Being manly in Manly

Yeah. I know. Must try harder with my post titles.

Back to dear old Circular Quay today. The plan; well, now that the sun was out in style it was time to hit the beach to really work on those melanoma. It was a toss-up between the famed sandy stretches of Bondi or the slightly less well know town of Manly - seven miles from Sydney but, as their pithy promotional tagline put it, 'a thousand miles from care'. Not great for the elderly or infirm looking for a nursing home then.

We went for Manly over Bondi because (a) it meant another ride on the ferry and, perhaps more tellingly, (b) I felt there was less chance of a profusion of bronzed and hunky surfer dudes queuing up to kick sand in my face.

So Manly it was, and after a later-than-usual start (Bollywood cocktail hangover, anyone?) we got ourselves down to Circular Quay for the ferry. Mrs V queued for tickets whilst I took charge of Tizer. As the queue for tickets was quite long I decided, in something of a masochistic vein, to check out what the resident didgeridooers were doing.

"This is track 9 - Jambawonga Sky," they announced before letting rip with the 'doo (I rather hope that's what proponents of said instrument call it - it works for me). The tinny backing music, the native rhythms, the guttural emissions of the 'doo - sorry, but it still sounded just like Forest Illoowaloo to me. What was it I was missing? I mean, I like to think that I have a wide and varied taste in music, from pop to Puccini and rock to Rachmaninov. Hell, I even 'get' jazz. But the 'doo, as yet, escapes me.

I was shaken from my reverie by my good wife who'd bought the tickets for the ferry, which was boarding in 10 minutes. She had just one question: "Where's Tizer's shoe?". Shoe? What shoe? I looked down to see my recalcitrant daughter tugging manically at her one remaining sock. The shoe she'd just removed and one sad looking sock were in her lap; the shoe belonging to her other, now bare foot, was nowhere to be seen. If this wasn't one of her favourite tricks - usually reserved for the moment before boarding a boat of plane, or performed somewhere in the depths of Marks & Sparks on a busy Saturday afternoon - I would have sworn that it was a reaction to the music, and that she was trying to get out to dance barefoot on the kangaroo skins and get down to the 'doo.

Well, could we find that bloody shoe? Increasingly irritated questions passed between us; queries such as "Well how far can it have gone?", "Can you remember where you were stood?" and "When did she last have it on?" proved as futile as they sounded. We even peered into the oily waters lapping the side of the quay to see whether she could have kicked it off, Jonny Wilkinson style, into the harbour, but nothing.

In desperation we resorted to asking Tizer herself: "Sweetheart, where's your shoe?", to which - in answer - she held up her remaining shoe, before chucking it out of the side of her pushchair. Smart kid. So there was nothing else for it but to head back up to the hotel for another pair of shoes.

It was turned one o' clock in the afternoon by the time we got back down to the quay (after stapling Tizer's only remaining pair of shoes firmly to her feet), but luckily the next ferry was just boarding so we headed straight for it. Purely out of curiosity Mrs V asked the girl at the turnstile if she's seen a child's shoe kicking around. Of course she had. One was handed in half an hour ago after some kindly gentleman found it. The arse. Ah well, at least we didn't have to add a pair of shoes, along with our two jackets, to the list of clothing articles missing in action so far on this trip.

The ferry ride over to Manly was great. It's on a much bigger boat than the one that took us over to Taronga, although still in public-bog beige 'n' green, and it takes the best part of 40 minutes. Once again, wonderful views of the city and really great value when you compare it to the tourist charter boats that ply much the same route, but for considerably more dosh. The only difference with the ferry trip is that it's minus the tinny and annoying 'commentary' you get on the tourist boats. Oh, and you're much less likely to come across an out of work actor dressed up as Captain Cook, but that can't be entirely guaranteed.

Arriving in Manly in time for a late lunch, it strikes you as a pretty pleasant seaside town. Set on a peninsula with the harbour on one side and the Pacific on the other, it's two promenades are strewn with cafes, bars and surf shops. I'd probably want to avoid it on a night though. As nice as many of the bars looked in the sunshine, the boards outside advertising happy hours, two-for-one drinks deals and 'Drink The Weight Of A Pommie Bastard For A Dollar' promotions seemed to suggest that it might be in danger of turning 'a bit lairy' after dark.

We stopped at one of the cafes on the Pacific side for a sarnie and an ice tea and watched the surfer types going to-and-fro with their boards tucked 'neath their arms. All very Australian. Watching the people go by in the afternoon sun, the surf crashing against the golden sands of the beach opposite, it suddenly struck me as a terrible shame that this was, in fact, deepest December and our dear friends and family back home were braving freezing fog, scraping ice from their windscreens and enduring endless Christmas TV ads for Argos and WH Smith. Fair brought a tear to my eye, so it did.

We'd had plans to meet an old school chum of mine in the evening - Julie, a resident of Sydney now for some nine years - so with time passing through our fingers like so many grains of metaphorical sand, we fast-footed it onto the non-metaphorical variety (though not before buying Tizer the essential bucket and spade). Six sandcastles and a quick paddle in a surprisingly nippy sea later, we wrestled our screaming toddler back into her pushchair ("More seaside, daddy, more seeeeeesiiiide!") and made our way back to catch to the ferry.

More beautiful views of the city were enjoyed on our trip back, then straight up to the room for a shower and change before meeting up with Julie. It must have been six or seven years since we'd last met up whilst she was visiting the UK, so it was terrific to see her again. What Julie lacks in stature she more than makes up for in personality, and it was a pleasure to catch up with her, discuss old times, slag a few mutual acquaintances off and introduce her to Tizer, who'd been specially trained to deliver a nice, clear 'How do you do?', though we're still working on her curtsey.

Call me a sentimental old fool, but I think it's good to stay in touch with people who you were friends with in the days when Fairground Attraction were still in the charts and we were worried that the Ruskies might nuke us (although on that latter point, watch this space...). Helps to put things in perspective in this fast-paced world of iPods, the internet, mobile 'phones, Al Qaeda and 'I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here'.

Julie took us to a pizza place on Circular Quay, all but a stone's throw from the god-awful restaurant we'd eaten at the previous night. This place, however, was great and proof positive that locals usually know where the best food is. Excellent pizza - complimented by a big fave out here of rocket, pear and parmesan salad - and a good bottle of Merlot from a half decent wine list.

We bid Julie the very fondest of farewells after a truly cracking evening, with a promise to try and catch up later in our trip when we're closer to Sydney again. Then bed for Tizer and a couple of drinks in the Club Lounge for me and the Mrs. It was a pleasantly mild night so we stepped onto the balcony for a filthy cig and gazed down on the lights of Sydney.

We had flights to Cairns on the morrow, then onward to a steamy five days in Port Douglas, so it was nice to sip a G & T and recap on the trip so far. And yes, there was just a slight sense of foreboding, as the flight to Cairns was to be no normal flight for us. Oh no. This flight was going to be in Economy...