Discussions as we drove out of Rocky the next morning suggested we’d found the right place to stay on the return leg of future southern odysseys, and while I’d go for other arrangements for the second last day (assuming we were heading away from Springfield Lakes, there’s not much room for manoeuvre if you’re heading off from Southport), the prospect of an uncomplicated last day drive had plenty to recommend it.
An hour or so from Rocky to Marlborough, one and a half to Flaggy Rock, a further hour to Mackay and two more to Bowen with a meal break somewhere along the line is hardly conducive to complexity, given the relative lack of alternatives along the way.
That second last day option needs investigating, and I’d be inclined to make the return journey a three day event, with the first day heading out to Toowoomba, Dalby or Kingaroy, but those issues are, of course, a matter for future negotiations.
Negotiating our way out of Rocky that morning would have been a fair bit easier if we’d done the calculations a bit earlier and concluded that we might need to refuel in the city, just to be on the safe side, rather than deferring the issue till Marlborough or points north.
We were past the most obvious left-side options on the divided carriageway by that point, but two U-turns and a pit stop on the southbound side addressed the issue without creating major complications, and the hour-long stretch to Marlborough passed without incident or excitement.
after that, once we’d hit the 110 kph section it seemed like no time at all till we were in sight of the end 100 sign at Clairview, even though there had been a toilet stop along the way, and it wasn’t long after that before we found ourselves discussing the takeaway options for Flaggy Rock home made ice cream while we waited for brunch.
It should come as no surprise to learn that Hughesy opted for the almost obligatory hot dog, though Madam veered off in the direction of a salad sandwich before establishing that the takeaway ice cream came in pre-packaged packs of a single flavour (rather than giving you the choice of a bit of this and a bit of that) and, anyway, they were low on ice so it wasn’t an option anyway.
Possibly, now that we’ve got the iPad as a navigational aid, we’ll be diverting off the main highway before Mackay’s City Gates, but I’m not convinced there’s a better option anyway, and by the time the subject was raised we were past the most obvious alternative route through Homebush.
From the City Gates, the run along the banks of the Pioneer, turning off that road just after Marian and rejoining the Bruce Highway at Kuttabul is so familiar that it’d take a significant development to give anything to comment about, and once we were back on the main track it was only a matter of deciding against a refuelling stop at Bloomsbury before we found ourselves passing through Proserpine with the scheduled two-thirty arrival in Bowen looking like a definite possibility.
Much of that last leg was spent discussing whether the length of time we’d been away, comprising as it did about a quarter of their young lives, would mean that three kittens would have forgotten us, but, as it turned out, between Mother Alison and three juvenile memories it wasn’t long before the familiar calls for sustenance resumed amidst our own efforts to revert to the sedentary lifestyle.
Sedentary is, of course, hardly a synonym for uneventful, and within an hour of pulling into the driveway Hughesy was on the blower to the cabinet makers and The Actor negotiating the arrangements for pulling out the old model and installing the gleaming new arrangement on the other side of the office wall.
But that’s hardly travelogue material, eh?
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Day Twenty-four: Springfield Lakes - Central Queensland
Given the fact that the first bit of the day’s route would take us through suburban Brisbane there didn’t seem to be much point in busting a boiler to get on the frog and toad around sparrow fart, and there were other factors that kicked in and ensured that it was well after nine-fifteen when we started transferring what we’d moved from car to house on Saturday afternoon back to the vehicle.
That followed a leisurely breakfast, a spot of keeping The Little Tacker occupied while Mum delivered ex-Wo Wo Boy to school and a bit of a chin wag once she was back, but once everything was back in the car, there isn’t really that much else you can do but head off.
Maps wanted to take us on a circuitous route via the motorways, but we’d had a squiz at the alternatives and figured out a route that would take us through the northern suburbs around the back of Hughesy’s childhood stamping grounds and bring us out on Old Gympie Road around Kedron.
Maps’ preference for the other route meant that I’d been forced to do a two stage bit, first from Springfield Lakes to Stafford Road, and from there to Childers, which was probably a bit too far north, but there you go.
And, in hindsight, it was just as well I’d mapped that out and had the blue line to follow, since the exit from the motorway onto the ring road wasn’t the most prominent of landmarks and could easily have been missed.
But, fortunately, we didn’t miss it.
While the route snaked up hill and down dale through leafy suburbs the traffic flowed smoothly (if rather slower than you’d have preferred with the number of traffic lights en route) and we found ourselves decanted onto Old Gympie Road without major hassles.
That was just as well, because the weather definitely left something to be desired, with drizzle that intermittently cleared and regularly cut back in as soon as you started thinking it looked pretty clear up ahead.
There was also a lengthy delay on the actual motorway with one northbound lane closed due to an issue with an Army vehicle, but once we were past that, things ran fairly smoothly traffic wise, even if the weather definitely could have been better.
Eventually, however, we hit blue sky, though we weren’t far out of Childers when that happened. A stop at the bakery in Childers provided a latish lunch, and a refuelling stop in Gin Gin meant that we were into late afternoon when we got to the area where we’d be meeting a bed for the night.
On the way down we’d stopped in Gladstone, which would have got my vote and ensured an excuse for Swain’s Fish & Chips, but a quick look at what was available via Safari on the iPad while we were in Gin Gin revealed nothing priced under $200, and Madam was quite adamant that she wasn’t paying that.
Gladstone wasn’t the only option, but having decided we weren’t diverting off the highway Madam wasn’t inclined to look at the options south of Rockhampton too closely since she’d picked a preferred option on the banks of the Fitzroy.
That meant we passed Miriam Vale, Koorawatha, Bororen, Benaraby and Calliope, increasingly looking into the late afternoon sun as we went, and Hughesy would definitely have preferred to have been doing something else. Matters improved once we hit Mount Larcom, and while the conditions still weren’t ideal, we hit Rockhampton just after six and arrived at Madam’s preferred option to find that, yes, they did have room at the inn.
We were also advised of a number of nearby dining options. The most convenient of them was the Cambridge Hotel Motel, where we’d have the choice of the Flame Char Grill or The Overflow Bar and Bistro, and if we didn’t favour either of those, there were further options that wouldn’t involve a compass and a cut lunch.
At Flame Char, when we took a look at the menu the prices looked a bit rich, with not much change out of $30 if you’re looking at a steak, but an all you can eat affair at The Overflow looked much more reasonable, and it was two heavily sated diners who waddled out of the premises an hour or so later.
I’m not suggesting for a moment that what’s on offer there is the greatest thing you’ve ever tasted, but it was tasty, there was plenty of it and, more than likely, no need for breakfast the following morning, where the old Flaggy Rock hot dog some time after eleven looked like the way to go as far as brunch was concerned.
That followed a leisurely breakfast, a spot of keeping The Little Tacker occupied while Mum delivered ex-Wo Wo Boy to school and a bit of a chin wag once she was back, but once everything was back in the car, there isn’t really that much else you can do but head off.
