The Ultimate Ingredient

Bees foraging in the wild herbs, Greece.

I’d never much cared for Greek Salad before we visited Greece in 1990.

Theatre of Dinoysus, Athens. The dark dots are packaged cushions, for more comfortable seating for an evening performance.

But just over the road from our hotel in Athens, where polished tables with dusty chairs were shaded by huge-leafed trees in the park, we had to revise our opinion. A TV was perched at one end of the row of tables, while old men sat with coffee or retsina, flicking worry beads rhythmically as they watched US sitcoms subtitled in Arabic and dubbed in Greek. The picture wavered every time a bus passed, running over the cable leading to the TV from the kitchen across the street. The waiter brought our salads, dodging buses. We were tired and jet-lagged, and our appetites didn’t anticipate much of worth. But oh! The bliss of full-flavoured tomatoes, soaked in greenish-gold olive oil, with crunchy sweet cucumbers and feta from the mountains! Sprinkled over all was a wild mixture of herbs, hauntingly familiar yet unique. The heavy bread was drying out fast in the Athenian summer heat, but that only made it more suitable to mop the juices from our fingers, plates and bowls. An old man at the next table raised his glass to us with a smile and “Stin ygeiá sas!” (“to your good health!”) nodding in approval at our enjoyment. Suddenly we belonged, and everything seemed so right. The heat, the dust, the barefoot children playing in the fountain — it all was part of our enjoyment of this welcoming city.

A tired, jet-lagged Miss Eight, with her grandma, on the first day in Athens, at the taverna in the park. Athens, 1990.

“The Runner”, artwork in Omonia Square, Athens, 1990.

Later, on our tour on the Greek mainland, we wandered among tall, golden, fluted columns and admired archaic carvings, floating marble draperies against lapis lazuli sea. Each evening we were introduced to some wonderful Greek salads, even better than our first taste in Athens. I took mental notes of the best meals, to try and remember which ingredients made them so special.

A perfect Greek salad in the perfect setting. Paros, Greece, 2018.

Finally in our flat on Crete it was my turn to prepare this wonderful summer meal from memory, using locally bought ingredients. Each morning we’d slip out the door an hour after sunrise and shop with the local people for fresh produce. After breakfasting on home-made yoghurt and local honey, with fresh crusty bread still warm from the baker, I could be found in the kitchen cutting up tomatoes, cucumbers, onion and red capsicum, and putting it all into a bowl with olives and feta. We’d leave the salad to marinate in wine vinegar and olive oil, while we went out for the morning. But the salad, tasty as it was, was missing something. Without the sprinkle of dried herbs, I couldn’t re-create some of our most memorable meals.

We stopped for the view of the gorge, and smelt the wild herbs, crushed under the car’s wheels. Crete, 1990.

However, on one of our drives up into the hills, when we stopped to admire the stark contrast of craggy mountains against the perfect blue sea, I smelt a familiar but elusive fragrance. The herbs! Our car’s wheels had crushed the very plant, growing wild, that would provide the finishing touch to our lunch. I searched, following my nose, until I saw an insignificant little bush just behind the back tyre. Widening my gaze, I realised that the whole hillside was covered with the same low-growing, purple-flowered plant. Stooping low, I picked a sprig, instantly releasing that wonderful, heady fragrance, redolent of oregano and thyme with a hint of mint. The tiny flower distinctively identified the plant as a member of Labiatae, a non-poisonous plant family, but I could identify it no further. Picking a small bunch of these wild herbs, I laid the harvest on the car shelf under the dash and we got underway again. The air was so hot and dry, that the herbs were crisply brittle in a very short time. I sympathised with the plants, as I swigged the last warm dregs from my water bottle.

Spili, Crete, 1990. The village is perched on the side of the mountain, wild mint grew from cracks in the buildings.

