As I write, the Western Australian sunset is being gently choked by the cloud cover. A tad disappointing when you’ve flown all this way but so be it. It’s not as disappointing as it was on the first day when gusty southern winds caused the temperature to remain stubbornly ‘October in Margate’ like, for far too long.
Nearly a week into our antipodean sojourn already and I’m not even over the lag yet. Either that or the stir fried veggies that I demolished at the local food court, contained lethargy inducing bad bits that weren’t on the active ingredients list.
Possibly this lack of va va voom is down to a visit to the local hostelry the other night. Its name, the Lynwood Arms, conjured up images of a cosy, welcoming, snug of a pub but in reality it’s was a vast warehouse of a place. In fact the magnitude of its dimensions would rival any Tesco Extra or B & Q shed.
Intimate it wasn’t but busy it certainly was. Busy in a massive, motorway services café sort of way, with all sections of the social demograph represented and, ….. eating. Eating from industrially sized plates piled high with Harvester cuisine. It wasn’t a pretty sight and this was compounded with the sartorial elegance of the family at an adjacent table, where the headman, all 120 kilos of him, was wearing flip flops, micro shorts and an unwashed string vest. On the plus side his tattoos, the one’s on his face anyway, were rather tastefully done.
Anyway, I digress; the point I was going to make was that this Australian pub (?), in the middle of an Australian suburb in an Australian city, in Australia, 18 flying hours from dear old Blighty, sold only one local beer, the rest, and there were many, had names as familiar to a European as the words ‘French’ and ‘Strike’.
A quick glance along the beer taps revealed names that you would expect to see in any chain pub in the UK, or France, or Holland etc etc. So there was only one real option, Swan Lager. Brewed just down the road, evocative of my first trip to sea (eeek, 35 years ago) and considerably cheaper than the imported offerings.
Now if there’s one thing that’s certain in life, it’s that when there’s a chance of cheaper beer, I’ll always go for it. Sad but true. Being guided by the principal that the larger the quantity consumed the bigger the bargain, I set forth with gusto (but I like to think, with poise and decorum too) to make the evening the sale of the century.
It might not have been the sale of the century but it was certainly the deal of the week. Being that much older doesn’t help matters either and the word ‘jaded’ does spring to mind.
My brother (with whom we are staying) has organised a trip south, to Pemberton, for next week. It’s a combination, of ‘big woods’ country and wineries according to bro, that and a bit of fishing and kayaking thrown in. Sounds good to me. I did have to point out to him, that my idea of camping (which he’d suggested we do), was staying in a hotel that didn’t have broadband. He has unpacked the tent from the Landcruiser, rather too reluctantly I thought, and booked us into B and B instead. Thank you Martin.
On that happy note I shall close for now and prepare myself for the grand tour down Sarf. Apparently the Ute has got to be readied and have gunracks installed. It won’t be like a sunday drive in the New Forest then.
I’m looking forward to sipping some fine Ozzy beer in locations new. If all they have to offer us is Becks and Stella then, as the locals say, ‘No wucking forries’