Maps wanted to take us on a circuitous route via the motorways, but we’d had a squiz at the alternatives and figured out a route that would take us through the northern suburbs around the back of Hughesy’s childhood stamping grounds and bring us out on Old Gympie Road around Kedron.
Maps’ preference for the other route meant that I’d been forced to do a two stage bit, first from Springfield Lakes to Stafford Road, and from there to Childers, which was probably a bit too far north, but there you go.
And, in hindsight, it was just as well I’d mapped that out and had the blue line to follow, since the exit from the motorway onto the ring road wasn’t the most prominent of landmarks and could easily have been missed.
But, fortunately, we didn’t miss it.
While the route snaked up hill and down dale through leafy suburbs the traffic flowed smoothly (if rather slower than you’d have preferred with the number of traffic lights en route) and we found ourselves decanted onto Old Gympie Road without major hassles.
That was just as well, because the weather definitely left something to be desired, with drizzle that intermittently cleared and regularly cut back in as soon as you started thinking it looked pretty clear up ahead.
There was also a lengthy delay on the actual motorway with one northbound lane closed due to an issue with an Army vehicle, but once we were past that, things ran fairly smoothly traffic wise, even if the weather definitely could have been better.
Eventually, however, we hit blue sky, though we weren’t far out of Childers when that happened. A stop at the bakery in Childers provided a latish lunch, and a refuelling stop in Gin Gin meant that we were into late afternoon when we got to the area where we’d be meeting a bed for the night.
On the way down we’d stopped in Gladstone, which would have got my vote and ensured an excuse for Swain’s Fish & Chips, but a quick look at what was available via Safari on the iPad while we were in Gin Gin revealed nothing priced under $200, and Madam was quite adamant that she wasn’t paying that.
Gladstone wasn’t the only option, but having decided we weren’t diverting off the highway Madam wasn’t inclined to look at the options south of Rockhampton too closely since she’d picked a preferred option on the banks of the Fitzroy.
That meant we passed Miriam Vale, Koorawatha, Bororen, Benaraby and Calliope, increasingly looking into the late afternoon sun as we went, and Hughesy would definitely have preferred to have been doing something else. Matters improved once we hit Mount Larcom, and while the conditions still weren’t ideal, we hit Rockhampton just after six and arrived at Madam’s preferred option to find that, yes, they did have room at the inn.
We were also advised of a number of nearby dining options. The most convenient of them was the Cambridge Hotel Motel, where we’d have the choice of the Flame Char Grill or The Overflow Bar and Bistro, and if we didn’t favour either of those, there were further options that wouldn’t involve a compass and a cut lunch.
At Flame Char, when we took a look at the menu the prices looked a bit rich, with not much change out of $30 if you’re looking at a steak, but an all you can eat affair at The Overflow looked much more reasonable, and it was two heavily sated diners who waddled out of the premises an hour or so later.
I’m not suggesting for a moment that what’s on offer there is the greatest thing you’ve ever tasted, but it was tasty, there was plenty of it and, more than likely, no need for breakfast the following morning, where the old Flaggy Rock hot dog some time after eleven looked like the way to go as far as brunch was concerned.
Day Twenty-three: Springfield Lakes
That visit to the IGA while we waited for the takeaway had unforeseen consequences the following morning. Ex-Neighbour Bloke’s sighting of a fair bargain in the bacon department, and had ended up buying the lot of what was on display.
One suspects that there was more lurking in the deli’s equivalent of the pantry fridge, and shudders at the thought of what may have happened had the tray been replenished earlier in proceedings.
I buy bacon from the deli every so often, usually in the form of bacon pieces rather than rashers, and in specific quantities depending on whether I’m looking at a pasta carbonara (80-100g) or a matriciana (120-150g) or both (200-350g). That gets over the issue of deli workers whose estimation skills or lack thereof produce a glance in the customer’s direction when the quantity on the scales is outside a reasonable margin of error.
The girl behind the counter’s first two attempts were comfortably under the required amount, and with uncertainty about how much of what was left in the tray would be needed to bring it up to the required quantity, we’d walked away with the lot.
Understandable under the circumstances, but it didn’t necessarily mean that the whole lot needed to go on the barbie the next morning. There was a further complication in the form of some rather good sausages sourced from Schulte's Meat Tavern near Marburg, home of the wursts of fond memory from late eighties Ipswich cricket trips.
Separately, the quantity of bacon on offer would have done for breakfast for a couple of reasonably hungry adults, as would the supply of sausages that had joined the bacon. Put together, however, they made a mountain that took a deal of effort to work our way through.
I’m not quite the trencherman I used to be, but I’m happy with the concept of a substantial breakfast, and something along those lines will usually keep me going until dinner time, so I hoed in, figuring that the talk of visiting Little Vietnam in Inala and lunch would involve a snack rather than a substantial meal and would be taking place later rather than sooner.
Both assumptions proved unfounded, since it wasn’t long between the end of breakfast and departure, and a relatively late breakfast, even after a good hour’s perambulations around the shopping centre, was followed by suggestions of an uncomfortably early lunch.
Everyone else (or at least the rest of the adult portion thereof) didn’t have the same problem, having exercised more restraint at the breakfast table, so I can’t report on what was on the menu at the selected venue.
While the others sat down to eat, I found a bench in a shady spot and ended up having an interesting conversation with ex-Wo Wo Boy about large numbers. He’s certainly come a long way since everything that moves apart from Mum and Dad was Wo Wo, but they do that and there’ll be a long way to go, of course.
We were back home around one, which was the time I’d possibly have been thinking of lunch, and probably have been coming up with a maybe not quite yet, and the rest of the afternoon passed without dramas on the travellers’ side of things although Hughesy got ann up close and personal look at parenting issues when you’re dealing with a toddler and a Year One kid, but we might draw a discreet veil over that one.
Dinner was a steak and salad with the regular sides, and went down well. Hardly the largest meal I’ve ever consumed, and I just managed to finish it, which means, of course, that had the maybe not quite yet in the preceding paragraph been followed by a well, why not? we would have had on-going issues at dinner time.
One suspects that there was more lurking in the deli’s equivalent of the pantry fridge, and shudders at the thought of what may have happened had the tray been replenished earlier in proceedings.
I buy bacon from the deli every so often, usually in the form of bacon pieces rather than rashers, and in specific quantities depending on whether I’m looking at a pasta carbonara (80-100g) or a matriciana (120-150g) or both (200-350g). That gets over the issue of deli workers whose estimation skills or lack thereof produce a glance in the customer’s direction when the quantity on the scales is outside a reasonable margin of error.
The girl behind the counter’s first two attempts were comfortably under the required amount, and with uncertainty about how much of what was left in the tray would be needed to bring it up to the required quantity, we’d walked away with the lot.
Understandable under the circumstances, but it didn’t necessarily mean that the whole lot needed to go on the barbie the next morning. There was a further complication in the form of some rather good sausages sourced from Schulte's Meat Tavern near Marburg, home of the wursts of fond memory from late eighties Ipswich cricket trips.