We were driving into the mountains, ever higher, winding over impossibly narrow roads. Suddenly as if by magic, a tiny village appeared, with terraced houses clinging precariously to the hillside. The road took a sharp bend to the right as we parked beside the domed, white-painted village church. This place was special — water was plentiful, where the rest of Greece was in drought. This was Spili, where an ancient Venetian fountain channelled delicious spring water from the mountain side, through lion faces of stone.

Spili’s Venetian fountain, ice-cold on a hot day. Crete, 1990.
My husband dunking his head, Miss Eight beside him, and my parents-in-law filling water bottles.

Miss Three and Master Six, cooling off and drinking their fill.

Dripping wet children. Spili, Crete, 1990.

We hurried to the fountain eagerly, filling our water bottles with the deliciously pure spring water, wetting our faces and shirts deliberately in the process. Master Six put his face under one of the lion’s heads, Miss Three had to be lifted so she could put her starfish fingers inside the lion’s mouth with a little squeal of mock terror. I was reminded of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. The water gushed with force, chilled from its journey through rock strata. Down in the square below, a fountain splashed, fed by the overflow from the spring.

The water flowed from Venetian lions which gushed into troughs wrapping around the square. Spili, Crete, 1990.

We were cool at last, refreshed and no longer thirsty. Reluctantly moving on from this miraculous oasis, we passed rustic shops selling the basic staples of this village – raki, bread, fresh vegetables, coffee. I saw herbs smelling similar to the ones I had picked, but with a larger leaf. Stumbling through the Greek alphabet, I realised the plant was wild oregano; but unlike any oregano I’d met before. The flavour was stronger, wilder, more complete.

Weeds grew plentifully on the side of the road. I bent down and picked a large sprig of mint growing through cracked cement. It married wonderfully with the scent of wild oregano which now filled the car on our return.

The worry beads I’d just purchased lay glinting up at me from my lap. Three sets for three people. One set for my neighbour – pure brass, glistening gold. The next for my dear friend, so full of life – ruby red, creamy lustre, interspersed with brass. The last set were Mediterranean blue, winking up at me like a mermaid’s eyes. They are with me now, reminding me of magical places.

Worry beads, komboloi, bought in Spili, Crete, in 1990. Still precious.

The meal was complete that day. We discovered that the final ingredient in a country salad is the country itself. By the time we reached Rethymnon that evening, the mint and the unknown herbs were crisp. My fingers easily crumbled the wild mountain herbs into a jar, with the aromatic combination sprinkled over fresh feta providing a finishing touch to our salads. The spring water from Spili filled our glasses as we drank to this wonderful place.

Wild thyme in flower at an old Venetian fort. Palaorchora, Crete, 2018.

For many years I thought that mysterious plant was Greek oregano, which will substitute well but it wasn’t the wild herb I’d picked on that Cretan hillside. It wasn’t until our return to Crete in 2018 that we saw hillsides covered with cushions of wild thyme, in flower. That was it!

Milking the sheep and goats up in the mountain village. Crete, 2018.

In 2018 we bought a jar of thyme honey from a roadside stall near Elafonisi. Drizzled over home-made yogurt, made from sheep and goats that we’d actually met personally (although they weren’t really into conversation) we had some wonderful but simple breakfasts. But our love of a good Greek salad — ah, they can never be beaten!

Cité de Carcassonne – Fairytale Fortress

I’ve written about Carcassonne, France, in the past but it definitely bears a longer examination.

Our travel agent, knowing I have difficulty walking, had booked our accommodation ‘within the walls’. We had learned in previous city stays that while this can be more expensive, we save a lot on cab fares, energy and time, a very precious commodity.

We turned off the autoroute onto a lesser road which wound through vineyards and small villages. The sat nav only showed roads, no topography, so when we turned the corner to see the glowing confection of castle towers on top of the hill we were blown away. After seeing so many ruins with just a suggestion that once there was a functioning castle there, here was the Real Deal.

Carcassonne when first seen. It doesn’t look real. France, 2019.

