Confusion reigns in my mind after every trip to my homeland, because home, they say, is where the heart is. The sense of belonging somewhere becomes compromised when you decide to live somewhere else. Making another home doesn’t happen by simply living there – it has to be a feeling of spirit and soul. I have considered, despite living in many parts of the world, that home for me, for most of my life, has been where I was born – in the rolling countryside of England. Yet, as we slipped into Sydney Harbour, was it a dramatic misconception or the beauty of it all, and what was it that, as I smiled and took it all in, emotionally, my inner voice said emphatically, I’m home? I may never know for sure, but seen from our cruise ship, Sydney Harbour is dramatic, it is beautiful, and it is in the country I now call home.
We stepped proudly ashore amongst fellow passengers we’d been with for more than three weeks, and felt understandably honoured as they commented positively on how clean, neat and tidy they found everything – first impressions for most of them – and how impressed they were by the friendliness of the people, the amazing organisation of everything and everyone, and the orderliness of their first experience in Australia. It was only by seeing it through the eyes of a newcomer that I began to see it again, myself. I saw what we in Australia take for granted every single day of our lives, yet still strive to improve!
But philosophising aside, we were so happy to be on home soil, and furthermore, to meet up with a Sydney friend – an old colleague of Peter’s from his Fleet Street days – for lunch. The day went quickly but we still managed to fit in a hurried boat trip around the harbour before sailing away again south-bound, to Melbourne, the place of Peter’s ancestors and the first fifteen years of his life. Sydney and Melbourne have always been rivals, and remain so, and both cities are worthy of their reputations, but we both have a sneaky preference for Melbourne, with its old-world charm and new-world vibrancy.
Once again, we had made plans to meet friends for lunch, but this couple were not just old friends to us, because Mike, having driven me to the church on our wedding day in February 1966, together with his wife Sybil, disappeared from our lives until a few years ago, when we made contact with them through a mutual acquaintance in Noosa. But the first time we have met, since our respective days in Southern Africa, was when we docked in Melbourne. Of course, not one of us has changed one little bit – as Mike said, we’ve just all turned blonde! So, much reminiscing about old friends and our times in Africa and red remembered earth took place until it was time for us to re-board our ship – next stop, Hobart, Tasmania.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that we just stayed aboard to catch up with friends, when I tell you that on the dockside in Hobart waiting for us were our ex-neighbours from Noosa who rented their house to go to Tasmania for a couple of years with their young family, to be near to an ailing relative. They’d just returned the previous day from a holiday in Bali, and they loaned us one of their cars as we took off for the 100 km drive to Port Arthur for the day, to commune with Peter’s criminal ancestors! A World Heritage Site, Port Arthur is a small town and former convict settlement on the Tasman Peninsular. It is one of Australia’s most significant heritage areas and an open-air museum.
The site forms part of the Australian Convict Sites, consisting of eleven remnant penal colonies originally built within the British Empire during the 18th and 19th centuries on fertile Australian coastal strips. Collectively, these sites, including Port Arthur, now represent “…the best surviving examples of large-scale convict transportation and the colonial expansion of European powers through the presence and labour of convicts.”
Walking through the preserved buildings, ruins, and beautiful gardens, and hearing from a guide what the prisoners had had to endure, was a sobering experience in today’s world. The colony was for repeat offenders, most of whom were destined to die there. In the harbour, just a short few hundred metres from the ruins of the old penitentiary building, lies the Island of the Dead. Here, inmates, as well as officers, were buried. We checked computerised files and data for connections with Peter’s ancestry, and discovered a few Masons, but whether or not they were of the same family Mason will have to be investigated further. Most of his ancestry is already known and catalogued, and there are definite known links with what used to be referred to as The Convict Stain. Nowadays, Australians are proud to have such a heritage.
The weather had been kind – very kind in fact – ever since leaving home in August, and travelling to England, the USA and across the Pacific, we have barely seen one rainy day. However, after crossing the Equator and, almost simultaneously, the International Dateline, and heading along the east coast of Australia, south, we were having to face that most unpredictable stretch of water, The Ditch – pet name for the Tasman Sea. Here winds can blow up into Antarctic gales that have scuppered many an experienced Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race team. So it was, that as Australian shores were about to be left behind, the ship’s timetable had to be altered. We were having to leave Hobart five hours ahead of schedule to try to get ahead of an impending storm that threatened 8-metre swells and severe gale force winds. Our dinner plans with our ex-neighbours were also scuppered and, as we headed out of Hobart’s calm scenic harbour and turned left towards New Zealand, it was soon upon us.
Battling the worst seas we’ve ever encountered, the ship was battened down, locked and on alert. Corridor exit lighting was on, sick bags were out, and all loose furniture and cushions were brought in and stowed. Wine glass racks were stuffed with blankets to stop any chance of breakage, and we hunkered down for what was to become a worsening situation. We watched with trepidation as waves struck our deck-eight windows, hanging on to every piece of fitted furniture and handrail we could, finally and bravely making our way like drunken sailors to the dining room aft. Luckily, we are situated midships, but forward and aft accentuate the ship’s movement so only the bravest ventured to dinner that night!
