A trip to Margs (see how local I am?)

Well we finally made it to Margaret River and can see why people are shocked that it has taken us this long. I'm wondering why we haven't been lots of times already. I think what I most enjoyed was the very different climate and scenery to Perth. It is very green, with a really charming mixture of forest, farmland and beaches.

Of course you would go broke if you went all the time. Especially if you ate as extravagantly as we did. We arrived Friday night and had a welcome meal at Wino's (highlight: cassoulet and a glass of local red in front of the fire on a rainy night).

The next day we visited a few wineries and The Berry Farm which is a world of condiment yum: relishes, mustards, sauces, conserves and preserves, all made from fruit grown on the property.

Then we had lunch at Vasse Felix which is the oldest winery in Margaret River. It is a bit of an institution, owned by the Holmes a Court family (so don't feel obliged to buy after a tasting - they don't need the cash!). It's quite an amazing location with the restaurant on the second floor overlooking the vineyard and a partially underground, turf-covered tasting room next to a gallery showing some of the Holmes a Court collection of Aboriginal art. But most importantly, the food was delicious. Here is the view from our table when the sun came out briefly.

 A friend from work was in town over the weekend too and we caught up on Saturday night for some red wine quaffing and trivial pursuit. Very nice. We even won the game, with the substantial assistance of the Fella's impressive general knowledge. Although, winning might not be the best way to cement new friendships...

 Some of you may know that I really love cows (hi Mum!) Driving through the country often becomes a cow-spotting exercise with me pointing like a child and saying, "Hello cows!" Thankfully my lovely Fella is very patient and even helps me out with his superior spotting skills. So, a real bonus for me of the weekend wasn't just the real cows everywhere, but also that we arrived in time to catch the very end of the annual Margaret River Cow Parade. How to describe it? Well, there are a bunch of fibreglass cows, artists decorate them and they're placed in various locations all around the region from March to June. This year there were 85 of them. I decided that to keep things under control I had to limit myself to cows that we stumbled across - no special trips to see them. Although we were a bit tempted to see Guernicow. I also managed to limit myself to just one photo. I'm really trying hard not to turn into a crazy cow lady.

We decided on a slow drive home on Sunday, stopping at a few wineries on the way. My favourite was Cape Grace Wines for the full experience of an interesting chat with the owner/operator. It's really nice to see some small family run wineries motivated by passion rather than money who are producing some excellent wine and being recognised for their efforts. Sorry, I got a bit earnest there.

We also stopped at Smith's Beach, just south of Yallingup. We climbed out onto an outcrop of rocks to catch the amazing view. We definitely want to return and do some more walking around here.

 
After a brief visit to Yallingup - a sweet little beach town with houses perched on a windswept hill - we went to Cape Naturaliste. This is the beginning of the Cape to Cape Track which runs 135km from Cape Naturaliste to Cape Leeuwin. The rain cleared for long enough for us to have a little wander around, including a stroll along a completely deserted beach, with no other footprints. The cold, windy weather suited the desolate, remote atmosphere. As the Fella has said, there are times here when you feel very aware that you're on the edge of the continent. Of course, Sydney is on the edge of the continent too, but the vast uninhabited spaces here, and the fact that New Zealand isn't just over the horizon, makes it feel very different.

And then home to unpack the wine (some to drink now, some later if we can manage it) and start planning our next trip.

Yes, 'Ovens' is a strange name for a submarine

I've got to squeeze out a post now while I have a small window of opportunity. The Fella was away for work last night and will be back any minute to cajole me into watching the State of Origin with him on 4 hour delay. I figure it's imperative to get off the internet soon to avoid accidentally finding out the result, otherwise any shred of interest I have in the match (or in the sport for that matter) will be gone. To add to the misery, the Fella goes for Queensland, despite living in Sydney for all but 5 years of his life, which infuriates me every year. I was raised, like all good NSW residents, to loathe and abhor the Maroons. And I would probably indulge in some kind of mock rivalry over it if I could care, but this week's racism scandal has severely dented my sense of patriotism.

So, I really must tell you about our submarine tour. Last weekend was the Heritage Festival in Fremantle. We went to a vintage bicycle exhibition at the Fremantle Arts Centre (arriving by bike, of course). The Arts Centre is a really interesting place and I'm keen to go back when the free Sunday afternoon concerts start up again in warmer months. But, let's get to the submarine. It actually has nothing to go with the Heritage Festival, except that maybe we were thinking about, um, old stuff.


As I said very earnestly to the Fella that night, much to his amusement, "You know I really learnt a lot about submarines today." Not essential life skills perhaps, but interesting nonetheless. Those of you who already know a little too much about submarines (you know exactly who I'm talking about) can probably stop reading now.