After leaving our car in a tourist car park, we walked in through the big Double D gatehouse of the city walls. The castle is another enclosure inside, with a lot of quaint, historic buildings jettied out over the street.

Jeff, pointing to the many-layered main city gate.
The square holes in the wall above would have held the supporting beams for the timber battlements.

Multi-walled defences — outside the Cité de Carcassonne, France, 2019.

Inside the first wall, another fortress wall. They could keep out anything in Carcassonne.
Note the timber hoarding on the first tower along from the gate, to the right.

A relief map of the double-walled Cité de Carcassonne. The palace itself is at the top of the image, the cathedral to the left. And yes, that is a Roman amphitheatre. They were here too.

Medieval building with jettied upper storey. The former cathedral is just beyond, the car is outside our hotel.
Carcassonne, France, 2019.

The altar of the old cathedral, now Basilica St-Nazaire. Just beautiful.

There were multiple walls, multiple large gates and giant doors on our way into the inner sanctum. It was another scorching hot day and we were exhausted and sweaty by the time we got to the Hotel de la Cité, beside the old cathedral, now called Basilica Ste-Nazaire.

The hotel was a slice of medieval heaven. Air-conditioned (not a medieval thing but very welcome) with the benefit of thick stone walls, we felt cooler immediately inside the front door. We were handed a glass of iced water each, with a slice of lemon. Even before they asked our names for the register!

I had carried a few loose bags of precious things (computer bag, handbag etc) which the hotel reception minded while we went back to our car. Absolutely no parking inside, so we had a parking space allocated outside the walls, with a transfer minibus.

The town of Carcassonne, outside the walls. Our hire car was down there somewhere.

Coming back in by minibus was quite an experience. The walls of the gates were so close we could have touched them. I could see streaks of various car paints on them from drivers less skilled than ours. There were officials guarding the gates from unauthorised vehicle access. The difficulty was made greater by a right angle within the entrance, so you couldn’t simply drive straight through.

The view from the window of our room in *Hotel de la Cité*. The front door of Basilica Sainte-Nazaire.

Once inside, we were within the walls of the old city but still outside the castle itself. The area inside the walls is much smaller than for other old cities we visited (such as Avignon) but still allowed for a number of shops and the former cathedral.

Up on the walls. We entered via the castle. In the background is the former cathedral.

We’d arrived just after midday so we had plenty of time to explore. I’ve already described our exploration of the castle towers and city walls, but suffice it to say, we were having a ball. So many features of castles that I needed to better understand for my writing, things I had only seen as ruins in so many areas, were here restored to glory. In fact, Carcassonne never fell to arms: only once, to siege in 1209 during a time when the city was controlled by the Cathars. That siege was led by Simon de Montfort, who was perhaps the greatest, most capable knight and tactician of his time. It would have taken someone of his capability to even have a chance. The city was forced to surrender due to lack of food getting through. The people were allowed to leave, but with no possessions and clad only in their underwear. Reports say “in their shirts” but this is a reference to the undershirts, or shifts, that people wore next to their skin as underclothing. Simon de Montfort, of course, was rewarded with stewardship of Carcassonne and promptly began making his own improvements to its fortifications.

From around C13, close-up of knight’s effigy on a tomb. inside the palace, Carcassonne, France.

Inside the castle. Now open to the sky, this would have been two levels that we see here, a large fireplace on the first floor directly in front with two bench seats by a window to its left. The square blocks would be where a floor once was.
Above is a guard walk. The large windows indicate an outlook of relative safety.

We began our walk of the castle walls and learned, too late, that it was a one way path. Up stairs, down other stairs, up more stairs. Walking along the battlements, looking at the places in the outer walls where the temporary wooden hoardings were erected, hung off the top of the stone walls, to give defenders an even greater advantage to drop projectiles onto attackers below. Carcassonne was the first castle to ever do this, and to great effect.

Section of timber hoarding or battlement, which hung out from the outer wall of the castle. As if it needed even more defence!