Separately, the quantity of bacon on offer would have done for breakfast for a couple of reasonably hungry adults, as would the supply of sausages that had joined the bacon. Put together, however, they made a mountain that took a deal of effort to work our way through.
I’m not quite the trencherman I used to be, but I’m happy with the concept of a substantial breakfast, and something along those lines will usually keep me going until dinner time, so I hoed in, figuring that the talk of visiting Little Vietnam in Inala and lunch would involve a snack rather than a substantial meal and would be taking place later rather than sooner.
Both assumptions proved unfounded, since it wasn’t long between the end of breakfast and departure, and a relatively late breakfast, even after a good hour’s perambulations around the shopping centre, was followed by suggestions of an uncomfortably early lunch.
Everyone else (or at least the rest of the adult portion thereof) didn’t have the same problem, having exercised more restraint at the breakfast table, so I can’t report on what was on the menu at the selected venue.
While the others sat down to eat, I found a bench in a shady spot and ended up having an interesting conversation with ex-Wo Wo Boy about large numbers. He’s certainly come a long way since everything that moves apart from Mum and Dad was Wo Wo, but they do that and there’ll be a long way to go, of course.
We were back home around one, which was the time I’d possibly have been thinking of lunch, and probably have been coming up with a maybe not quite yet, and the rest of the afternoon passed without dramas on the travellers’ side of things although Hughesy got ann up close and personal look at parenting issues when you’re dealing with a toddler and a Year One kid, but we might draw a discreet veil over that one.
Dinner was a steak and salad with the regular sides, and went down well. Hardly the largest meal I’ve ever consumed, and I just managed to finish it, which means, of course, that had the maybe not quite yet in the preceding paragraph been followed by a well, why not? we would have had on-going issues at dinner time.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Day Twenty-two: Glen Innes - Springfield Lakes
It wasn’t that long after dinner when Hughesy found himself safely tucked away in the sub-doona warmth pushing up Zs, and well after sunrise when I made my way gingerly into the new day.
While the night’s accommodation would have been quite satisfactory in the summer months, and there wasn’t much that was actually wrong with the place, there was a distinct lack of insulation that meant we were heavily dependent on the heater in the cabin’s living room, and we weren’t inclined to wander too far from the warmth as we gathered the goods and chattels and prepared to head into Glen Innes for breakfast.
The day’s game plan involved a wander around downtown Glen Innes after breakfast, followed by the drive through Tenterfield, Stanthorpe, Warwick and Cunningham’s Gap en route to the Ex-Neighbours and Springfield Lakes.
Given rumours of a particularly outstanding Indian eatery in the vicinity, a substantial breakfast followed by minimal action on the lunch front before what threatened to be a substantial evening meal seemed the way to go, and we found Cuisine Cafe the ideal avenue to stock up on sustenance to keep us going through the day.
With the circuit of Grey Street’s historic buildings and streetscape out of the way it was back to the Visitor Centre to retrieve the car and off up the nearby hill where the Australian Standing Stones were set up as a Bicentenary national monument to honour Glen Innes's Celtic heritage. They’re an impressive sight and had attracted their fair share of visitors while Madam snapped away.
From there we hit Tenterfield, Wallangarra, Stanthorpe and Warwick in rapid succession before the not quite eagerly anticipated descent through Cunningham’s Gap. The ascent, a week and a half earlier, had involved a couple of lengthy delays, and while we expected things might run a little more smoothly on a Saturday afternoon we weren’t overly optimistic about the prospects.
There was, as it turned out, a slight delay at the top of the range, but we got a clear, if not exactly rapid run through to Aratula, where there was the chance to refuel and consider whether we were, in fact, in need of lunch.
As it turned out, while we could have indulged in something we were still fairly well sated after a latish breakfast, so it was back onto the road for the run into unknown territory to the southwest of Brisbane.
This, as it turned out, was where the iPad came into its own as an aid to navigation.
The coincidence of inbuilt GPS technology and the Maps app didn’t quite work perfectly as we went through a succession of closely-spaced roundabouts, but there was only one missed turn in an environment where the mistake was quickly corrected.
We arrived around three-forty-five to find WoWo Boy and the Little Tacker were terrorising other areas of the neighbourhood, which gave the opportunity for a casual tour through the new domicile, followed by an uninterrupted chance to catch up on news before Mum returned the two terrors to base and planning for the evening meal kicked in.
All we’d heard to date was a brief descriptor of best Indian ever, but I’d done a bit of preliminary research on the Urbanspoon app, and suspected the place under mention was the Punjab Curry Club, which had amazingly consistent favourable ratings.
Most places I’d checked out on Urbanspoon have attracted a mixture of comments, varying from the wildly enthusiastic to the avoid at all costs, and there aren’t too many I’ve looked at that have attracted nothing on the negative side of extremely favourable, but that was the case when I pointed the iPad towards Punjab Curry Club, and what arrived on the table after we’d collected the takeaway certainly justified the rave reviews.
The meal wasn’t quite ready when we arrived at the eatery, and the need to kill a few minutes produced a wander through the nearby IGA, where I collected a six-pack ofbottled water for the return home leg of the journey and Ex-Neighbour Bloke grabbed a quantity of bacon that caused a few complications the following day.
Given the fact that we had four reasonably hungry adults, two of them with substantial appetites to start with, the order was nothing short of substantial, and while the intervening period has dimmed Hughesy’s recall of the actual dishes involved (apart from the Lamb Saag, which was my contribution to the order, and rather bloody lovely it was) there was no doubting the quality and we fed the four of us to the point where there wasn’t room for any more as far as Hughesy was concerned although there was still something left on the table.
Generous helpings, very high quality and extremely reasonably priced. Given the chance I’ll definitely be back.
While the night’s accommodation would have been quite satisfactory in the summer months, and there wasn’t much that was actually wrong with the place, there was a distinct lack of insulation that meant we were heavily dependent on the heater in the cabin’s living room, and we weren’t inclined to wander too far from the warmth as we gathered the goods and chattels and prepared to head into Glen Innes for breakfast.
The day’s game plan involved a wander around downtown Glen Innes after breakfast, followed by the drive through Tenterfield, Stanthorpe, Warwick and Cunningham’s Gap en route to the Ex-Neighbours and Springfield Lakes.
Given rumours of a particularly outstanding Indian eatery in the vicinity, a substantial breakfast followed by minimal action on the lunch front before what threatened to be a substantial evening meal seemed the way to go, and we found Cuisine Cafe the ideal avenue to stock up on sustenance to keep us going through the day.
With the circuit of Grey Street’s historic buildings and streetscape out of the way it was back to the Visitor Centre to retrieve the car and off up the nearby hill where the Australian Standing Stones were set up as a Bicentenary national monument to honour Glen Innes's Celtic heritage. They’re an impressive sight and had attracted their fair share of visitors while Madam snapped away.
From there we hit Tenterfield, Wallangarra, Stanthorpe and Warwick in rapid succession before the not quite eagerly anticipated descent through Cunningham’s Gap. The ascent, a week and a half earlier, had involved a couple of lengthy delays, and while we expected things might run a little more smoothly on a Saturday afternoon we weren’t overly optimistic about the prospects.
