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.

The procrastination post

I have really struggled to get my blog mojo back since I started my new job, but tonight I've found the perfect reason to write - a towering pile of essays waiting to be marked. I don't think I can devise a theme for this post apart from 'stuff I've been doing.' Eloquent, huh?

We've had a few trips to Mount Lawley recently, to visit Planet Video which is a great shop but should probably be called 'Planet Books, DVD's and CD's But Actually No Videos'. We also dropped into the We Heart Vintage market at the Flying Scotsmen. Although I did buy a new (old) handbag it wasn't a great success. Before we paid the $2 entry fee we would have done well to remember that I don't really like shopping, much as I'd like some new clothes, and there was nothing there for the Fella (who does like shopping). Ah well, lesson learned. We rescued the day with a visit to Ottobrino Meats to pick up some wurst and sauerkraut and then lunch at our favourite Malaysian in Northbridge.

There are a bunch of Perth's best restaurants and bars in Mount Lawley and the Fella began to have some pangs of regret about choosing to live in Freo. My brother suggested we'd like Mt Lawley so we had a look around on our reconnaisance weekend, but it didn't really grab us. I don't regret the decision. Sometimes it can feel a little far away from things here, but mostly it serves our needs well. The Fella will feel much better in a month or so when he's able to walk to work at his new office right in the middle of Fremantle.


The Fella has been in Melbourne for the last two weeks for work and I flew over for a lovely weekend with him last week, visiting dear friends and having a serious case of city envy. I don't feel I can talk about it too much here in case I start gushing and make poor little Perth feel bad. But I will give you a tip in case you ever need to fly from Melbourne to Perth. I flew with SkyWest (I know, I've never heard of them either, and neither had most of the Melbourne airport staff). They tricked me! The flight went via Kalgoorlie! It wasn't mentioned at all during the booking process. So now I can say, technically that I've been to Kalgoorlie...sitting on a plane on the tarmac...

It's been interesting being here without the Fella. It's forced me to feel more like a local in a way, which is nice. I've had a few highlights over the last two weeks, including a delicious meal at Bistro Felix with lovely ladies from work and a last minute invitation to watch the taping of RocKwiz at the Perth Concert Hall. I haven't watched the show very often because it's on Saturday nights and I'm always out raging. Well, out anyway. But it was a blast. Loads of fun. Especially for a Monday night.

Well I need to go and finish cleaning up the evidence of my sloppy bachelorette lifestyle before the Fella arrives home. I just don't know how to break it to the Pusscat that the other half of the bed isn't hers anymore.

Snapshots

I've been in my new job for three weeks now. I'm settling in well, getting to know my students and colleagues and how everything works.

But teaching is such a wordy pursuit. Sometimes I get home and feel like I've been talking all day. And teaching students from a non-English speaking background you spend all day thinking about words too - what they mean, which ones to use, what type they are, how to use them and so on. Well, I feel as though I've run out of words for the moments, so for this edition of Adventures in Federalism I bring you a photo essay. Well that might be overstating it - it's a bunch of photos with no particular theme really except that they are scenes from an ordinary day.

This is a sample of the view that makes me happy on my train trip home from work. As you approach Fremantle the beautiful beaches give way to this amazing landscape of cranes, containers, ships and other large metal things I can't identify. I love it.

This is a view that makes me happy while I'm at work. There are rose gardens everywhere in Fremantle, and in Claremont where I'm working. I stop several times a day for a sneaky sniff as I walk around the neighbourhood. This garden has some exquisitely fraganced roses that I get to smell as I walk between classes.  

Sticking with the horticultural theme, here is one of many ENORMOUS rosemary bushes around Freo (see how I've included the ute in the photo for size comparison?) They are in front gardens as well as in public parks and next to footpaths. You need never buy rosemary again. Last week I discreetly picked a sprig from a garden on my way back from the grocery shopping just to finish off a dish...

 Oh look, here's another one. This one is no good for cooking though. I can only pick sprigs when they are hanging over fences or are in public places - I don't have the nerve for real thievin'.

Now for a few of my favourite things on Wray Avenue, beginning with Frank's Gourmet Meats. See all those signs? He needs those because he sells SO many different kinds of meat. Look I'm actually quite conservative about the animals and which of their body parts I eat but if I wanted to I could pop up to Frank's and buy buffalo, emu, crocodile, quail, rabbit, ox, kangaroo, 22 different types of sausage as well as the usual edible animals. The best part is that there really is a Frank and if his crowd of competent apprentices can't help you he will personally answer your questions and lovingly package your purchases for you.

Right next door to Frank's is Galati and Sons. Outside are piles of cheap fruit and veg, inside are Italian groceries, including a great range of cheese, fresh pasta and cured meats. Mmmmm. And if you look closely you can see a bit of Freo-postcode-inspired graffiti in the blue 6160 sprayed on the footpath.

They seem to have a bit of a thing for mosaic around Freo. There are some examples of very dubious, extravagant quality, but I've chosen to share with you one of many quirky little pieces from the footpath on Wray Avenue. They're so small you might miss them as you tread through the leaf litter.

So that's it really until I have something to say again....

A glorious new era

This week we bring you a special edition of Adventures in Federalism devoted to the business of turning thirty... If you are here for insightful commentary about, um, Perth and stuff, you may leave now.

Turning 30 turned out to be much easier than I first thought. In fact if you take your eye off the ball it can happen without any effort at all. 29 felt much more stressful. Now that I'm here it's all ok. And given that most of my friends are already in this decade (and some preparing to leave it) I figure I'm in good company. So I would like to share with you some observations about life after thirty (a week after...)