Contrary to popular opinion, they did not drop boiling oil through the murder holes and macchiolations. Oil would have been too precious to waste. However, burning hot sand would be just as effective at getting inside maille or between plates of armour. Stripping off scalding hot metal to save blistering skin would have been equally fatal, with defending archers just waiting for that opportunity.

On top of the walls. Beautiful stonework.

The archer’s eye view, covering the gate below.

A view through arrow-loop to the inside of the city walls, just in case the enemy got this far.

The top of a lookout tower, facing outwards.

Guarding the approaches. “None shall pass!”

Never forget, this is rich wine country.

I could sympathise with the attacking soldiers being rained with burning sand, as the heat climbed higher into the afternoon, and no way back. The walls of Carcassonne are double-layered, with strong defences in between. Any enemy soldier making it that far wouldn’t have stood a chance.

We did wonder, as we clambered up yet another long, spiral staircase, at how ladies in long, layered skirts would ever get back down. The towers were well-supplied with garderobes, those long-drop toilets handing off the side wall. Something else to drop on attackers… but at least there would be no need to head downstairs to find a loo.

We were almost at the heatstroke stage by late afternoon when we got back to the hotel pool. A quick swim to cool off, then we explored the former cathedral.

Seen from up on the walls — our hotel courtyard. So near, yet so far…

The view of the Pyrenees in the distance.

A saunter around the old city, and a sunset dinner with the Pyrenees on the horizon as a backdrop. Oh, I could have stayed for so much longer! My mind kept going back to Hilaire Belloc’s poem, Tarantella.

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?

Costumes were available for sale everywhere. I did check the price of this kirtle and cloak. Out of my league!

Next morning we were driven back to our car, in the car park outside the walls. Sad to leave, but off to our next adventure in ancient walled cities of France.

As I write this, we’re in lockdown in much of Australia and, unable to sally forth from my own ivory tower, I’ve been going down various rabbit-holes familiarising myself with history, losing myself in the past. My own fiction writing is currently involving various aspects of medieval life, and so it has been productive research.

More to follow…

Avignon at Festival Time

A year ago, July 2019, we arrived in Avignon just as the annual Avignon Festival was beginning. We planned this deliberately. In 2018 we’d arrived in Avignon for just one night and discovered it was festival time. Our hotel in 2018 was well out of the city and the only way we could get around was by taxi. So we caught a taxi in to the centre of the town (glad we didn’t have our own car, there was nowhere to park) and spent the next six hours exploring this fascinating place. We only had a few hours to explore, and every street corner was another venue for spontaneous street theatre, amazing sights, buskers, promoters and just plain fun. We eventually had to go back to our hotel, pack our bags and regretfully catch the TGV (Trés Grand Vitesse, or Very Fast Train) next morning for Paris. If only we’d known!

So in 2019, we made sure we’d arrive in Avignon at festival time, stay in the heart of the old town, ‘le centre ville‘, and stay for three days at least.

We arrived at 2.23 pm. The heat had been crazy for days, not helped by car air-conditioning that would only work on heat mode. In the end we’d forgone conversation as we drove down the autoroute at 130 kilometres an hour with windows down wearing wet scarves.

The car’s GPS has been programmed to show places to eat. As we drove into Avignon it went crazy.

Plenty of places to eat! We’d had no lunch.

We were told that if we had a hotel reservation, we could drive in to drop our bags. They opened the centre ville barriers for us, but once inside, the security people sent us back outside. Rinse, repeat… so we decided to return the car and get a taxi in. The car return place was not at the city train station, but the more distant TGV (Sydney residents, think Countrylink) train station. It took us until 3.30 pm to return the car. And from then on, we waited for a taxi. And waited. And waited. The scorching heat was unrelenting and my head was pounding. After over an hour, we met an English speaker who lives in Avignon. They tried to ring for a taxi. We’d have another fifty minutes wait, minimum, they were told. Festival time!