There was, as it turned out, a slight delay at the top of the range, but we got a clear, if not exactly rapid run through to Aratula, where there was the chance to refuel and consider whether we were, in fact, in need of lunch.
As it turned out, while we could have indulged in something we were still fairly well sated after a latish breakfast, so it was back onto the road for the run into unknown territory to the southwest of Brisbane.
This, as it turned out, was where the iPad came into its own as an aid to navigation.
The coincidence of inbuilt GPS technology and the Maps app didn’t quite work perfectly as we went through a succession of closely-spaced roundabouts, but there was only one missed turn in an environment where the mistake was quickly corrected.
We arrived around three-forty-five to find WoWo Boy and the Little Tacker were terrorising other areas of the neighbourhood, which gave the opportunity for a casual tour through the new domicile, followed by an uninterrupted chance to catch up on news before Mum returned the two terrors to base and planning for the evening meal kicked in.
All we’d heard to date was a brief descriptor of best Indian ever, but I’d done a bit of preliminary research on the Urbanspoon app, and suspected the place under mention was the Punjab Curry Club, which had amazingly consistent favourable ratings.
Most places I’d checked out on Urbanspoon have attracted a mixture of comments, varying from the wildly enthusiastic to the avoid at all costs, and there aren’t too many I’ve looked at that have attracted nothing on the negative side of extremely favourable, but that was the case when I pointed the iPad towards Punjab Curry Club, and what arrived on the table after we’d collected the takeaway certainly justified the rave reviews.
The meal wasn’t quite ready when we arrived at the eatery, and the need to kill a few minutes produced a wander through the nearby IGA, where I collected a six-pack ofbottled water for the return home leg of the journey and Ex-Neighbour Bloke grabbed a quantity of bacon that caused a few complications the following day.
Given the fact that we had four reasonably hungry adults, two of them with substantial appetites to start with, the order was nothing short of substantial, and while the intervening period has dimmed Hughesy’s recall of the actual dishes involved (apart from the Lamb Saag, which was my contribution to the order, and rather bloody lovely it was) there was no doubting the quality and we fed the four of us to the point where there wasn’t room for any more as far as Hughesy was concerned although there was still something left on the table.
Generous helpings, very high quality and extremely reasonably priced. Given the chance I’ll definitely be back.
Day Twenty-one: Gunnedah - Glen Innes
While I’m by no means a coffee addict, there’s no doubt that I need my mug of industrial-strength caffeine to kickstart my morning and that fact was underlined by Friday morning’s events.
The outside temperature meant I wasn’t too keen on sticking my nose too far out of the warmth of the doona, but around six-fifteen Madam sprang into action and I was obliged to follow. My role, after the previous evenimng’s excursion, was to tag along and act as navigator while Madam headed out in search of koalas to photograph, hardly surprising given Gunnedah’s self-proclaimed status as the Koala capital of Australia.
In the space of around ten minutes I went from a state of pleaant drowsiness to full on which way do I turn mode without too much time to catch my breath as we headed towards Porcupine Lookout.
Given a few minutes to gather my wits we might well have found ourselves a better option than where we eventually parked, heading off to hoof it along vaguely defined walking tracks in search of animals that steadfastly refused to manifest themselves in the treetops, and after that particularly fruitless excursion we were headed out of town around eight-thirty, with Tamworth, Armiodale and Glen Innes firmly in our sights.
Those who know me might be slightly bemused by Hughesy’s mention of Tamworth, given its status as Australia’s country music capital, but the road was going to take us through the city and Madam remembered a large guitar somewhere on the road into town from our previous visit en route between the Hunter Valley and Glen Innes back in December 2005.
The route into town this time around, however, wasn’t quite the same as the previous one, and the guitar, like Gunnedah’s koalas failed to appear as we looked around for fuel, information and the road to Armidale, which was where Madam wanted to spend a bit more time on the ground.
On that basis, having skimped breakfast with a bit of time to go till lunch, heading more or less straight off seemed a better option than looking around for oversized musical instruments.
That 2005 trip had brought us into Armidale in time for a very late lunch, and that visit had done enough to pique Madam’s photographic interest this time around, and it was getting very close to lunch time when we parked the car behind the local Visitor Information Centre.
Again, the reader might find the frequent references to such locations slightly bemusing, but I’d counter such bemusement by pointing out that such centres almost invariably offer large quantites of parking space and toilet facilities along with useful information, so once we’d parked the car it was a matter of trekking off in search of the place where we’d eaten five and a half years before (or, failing that, a suitable alternative).
That quest wasn’t as easy as it might have seemed, given the fact that in 2005 we hadn’t fallen prey to the siren song of the Visitor Information centre, and had obviously, as it rapidly became clear, parked somewhere else last time around.
Those memory factors also kick in when you’re tapping out the details close to a fortnight after the actual events.
The Visitor Information lady wasn’t exactly a fountain of information when it came to interesting lunch, seemingly inclined to point us towards the nearby bowls and RSL clubs which probably says a bit about the usual clientele passing through the centre, so we headed off towards the mall in search of a cafe, restaurant or similar operation.
The memory and fortnight later factors mean that I don’t recall the exact details of the option we eventually chose, but their version of the standard big breakfast was enough to fill the gaping hole and ensure that we didn’t need a huge feed of tuna pasta when we arrived at the overnight accommodation just south of Glen Innes.
After lunch we had a good hour or two to wander round the Armidale CBD, not quite following the exact historic walk laid out in the leaflet we’d acquired along the way, which gave me the chance to belatedly spot the previous visit’s lunch venue and Madam the chance to capture images of historic buildings and impressive church structures.
Given a few minutes either way en route, we may well have avoided the coincidence of ourselves, a slow-moving vehicle and a speed camera that had us anxiously scanning the incoming mail over the past week or so, but we didn’t, and hindsight is, as they say, invariably 20/20.
Still, despite that minor drama we made it into Craigieburn Cottages on the outskirts of Glen Innes comfortably before nightfall, and there were late afternoon photo opportunities for half the party while Hughesy finished tapping out the details of the three days we’d spent in Canberra.
Tuna pasta and a bottle of red aren’t the greatest food and wine match you’ve ever encountered, but we were out of chilled white and the outside weather wasn’t white amenable anyway.
The outside temperature meant I wasn’t too keen on sticking my nose too far out of the warmth of the doona, but around six-fifteen Madam sprang into action and I was obliged to follow. My role, after the previous evenimng’s excursion, was to tag along and act as navigator while Madam headed out in search of koalas to photograph, hardly surprising given Gunnedah’s self-proclaimed status as the Koala capital of Australia.
In the space of around ten minutes I went from a state of pleaant drowsiness to full on which way do I turn mode without too much time to catch my breath as we headed towards Porcupine Lookout.
