Down Under: A Pain in the Leg...

I have harboured a love of Australia ever since boyhood. Well, it must be nearly twenty years ago now. I wish!

It is, I am afraid to say, well over fifty years since my Dad’s cousin came to visit us in the early seventies. Fred, Dad’s cousin, brought his son, Steven, with him. I took Steven outside whilst our parents caught up on many years of not seeing one another, you know, to talk about the boring stuff that adults seemed to like.

I remember leaning on the goalpost in our back field discussing all things Australian. Well, not all things. For the life of me, I do not recall discussing the plethora of ways one could die in Australia coming up at all. I only remember the good things. We talked of size: trees that reached the sky, distances from one town to another and the waves; we talked of things that glittered: Sydney Harbour, they lived on the North Shore, the gold and opals laying on the ground and, of course, the endless sunshine.

Then there were the beaches with surfing a plenty, soft white sand and girls in small bikinis just waiting… waiting for what, I had no idea; I was still a bit young to work out the attraction of scantily clad females, much preferred the thought of acres of sheep and kangaroos.

The subject of killers such as snakes, spiders, sharks and crocodiles never formed part of the sales pitch; they were only the headline grabbers, there were many other insects and plants that could give you a nasty nip, some of these might prove terminal. I never realised there were sharp teeth, fangs, and sacks of venom just waiting in every waterway, hedgerow and bushland. I was hooked.

Almost immediately, we started writing to one another. I remember writing, for the first time, the name of the suburb where they lived on the envelope: Warrawee, it sounded so evocative. Right from the get-go we planned my first trip Down Under. I couldn’t wait. Much like today, when a holiday is in the offing, I was already counting the time down until I boarded the plane; it was in years back then, though, and not weeks or days as it usually is now.

Then, to my amazement, my parents promised me a one-way ticket for my 21st birthday, I had to save up for the return. It was expensive back then, I still think you can get return fares for less than a one-way fare in 1981. In the end, I had to add another ten months to the countdown as I didn’t leave these shores until I was closer to 22.

From the moment we landed in Perth, I joined up with two friends for the trip, on 6th November 1981, I realised how extraordinary this place was going to be. By the way, if there is anyone under forty reading this blog, I had better explain that a letter was a way in which we communicated with the rest of the world back then, and, what is more, we had to use a pen; yes, we had to make the words with our own hands. Imagine!

Entirely by coincidence, I had always planned to move onto Australia in these pages, I had reacquainted myself with Bill Bryson’s “Down Under,” a tome that is full of useful and useless facts in equal measure. Between tears of laughter, I think he is one of the funniest writers ever, I learned so much. The book is based on travelling around Australia right at the end of the 20th century, when the population was 18 million; it is now over 26 million, an increase of 45%, a period in which the UK population grew by about 15%, to put it in context.

I was mainly interested to see the places he visited and was relieved to find out that we didn’t replicate much. He was thwarted by the weather, they get quite a bit of that, from reaching one of his destinations, Cooktown in Northern Queensland, but we weren’t. Dear Mr Bryson, you have no idea how lucky you were! The only reason that I purchased the audio version of this was that I had just finished, for at least the thousandth time, his sequel to “Notes From a Small Island,” “The Road to Little Dribbling.” I still think this is the funniest book I have ever read or, rather, listened to. I would thoroughly recommend you go and get it after you have finished reading this.

Anyway, it was early in 2019 that my wife suggested that we return for my sixtieth birthday. Our parents had had the common courtesy to have passed on by this stage and we were mortgage free. Indeed, we are still travelling around on our inheritance, even now.

We planned our trip. I had never been to Adelaide or Melbourne, Jane had never been to Northern Queensland. I have fond memories of Cape Tribulation; don’t worry, what happens on tour stays on tour! I was much younger then, of course.

We treated ourselves to business class for the longer legs of the trip, that is from here to Adelaide and the return out of Perth.

I am sure none of you need reminding, late 2019 was dominated by two major world stories: the devastating bushfires in South East Australia, and the emergence of coronavirus. The latter, we were told, had just taken a slight hold in China, not a vicelike grip at that juncture and, I think, in the main, none of us really took it that seriously. We had previously known of many scare stories emanating from the offices of the World Health Organisation, and where did they end up? Exactly! Funny thing is, though, my wife’s brother-in-law had just been on a business trip to China; Shanghai I think. Jane held a small gathering to mark the milestone of my 60th birthday. As I recall, Jane’s brother-in-law was just recovering from a virus like condition. Was it? Who knows! Just keep that one in your head for a moment.

During the flight, I began to develop pains in my leg, they felt like I had pulled a muscle, yes, I do have some. By the time we had got to Dubai, for our transfer onto the Adelaide bound flight, I could hardly walk. Fortunately, there was a golf cart type buggy on hand. The driver offered to take us across to the departure zone. I don’t think I would have made it without him. The pain didn’t seem to get any worse on the second leg. I don’t think it could, it had already reached its zenith. The flight seemed indeterminable, even when we crossed the Australian coastline we still had over three hours to go. In a way, it is like going to Cornwall, getting to Exeter and thinking you are just about there. The trouble is, Australia has such a vast interior, much of which is empty and remote, a bit like the part of a Chancellor of the Exchequer’s head that deals with economic reason!

When we arrived in Adelaide it was quite a walk to the car. Strangely enough, the muscular pain diminished with use. As soon as I sat down or stopped walking, it was back as strong as ever.

