poetry, football and travel

swimming with the fishes on Phi Phi Leh

2012-01-23T16:34:00.004+11:00

It is early morning and, incredibly, we are on the only longboat in Pilah Lagoon on Ko Phi Phi Leh. We smile at our driver (Captain? Skipper?) in thanks. He pilots the boat to the end of the lagoon and cuts the motor. Three hundred metre high cliffs surround us. Despite the sun not reaching here yet, the water is so clear we can see the sandy bottom and sections of coral. I estimate it's ten metres deep, but I'm too scared to find out. Fish swim languidly by. I secure the ladder over the side of the boat and step in. Cathie follows. It's eerily quiet, except for our excited giggles when a fish swims too close. The skipper smiles at our enthusiasm.

Back on the boat, we chug out of the lagoon and head to Loh Samah Bay. Cathie reminds me that on Gilligans Island, they too were only on a three-hour cruise. She wants to be Ginger, not Mary-anne. I guess that means I'm Gilligan. At the next stop, there is another longboat with two snorkellers slowly drifting along under the cliffs. I've never used snorkel equipment before. I tentatively fit the mask and the breathy-thingy. Cathie laughs and takes a photo. I look ridiculous. But I jump over the side anyway. Splutter. Cough. Help, I'm drowning in paradise.

The Skipper tosses bread into the water and I'm immediately surrounded by a feeding frenzy of tropical fish. It's like walking past a Myer Store during a Boxing Day sale. I stick my head under the water. Sorry, I mean, I submerge gracefully, like a bald merman, and move dolphin-like towards the bread sale. Me and one hundred fish look at each other from a distance of thirty centimetres. They pout, disapprovingly. I try not to giggle underwater. Despite the technicolour overload, my favourite fish is the smoky maroon-brown variety. They look like cool Newtown types among all the Benetton wannabes.

While Cathie is enjoying her snorkel, the Skipper tosses even more bread overboard. I sit on deck and contemplate the dietary requirements of tropical fish. Do they need so much fibre? And wholegrain? I'm pleased to see it's brown bread we're offering. I hope they can find some protein after we leave.

Which is right now as a big cruise boat makes it way into the bay. A quick circuit of the south cliffs and we are approaching the famed entry to Ao Maya. And right in camera shot is a huge ocean-going cruise boat. The type owned by millionaire wankers who hang out in casinos and wear linen trousers. I'm sure it's owned by a Russian. I swear in Australian.

We putter slowly past and I wonder if my worthy Skipper has a paint-bomb in his drybag. Once inside the bay, we can ignore the Russian cruiser and admire the Russian bruisers. Cadres of them stand on the sand, legs-akimbo, swimming costumes slung low, facing the sun as if it has magic powers. And the men are even worse!

We walk along the white sand dodging Japanese photographers taking one shot of the bay entrance and another shot of the semi-naked Russians. It's all too much. Leonardo DiCaprio has a lot to answer for. Fancy setting a movie on Phi Phi about a bunch of foreigners wanting to keep paradise for themselves!

I know I'm just as much to blame as the next person for this population overload on Phi Phi, but I prefer my Shangri-LA without the overwhelming scent of coconut suntan oil and cigarette smoke. We ask the Skipper to take us back to the lagoon. Thirty minutes later, we join twenty-one other longboats in the shallow water. I jump overboard, hoping the fish will choose me instead of the other interlopers. We are fresh out of bread. The Skipper valiantly throws a potato crisp into the water. It floats past my nose, untouched. I swim around the boat and head to the cliffs, looking up until all I can see is rock and sky. It's paradise. Back on the boat, the Skipper taps his watch. Our time is up. We didn't get shipwrecked. But we had a lot of fun feeding the fish.

On the way back to our bungalow, we pass a secluded beach where monkeys play in the sand. They've never heard of Leonardo DeCaprio.

the road to Paradise... is an overcrowded ferry

2012-01-21T22:00:00.002+11:00

We were one the first groups on board the ferry to Phi Phi Island. We chose our seats on the first deck carefully, near the back door, under the air-conditioner. We handed our luggage to the young man who added them to the pile beside the door. Fair enough, I thought, easy to get to when we disembark. For the next forty-five minutes, this young chap stacked luggage as people clambered aboard. All the passenger seats on our deck were full, the lower deck was overflowing. People were climbing onto the top deck where there were no chairs. Still the overworked young man stacked until the luggage mountain covered the entire back section of the ferry.