Given a few minutes to gather my wits we might well have found ourselves a better option than where we eventually parked, heading off to hoof it along vaguely defined walking tracks in search of animals that steadfastly refused to manifest themselves in the treetops, and after that particularly fruitless excursion we were headed out of town around eight-thirty, with Tamworth, Armiodale and Glen Innes firmly in our sights.
Those who know me might be slightly bemused by Hughesy’s mention of Tamworth, given its status as Australia’s country music capital, but the road was going to take us through the city and Madam remembered a large guitar somewhere on the road into town from our previous visit en route between the Hunter Valley and Glen Innes back in December 2005.
The route into town this time around, however, wasn’t quite the same as the previous one, and the guitar, like Gunnedah’s koalas failed to appear as we looked around for fuel, information and the road to Armidale, which was where Madam wanted to spend a bit more time on the ground.
On that basis, having skimped breakfast with a bit of time to go till lunch, heading more or less straight off seemed a better option than looking around for oversized musical instruments.
That 2005 trip had brought us into Armidale in time for a very late lunch, and that visit had done enough to pique Madam’s photographic interest this time around, and it was getting very close to lunch time when we parked the car behind the local Visitor Information Centre.
Again, the reader might find the frequent references to such locations slightly bemusing, but I’d counter such bemusement by pointing out that such centres almost invariably offer large quantites of parking space and toilet facilities along with useful information, so once we’d parked the car it was a matter of trekking off in search of the place where we’d eaten five and a half years before (or, failing that, a suitable alternative).
That quest wasn’t as easy as it might have seemed, given the fact that in 2005 we hadn’t fallen prey to the siren song of the Visitor Information centre, and had obviously, as it rapidly became clear, parked somewhere else last time around.
Those memory factors also kick in when you’re tapping out the details close to a fortnight after the actual events.
The Visitor Information lady wasn’t exactly a fountain of information when it came to interesting lunch, seemingly inclined to point us towards the nearby bowls and RSL clubs which probably says a bit about the usual clientele passing through the centre, so we headed off towards the mall in search of a cafe, restaurant or similar operation.
The memory and fortnight later factors mean that I don’t recall the exact details of the option we eventually chose, but their version of the standard big breakfast was enough to fill the gaping hole and ensure that we didn’t need a huge feed of tuna pasta when we arrived at the overnight accommodation just south of Glen Innes.
After lunch we had a good hour or two to wander round the Armidale CBD, not quite following the exact historic walk laid out in the leaflet we’d acquired along the way, which gave me the chance to belatedly spot the previous visit’s lunch venue and Madam the chance to capture images of historic buildings and impressive church structures.
Given a few minutes either way en route, we may well have avoided the coincidence of ourselves, a slow-moving vehicle and a speed camera that had us anxiously scanning the incoming mail over the past week or so, but we didn’t, and hindsight is, as they say, invariably 20/20.
Still, despite that minor drama we made it into Craigieburn Cottages on the outskirts of Glen Innes comfortably before nightfall, and there were late afternoon photo opportunities for half the party while Hughesy finished tapping out the details of the three days we’d spent in Canberra.
Tuna pasta and a bottle of red aren’t the greatest food and wine match you’ve ever encountered, but we were out of chilled white and the outside weather wasn’t white amenable anyway.
Day Twenty: Canowindra - Gunnedah
There have been frequent references to the effects of cold weather on brass monkeys over the years, but I've never heard anything about similar circumstances involving those flaps you find on the bottom of doors.
It was cool enough when I eventually deigned to depart from under the doona, even with the reverse cycle kicking in, and I was more than a little bemused, having showered and done the rest of the developing pre-departure ritual, to find the metal strip had detached itself from the door when I started lugging the personal effects back down to the vehicle.
Personally, I would have been quite happy to head straight to the local bakery, grab a pie or something similar and headed off towards Gunnedah, but Madam had other ideas, given the number of interesting old buildings in downtown Canowindra that were literally screaming Photograph me!
That wasn’t a problem as far I was concerned, since the car was parked in a position that caught the morning sun rather well, though that changed when The Photographer returned, announcing she’d found a couple of things I needed to look at.
This might have produced a more positive reaction if leaving the car hadn’t involved moving out of the warming sun, but once we’d looked at the window of the antiques store and made a couple of purchases at a rather alternative fruit shop it was Madam’s turn to be unimpressed once we’d driven down the road to Deli Lama and found what she’d just bought was a couple of dollars cheaper there.
Deli Lama wasn’t exactly packed when we wandered in for breakfast, but it seems to do a reasonably passing trade and was probably a better option than the bakery. I doubt the bakery does bacon and egg muffins.
Back in the car we were in for a substantial drive, since it was Thursday morning and we were looking at getting to the Ex-Neighbours southwest of Brisbane on Saturday afternoon.
Now, you might look at the map and figure three easy stages, but Madam had decided that Glen Innes was the right spot to stop on Friday night, so we’d looked for options for Friday’s drive and figured Armidale was probably worth a walk around, which meant that Friday’s drive needed to be reasonably short, and, in turn, that meant we were probably best off spending Thursday night in Gunnedah.
There were a couple of possible routes to get there, so we decided to take advice in Wellington, which was more or less known territory since we’d passed through the place on the way to Orange and knew the road was reasonable up to there.
Canowindra to Molong was new to us, however, and was a pleasant enough drive, and we pulled over for a visit to an ATM in Molong before establishing that our preferred route through Gulgong and Coolah was driver friendly when we called at the Visitor Information in Wellington.
Wellington to Gulgong had looked potentially difficult on the terrain side of things, but turned out to be a pleasant enough drive and it was just after lunch time when we arrived in Gulgong, deciding the historic gold mining town and home of Henry Lawson was worth a wander with or without lunch.
Given the historic status of many of the towns in the area you could probably spend several days wandering around, camera in hand, but we didn’t have days to spare, so an hour or so on the ground in Gulgong had to do.
I could probably have grabbed something for lunch, but after the dietary xcesses of the preceding week or so I wasn’t over-hungry and was quite happy to wait till the evening for a substantial dinner.
The road through Coolah was another pleasant drive and it was just after four-thirty when we pulled in to the motel in Gunnedah, timing that had Madam heading out the door pretty soon after our arrival with a view to photographing the sunset.
There was a suitable viewing option a block or three away from the motel, so she decided to walk, a decision that didn’t quite take the speed with which night falls into account, and I’d just finished tapping out a bit of travelogue on the iPad when I realised that the shades of night were well and truly with us before Madam had returned.
I spent a relatively anxious few minutes before the return was effected, and once the reunification was effected it was more or less time for dinner. There were a number of options, and with the benefit of hindsight we might have opted for the Indian down the street rather than Wild Orchards across the road.
There wasn’t much wrong with Wild Orchards on the food side of things, but a glance at the wine list revealed a distinct lack of anything interesting to drink if you’re trying to stay away from the usual big corporate suspects and disinclined to shell out big bucks for the upper reaches of the Penfolds portfolio.