My superannuation statement arrived a few days ago. I read it and took note of how much money was in my account and how much interest it had earned. How's that for a long term outlook?

More long term planning - last week I pickled a jar of chillies from a bush we bought, and am preserving lemons. I have to wait at least FOUR whole weeks to use the lemons. See how mature I am?

Yesterday when I was folding up the washing I mustered the maturity to use the lint brush on my black clothes instead of waiting until I was halfway to work and then noticing I was covered in fluff.

I have been wary of complaining too much about my age, but I did let slip to the Fella a few weeks ago, "I know this will sound silly, but I think I can see my hands ageing." Luckily my mum read my mind and bought me some hand cream with SPF 15. I see this as dipping a toe into the world of skin preservation products but am willing to justify it because, hey, it's just suncream, right? It does not claim to rejuvenate, repair, enhance, refine, lift or improve my life.

Speaking of my mum, I have finally decided to heed her advice about using organic shampoo and conditioner (without really understanding why, and while ignoring other very sensible advice about washing fruit and vegetables). Now if only I could just make myself exercise regularly and floss my teeth...

So while turning 30 has proven not to be traumatic, and I actually feel much more relaxed now than I did in the lead up while I obsessed about time running out, I am glad I returned to Sydney to be with friends. Not to commiserate or provide support but to celebrate. And now I have a mantelpiece full of cards to remind what I really miss about Sydney.

Happiness is a warm tent

I have been terribly remiss in my blogging duties. I think this is due to a natural slowing in the process of discovery now that we've been here two months. Also, being unemployed gave me a lot more time for reflection and writing...and whinging...

Since I last wrote we have had the excitement of a very large storm (hey, we take entertainment where we can find it) and no electricity for nearly 3 days. This didn't do much for the feeling that we are living in civilisation, especially since the power company couldn't tell us what was wrong or when it would be fixed. Luckily we didn't have any damage to the house, car, or us, and we have gas for hot water and cooking, so we had some candle-lit dinners and an excuse not to iron clothes for work.

More happily, we have just been camping two weekends in a row. The first time to Ledge Point, about 130 km north of Perth. We stayed in a commercial caravan park - not exactly a bush haven - but there are surprisingly few national parks or state forests that have camp sites. Having said that we thoroughly enjoyed relaxing in our newly purchased camp chairs with a book and a bottle of red. The highlight of camping for me is always the moment of zipping up the tent inside your sleeping bag. There is no cosier place in the world. It seems the Fella and I agree in this point. And I am only discovering this now because even though we both enjoy camping enough that we own our own tents, this was our first camping expedition in the four years we've been together.

Ledge Point is just south of Lancelin which hosts an international windsurfing competition every year. So we probably shouldn't have been surprised that it was really, like, windy...  Behind the town is a colossal sand dune. The Fella felt that if everyone in the town left for a few days and stopped sweeping it away the dune would collapse and reclaim the town. Sportier folk than me can hire sand boards to tackle the dune, and off-road vehicles are popular too. It's all very outdoorsy.

Camping was such a success we did it again the next weekend. Despite severe warnings about the availability of sites from the National Parks officer I spoke to, we headed to the Lane-Poole Reserve near Dwellingup on the Saturday of the Easter long weekend (I'd like to thank my agent and the Fella's glass-half-full attitude for giving me the strength to undertake this risky venture). The Reserve is Jarrah forest which was saved from logging by Mr Lane-Poole, with the beautiful Murray River running through it.  Just a little way up the road was a hellishly crowded tangle of tents, caravans and BYO camp showers like suburbia gone horribly wrong. But we found a reasonably uncrowded spot where we could hear Nanga Brook gurgling in the background. On our way out the next day we found a more secluded spot called Charlie's Flat (just up from Tony's Bend) that we intend to return to soon. The roads in the Reserve are all dirt, and that very fine, red dirt that reminds me we're not in NSW. This served well to add some butch to the Forester so we could return to Subaru-infested Freo with heads held high that we'd been (sort of) off-road. Unfortunately some overnight rain dented the image a little, but did make the tent that much cosier.

Now, a few Freo updates. This week I discovered a big, well stocked Asian grocer. I don't know how I managed to miss it while I lamented the need for one in my life. I even went to Northbridge to buy a clay pot cooker! I am also loving the two-shop-sized Italian enclave on Wray Avenue - Frank's Gourmet Meats and Galati and Sons. A proper old-fashioned butcher and greengrocer in walking distance. Brilliant.

There was a Street Arts Festival on in Freo over the long weekend (basically lots of good buskers in case, like me, the term 'street art' doesn't necessarily evoke that meaning). We saw a very talented and amusing young man called Victor Rubilar whose claim to fame is jugglling footballs. He actually held our attention for 45 minutes, which I think is very impressive.

I'm currently in Sydney, which feels a bit like cheating - although I did painstakingly tap out most of this post on my phone on the flight here. I have come here for moral support in turning 30 tomorrow. I'm staying with my brother and my mum has flown down to hang out too. I woke up last night to the sound of proper rain and felt so happy to be here. My brother is spoiling me in the most effective way possible - food! Hand made pasta last night and an upside down pear cake that involved six hours of cooking time. WOW. For lunch today he made Vietnamese pork rolls from scratch. What a guy, huh? So with that it is time to make a cup of tea and assert my right to another slice of that cake.