After another brief dabble with madness and the space/time continuum (Darwin is a half an hour before Cairns – go figure), we land at Singapore Changi International airport, a veritable nexus for flights that traverse the east-west divide.
Changi is a monster, with breathing parts and endless tunnels around every corridor populated with denizens scurrying [...]
If I thought the train journey from Brisbane to Hervey Bay was painful, I had no idea what lay in store for me on the overnight jaunt north to Airlie Beach.
Even now, sitting in Kuala Lumpur’s humidity and typing up my memories of the nightmarish event, I still can not fully comprehend, never mind see the funny side of, the absolute horror that befell me. I’m getting ahead of myself …
We decide to head north to the Whitsunday Islands by train. It’s a fourteen hour voyage through dark, inhospitable Australian hinterland, and considering it starts (or was supposed to start – the train was late due to overbooking and the company’s inability to find spare carriages) at 8pm, this part of our journey is going to entail sleeping through the night in a metal tube laden with some of the weirdest people on the planet. I’m not sure what attracts crazies to overnight train trips but, as we rocket north to a destination I’m not even sure exists, I soon have more things to worry about.
Tags: Trip
The train journey north from Brisbane to Maryborough, where we’re to catch a connecting coach to the coastal town of Hervey Bay, is an exercise in restraint.
What I can only describe as an inbred family has taken up a series of seats beside, in front of and, at times, around us.
They’re made up of a mother and apparent step-father who spend the next few hours slapping their children and laughing maniacally in the process. It reminds me of the saying: “It’s amazing how, if you want to own a dog, you have to get a licence, but any complete shithead is allowed to have children.”
Tags: Hervey Bay, Koala Beach Resort, The Woolshed, Trip
We emerge into the hot Brisbane night tired and slightly irked by the fact that, inconceivably and despite being on practically the same longitude, Brisbane is an hour behind Sydney. Throw in the fact that the clocks have just shifted back home, and the handy “just invert a.m. to p.m.” trick of knowing what time it is back in Ireland is thrown into total disarray.
We locate luggage (thank you Virgin Blue for not losing it) and take a courtesy shuttle into the heart of Brisbane. Even in the gloom of Australia’s forever marching spring-time dusk, I’m impressed with just how open, clean and seemingly modern Brisbane is.
A short walk later and we’ve located our hostel; one of a trio in a line next to one another, all apparently resembling a reckless fusion of sorority and frat house. Somewhere near its corrupt heart an Irish bar festers, the strange sound of inept warbling permeating through the walls in sickening waves like drowning sheep.
Queenstown to Sydney is a mere three and a half hours away, and with the expected shift in time-zones, it feels like we’ve barely missed a beat.
For this part of our journey we’re staying with an old friend of mine, Jonathan, a fellow Irishman who I worked with in my last job and someone [...]
Leaving the beautiful serenity of Wanaka, I’m almost dreading the built-up city of Queenstown.
Surprisingly, Queenstown follows more the Wanaka model than it does Wellington and is nearly as scenic as the lakeside town we’d just left, albeit with a few more streets and people.
Queenstown is the end of our New Zealand road, and we’ll fly out of here on day #54. Before then we’ll spend a few days here with Te Anau and Milford Sound sandwiched in between.
Tags: Queenstown, Trip
The mountain drive to Wanaka, which consists of racing beside oceans before charging up into wild valleys brimming with natural wonder, is awe-inspiring.
The mountains we viewed at Fox Glacier remain for the duration of the trek. Forever towering in front and beside us, the coach traverses narrow vales and crosses rushing fjords under their ancient watchful eye.
We’ve been joined on this leg of the trip by a couple of German guys who proceed to document the journey extensively, snapping anything that looks vaguely interesting from the comfort of their seats.
The majority of the day is spent sitting in hope. Hope that I don’t spew all over myself.
Six hours south and we pass through New Zealand’s numerous and varied climate zones. The trip itself is thankfully non-descript with only a mild feeling of nausea intensified whenever I try to read for long periods. With the west coast of the country tearing along beside us, hammered by giant waves that appear to break just at the edge of the very road the bus is taking, we’re treated to some truly epic scenery.
Tags: Fox Glacier, Trip
We backtrack to Nelson and prepare for a day of doing nothing, casually recharging batteries before enduring a mammoth journey south to Fox Glacier, Wanaka and, eventually, Queenstown.
It’s pissing with a ferocity I haven’t seen since Rotorua as we locate the YHA Hostel, drop off our bags as we can’t book in before 2pm, and then brave the rain again in search for coffee and muffins. We find both at an almost hidden cafe on one of the town’s main-streets run by friendly Chinese ladies. A veranda protects us from the bad weather as we sit and eat and talk.
Taking three hours to sail from the bottom of the north island to the top of the south, I manage to work out the distance between New Zealand’s two islands by comparing the voyage with a trip I’m familiar with. Similar in journey time to a cruise between Ireland and the UK, I deduct the mileage and I experience the fact that, though many maps show the two islands as one contiguous mass, New Zealand is very much a tale of two halves.