Of course, there’s every chance that the story would have been similar regardless of which dining option we’d chosen.There are reasons why what I’d term the usual suspects turn up on restaurant wine lists over and over again, and those reasons are probably more pronounced away from the major centres, and there’s probably an even stronger tendency in areas where the economy’s being propped up by the mining boom and there are a number of people passing through town on mining-related business.
Gunnedah certainly seemed to be pretty well endowed when it came to dining options, given the fact that population-wise it’s around the same size as Bowen, and one can’t help but wonder why that should be.
It was cool enough when I eventually deigned to depart from under the doona, even with the reverse cycle kicking in, and I was more than a little bemused, having showered and done the rest of the developing pre-departure ritual, to find the metal strip had detached itself from the door when I started lugging the personal effects back down to the vehicle.
Personally, I would have been quite happy to head straight to the local bakery, grab a pie or something similar and headed off towards Gunnedah, but Madam had other ideas, given the number of interesting old buildings in downtown Canowindra that were literally screaming Photograph me!
That wasn’t a problem as far I was concerned, since the car was parked in a position that caught the morning sun rather well, though that changed when The Photographer returned, announcing she’d found a couple of things I needed to look at.
This might have produced a more positive reaction if leaving the car hadn’t involved moving out of the warming sun, but once we’d looked at the window of the antiques store and made a couple of purchases at a rather alternative fruit shop it was Madam’s turn to be unimpressed once we’d driven down the road to Deli Lama and found what she’d just bought was a couple of dollars cheaper there.
Deli Lama wasn’t exactly packed when we wandered in for breakfast, but it seems to do a reasonably passing trade and was probably a better option than the bakery. I doubt the bakery does bacon and egg muffins.
Back in the car we were in for a substantial drive, since it was Thursday morning and we were looking at getting to the Ex-Neighbours southwest of Brisbane on Saturday afternoon.
Now, you might look at the map and figure three easy stages, but Madam had decided that Glen Innes was the right spot to stop on Friday night, so we’d looked for options for Friday’s drive and figured Armidale was probably worth a walk around, which meant that Friday’s drive needed to be reasonably short, and, in turn, that meant we were probably best off spending Thursday night in Gunnedah.
There were a couple of possible routes to get there, so we decided to take advice in Wellington, which was more or less known territory since we’d passed through the place on the way to Orange and knew the road was reasonable up to there.
Canowindra to Molong was new to us, however, and was a pleasant enough drive, and we pulled over for a visit to an ATM in Molong before establishing that our preferred route through Gulgong and Coolah was driver friendly when we called at the Visitor Information in Wellington.
Wellington to Gulgong had looked potentially difficult on the terrain side of things, but turned out to be a pleasant enough drive and it was just after lunch time when we arrived in Gulgong, deciding the historic gold mining town and home of Henry Lawson was worth a wander with or without lunch.
Given the historic status of many of the towns in the area you could probably spend several days wandering around, camera in hand, but we didn’t have days to spare, so an hour or so on the ground in Gulgong had to do.
I could probably have grabbed something for lunch, but after the dietary xcesses of the preceding week or so I wasn’t over-hungry and was quite happy to wait till the evening for a substantial dinner.
The road through Coolah was another pleasant drive and it was just after four-thirty when we pulled in to the motel in Gunnedah, timing that had Madam heading out the door pretty soon after our arrival with a view to photographing the sunset.
There was a suitable viewing option a block or three away from the motel, so she decided to walk, a decision that didn’t quite take the speed with which night falls into account, and I’d just finished tapping out a bit of travelogue on the iPad when I realised that the shades of night were well and truly with us before Madam had returned.
I spent a relatively anxious few minutes before the return was effected, and once the reunification was effected it was more or less time for dinner. There were a number of options, and with the benefit of hindsight we might have opted for the Indian down the street rather than Wild Orchards across the road.
There wasn’t much wrong with Wild Orchards on the food side of things, but a glance at the wine list revealed a distinct lack of anything interesting to drink if you’re trying to stay away from the usual big corporate suspects and disinclined to shell out big bucks for the upper reaches of the Penfolds portfolio.
Of course, there’s every chance that the story would have been similar regardless of which dining option we’d chosen.There are reasons why what I’d term the usual suspects turn up on restaurant wine lists over and over again, and those reasons are probably more pronounced away from the major centres, and there’s probably an even stronger tendency in areas where the economy’s being propped up by the mining boom and there are a number of people passing through town on mining-related business.
Gunnedah certainly seemed to be pretty well endowed when it came to dining options, given the fact that population-wise it’s around the same size as Bowen, and one can’t help but wonder why that should be.
Day Eighteen: Canberra
So, with the markets and winery aspects of the visit out of the way, Tuesday morning saw us focussing on the buildings of national significance side of things though, had the weather been more favorable, Madam would have preferred to be focussing on autumn leaves and colorful landscapes as well.
That, however, was not to be, and as we considered the options the first issue was finding somewhere to park. Given the fact that most of what we were interested in was clustered together in the Parliamentary Triangle, it made sense to park and walk, and we already knew that there was free parking underneath the National Gallery, so the evolving game plan involved parking there, hoofing it up to Parliament House, and gradually working back until we'd had enough.
Despite Sunday's visit to the National Gallery, there was still plenty to see there, and I had intentions of a lengthy wander around Old Parliament House and a visit to the National Portrait Gallery as well, so it wasn't as if we were going to run out of things to see.
First, however, Madam was keen to get some panoramic shots of the city, and decided that Red Hill was the best option, given it's proximity to where we were going.
The problem, of course, was how to get there.
That seemed a simple enough matter when you looked at the street map. Turn left out of the hotel, left again into Dalrymple, right onto Hindmarsh Drive and right again into Tamar Street and Mugga Way looked straightforward enough, but a substantial concrete barrier ruled out the last bit, and we found ourselves in a back street in the wilds of O'Malley figuring out an alternative route, which coincidentally delivered the opportunity to fuel up for the next day's trip, saving us from having to do it later.
The weather wasn't the best when we reached the summit of Red Hill, but the views were spectacular, giving Madam the chance to snap away in circumstances that hadn't been possible to date, and the road back down the hill debouched onto Melbourne Avenue, which fed directly onto the State Circle and delivered us to the desired parking location with pleasing rapidity, since time was marching on and we had a lot to see.
The nether regions of the National Gallery had plenty of parking space available when we arrived, and a perambulation past the Portrait Gallery took us through Reconciliation Place, which was, I thought, nowhere near as visually significant as it needs to be, before making our way to the front steps of Old Parliament House, which these days houses the Museum of Australian Democracy.
The Museum wasn't something that was going to interest Madam over much, so a thirty second reconnaissance was enough to establish that I was up for $2 if I was going to have a wander around, and there was no direct route through the building to it's replacement.
We skirted round the western, or Senate, end of the building, making our way up the hill towards Parliament House, a progress that had me reflecting on the wisdom of placing the Federal capital outside Sydney or Melbourne.
