The astute reader will, by now, have noted that there's one prominent building of national significance situated in Canberra that has failed to get anything other than a passing mention, and I refer, of course, to the Australian War Memorial.
The failure to get there up to this point in the narrative was, to some extent, forseeable.
We'd penciled in a window of opportunity for Hughesy to visit the Memorial on either Sunday afternoon or on the way back from the wineries on Monday, basing both on the likelihood of Madam having other fish to fry, leaving Hughesy free for an extended ramble past points of interest without having to worry about others in the vicinity who were waiting to move on to somewhere else.
Which is, in it's own way, fair enough. When it comes to art galleries and such, I don't know much, know what I like, have an eye for things that are interesting and know what's likely to happen if I get intrigued by something, so I'm happy to skim over the surface, fully aware that an interest in something in the art world could become an expensive exercise, even without the purchase of actual artworks.
I'd been able to move through the National Portrait Gallery pretty quickly the day before, since I had a fair idea of who most of the people in there were, but in the case of the War Memorial (or, more accurately, the associated Galleries in the Museum) I had pretty specific areas of interest that would have been enough for the afternoon, preferably without someone in the area champing at the bit in a quest to be elsewhere.
Circumstances prevented the use of either of those two windows of opportunity, so while I'd have preferred to have had the couple of hours for a close perusal of matters related to the post-Gallipoli part of World War One, with Madam in tow I thought we'd end up taking a brisk stroll through as much of what was on display as possible without going into things too closely.
Fair enough, given the fact that there's plenty to investigate on subsequent visits to the national capital and I look forward to getting back there again.
Given the fact that the Memorial doesn't open till ten we had time for breakfast, and Madam's preferred destination was, somewhat unsurprisingly, located in Kingston.
Silo Bakery is somewhere I'd wandered past twice without paying a great deal of attention, but from the time we landed on the doorstep it was obviously that there was no secret about the place among the local cognoscenti. We were lucky to grab a table, and the continual flow of customers suggested somewhere that probably does a brisk trade through the day. Based on this visit, I'll definitely be back for lunch, which may well be washed down with a bottle of something like Helm Classic Riesling.
Not that we were after anything alcoholic for breakfast, of course, though a glass of something would have gone rather well with my gritted omelette had it arrived after the sun had passed the yard arm. Madam's chocolate croissant looked rather tasty as well, and I'm sure it was, but the omelette was definitely one of the best breakfasts I've had in a long time.
Suitably nourished, we made our way to the War Memorial with minimal traffic hassle, parked and found ourselves outside the entrance around five to ten, in time for the arrival of the daily catafalque party.
With the doors open, we headed inside, initially for the First World War gallery, where I would, as previously stated, have Ben happy to have spent the next hour and a half on a close examination of the Western Front before moving on to a more cursory look at as much as I could manage before departure time, but that wasn't to be and we manage to work our way through both World Wars and the Aircraft Hall before heading off on the road north around eleven thirty.
I'd been more than slightly sensitive to the likelihood that what was on display could go over the top in the jingoistic sense, but was impressed by the even-handedness with which sensitive topics were handled throughout the displays we saw. I expected Madam would have issues with some of the content relating to the Japanese campaigns of World War Two, and would have issues with matters relating to Conscription and the Vietnam War myself, but, as stated, we both thought the content, presented in a matter of fact manner without too much in the way of obvious editorial comment, was highly informative and appropriate.
Personally, however, I have to say that I found the newsreel voice overs, with that rounded semi- but not quite British accent, a reminder of an era that I definitely don't want to be going back to. We've come a long way since the fifties, and the prominence given to the battles on the Western Front vis a vis Gallipoli in the World War One gallery was a welcome reminder that there are a number of historical issues that need to be reassessed, though I doubt that is possible in a landscape blighted by the so-called History Wars.
That might seem like a cheap shot at ANZAC, but isn't intended that way.
Although I've yet to read the actual material, Henry Reynolds and others have started to question the place of Anzac Day in Australian culture, and it's quite appropriate for that to happen. Although you don't (or maybe you do, but I didn't) get too much of the manipulation of the Gallipoli story for political purposes in the gallery display, there's been a definite, and to my mind entirely justifiable shift in emphasis when it comes to the military campaigns that Australians were involved in during the War To End All War.
Discussions of such matters, of course, belongs in the People's Republic of the Little House of Concrete or Interesting Times rather than the current travelogue, but given the fact that people of my generation were more or less told that Gallipoli was the big show, with the battles on the Western Front being tacked onto the narrative as a sort of and afterwards they went to thing.
We also got a fairly thorough narrative when it came to World War Two, which explains why, had I been there on my own I would have spent a lot of time looking closely at things that weren't quite so familiar.
But I wasn't, and, consequently, we didn't.
If we hadn't had a substantial travel quotient on the day's itinerary we could have stayed longer, but we'd set an effective deadline of around eleven-thirty, and that was about when we left the Aircraft Hall, so it was a case of back to the car park and ho for the road to the north.
Scheduling the winery segment on Monday I'd left Clonakilla off the list on the basins that it was the only one of the four that was open seven days and could consequently be visited en route to Cowra and Canowindra, but there was no way we were going to be bypassing the place as long as I had anything to do with things.
I didn't get a chance to taste the iconic Shiraz Viognier, but what was on offer at the Cellar Door was enough to ensure I was adding my details to the mailing list, and we escaped with a bottle of VP to counter the forecast chills over the next couple of night's as well as two bottles of olive oil, one of which was intended for the ex-neighbors.
Back in the chariot the next stop was Cowra, where Madam was planning an extensive wander around the Japanese Garden, and we weren't looking at anything much along the way, which was just as well because when we arrived we spent a good hour and a bit wandering around the grounds, which are, after all, described as kaiyushiki, or strolling gardens.
You might look at a $12 admission charge ($10 for Seniors and Students) as a trifle steep, but if you take your time there's plenty to ponder as you move around the constantly changing panoramas, and I found myself musing over various landscape related matters as I went while Madam snapped away. A steady slide in the late afternoon temperature encouraged a departure, otherwise I could happily have just kept on musing.
With Canowindra was a mere thirty-something kilometres away we could possibly have stayed longer, but years spent in the tropical north have probably thinned the blood, and as far as I was concerned a motel room with reverse cycle air conditioning was definitely the way togo, and that was where we found ourselves just after four-thirty.
I would have been quite happy to ensconse myself in the air-con for a spell of quiet tapping, but Madam wanted to take a look around the town and I was enlisted for navigational purposes.
We were back at the motel just after five, though Madam headed straight back out for photographic purposes, though the sunset wasn't quite what it might have been.
There didn't seem to be too many obvious dinner options when we drove around town, and inquiries at Reception confirmed initial impressions, so we headed out just after dark in search of the middle pub, which had, so I was informed, the most extensive menu.
I reckoned I'd sighted the establishment when we were driving around in the afternoon. after all, the building I'd spotted had a sign on the awning announcing the presence of a restaurant, and I know a large old country pub when I see one.
As it turned out, however, I'd been looking at a large former country pub, and we arrived on the doorstep to find that the place wasn't open that day, which I thought I was strange, but suggested we backtrack to The Junction Hotel, which seemed to have lost it's horse and cart in the intervening period, rather than heading further along the street to investigate other options.
Dinner wasn't anything flash, but was substantial and an interesting exercise in old-fashioned country catering, which contrasted nicely with the flash city Tucker we 'd been tucking into over the preceding couple of days. We didn't, however, stick around once dinner had been demolished, since the signs suggested we were in for an extremely chilly evening.
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