Onward To Avalon!

Something that should be shouted from atop a mighty steed, don't you think? Or have I been watching Ivanhoe to much again...?

So. This is it. Our last lot of digs. The last week of our month long Hong Kong and Oz Odyssey. I'd like to come out with the standard line and say "it's flown by" and in a way that could be true, but the feeling I'm left with - approaching Christmas as we are - is how long we've been away and how far from home we are. Not in a homesick way, you understand - Chirst no - I mean, the sun keeps shining, the food is great, the people a delight etc., etc., and I'd much rather be here than freezing my arse off in Blighty. But now that we're onto the final stretch it's given us pause for thought and reflection, and it has - thus far - been a bloody great trip and one that will stay fondly in our memories for many, many years to come.

Anyway, less of this pondersome meloncholia, we've still got a quarter of our honeymoon to get through yet; let us not fritter it away in such a fashion. We're in Avalon, a bohemian little seaside town an hour or so north of Sydney, renting a wonderful house just a minute's stroll from a beautiful, golden, sandy beach. And this is where we'll be celebrating Christmas too; the trimmings are on the tree, courtesy of our landlord. I don't imagine it took him too long, the tree being all of 10 inches high, but it's the thought that counts and the tree - along with the tinsel around our front door - have added a strangley festive air to proceedings. Well, it is about 80 degrees outside, there were a pair of kookaburras on the lawn this evening and we're thinking of having a barbeque tomorrow (what, with it being Christmas Eve) so it's all a little confusing a present. Mind you - you certainly won't be hearing any complaints from me.

Our flight up from Melbourne was a blessedly short one, and nowhere near as god-damned awful as our journey down from Cairns. Melbourne airport, when not being shutdown by thunderstorms, is actually rather a neat and efficient place, and we were checked in, bags dropped and enjoying a doughnut and a coffee airside without so much of a hiccough (yes, that's how you spell it). The doughnut must get a special mention, incidentally, for it was purchased from the King of Doughnut Purveyors - Krispy Kreme. Oh yes. Seldom will a finer doughnut pass your lips, unless it's one of those proper ring types that are deep fried at the seaside, then put in a paper bag which instantly goes translucent from the fat, before receiving a diabetic's-death-sentence in sugar. If Homer were here, I think I know what he'd say (that's Simpson, by the way, not the Greek poet who was, apparently, much more partial to a waffle).

Tizer eshewed the offer of a doughnut, instead opting for a sausage roll. Now, this is something I was only vaguely aware of before we came to Oz, but apparently the Antipodean idea of a sausage roll varies slighty from our own. The variety we came across were all from a company called 'Four'n'Twenty' (something of an Australian institution, apparently), and they came warmed, in a little plastic wrapper. Now, doubtless, they have in common with the British sausage roll a pretty high proportion of mulched up pigs' eyeballs and testicles in them, but beyond that they're a different beast all together. They seem to mix sausage meat with minced beef (or possibly lamb) and herbs and spices to achieve something altogether more palatable. Hell, they're actually quite nice. In fact they tasted rather like a Cornish Pasty to me, but without the lumps. Tizer certainly approved, but then she'll eat almost anything as long as it's warm and used to have a face and four legs.

We boarded our flight with a surprising lack of hassle considering our previous experience with Qantas Economy so far on this trip. We'd been allocated seats about two-thirds of the way down the plane this time, and I was rather glad this was our last flight with Qantas, as I'm pretty sure we'd have ended up being allocated seats in the rear toilets before too long. This was to be - thank whatever deity you like - a quick flight; just a one hour hop back up to Sydney. The main bonus as far as I was concerned was that it meant that we didn't have to endure another 'meal service', just a 'snack' apparently, so I was rather glad for this small mercy.

The crew - all male, all over 40, all sporting shortly cropped grey hair - made Graham Norton look like the kind of tatooed bruiser who'd beat you up for looking at his pint a bit funny. Apparently, there are some mean and nasty people out there who claim that Qantas is an acronym for something other than Queensland and Northern Territories Air Service, and these guys certainly lived up to it.

As I say, there was - mercifully - only a snack service on this flight, so once the crew had doled out some sad looking sarnies, a choccie biccie and a searingly hot coffee which, by now - some 12 hours later - is probably still too hot to approach without wearing an asbestos suit, they came round with a selection of fruit.

"Orange? Banana, madam? Would you care for an apple, sir? You know what they say - it'll keep the doctor away. Mind you, if you had my doctor you wouldn't want him to stray too far." Cue theatrical wink.

"John! John!! This gentleman asked for a vegetarian sandwich. Have we got any loaded? No? Sorry sir, they haven't loaded a vegetarian option. What's that John love? Oh, we have now, have we? Sorry about that sir, you just can't get the staff nowadays, one vegetarian sandwich coming right up". Then, whispered: "It's his age you know, such a shame...". Cue theatrical wink.

I loved 'em. They really made the flight much more entertaining. Certainly better than the piss-poor in flight 'movie' which seemed to comprise of one long, interminable Qantas advert.

Disembarking at Sydney airport was delightfully smooth and uneventful. We even managed to collect our luggage without being accused of master-minding a major drug-smuggling cartel, which was an improvement on our last visit. We picked our car up from Hertz - a beast of a thing, a Ford Explorer, I think - which has without doubt done nothing for our carbon footprint, darn it. Never mind, I'll plant a shrub when we get home.

The drive up to Avalon was great - we got to go over the Harbour Bridge, which I was pleased as punch about. We then meandered up the coast, in brilliant summer sunshine, past beachside towns filled, predominently, by surfer-types and their surfer-type-friends. All terribly Australian. And, realising we were no longer hotel guests and would soon have a kitchen again for the first time in three weeks, we stopped off at a supermarket to stock up on provisions.