We decided to catch a train. We’d waited so long that one was nearly due. Only another half hour by this time.

We finally got back into Avignon by 5 pm and it took another half hour before we dragged our bags through the streets to our appartement. We had to telephone the owner and he sent someone to meet us with the key.

Our front door. It opened into a deep, dark, and above all cool stairwell.

By then I was bordering on heat stroke. We’d been out in the sun waiting for a taxi in 39 C heat. Once inside the small door which opened directly onto the street, we were in a large, utilitarian open space that was shady and cool simply from the heavy walls of the old building. Steps led upwards to our floor. No lift.

Looking up the stairwell. A place of cool tranquillité after the street bustle just outside the door.

Our room was a large, open space with a bed and a small kitchenette. From there, a corridor led off with windows and a tiny balcony, too small except for the most sylph-like Juliet.

Our bed in the appartement was on the floor. Almost.

The sauna in the appartement. It became a handy place for drying our washing over the next few days. We did not turn it on.

The first thing we were shown in our room was the sauna… I kid you not. There was a small sauna in our apartment. After being so cold in UK, we’d been experiencing France’s hottest ever weather, while travelling in a car with air conditioning set only on HEAT.

I passed on the sauna at that point. The temperatures outside were the same as the sauna’s, I figured there was no point heating up the appartement when all we had to do was open a window to get the same effect.

The view from our appartement’s Juliet balcony.

Watching the Festival go by… this man was across the street from our appartement, a perfect, cooler vantage point.

Next to the sauna was a shower which I got into immediately, fully-clothed with cold water only, to try to reduce my core temperature. The concierge was still with us and thought I was nuts. I was too hot to care if I added to the legends in Europe of ‘crazy Australians’.

Next to that was the loo, and after that at the end of the corridor was the jacuzzi. Colour changing mood lighting throughout. Lots of ice in the freezer. A convenience store next door. Windows looking out onto the massive street party through le centre ville of Avignon.

I was still recovering from the heat but after an hour or so I was ready to brave the streets.

Avignon festival had little snippets of street theatre as people promoted shows. We’d think, we might go to this one. Or maybe that one. Talking to the performers who were busking on the streets to promote their shows, we met some fascinating people. Some of the French-speakers spoke English well enough so we could converse. Other performers were from other parts of the world and a couple of shows were in English only. Many were pure music, which is a universal language. And mimes everywhere, with hand-juggling displays too.

Posters everywhere, advertising performances.

We missed out on one show we particularly wanted. When we turned up to buy tickets, they were sold out, so we bought the CD and tickets to something else.
They advertised a lot of the shows at the Festival with the line, “La salle est fraiche!”
In other words, air conditioning is a huge selling point in 38 degree heat.

Our French would not have been good enough, this looked like an amazing show.

We also took some time to explore the older, more historic places. We’d seen Palais de Papes in detail in 2018, so this time we explore THE bridge. It’s now a bridge to nowhere, but back in the day it was a border crossing of great importance.

A gateway for maintenance, the little dragon keeps watch. Sadly, weighed down by yet another ‘love lock’.

Sur le pont d’Avignon. No, we did not sing…

Lavender fields below the bridge. Glorious!

Narrow little streets in Avignon, down near Palais de Papes.

Festival time in Avignon is a time when people break the rules and nobody cares.

Translation: ‘It is forbidden to attach bicycles to the railings.’ Yeah, right…

If they’d attached the “velo” to the sign itself it would have been funnier. But there’s so much else attached to the “grille” that maybe he couldn’t see the sign. There were many more bikes chained to the same railing too.

Our first evening was spent having a meal in the main square. All around us, the Avignon Festival played out in all its crowd, noise and colour. There was fierce competition for cafes. The best ones had chilled mist sprays which triggered every minute or so. I was right underneath one. Just what I needed!

Jeff posing with a fellow nerd. Great fun, this guy! Sadly, we couldn’t get tickets to his show either.

Plenty of great food. Spoilt for choice!

