Back on the bus

I think I'm going to enjoy this. Wes our driver sounds cool-we can plug in our iPods and play anything we like; put on Sealion Dion, Britney or a boy band and Wes'll chuck you off the bus. Wes doesn't say 'etc', he uses 'and that sort of shit'. Wes is Australian.

I'm feeling quite quiet and a little antisocial at the moment. The combination of Africa and staying with people I know has left me with a contented glow and I'm none too bothered about meeting people at the moment.

After an hour we stop at a bakery for breakfast and Wes announces there's a small drama with the bus. The gears aren't playing ball. Not wanting to be the bore who's been to Africa, I resisted for as long as I could (11 mins 43 secs) before saying 'I travelled 10,000 ks across Africa without breaking down'. Louise from Abingdon did half my trip and broke down, so we immediately blame her (I've started talking to everyone by now). Swiftly work out that we've got a good crew on the trip-several of whom I may be meeting up with at the WACA, MCG & SCG.

The RAC man comes and sorts us out and we're back on out way. No dramas.

The day unfurls as a very pleasant trip down the beautiful coast of Western Australia, with regular stops at gorgeous beaches to see surfers and dolphins, or to just reflect on the lack of dramas.



Bonza night down the pub (my first beers since Mill last led me astray).



That's my first beer in Australia for more than 14 years. I had a very tasty veggie spaghetti and a few local ales. A band played and we met Milton, who's riding a motorbike around Oz. He's on the home straight-just back to Sydney. Or about 4,000 ks. This is a large country don't you know. He's had some bad luck; meeting us may not have helped-every tale of disaster was greeted with roars of laughter. Milton was supposed to have a companion and a support driver, but both let him down comically. Shame really, as it seems certain one of them would have noticed Milton's left pannier was on fire before it melted. There were plenty more, including the koala v kangaroo fight. The man's a menace.

I was still fairly quiet in the pub, but that's cool-it's one of the nice things about travelling that I can be 'that quiet bloke' on this trip and return to being 'that bloody loony' at the next place.

The pub even managed a fight in front of us-bloke walks up, smacks 2 blokes, legs it pursued by Lleyton Hewitt lookalike, first bloke gets up and turns out to be a woman-shocking, had it nor been so surreal. The band was so loud, we had no idea what it was about, but I have a feeling Lleyton got hiis man.

Back at the hostel, I called in to the Juxon street Xmas party (I think this should count as a technical attendance)-they should still be going as I write this, if someone's enforcing the 'no sleeping on tour' rule. A few hours later I knew I was back in hostel land when some confused soul mistook my top bunk for theirs and nearly joined me.

Saw Milton the next morning as I put my bag in the bus-he'd been putting his bags on the bike when he lost control of one of those oversized rubber bands with hooks on the end and put it through a window. Just another Milton morning.

Wes gave us a quick overview of today's itinerary as we headed off-'today's a bloody good day'.

After a spot of tree hugging (lots of tree action today) and a pie for breakfast, we went to Cape Leuwin, where the Southern Ocean meets the Indian Ocean. Two months ago and thousands of miles away, I was where the Atlantic met the Indian Ocean. So I officially declared the Indian Ocean a Big Bugger.

Saw my first kangaroos; everyone has told me they're everywhere, are practically vermin and I'll get bored of them. I'm not so sure: every sighting of Ostrich or Guinea fowl in Africa made me totally overexcited, I reckon roos will have the same effect. So too the Emus.



Off to wine tasting now, before climbing big trees (61m). As you may have realised, I can write on the bus again.

Surprise, surprise at the wine tasting it's just the Brits who get tasty; there are some nice drops and some shockers. We buy a few supplies for the evening, where Wes becomes the first non-Brit that I've really had a drink with. I think we'd do well in a booze Olympics.

The brilliantly named 'big trees' are the real reason that I've come on this trip. This will also give me the chance to conquer heights beyond Scat and Mik.

As many of you know I have travelled extensively with (now former) housemate John (Scat, Scatman John, Mr A, Statue John, Quiet John-he has many false identities). We have been to dozens of places since our first trip to Barcelona set the tone in 1999. John has taken every opportunity to make me go up tall stuff (for a reminder of just how much I love heights, see my early post when I lose the plot up Table Mountain). It usually goes a bit like this:
'Christ, that's a long way up.'
'Mmmm.'
'I really don't want to go up there.'
'You know you're going to.'
'Do I have to?'
'It's one of the great sites of the world/continent/city/this poxy village in the arse end of nowhere' (delete as applicable).
Hand over rather damp note out of my sweaty paw-you always have to pay.
Get in lift/climb unfeasibly narrow stairs, far too open to the outside, praying no one's coming down.
Get a bad feeling about it all.
Think about turning back (I think I only did this once, when forced off the stairs into a turret with just an 18 inch parapet going up the cathedral in Barcelona).
Reach summit.
Find something solid that I can hold onto, while edging my way round the viewing area.
Glance at view I've been through hell to see.
Concentrate on not throwing up.
Feel wobbly.
Descend.
Swear not to go up the next high thing.

There must be an album of photos of me looking pale and sweaty at heights that are only suitable for birds.

Here's another.



The Gloucester tree's 61m presented me with a unique opportunity: some lunatic has created this bizarre spiral staircase by sticking pins in the tree.




When John and Mik were here, they started up the tree, got hardly anywhere, were overtaken by a CHILD and promptly BOTTLED IT. This was my chance for some sort of bizarre redemption. And I took it, as the above photo shows. I shit myself, mind. And it was only at the top that I realised that while you can ascend without looking down, you have to look down continually on the way down.

Felt wobbly when I finished. So fed the birds.



40/50 ks down the road was the treetop walk.



That's me, that is.

They're not as big as the California redwoods, but majestic none the less. You can fit a tour group in a Tingle tree.



And you can see for miles from the top of one.



We've had some Rolf music on the bus-I have indeed tethered his kangaroo as requested. Sadly I discovered Stairway to Heaven, with wobble board, is missing off my iPod. Technology hasn't really been my friend these last few months.

Been reading French Revolutions (Dave Gorman style journo rides the Tour de France route), partly as it's not bad, but mainly because my Dad slipped it in my bag so I could pass it on to my current hosts, who are big Tour fans. My brain is so feeble that I read a bit, look out the window, forget I'm in Australia, think I'm in France and wonder what the bloody hell a kangaroo is doing in the Loire valley. Oddly enough, it wil soon be the first book I've finished; evidence that I've either been too otherwise engaged to read, or my eyesight's shot.

The last day of the tour was largely travelling back to Perth, but we managed to get in one last vineyard and some final glimpses of that wonderful coastline.



Who'd have thought that 3 days before the test, the WACA would find another 200 tickets a day? What were the odds of me seeing the footnote in Wes' newspaper? The chances of getting through to Ticketmaster must have been negligable? Of course, by the time you speak to the operator, they're bound to have sold out.

They had.

For Thursday.

I shall be sat in the WACA's concrete majesty on Friday and Saturday, wearing t-shirts appropriate to the crushing nature of the hammering England are going to be doling out to the Australian pensioners cricket XI. All for 40 quid. Having a mobile phone has finally paid off.

All together now, 'Barmy Army, Barmy Army, Barmy Army...' ad infinitum et nauseam.