It would have been easy, in hindsight, to have done something along the lines of the South African model, with the Parliamentary capital here, the Judicial capital there and the Executive Capital somewhere else, but that would have precluded the opportunity to build the sort of extensive and basically integrated landscape we could see as we ascended.
I'll continue to be critical of the compromises that delivered deep flaws in the actual Australian Constitution, matters that really do need to be addressed in the light of changed circumstances over a hundred and ten years, but as far as the national capital is concerned I think they got it very close to right.
Looking back from the Forecourt of an impressive structure over it's predecessor towards the War Memorial, the view was impressive, expansive, and something that probably wouldn't have been possible had they decided to leave the legislature in downtown Melbourne or Sydney.
Now, from what I can recall, not that I was paying a great deal of attention at the time, when the construction process that resulted in the current structure was kicking off there was a degree of controversy involved, particularly over cost blow outs, which I've seen quoted as quintupling the original $200 million budget, but if you're after something that stands out you need vision, and a willingness to spend if necessary.
There's no doubt that the resulting structure, dominating Capital Hill as it does and drawing the eye from a number of nearby locations, stands out, and if the visitor takes a stroll through Old Parliament House the contrast, at least as far as the public spaces are concerned, is close to immeasurable. It's an imposing structure with substantial public space, and something that would have been done quite differently had the penny-pinchers been allowed to have their way in a post 9/11 setting.
Recently there's been quite a deal of discussion about the decline of the democratic process, the manipulation of the news cycle, and similar issues, and one can't help suspecting that some of today's critics are looking back to the halcyon days of the Old Parliament House rabbit warren, where it was virtually impossible for the Government to maintain a veil of secrecy about internal matters.
Walking down the corridor outside the Prime Minister's office, for example, I couldn't help thinking that if the PM wanted to carpet an errant minister, he would have to do it very quietly (assuming, of course, he didn't want the news to get out). There's a matter of only a couple of metres between the PM's suite and the passageway, and while we may be talking soundproofing and closed doors you wouldn't be able to keep too many secrets from casual passers-by.
Today, of course, in the new structure, the Prime Minister's suite, the ministerial offices, the Cabinet Room and similar locations are discreetly tucked away behind closed doors manned by security personnel, and not much is going to get out unless someone wants it to.
No stories based on inferences and observations in and around the actual corridors of power here, folks.
On the other hand, had the new structure not been completed before the age of global terrorism kicked in, one can't help suspecting that the Government response to something like 9/11 would have been something like sealing off the whole site from public access, initially and supposedly temporarily because of national security concerns, with the temporary measures becoming permanent due to on-going considerations.
A walk around Parliament House provokes those kinds of thoughts, particularly when immediately followed by a stroll around it's predecessor, which is what I did once we'd pointed Madam towards the National Gallery, working on the principle that both of us would have plenty to look at without the presence of impatient significant others.
The original intention had been to demolish the old building once Parliament House was finished, and while it's new incarnation as the Museum of Australian Democracy has offered what may well be a permanent life line, I hope the place stays there, not least because it provides a window into the way things used to be, as well as an avenue for school groups and the like to act out scenarios that wouldn't be permissible in the actual Parliamentary chambers.
That stroll around the building must have actually taken a little longer than anticipated, even though I gave the Museum of Australian Democracy a pretty cursory once over, because I emerged from the building around the same time as the text message from Madam announcing that she'd finished at the Gallery arrived.
Actually, as I learned when I arrived at the Gallery foyer, she hadn't quite finished, since she'd failed to find the Varilaku exhibition of Pacific arts from the SolomonIslands, tucked away in a corner of the gallery she'd failed to notice.
A spell in the foyer while she headed in that direction gave me a chance to make a slight reduction in the tapping backlog, and from there it was off to the National Portrait Gallery, which didn't have a whole lot of interest for Madam, but I found plenty to look at wandering through the gallery while she took a spell.
The Portrait Gallery's remit is, on the surface, rather limited, to explore the identity, history, creativity and culture of the Australian people through portraiture, but what's on display in the gallery delivers a number of reminders about people you may have heard of along the way but forgotten alongside the portraits showing more obvious candidates.
To Madam most of those names would have been meaningless, so it's hardly surprising she found the Gallery interesting but largely incomprehensible. It might, of course, have been different if she'd been with someone who was in a position to take the time and energy to explain who these people were, which would have entailed a lot of back story filling, or had the time and inclination to read the rather detailed biographical notes beside each portrait without having someone at hand who was inclined to take a glance at most of what was there without hanging around to read and reflect.
Which is, I think, the main point. To get the most out of the Gallery you either need a fair degree of background knowledge or the time to stop and read the detail you're unfamiliar with, which may entail repeat visits (which wasn't, of course, an option available to us).
From there we headed off along the lake shore, hoping for an improvement in the light that failed to eventuate, circling the High Court building and heading back to the NGA car park, reclaiming the car and heading back to the Heritage.
There were a few options to consider for dinner, with possibilities in Kingston, Griffith and Manuka, but beckoning in front of us was the prospect of Portuguese cuisine at Vasco's, which was, as far as we could tell, in Kingston though I'd failed to sight it there the night before.
Having decided Vasco's was the go, and that there were other possibilities should we fail to locate it, I was rather nonplussed when we walked right up to a place that was clearly identifiable as our preferred destination without any complications.
What was even more surprising wasn't so much finding the place empty when we arrived (based on the possibility that we'd find the place packed if we got there too late) as the failure of anybody to wander in for dinner while we were there. Maybe those partial to Portuguese are inclined to dine later, but there were plenty of people who paused to glance at the menu on display but failed to wander in.
But in was where we were, and having ordered, what was on offer turned out to be very good indeed. Madam's seafood risotto was pretty good, but my go at the barbecued chicken specialty of the house left me trying to figure out an excuse to get back for another go at it. A bottle of Massena Barbera went rather well with the chicken, and by the time we were finished I was a very satisfied customer who couldn't figure why we seemed to be the only ones interested in eating there.
That, however, was not to be, and as we considered the options the first issue was finding somewhere to park. Given the fact that most of what we were interested in was clustered together in the Parliamentary Triangle, it made sense to park and walk, and we already knew that there was free parking underneath the National Gallery, so the evolving game plan involved parking there, hoofing it up to Parliament House, and gradually working back until we'd had enough.
Despite Sunday's visit to the National Gallery, there was still plenty to see there, and I had intentions of a lengthy wander around Old Parliament House and a visit to the National Portrait Gallery as well, so it wasn't as if we were going to run out of things to see.
First, however, Madam was keen to get some panoramic shots of the city, and decided that Red Hill was the best option, given it's proximity to where we were going.
The problem, of course, was how to get there.
That seemed a simple enough matter when you looked at the street map. Turn left out of the hotel, left again into Dalrymple, right onto Hindmarsh Drive and right again into Tamar Street and Mugga Way looked straightforward enough, but a substantial concrete barrier ruled out the last bit, and we found ourselves in a back street in the wilds of O'Malley figuring out an alternative route, which coincidentally delivered the opportunity to fuel up for the next day's trip, saving us from having to do it later.