Next morning we visited the baker next door for fresh, warm croissants. The town seemed very quiet so early, everyone else must have been sleeping off the previous night’s massive street party. It’s street party every night during the Avignon Festival.

Promoting ‘Le Petit Prince’ by Antoine St Exupery.

Over the next few days we explored special places, took in a show (we struggled with the French, but the music was wonderful) and totally blew our minds. Back in our appartement, having a multi-coloured soak in the jacuzzi indoors while watching and hearing the festival outside through the open window, the incongruity of it seemed so normal.

What more can I say? We loved Avignon too.

I never did try out that sauna…

The Ghan — Through the Red Heart of Australia

As I gazed out of the train window at the red earth, the lapis blue sky and the grey spinifex, as I felt the searing heat of the 40C day, I was once more reminded of how difficult it is to dream up the fifteenth century winter of the novel I’m working on.

Trying to sleep for the first time ever in a train sleeper carriage was challenging. Despite sleeping with ear plugs, the sounds of the jolting and buffeting of the carriages seeped into my very bones. I had chosen to swap ends of the bed so I could be near to my phone and watch, so I could see the time in the night without needing to turn any lights on. Our eyes adapted to the dark and even in the desert night, no habitation anywhere, the sky outside was not pitch black. And when the moon rose, we could see even more.

The turn-down service in our cabin happened while we were at dinner in the Queen Adelaide restaurant on board.

We had no concerns about privacy from outside the train, so we raised the blind and let the night sky in. As a result, I could watch the sunrise from my bunk.

Our bed was comfortable, if narrow, but on the whole the cabin was cramped. We had to take turns occupying floor space. However, since most of the activity took place in the lounge area and the restaurant car, we had no need to seclude ourselves. The bathroom was a tiny appendix to our cabin, there was absolutely no room for more than one person. However, you could use the toilet and wash your hands at the same time. At one point I sat on the toilet lid to wash my dress in the sink, then washed myself with a wet washcloth and soap.

To shower, you made sure the bathroom door was closed, then you pulled the shower curtain around to cover the door and the toilet. All clothing had to be left outside the bathroom to keep it dry. There was a sealed cabinet which could hold a towel, and a small soap dish beneath the tap. A quick shower was recommended. I did find that showering on a rocking train was a challenging experience, but after a few hours in an off-train excursion, any way to shower was welcome. It was still so hot that after I washed my dress, I simply put it back on, wet. Even though the train was blissfully air-conditioned, I did not feel cold. My dress was dry fairly quickly.

I was unable to write in the cabin, the space was too restricted. But the lounge was ideal. Every so often I would glance up at red earth and spinifex rushing past the window. However, errors do creep in when the train is rocking.

We had three off-train excursions. I’ve already described the Nitmiluk tour and the drive around the town of Katherine. The next morning we pulled in to ‘the Alice’ and we all disembarked. Once again we’d had different trips to choose. Some went for the aerial views while we chose the local wildlife park. Searing sun, flies and humour. Even for us seasoned zoo junkies, this little place had some unexpected treasures. Have you ever seen a baby bilby up close? It’s a cuteness overload, with its long pink nose and rabbit-like ears. All the animals in this place were native to the area, although too many were only to be found in zoos. Programs trying to release these vulnerable creatures back into the wild are being thwarted by too many feral predators.

Each off-train trip lasted around three hours, while the train was serviced. All except the last trip, which was late at night, at a siding in the middle of nowhere. We all piled off the train (those of us wanting the chance) to explore the ‘outback experience’. They had set up a large bonfire for us, but in the hot weather nobody wanted to sit too close. Besides, the light from the fire was spoiling our night vision.