 So, the submarine is at the Maritime Museum (though we skipped visiting the museum itself - all those ticket prices add up). It's called HMAS Ovens and is an Oberon class submarine - the model before the current disfunctional Collins class. I've just realised that you can take take a virtual tour here and learn even more than I did. But you won't risk hitting your head, so it's not nearly as fun. And I should warn you that my tour is going to be a lot less factual.

 The first thing yo.u realise when you get inside is how tiny it all is compared with how it looks from the outside. Most of it is taken up with tanks and batteries and machinery. It's all a perfect size for someone of my limited stature, but the Fella attracted a special "watch your head" warning from the guide before we started. I will try to cherish that experience the next time I'm unable to reach the top shelf of the kitchen cupboards.

The next thing I noticed is how familiar it all looked from the movies. It's all narrow corridors, ladders and round doors to crouch through.

There are teeny tiny bathrooms and bunkrooms, especially if you're not an officer and have to share with about a bajillion others (actually more like 55). So of course, the kitchen is also teeny tiny. I do not envy cooking in here.

Probably my favourite bit was all the dials, switches and pipes everywhere. Mostly they were fun because I didn't know what they were for and didn't need to.

The view towards that bit of the submarine that sticks up (fin? damn, I should have paid more attention). Look, I really did learn a lot, but it turns out you'll just have to take my word for it. And if you ever come to visit, you might be lucky enough to check it out for yourself.


We are planning our first trip to Margaret River in a bit over a week, so I look forward to reporting back about that. But I've got to get through the last week of term first. So folks, until sometime soon when I emerge from exam marking like a hoarder rescued from a collapsed pile of newspapers.

Ahem. Some very important matters.

I had my first homesick meltdown yesterday. It's a long weekend here for the celebration of Foundation Day (fairly self explanatory). I had a conversation with a colleague on Friday about her plans for the weekend. She replied that she would just be catching up with friends. Yesterday I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness that I couldn't do that too. It's ok. I've moved on. Just a shame I had to have the meltdown in the middle of a crowded shopping mall. Poor Fella.

I seem to have accidentally lost a little weight since we arrived here. Breaking out my winter clothes has revealed a not so snug fit in the trouser department. I put it down to the aforementioned lack of friends resulting in a lower volume of alcohol consumption. It's all swings and roundabouts, isn't it? My point is that I realised that I haven't yet reported on the drinking scene here - which seems very remiss for a blog that claims to be offering some kind of insight into this great Western land.

So, let's start with glass sizes and nomenclature. The standards sizes here are pint and middy (or half-pint). But we regularly find ourselves pining for a schooner. I find with a pint that I feel full and over it after I've drunk about the equivalent of a schooner. And a middy is over too quickly. *sigh*  What is a gal to do?

I think it's a particularly Freo thing, but you're in luck if you love boutique beer, micro-breweries and obscure imports. If, however, like the Fella, you often just want a beer that tastes like beer, let's say a Carlton Draught (or Car'n as it's more properly pronounced) then you may find yourself regularly cursing. Access to cider is patchy, particularly if you have drunk enough Pip Squeak to last a lifetime. A few places have Bulmers. And I am rediscovering the delights of beer.

And finally we need to address the issue of the Sunday Session (or Sunday sesh). The concept is that one attends the public house early on a Sunday afternoon, preferably one with a water vista of some sort, or at least an outdoor drinking region. Once in attendance with one's companions the aim is to imbibe many a large beverage until it is time to return home at around 9pm, presumably in preparation for a slow Monday morning at work. Popular venues include the Cottesloe Beach Hotel (or 'the Cot' in the local venacular) and the Leederville Hotel (which seems to be a popular location for bare knuckle boxing). It is indeed a failing of mine that this phenomenon has largely escaped my anthropological attentions. Quite frankly, I have become timid and reclusive with advancing age.

There are of course, some very important and complimentary things to say about wine in WA. But I will save that for our trip to Margaret River.

Now, in an entirely unrelated matter. Let's talk cheese. Big cheese. My favourite local Italian grocer, Galati and Sons has had this enormous um, slab? column? trunk? of cheese hanging near the deli counter since I first discovered the shop.

I don't know how long it has been there (there's a reason I've never used that Media degree). But, more importantly, last weekend was time to take it down and eat it. It became a little festival all of its own. Olive oil, Chinotto, chocolate and coffeee tastings were set up outside. Three hardworking musicians scraped away in the corner. And then, there was the cheese.

They worked from the top, on the ladder, sawing away at it like an errant tree branch.

And then slicing, weighing and selling it. Did I buy a chunk? I did not. I don't say this often about cheese, but it didn't really do it for me. It was all a bit too warm and funky. But was it a great spectacle? Indeed.