Anatomy of an Aussie Road Trip

I love inter-railing. Waking up in one city, with its history, cuisine and traditions and retiring in another complete with contrasting cultures and conventions is invigorating. Indeed, its sufficiently rousing to dispel the fatigue fostered by the sparse sleeping hours such a holiday affords. The maelstrom of currencies, customs officers and cantankerous train station clerks is both wearying but oddly ingratiating. Prime among the appeal is variety. Beginning your week sipping an espresso in Milan only to end it eating Goulash by the Danube or savouring Cevapi at Lake Bled has an appeal so enticing it borders on mesmeric.

So what to make of an Aussie Road trip? Could moving from Eggs Benny at Newcastle to Scrambled Eggs at Port Macquarie hope to match my European ideal? How could a pleasant beach-side town possibly compare with Budapest, the sun-setting behind the magnificent Parliament building as a night of revelry slowly asserts itself? As would become blatantly obvious, it can’t compare but not because it’s hopelessly inferior. Because it’s different. Entirely. Totally. Endlessly different. Interrailing is the Johnny Rotten to the Aussie road trip’s Johnny Mathis. A little more anarchic. A little more unpredictable. And always threatening to explode, combust or some glorious combination of the two. A road trip up Australia’s east cost would prove a more relaxing but no less worthwhile kind of holiday.

Our Covid curtailed route would weave up the coast of New South Wales, before slaloming inland to a farm-stay at Possum Brush. Moving north it would reach its crescendo at Port Macquarie – a sprightly sea-side town complete with an Irish bar procuring surprisingly creamy Guinness and, to us at least, ample White Russians. Schooners, schnitzels and surfing, both sand and sea, would prove regular themes throughout.

The notion that some beaches are ‘better’ than others was a concept I long struggled with. Each is lavished in sand, the sea is a prerequisite by definition and beyond that temperatures and popularity were the only differences apparent to me. And the appeal of devoting an entire day to sizzling on one was even more mystifying.

It took my arrival in Australia to rid me of such naivety, specifically at our first outpost north of Sydney – Umina. The town itself is hardly paradise, although it is endowed with a prosaic sports bar, the clientele of which were admirably well-oiled for 5pm on a Monday when we first darkened its doors. Such graces aside, the town itself doesn’t merit the one hour drive from Sydney, but the beach certainly does.

It is stunning, be it viewed from Mt. Ettalong to its south or as you run across its white sand dunes and the sun rises in the distance. Troy may have required Helen’s beauty to launch a thousand ships but had they been harboured at Umina, it’s not hard to imagine the gorgeous vistas of this seaside town capably launching a fleet of their own.

The beach itself is a perfect blend of sand and sea, the waves crash against the dunes as if controlled by a higher power and the sun dances on the water like a jitterbug from a very different land of Oz. Locals reliably reserve a greeting for visitors and although the hike to the head of Mt. Ettalong was so rocky I expected to meet Tarzan at the summit, the views awaiting us at the top were sufficient recompense.

Each subsequent day introduced us to new beaches and while I didn’t think any surpassed Umina’s splendour, each was beyond anything within striking distance of Dublin’s fair city. Avoca and Terrigal were sun-kissed and splendid and although kayaking in Forster coincided with a downpour even Dublin would be proud of, it was certainly refreshing. And for desert, our meandering was punctured by a stop at Anna Bay, complete with sweeping sand dunes and several caravans of camels (yes, that’s the actual collective noun). My previous dalliance with dunes in Morocco had sated my appetite for camel riding for a life-time although the sand-boarding on offer is highly recommended and a welcome change of pace.

I make this last comment because, gorgeous as they were, I had comfortably hit my quota of beaches 7 days into the trip. But fear not, the bright lights of Newcastle were calling.

My first impression of Newcastle is boring but certainly true. Its public facilities are excellent and although I won’t make a habit of this, it is worth dwelling a moment on the city’s parks, baths and walkways. Each are pristine, free and unsurprisingly, extremely popular. In particular, the Memorial Walk offers tremendous sweeping views of the city and leads straight to the Ocean Baths where crashing waves and the beautifully restored pavilion make it a popular spot for ocean-swimmers and photo-snappers alike. Compared to my own town of Dun Laoghaire, where the restoration of the baths is a saga so long running it is now a farce rather than a drama, such well presented public amenities are not lost on me. Even in water so frosty at that time of year, good fences make good neighbours as such amenities offer a welcome division between city life and the serenity of the sea. Beyond these, Newcastle offers a delectable mix of sultry wine bars and boisterous breweries, to which my sorry head would attest each morning.

Onwards, to Possum Brush. And something completely different. Encircled by dusty unsealed roads, in truth beyond the capabilities of our modest, rented, Yaris, we were initially disappointed to see that our accommodation was shared. Before getting to the front door we had to wade through a host of chickens, several turkeys and one particularly gregarious peacock which certainly added some colour if also an unhelpfully early alarm call. It was a beautiful and secluded place, a short drive to various hikes, waterfalls and viewpoints and incomparable with anything we’d seen on the trip so far. Miraculously, the Yaris survived, and onwards we pressed.

Days 13 and 14 were spent at Port Macquarie and in truth, I’m hardly an authority on the place. There is a renowned Koala Hospital. I didn’t go. There is a gamut of beautiful beaches but I didn’t surf or sunbathe. Indeed I barely even saw them. However, I can confirm that there is an Irish bar called ‘Finnian’s’ to which I have given a 5 star Google review and a delightful Thai restaurant that doesn’t charge corkage. Needless to say, I woke each morning with a headache so punishing it befitted the Penal Colony history of this quaint holiday town.

Mercifully, the Penal Colony comparisons did not extend beyond that. Even while Coronavirus confined us to this corner of Australia, New South Wales proved beyond beguiling and offered more than just beers and beaches. Despite my premonitions, it was a fortnight with more variety than vaudeville, ample bars to keep me jolly and, of course, enough beaches to last a lifetime.