"You know, if we sink, that luggage is going to cover the exit,' my wife surmised.

The departure time had passed, people and suitcases were still crowding on. I ventured through the mass to the rear open section of the ferry. More people, more luggage piles.

Reassuringly, wrapped around each chair was a life jacket. Except there were far more people than chairs on board.

Finally, the ferry left the dock. Many people clapped. I wasn't so sure. I removed the life jacket from the back of my chair and did the same for Cathie. The Russian man behind me smiled.

'It is overcrowded, yes,' he said.

'Very,' I responded.

He looked at the window we sat near. 'Maybe we can make this open,' he suggested.

I didn't like our chances. Cathie and I stood up and took ourselves and our life jackets out to the rear deck, struggling past people to the back where there was a vacant space to sit beside the baggage handler. He was no older than fifteen. I smiled and sat on my life jacket. It made a soft seat.

The ferry didn't sink.

Maybe I was too cautious.

But, as the two hour journey passed, we enjoyed the wind in our faces and the view of the Phi Phi islands looming large upon us. When we were ten minutes from our destination, people scrambled onto the back deck to take photos of Ko Phi Phi Leh. The baggage handler ate his noodles out of a plastic container and when finished, tossed it overboard. He rolled himself a cigarette. Sunburnt Russians and Eastern Europeans shot videos of the gothic cliffs of Phi Phi Leh.

We docked at noisy Tonsai Pier. Workers scurried aboard to unload the supplies for the town shops. Everything, including water has be ferried across from Phuket. The tourists were left to locate their own bags with the help of the long-suffering single handler. He tossed bags wherever he was directed. Cathie and I leaned against the railing and enjoyed the mayhem. Our bags were at the bottom. We weren't going anywhere soon. Surprisingly, the ferry unloaded quickly. People helped each other to remove bags. I finally made my way back into the cabin and picked up our bags. We walked onto the pier and were met by a longboat driver who took us to our resort. White sand, low trees providing shade, a hammock, clear water with tropical fish swimming below us, a view across the bay to Phi Phi Leh.

Paradise.

At the end of an overcrowded ferry trip.

A cycle up to Siding Spring Observatory

2011-12-02T11:30:00.004+11:00

I ride nervously into Coonabarabran.

Last night, I read that the town derives its name from the an Aboriginal word, gunbaraaybaa, which in local tribe Kamilaroi dialect means... ahem... shit. This morning, mercifully, the air is fragrant with the treacle-sweet aroma of honeysuckle. Children dressed in green tartan uniforms walk to school, shouldering superhero backpacks. A comfortably overweight woman strides purposefully along the footpath, being lead by a shaggy-haired minature dog. It looks like she's following a furry vacuum cleaner. The vacuum barks at me and hoovers along the zebra crossing.

Main Street is also the Newell Highway, so I keep well to the left as B-double trucks rumble slowly downhill. Outside the newsagent, two old blokes, dressed in neat shorts and long socks, discuss the affairs of the day. Both are sitting on mobility scooters. We all have an attachment to a set of wheels, I suppose?

At the roundabout, I turn left and catch my first glimpse of the Warrumbungles, a curious assortment of volcanic shield-plugs rising out of the north-western slopes. They are home to a colony of grey kangaroos and over one hundred and twenty bird species...

Thwaack!

A magpie mistakes my helmet for breakfast and pecks furiously as I duck, pedal faster and wave my hand above my head, a crazed conductor without an orchestra. I wonder what welcome the other one hundred and nineteen bird species have for me? As the houses give way to small farm holdings, I relax into my ride, a short pedal to the top of the Warrumbungles at Siding Spring, home to twelve telescopes, including Australia's largest, the Anglo-Australian Telescope. The night sky in these parts is largely immune from man-made light pollution, allowing the scientists a unfettered view of the Milky Way. And here, on the plain, local residents are in on the action. Every kilometre, I see a small igloo-shaped outbuilding housing an enthusiast's telescope. Some have turned their hobby into a business, charging admission to look into the heavens.

