Save it for a rainy day

When the weather is a little uncertain it's always a good idea to save a few indoor pursuits for a rainy day. Luckily Sydney has plenty of inclement weather options. There's an area called The Rocks, which doesn't really rock, as it were, but there is a tiny little museum that fills me in on the city's history, from before there were any Europeans, to the impact their arrival had on the people who were having a very nice life here thankyou very much. Almost as heartbreaking are the petty criminals transported for crimes as insignificant as stealing a brush. Mind you, so many forgers were transported here that, for a time, Australia had the best printing industry in the world.

In Surry Hills I'm fascinated by Brett Whiteley's studio and gallery (above). He's the artist who was married to Wendy, who created the secret garden in Lavender Bay I visited a few days ago. I'm not so sure about the abstracts or the giant "creation" work that covers two walls but his studio, left virtually as it was when he died, is interesting with pics he pinned up over the years, of Bob Dylan, who once held a press conference at this studio, of Brett with Malcolm McLaren (during his London years perhaps), with Francis Bacon, his mentor. I pick up the receiver of an old telephone and there he is being interviewed, off the heroin but not for long. Fragile sounding, before too long he'd be back on the drugs and careering headlong to a grubby death in a New South Wales motel. At 53.


It's quite a cool neighbourhood – its graffitti references Charles Bukowski for goodness sake (see below)! I revive my spirits at the Bourke Street Bakery, a tiny gem of a corner cafe and shop where I wolf down a chocolate croissant then spot a Ginger Brûlée Tart, which I have to have too. I'm in ginger heaven.

The next rainy day refuge is the Museum of Sydney, where as well as the history of the harbour area I find a temporary exhibition on another well loved Sydney artist, Margaret Olley. She lived in a little house in Paddington and most of her work was interior and still life scenes from inside her house. Such colourful and joyful paintings, and there's a moving little documentary about her life, with fellow artists and friends talking about her with enormous affection. One says that when invited to dinner he'd always say he'd just eaten, because although Olley was a very good cook, there were paint palettes and brushes in the kitchen side by side with the food. So a little alarmingly you never quite knew what would end up on your plate.

I find Olley again at the Art Gallery of NSW. An exquisite oil painting of her in her later years, by Ben Quilty (this is just my snap of the postcard so apologies for the poor quality but you get the idea). I also see my favourite Brett Whitely so far, The Balcony, all blues and dashes of white, the view from their house overlooking Lavender Bay. And a whole floor of Aboriginal art that catches the eye and makes me stop and think. 

On the way to Elizabeth Bay I check out Blue, the Taj hotel that has been built at one end of the historic Woolloomooloo wharf. It's pretty impressive, if a little industrial in its chic.










































I visit Elizabeth Bay House, a Georgian style mansion built by a Scotsman, which could have been airlifted in from The National Trust, so completely British is it, in style and feel.








































So it's farewell to Sydney with a concert by Martenitsa, a Bulgarian choir we in our London choir know, only tonight they're mostly singing in Italian, a lyrical and lovely Suite written for them. One of their sopranos, Laura (with me above) spent a year in London and sang with the London Bulgarian Choir while there. It's great to see her. They perform a song she's written in the Bulgarian segment of the gig, which is gorgeous. It feels strange to be bonding over Bulgarian music on the other side of the planet and Laura makes me sing a quick blast of Morf Elenku with her, for Mara, the musical director. Yikes!
On that note, bye bye Sydney...

Yoga highs

Something crazy makes me sign up for a yoga class at 6.45am. I am desperate for a good stretch but that is pushing it. What makes this class unique, however, is that it's taking place on the Observation Deck of the Sydney Tower, roughly 300 metres high. In the picture below, I think it's just under the spike. 

I have to leave Anne's place in the dark to get the bus to the CBD (Central Business District). Our teacher Sasha is bright and breezy and does a sort of Hatha by way of Hollywood class, never once removing her gigantic black sunglasses. The class makes the most of the panoramic views and I don't think I'll ever do the tree pose with quite such a spectacular vista to focus on... 

But spectacular yoga vista number two arrives just a few days later when I join my friend Alison's pal Nicky West for one of her Yoga by the Sea sessions at Coogee, a few bays south of Bondi. The class takes place on the deck at Wylie's heritage-listed sea-water pool and the finale has to be one of the most sublime Shavasanas ever, as I sink down into the mat to the sound of the Tasman Sea.

Nicky shows me the area south of here, Maroubra (below) where she lives, and La Perouse (middle pic). It all feels very local – at one point we're eating egg rolls on the beach and about 100 schoolboys appear from nowhere and start messing about in the sand, kicking balls, being boisterous and crowding out the grannies who are there looking after their little grandchildren. It's the sprawl west of Sydney and you can tell that kids here don't have the same advantages. The passengers on the bus ride back are much more reminiscent of my average bus journey through south London than the other buses I've been catching. 

As a little aside, I read later that an old fort in La Perouse was used as a location for one of the Mission Impossible movies. So Tom Cruise was here!