Once our eyes adapted to the dark, we could see the night sky with far less light pollution than we get in the city. We still had some light pollution, of course; mostly people who did not know how to turn off the flash setting on their camera. If you’re taking a photo in low light, and the photo is NOT of something nearby, turn off the flash, people! Do you think your camera shutter is going to wait for the light from your camera flash to return to you from Proxima Centauri (over four light years away)? All the flashing was doing, was interfering with people’s night vision. However, we could still see the stars well enough for me to fall into Banjo Patterson mode with Clancy of the Overflow.

And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,

And at night, the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

All too soon, we had to climb back on board and settle for bed.

Next day was our last on board, and, as we approached civilisation in the morning, we had to be more discreet about getting showered and dressed with the blinds open.

We had time for a leisurely breakfast and a chat in the lounge with our fellow travellers. The very long train (the longest passenger train of any regular service run in the world) was to be split up into two sections. Each of the sections had their own lounge and dining car, so we sat and swapped travel stories until we were asked to return to our own cabins for the final arrival.

Farewells were brief as we collected our large bags (not permitted in the cabins, due to space restrictions) and moved on to explore Adelaide.

A new city awaits!

The Ghan and Nitmiluk

We’d heard about this epic train, but nothing can fully prepare you for that first sight of the Ghan. It’s big.

The company pulls out all stops to make this a full-on Aussie outback experience, and the train does not disappoint. A country singer entertained us on arrival at the station. ‘It’s Charles Darwin’s birthday today,’ he told us. ‘The city of Darwin was named after this great naturalist.’

Those in more distant carriages had the option of a bus to get them to their carriage. We were close enough to walk. There were 123 travellers with 47 staff to tend to our needs. Three crew cars, three power cars, a baggage car, a car car (ha!) three restaurant cars and three lounge cars. And guest carriages, of course. All hauled by two locomotives.

On board we were met by a cool breeze in the corridor as we were shown to our compartment. Everything we could need is there (apart from wifi!). Small bathroom, lounge seating which converts to bunk beds.

Our tiny cabin built for two on the Ghan.

The very next carriage to us is the lounge — open, relaxed and a good way to mingle. Beyond that is the dining room. Tables seat four, so if you’re travelling just as a couple you will find yourself meeting new people. Not all of them have English as a first language. The food was fabulous, need I say? And dietary requirements were most definitely catered for. Table service, menu selection, barista coffee from the bar, or anything else — all drinks on board were catered for, for the entire trip. Sherry nightcap? Certainly. Sparkling wine with dinner? But of course! Another? Don’t mind if I do.

With three scheduled stops along the way, we next had the pleasant task of deciding which off-train excursions to choose. Given how far I’d walked the day before in Darwin down to the rock-pool, I opted for the least physically taxing trip. The rock art tour of Nitmiluk National Park (formerly known as Katherine Gorge) was recommended.

When the time came, however, we didn’t get to see any rock art because to get to it, we’d have had to change boats to one which had its jetty a few inches underwater from the recent metre-high river rise. Given there are crocs known to be in the area, this was considered too risky… instead, we relaxed, enjoyed the scenery and listened to the local ranger talk about the stories of his people. The area is called Nitmiluk, he told us, because in the local language ‘nitmi’ is the word for the type of cicada that makes a pulsing sound. ‘Nit…nit…nit…’ and ‘luk’ means ‘land’ or ‘place of’. It’s two words, not one, but when written down by English-speakers, it was written as one word. Even as he explained this, we heard the cicadas start up. ‘Nit…nit…nit…’

On the way back to the train someone remarked on some areas of recent fire.

‘That’s backburn,’ we were told. ‘That one was about two weeks ago.’

We expressed surprise at how much regrowth there had been in such a short time.

‘Yeah, it grows different up here,’ the ranger assured us. ‘We backburn in a checkerboard pattern, but only a cool burn. Never when it’s too dry, like it has been for so many areas over east. That’s when even a cool backburn can get away from yer.’ He went on to describe cool burns in the morning, when there is still dew on the ground. The checkerboard pattern allows for re-seeding of those native plant species that need fire to germinate, while still allowing adjacent areas to remain unburnt as a refuge for wildlife.