The weather wasn't the best when we reached the summit of Red Hill, but the views were spectacular, giving Madam the chance to snap away in circumstances that hadn't been possible to date, and the road back down the hill debouched onto Melbourne Avenue, which fed directly onto the State Circle and delivered us to the desired parking location with pleasing rapidity, since time was marching on and we had a lot to see.
The nether regions of the National Gallery had plenty of parking space available when we arrived, and a perambulation past the Portrait Gallery took us through Reconciliation Place, which was, I thought, nowhere near as visually significant as it needs to be, before making our way to the front steps of Old Parliament House, which these days houses the Museum of Australian Democracy.
The Museum wasn't something that was going to interest Madam over much, so a thirty second reconnaissance was enough to establish that I was up for $2 if I was going to have a wander around, and there was no direct route through the building to it's replacement.
We skirted round the western, or Senate, end of the building, making our way up the hill towards Parliament House, a progress that had me reflecting on the wisdom of placing the Federal capital outside Sydney or Melbourne.
It would have been easy, in hindsight, to have done something along the lines of the South African model, with the Parliamentary capital here, the Judicial capital there and the Executive Capital somewhere else, but that would have precluded the opportunity to build the sort of extensive and basically integrated landscape we could see as we ascended.
I'll continue to be critical of the compromises that delivered deep flaws in the actual Australian Constitution, matters that really do need to be addressed in the light of changed circumstances over a hundred and ten years, but as far as the national capital is concerned I think they got it very close to right.
Looking back from the Forecourt of an impressive structure over it's predecessor towards the War Memorial, the view was impressive, expansive, and something that probably wouldn't have been possible had they decided to leave the legislature in downtown Melbourne or Sydney.
Now, from what I can recall, not that I was paying a great deal of attention at the time, when the construction process that resulted in the current structure was kicking off there was a degree of controversy involved, particularly over cost blow outs, which I've seen quoted as quintupling the original $200 million budget, but if you're after something that stands out you need vision, and a willingness to spend if necessary.
There's no doubt that the resulting structure, dominating Capital Hill as it does and drawing the eye from a number of nearby locations, stands out, and if the visitor takes a stroll through Old Parliament House the contrast, at least as far as the public spaces are concerned, is close to immeasurable. It's an imposing structure with substantial public space, and something that would have been done quite differently had the penny-pinchers been allowed to have their way in a post 9/11 setting.
Recently there's been quite a deal of discussion about the decline of the democratic process, the manipulation of the news cycle, and similar issues, and one can't help suspecting that some of today's critics are looking back to the halcyon days of the Old Parliament House rabbit warren, where it was virtually impossible for the Government to maintain a veil of secrecy about internal matters.
Walking down the corridor outside the Prime Minister's office, for example, I couldn't help thinking that if the PM wanted to carpet an errant minister, he would have to do it very quietly (assuming, of course, he didn't want the news to get out). There's a matter of only a couple of metres between the PM's suite and the passageway, and while we may be talking soundproofing and closed doors you wouldn't be able to keep too many secrets from casual passers-by.
Today, of course, in the new structure, the Prime Minister's suite, the ministerial offices, the Cabinet Room and similar locations are discreetly tucked away behind closed doors manned by security personnel, and not much is going to get out unless someone wants it to.
No stories based on inferences and observations in and around the actual corridors of power here, folks.
On the other hand, had the new structure not been completed before the age of global terrorism kicked in, one can't help suspecting that the Government response to something like 9/11 would have been something like sealing off the whole site from public access, initially and supposedly temporarily because of national security concerns, with the temporary measures becoming permanent due to on-going considerations.
A walk around Parliament House provokes those kinds of thoughts, particularly when immediately followed by a stroll around it's predecessor, which is what I did once we'd pointed Madam towards the National Gallery, working on the principle that both of us would have plenty to look at without the presence of impatient significant others.
The original intention had been to demolish the old building once Parliament House was finished, and while it's new incarnation as the Museum of Australian Democracy has offered what may well be a permanent life line, I hope the place stays there, not least because it provides a window into the way things used to be, as well as an avenue for school groups and the like to act out scenarios that wouldn't be permissible in the actual Parliamentary chambers.
That stroll around the building must have actually taken a little longer than anticipated, even though I gave the Museum of Australian Democracy a pretty cursory once over, because I emerged from the building around the same time as the text message from Madam announcing that she'd finished at the Gallery arrived.
Actually, as I learned when I arrived at the Gallery foyer, she hadn't quite finished, since she'd failed to find the Varilaku exhibition of Pacific arts from the SolomonIslands, tucked away in a corner of the gallery she'd failed to notice.
A spell in the foyer while she headed in that direction gave me a chance to make a slight reduction in the tapping backlog, and from there it was off to the National Portrait Gallery, which didn't have a whole lot of interest for Madam, but I found plenty to look at wandering through the gallery while she took a spell.
The Portrait Gallery's remit is, on the surface, rather limited, to explore the identity, history, creativity and culture of the Australian people through portraiture, but what's on display in the gallery delivers a number of reminders about people you may have heard of along the way but forgotten alongside the portraits showing more obvious candidates.
To Madam most of those names would have been meaningless, so it's hardly surprising she found the Gallery interesting but largely incomprehensible. It might, of course, have been different if she'd been with someone who was in a position to take the time and energy to explain who these people were, which would have entailed a lot of back story filling, or had the time and inclination to read the rather detailed biographical notes beside each portrait without having someone at hand who was inclined to take a glance at most of what was there without hanging around to read and reflect.
Which is, I think, the main point. To get the most out of the Gallery you either need a fair degree of background knowledge or the time to stop and read the detail you're unfamiliar with, which may entail repeat visits (which wasn't, of course, an option available to us).
From there we headed off along the lake shore, hoping for an improvement in the light that failed to eventuate, circling the High Court building and heading back to the NGA car park, reclaiming the car and heading back to the Heritage.
There were a few options to consider for dinner, with possibilities in Kingston, Griffith and Manuka, but beckoning in front of us was the prospect of Portuguese cuisine at Vasco's, which was, as far as we could tell, in Kingston though I'd failed to sight it there the night before.
Having decided Vasco's was the go, and that there were other possibilities should we fail to locate it, I was rather nonplussed when we walked right up to a place that was clearly identifiable as our preferred destination without any complications.
What was even more surprising wasn't so much finding the place empty when we arrived (based on the possibility that we'd find the place packed if we got there too late) as the failure of anybody to wander in for dinner while we were there. Maybe those partial to Portuguese are inclined to dine later, but there were plenty of people who paused to glance at the menu on display but failed to wander in.
But in was where we were, and having ordered, what was on offer turned out to be very good indeed. Madam's seafood risotto was pretty good, but my go at the barbecued chicken specialty of the house left me trying to figure out an excuse to get back for another go at it. A bottle of Massena Barbera went rather well with the chicken, and by the time we were finished I was a very satisfied customer who couldn't figure why we seemed to be the only ones interested in eating there.
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