Although it was a relatively humble shop in a little town (amusingly called Dee Why), it just went to prove that Melbourne's Victoria Market wasn't a one off when it came to fresh food. More huge 'caps', gorgeous leafy salads, fat, ripe tomatoes, fresh ginger, bak choi, and all of it - I mean all of it - Australian grown. Makes you sick doesn't it? Especially when you consider that Tesco at home sell mange-tout from Kenya, spring onions from Egypt and leeks - LEEKS for crying out loud! - from Spain! I swear, if Britain ever became the victim of some kind of world-wide import embargo we'd all starve to death in a month.

Having stocked up on oodles of lovely, fresh local produce we drove the last half hour up to Avalon and the bungalow (or 'Beach Retreat' as the landlord calls it) that we'll be calling home for the next week. It's a wonderful property, it really is. It has three bedrooms and a massive central living and dining area with - get this - a pool table! It's also got a pretty decent kitchen for a rented property. We have our own private garden, a little veranda complete with 'barbie' and deck chairs, and a climbing frame for Tizer to try and injure herself on. All part of living the Australian Dream...

There is, however, one part of living the Australian Dream that has caught us (or at least Mrs. V) at little unawares. The bugs. Or, to be specific, the cockroaches. Apparently it was unseasonably wet last week, which has caused the roaches to up-sticks and move into somewhere a little drier then their usual abode, namely Avalon Beach Retreat. I'm not keen on cockroaches, but Mrs. V really, truly, cannot abide them. They're not small ones, either. A good two inches long, some of 'em, and mighty fast they are too.

Then there was the surprise that awaited us upon our return tonight. After enjoying a thoroughly tasty pizza and a bottle of local red in a litte Italian place in the town, we took a gentle stroll back to our Retreat. We unlocked and opened the door, stepped inside and turned the lights on. This startled a couple of roaches which went scuttling across the floor before I quickly despatched them with the aid of my already trusty, long handled broom. Then we noticed something else lurking beneath the dining table. Something bigger and rounder than a roach. Something about the size a of large bloke's hand. Something with eight, thick, hairy legs.

"Oh my god," cried Mrs. V, her voice a frantic, hoarse whisper, "It's a spider!". Now, if there's one thing that my dear lady wife hates more than cockroaches, it's spiders, and this was one huge f**king spider. And whereas they don't normally bother me all that much at home, I was aware that this particular, monstrous arachnid probably deserved just a little more respect than the poor, scared creatures that scuttle across our lounge floor from time-to-time.

Thankfully, our landlord has been kind enough to leave a selection of books for guests (one can hardly call a handful of paperbacks and a few guidebooks a library) and one of these books just happens to be on Australian spiders. Admittedly, as literature goes it seems to be aimed at the under 12s market, but when you're living in a country where certain arachnids are capable of killing you within 10 minutes from a single bite - and this bugger looked like he could probably gnaw your leg off to boot - beggars certainly can't afford to be choosers, so it seemed prudent to check out whether or not we had a potential killer on our hands.

Our eight-legged friend, it transpired, was a Huntsman spider - one of the biggest spiders in Oz. Poisonous? Yes; deadly? Apparently not. It would only bite 'if threatened' and whilst it would hurt like buggery, you'd be pretty unlucky if it it killed you. This made me feel slightly better, but not by much. So, approaching him with long-handled broom in hand and hoping that the reassuring smile on my face would convince him that I didn't pose any kind of threat, I tentatively gave him a gentle prod toward the open door. Unfortunately, rather than heading outside with friendly tip of his hat and a cheery 'Ta-ta' as I'd hoped, he scuttled up the leg of one of the benches which sit either side of the dining table and glowered at me.

Spurred on by the sound of my brave wife whimpering some 30 feet away at the opposite end of the house and encouraged by her helpful advice of "Get it out!" I gave it another nudge with the broom. This time it decided enough was enough and made a dash for the open utility room door, the floor of which was - regrettably - strewn with three weeks worth of dirty laundry awaiting the refreshing delights of the washing machine. And it was into this pile of clothes that he disappeared.

There was nothing else for it; I started tentatively lifting shirts, socks and items of underwear with all the extreme caution and trepidation you would expect of a man looking for a poisonous spider the size of a side plate in pile of dirty clothes. And there he was! I gently picked up a T-shirt about two-thirds of the way down and found him quietly sitting on top of a beach towel. A plan quickly formulated in my mind, and hoping beyond hope that my nerve would hold I delicately gathered the edges of the towel around the spider, creating something that looked rather like a giant fluffy wanton (with venomous arachnid filling).

Holding my fluffy wanton at arms length  and heeding my good lady wife's sterling advice of "Don't drop it!", I tiptoed out of the utility room, across the living room and stepped out onto the lawn. Inverting the towel, I let it fall open and the spider plopped gently onto the grass. Emboldened by the whole experience I even instructed Mrs. V to fetch the camera so I could take a photo, which she duly did, no doubt mightily impressed and a little light-headed after witnessing her man's astounding spider taming prowess. I managed to get a half decent photo of our friendly neighbourhood spider before we watched him scamper off over the grass into the humid night, the theme from 'Born Free' playing gently in my mind.

After which we necked an awfully good bottle of Shiraz, played a game or two of pool and brained a couple of errant cockroaches before retiring to bed (or, in my case, to Mac).

Tomorrow, dear reader, is Christmas Eve and we're going shopping for a turkey (and maybe some bug spray)!