Anyway, we continued on with the Adelaide part of the tour, which I will describe in full a little later, but the pain would not go away, it was not getting any better. When I got out of bed, the pain was so great, I had to crawl to the bathroom. One day, we went in search of a pharmacy but were out of luck. It was the New Year holiday season and we could not find an open pharmacy. I asked to see the first aider at our hotel. He came quite promptly and confirmed my self-diagnosis, it was a pulled muscle. Take painkillers.

After we had transferred to Melbourne, it wasn’t improving, and conveniently, there was a medical centre next to the hotel. The clinic wasn’t open but the pharmacy was. They let me have some stronger painkillers which were about as effective as tipping ice cubes on one of their bushfires. The chemist suggested I get into see the doctor next door as soon as possible.

We did so. I was in with the lovely medic the morning after. She noted down all of the symptoms and, almost without a second thought, said that she thought I had blood clots and she needed to get me into hospital.

“How far is it?” I asked. “Can we walk it?” We walked everywhere in the CBD and beyond.

“You, I am afraid, are not walking anywhere. This could be serious.”

Wow, I thought. Could it be that bad, we had probably been averaging over 15,000 steps a day? What difference would a few more make?

As if reading my mind, she continued. “If it’s what I suspect it to be you could drop dead at any time. I’ll order you a taxi.”

Wow!

It was a wheelchair from then on. At the hospital we were shunted up to the front of the queue, after presenting the doctor’s note. I think we were all through within about two hours, ultrasound and all, that revealed superficial venous blood clots. They weren’t too bad in themselves but could become life threatening if they migrated to the deep veins.

Wow!

Anyway, I was given anti-coagulation drugs to start immediately with a prescription for more. At least I was in the clear to walk again. We dropped the prescription off at the pharmacy next door to the hotel and went in search of some dinner. I didn’t feel clear for at least a week. It’s a funny thing, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that I realised I was pain free. It just seemed to go. I could have had more painkillers prescribed but I said I would prefer not to have them, I feared not being able to monitor the pain if I attempted to mask it. I had heard, correctly or incorrectly, I have no idea, that you can become addicted to painkillers and I didn’t want that. I am a peculiar creature, the thought of pain is terrifying, but usually, I can put up with the reality. I might moan like an air filled waterpipe or, from time to time, squeal like a stuck pig, but can normally endure. I did not feel clear until we were in Sydney. Suffice to say, ever the drama queen, I said I would never fly again, apart from getting home. Indeed, I might not be able to fly home until I had received a “Clear to Fly” certificate in Perth.

We weren’t to know it, but by that time the aforementioned coronavirus would have the planet in its grip, and ships were not going anywhere if already in port. We now know the virus or pandemic or whatever else you want to call it, as Covid. One of the early symptoms was blood clots. Remember, Jane’s brother-in-law had been a little crook. Was he a carrier and, who knows, was I one of the first to have had it? I do not recall this, but upon checking my diary, realised I went down with flu-type symptoms on Boxing Day, three days before departure, but felt well enough on the day we left. I think it is broadly accepted that the virus was already in the UK well before my brush with my sister-in-law’s husband.

Next time I will return to the itinerary which will feature the lovely city of Adelaide.

Hunstanton Parkrun - PB's All Round!!

I don’t usually review a Parkrun when we have already taken part in one. The organisers at Hunstanton, however, are a little bit on the crafty side, and have both a summer’s and a winter’s course.

We wandered down from our usual parking place and headed for the Sailing Club. It was mightily cold, weather really doesn’t make sense, does it? There was no wind to talk of, the temperature was on the right side of zero, at least seven degrees milder than last week’s -5, but it felt as cold as anything yet experienced on a Parkrun. What a relief it was to discover the club was open, offering shelter from the biting conditions.

It was noticeably warmer in the lounge, but we had barged in on the volunteer’s pre-run briefing. It was quite the insight really. The most noticeable announcement concerned the impending high tide, shortly after the start as I recall. Brian, the day’s event Run Director, informed the team that unfortunately, the “Crashing Waves” signs would not be needed as the conditions were too benign. In the normal world you would think this announcement would elicit mighty cheers; but no, not in the world of Parkrun, there was a huge groan! God, we found ourselves in with a right old sadistic bunch who, it seemed, would take great delight in watching participants fighting their way along the promenade whilst being battered by the crashing waves. Well, to me at least, it was a relief!

I was running with VI Guide, Nik Bryan, again. Then, we were off. It was like running in a freezer, on the outward legs in any case. The course consists of two out and back laps and is, in the main, pretty level. As we turned for home the first time the difference in temperature was palpable, much more comfortable. It didn’t make sense, it felt as still as an untouched glass of Chardonnay. I am pleased to inform you that both Jane and I achieved new personal bests. All was content in the Taylor lounge for the rest of the day.

We had a little wander around Hunstanton afterwards, in truth we were looking for a baker’s. It was as if we had stepped out of adult Parkrun into a children’s story. We stumbled across the bakery, Mr Bun the Baker, and went in and bought some incredibly tasty bread as well as a Norfolk pasty each. I know, it isn’t Cornwall, before defenders of the Duchy start jumping up and down complaining that you can only get pasties there. They can be a testy bunch and to pinch one of the aforementioned Mr Bryson’s lines, they often come across as a ‘Touchy Duchy!’ Must go back when the weather is more clement to see if there is a ‘Mr Bone the Butcher,’ or ‘Mr Wick the Candlestick maker.’

White Cane Ratings*
Car Park: very good; on nearby road; free - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯(4)
Welcome: very good; friendly - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯(4)
Atmosphere: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Course: very good; entirely on concrete, a few minor obstacles - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯(4)
Marshalling: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯(4)
*These ratings are how the event suits a blind person, and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.