True Blue

Blue Mountains. It's in the name for starters. I grew up in the Cairngorms, Gaelic for 'blue mountains' so I was always going to like Sydney's neighbouring range. You're not really aware of the Blues as mountains to be honest. I drive up a bit of an incline and I'm there. It's really a plateau, dissected into canyons and wide valleys by millennia of erosion.

I make a mistake on my first outing (I'm planning a few shortish walks for the day, to make the most of having the car and to see all the areas). I head down to look at Wentworth Falls, with just a small bag containing a bottle of water and a hat (or bonnet) that makes me look like something out of Jane Austen, and next thing I know I'm on a three to four hour trek. 


























































































Only, I'm not aware I'm on that long hike until I've gone down about 500 steps cut into a 
sheer cliff. By the time I realise, I decide I'd prefer to go on, than back up the Stairmaster from hell. It's all helped by a surprise round every corner – a flock of White Cockatoos, a waterfall I have to walk around the back of, sheer cliff-drop lookout points, little sculptures placed by the path, trackside posters showing how the path was cut into the side of the canyon, and some crazy folk abseiling down a waterfall (the only people I meet in the final two-hour stretch of the trail). 


I

Finally I return to the clifftop from the depths of the gorge and there's the most sublime cafe – the Conservation Hut – with a terrace overlooking the Jameson Valley. I stagger in, like John Mills and his parched men arriving at a remote bar in the North African desert in the film Ice Cold In Alex. Ginger beer I rasp, and what's the quickest thing you can make me to eat? Well here it is, the sandwich of the century, followed by Jaffa Cake cake and ice cream. And lashings of ginger beer. 

 I've got time to whizz round a few more lookouts and even do a short walk or two – to the Three Sisters, and another canyon that is smaller and more compact than the one I walked and features the highest waterfall in Australia, Bridal Veil Falls. It's so quiet now as I gaze out from Evan's Lookout over the Grand Canyon. The gum trees give off a fine mist and the view turns blue before my eyes. 

Man up

One day I catch a ferry to Manly, so called by one of the First Fleet officers upon seeing the muscular physique of the native men. It's a lovely ride, one of the longest out of Circular Quay and yet another splendid vantage point from which to admire the Sydney Opera House. It's also brilliant for people watching and listening. Two guys next to me are discussing Welsh politics, would you believe.

Strolling along Manly beach I have to admire the way the kids stash their surf boards while they're hanging out at the Surf Life Saving Club. It reminds me of skis outside a mountain restaurant.

And I'm just busying myself admiring the little sculpted scenes along the walk to Shelly beach, where I've decided to have my swim today, when I spot the weirdest creature so far scuttling next to me on the path – an Australian Water Dragon. I'm a bit disappointed to learn later that they were most likely introduced to Australia in the Eighties by a reptile enthusiast. To give you some idea of the size, half of its tail is about the size of my foot. This is no mini-gecko!

There's a bunch of youngsters already firing up the free barbecue at the back of the beach and some elegant diners next door at the posh restaurant. It's quite a contrast but all fine too.

There are great views from the cliffs behind the beach and I walk round the headland back to the wharf, via some disused military fortifications, using my handy trail map.

Yes, at last somewhere that provides plenty of trails, many boarded, and a map with options. Have I arrived in rambler heaven? Compared to Thailand it is. These Aussies don't have all this scenery just to look at. They want to be part of it. Round here they're out running the trails, rowing on the water, canoeing out to sea as far as the eye can see, sailing, and surfing of course.  

The ferry sails back into Sydney at dusk with all the lights putting on a splendid show.

Northern exposure

I could walk over the Sydney Harbour Bridge but I fancy cruising under it so I catch a ferry to the north shore to visit Luna Park, a Coney Island style fairground.











































































It's closed but I tag along with a group of little old ladies and gents who are having a private tour. I say to one old lady: "I'm pretending I'm with your group so that I can get through security." "Not a problem," she replies, "but you'll have to walk very slowly." 

It's a riot of colour and cartoon. I love these before and after photos of the transformation a spell in Luna Park is supposed to effect.

Just around the bay, Lavender Bay, is Wendy Whiteley's secret garden, a community endeavour that was the brainchild of the widow of Brett Whiteley, one of Australia's most (in)famous artists, who died of a drug overdose aged just 53. Whiteley took over a derelict, unused tract of land between her North Sydney home and the railway line and set to work creating pathways, lookouts, little nooks with tables, chairs and sculptures dotted among the lush greenery.There's no signposting to this oasis of calm, the paths just open up and spill down the bank from parkland at the top of the slope. Whiteley's house is the white one on the left, below, from where I suppose she keeps a casual eye on things. On one of the tables in the garden there's a visitors' book together with a portfolio of press cuttings covering her battles with the rail landowners – the survival of this inner city gem appears to be under constant threat.

I walk back across the Sydney Harbour Bridge. It's quite a long way but now, along with Tower and Brooklyn, I can say I've crossed three of the most iconic bridges in the world.