt there. I was so used to the place and how it worked, that I might as well have been a resident of Warsaw. And, it occurred to me, I visit Warsaw more often than a lot of places closer to home – I’ve visited the city on four occasions, for example, compared to the one time I’ve been to Brisbane.

So I seem to have lost the mild unease that usually accompanies travellers when they head into a foreign country – that frisson of irrational fear when surrounded by an alien culture.

I assumed, on reflection, that I’d now travelled widely and often enough that it had withered away, leaving behind a lively but assured interest. Also that I now felt experienced enough with new places to deal with their differences without any conscious effort.

It was an interesting moment. But one I rather liked.