Two days of high seas later we had either become accustomed to it, or the weather improved enough for a feeble attempt at a Halloween party, the next day we cruised the calmness and spectacular beauty of Milford, Doubtful and Dusky sounds – Fiordland! And the worst of the storm had disappeared. So onward to Dunedin, the Edinburgh of New Zealand, where we spent a wonderful day in this lovely old city, surrounded by dramatic mountains and beautiful countryside. The weather had now started to behave, and we were treated to warm spring sunshine. Day stops came up fast and furious after that, and instead of going to Christchurch which we’d seen previously both before and after the earthquake, we decided to spend the day in a beautiful small town called Akaroa – once French and retaining its French feel and style, this little place was a real gem. We’d booked to go on a 50-ft sailing boat in the afternoon, around the bay, but I wimped out when it started to rain and blow a gale. Peter had a great time though, and I went shopping instead!
A day later we were in Picton – the far north of the south Island of New Zealand. This time we hired a car and did our own touring, driving to the Marlborough wine regions, and tasting some familiar labels such as Cloudy Bay, Whither Hills, Dog Point, Highfield, and Villa Maria, to mention but a few. We lunched at a winery and visited Peter Jackson’s Aviation Museum at Omaka before heading back to Picton and driving to a high lookout on Queen Charlotte sound. Lord of the Rings, Middle Earth and the Hobbit were high on the agenda of themes to visit on ship’s tours – we easily resisted the temptation, although I think the ‘behind the scenes’ tour of the Wellington Studios might have been interesting. But we had old Wellington friends to rendezvous with, who took us for a familiar city sightseeing tour, including an inside look at the ‘Beehive’ New Zealand’s bizarre parliament building, before being taken to lunch at a very trendy Italian bistro.
With less than four days to go, we had to start thinking about the urgency of packing up – like moving house after all this time, we reckoned, but decided to put it off till the next day so that we could leave out just what was needed until we got home. Then came the final blow. An email from our friends we’d just left behind in Wellington saying that Red Bear was still asleep in the back of their car! Horror of horrors! Poor Red Bear. What were we to do? But then, we thought, he’d had a good trip, and he HAD circumnavigated the world, and he’d featured in many an exciting adventure. So therefore, he was most probably totally exhausted and needed to rest. He’ll be re-joining us and our grandchildren at home in a week or so, having been posted, like Flat Stanley, via international air mail from Middle Earth to Paradise.
After that, we were thinking about our return home, but first we had more friends to meet, in Napier and Tauranga. Quickly – we had just the morning – we had a wonderful reunion with our friend in Napier – yet another South African connection whose daughter and our sons grew up a little together. Old times and events were once again revisited and promises to meet soon in our country. After a yummy brunch with the family we had to get back to the ship. It turned out that we’d been misinformed that morning about the time the last shuttle left town, and as our friend screeched to a halt in front of the bus to prevent it leaving without us, we hurriedly said our goodbyes and boarded it, along with two other out-of-breath stragglers. The short ride to the ship through port side security gates found us hurrying to the gangway that was already being dismantled, and as passengers on their balconies cheered sarcastically and applauded, we bowed to the tumultuous welcome. Of course, they weren’t REALLY watching us, but listening to a 30s-style jazz trio that was positioned on the quayside playing a variety of numbers from trad jazz to blues, to give us a right royal send off from this striking art-deco town.
Our piece-de-resistance came the following day as we rendezvous-ed in the first real rain we’d encountered, with friends in Tauranga with whom we are spending a week on Norfolk Island at the jazz festival next month. Always amusing company, Peter small-talked politely about this and that in the back of the car with Mike, on subjects of retirement, ‘gigs’ (Mike is a Blues guitarist) and health, was told after Mike’s reply of ‘nothing much’ that he’d had prostate cancer surgery, and a pacemaker fitted because he collapsed on stage one night and died for two minutes! He did confirm, hilariously, that there was no blinding light, no dark tunnel, no angels with trumpets, or heavenly music, but that there’s absolute blackness and the lights just go out!
So, our last night on board had eventually arrived. Undeterred, we went for a sunset cocktail and to our last trivia session with the four American friends we’d been teaming up with for weeks. We lost again, by one point. We exchanged email addresses etc and re-iterated the much-used convivial invitation ‘…if you ever find yourselves in Australia…’ before going for the last supper and distributing tips to dining staff who’d served us well, and went back to strap up our suitcases for the journey home. After cramping up for three hours with Air New Zealand, we were met at Brisbane airport and driven home by Tim, catching up with current Noosa goss at the same time.
Hello house, hello real phones, hello uninterrupted on-tap internet, and super large screen TVs. Hello our own bed and tasty tea. Hello to mountains of mail with piles of junk, cancelled medical cover, to countless bills, and a thousand spam messages. Hello to three months’ worth of subscription magazines. Hello real life!!
We had an unforgettable time, but come home Red Bear. We miss you!