Ye’ve had a bad time over in the eastern states,’ he said. ‘Some areas that had been recently backburned burned again, several times. It’s been far too dry for too long.’

Due to the change in boat tour, we had a bit of extra time so driving back through the township of Katherine, the bus driver detoured. We were amused to hear him talk about how the push for solar panels for the town’s power supply ‘can’t come soon enough.’ We’d been led to believe that in this part of Australia where mining has been so important to the local economies, people were against renewable energy. Someone asked the driver that question.

‘Don’t get me wrong, mining has been good to this town. But we need something to transition to for when the supply runs out. And up here, we’ve got loads of sunshine.’

Another motivation, I suspect, is a chance to not have to rely on bigger territory-based energy supply from outside the town. Looking after their supply themselves, not having to rely on others. The people who make their living up in the north of Australia are fiercely independent and resourceful. If any people can make a good living up here, not just a scratched-out one, it’s these people. Territory people. They’re proud of their history, proud of their ability to pass their living onto their children and grandchildren. They are finding innovative ways to do this. The future generations up here are assured.

Darwin Delights

We arrived in Darwin to grey skies and muggy heat, but rain was only a distant promise.
The hotel foyer smelt of mildew, a flood best forgotten and not mentioned, as there was no such odour elsewhere. The hotel foyer looked like the one in the famous video of Fatboy Slim’s ‘Weapon of Choice’. We half-expected to see Christopher Walken floating in the air above us.

We had a few purchases to make and a city to explore, so once we’d plugged in laptops to charge, we set out. I knew there would be time to write in the evening.

Out on the street the heat and humidity were breathtaking. In contrast, walking in to any shop bathed us in coolness. Many shops were closed, either to open later in the relative cool of evening, or simply shut for the entire wet season.

After our shopping we walked the long way back to the hotel past a huge banyan tree, a parasitic ficus that slowly destroys its host tree once it no longer needs it for support. Often in turn the older banyans are themselves parasitised by younger seedlings, accidentally planted in the droppings of bats briefly roosting.

The tangle of aerial roots of a banyan tree in Darwin.

Next day we had an early start for some group exploration of various waterfalls and other sights. At the foot of Florence Falls is a plunge pool which was wonderful to swim in. It was a pity to have to climb up the 135 stairs (I counted them all!) to get back.

Swimming in the plunge pool was worth the climb. That’s me in the blue swimsuit.

We visited other falls where swimming was not permitted, owing to the risk of crocodiles, both freshwater and saltwater. Along the way we spent time with various locals and heard some fascinating stories. While discussing crocodiles at Wangi Falls, a local cafe owner told us of the few incidents of croc ‘attack’ of tourists. In each case, he told me, it was freshwater crocodiles that had been provoked by the tourist victims. In one case a Russian tourist had ignored all warnings and been swimming. A one metre long ‘freshie’ had been quietly sunning itself on a log, statue-still. The tourist swam up to it and, thinking it might be dead, poked it repeatedly to see if it would move. And move it did. It bit he man on the side of his face. Nasty.

With the other case we were told of, a young woman saw the crocodile on a nearby rock and wanted a selfie with the croc in the background. While lining up her shot, she backed in ever closer to the freshwater croc which was apparently camera-shy and fed up with the intrusion. It bit her on the shoulder.

Naturally, both these tourists were annoyed and aggrieved, but they had been warned and got no sympathy. ‘Darwin Award contenders, both of ’em,’ the café owner told us. Honourable Mention, of course. They survived to pass on their poor survival characteristics.’ The Darwin Awards are not named after the city, surprisingly, given the number of risky situations a person could get into in the hazardous conditions.

Darwin Awards are given each year to those individuals who do the human race a favour, evolutionarily speaking, by removing themselves from the gene pool, often in the most creative way imagineable. Swimming in Darwin Harbour is an example often given. ‘Yeah, we got a name for those idiots,’ one local told us. ‘Croc food.’