Outside one farm is a letterbox in the shape of a cow, complete with metal udders. Next door's letterbox is a yellow duck with the legs of an ostrich, you insert the letter into his (her?) bloated stomach. These are quickly followed by Ned Kelly, his chest plate glowing in the sunlight; a tree trunk with a narrow slit for the letters; a pair of semi-trailer wheels with hudcaps and mud-guards; a smiling running man constructed with tubular steel, holding the letterbox in his outstretched hand, like he's in an egg and spoon race; and my favourite... a man on a bicycle, at speed, his flowing scarf trailing in the breeze, on his head a jaunty beret. The letter, naturally, is inserted into his front basket. It's all very curious. Did the residents get together over a barbecue one afternoon, and after too many beers decide to brighten up their farm entrances. Or did the duck just arrive one day, and as each resident drove by, they were suitably inspired? The postman must smile, awaiting each new arrival.

At Timor Rock, I pull over for a drink. It's a splendid scene. I sit in lush grass shaded by a stand of gums at the foot of the rock, rising one hundred metres straight up, covered in spinifex, sun-faded native trees and grasses. Next to the campground is a pig farm. A gentle breeze blows towards me and the air is still heavy with honeysuckle, not... pig. The animals frolic in the open, squealing, chasing each other across the pasture. A large black sow stands wobbly, stretches, looks across the enclosure at me, before wandering off to the mudpatch in the far corner.

Timor Rock is the start of ten kilometres of slow climb. The road is not conducive to riding, being pock-marked, rough and gravel-strewn. At least I can hear cars approaching behind me from a far distance. As the sound gets louder, I'm learning to judge just how much space the driver will allow me. Thankfully, there are few vehicles this morning. As I round a bend, I catch my first glimpse of the Anglo-Australian Telescope on the ridge. It doesn't look that high, but then it's still twenty kilometres away.

The first climb is a gut-buster, but I'm slowly learning to control my breathing, concentrating on building a rhythm. Half-way up is a farmhouse with an expansive view over the plains. The owner contentedly mows his front lawn. He waves and I offer an exaggerated nod in reply, too nervous to take my hands off the handle-bars as I climb. The slow-going is because I'm carrying the added weight of a million flies on my sweating back. They take turns to launch acrobatic sorties into my nostrils and ears. A few kamikazes divebomb into my mouth, offering much-needed protein. If anything, it encourages me to pedal faster to reach the crest where I can speed down the other side and shake these insect freeloaders.

On my way into Coonabarabran this morning, I noticed at regular intervals, roadside billboards each displaying information about one planet in our solar system. A tourist initative by the Shire Council, it's touted as the World's Largest Virtual Solar System Drive (their capital letters, not mine). No matter from which direction you enter Coonabarabran, you'll see the billboards, and, hopefully stop and learn about Pluto or Mars or... that one with the rings around it. Irrespective, all billboards lead to Siding Spring.

And, indeed, as I turn off the highway and cross a cattle grid... or should that read aaaaannnnddd cccccrrrooooosssss aaaa ccccaaatttlllleee ggggrrrriiiidddd, I notice Earth's billboard welcoming me. The billboards are all written for the amusement of twelve-year-old children. So, of course, I stop at each one to learn another curious new fact. Did you know that earth is made up of 71% water? And is the densest planet in the solar system. Perhaps that explains why we need these billboards?

The final five kilometre climb is stupendous. It deserves a billboard all its own. I'm so preoccupied with the view stretching over the eastern plains, I don't notice the gradient steadily climbing until I check my Garmin. It screams a leg-popping 20% and I wobble in surprise. The road is shaded by grey gums and on each ridgeline, blackboys stand in elegant rows, admiring the view. Two more cattle grids and one tight hairpin and I'm on top. The village is a clutch of igloo-shaped domes on a windswept plateau. At the southern tip, the largest telescope is bordered by a high wire fence and keep out signs. Proving I come from the densest planet, I ride through the open gate and take a quick photo. Since the Earth billboard at the entrance, I have yet to see another person. There are a few cars parked in painted bays, but it seems the summit is given over to me and a family of blackbirds, who scuttle up tree trunks whenever I ride too near.

I park my bike outside the entrance to a non-descript brick building housing a kiosk and information display. As I enter, a lone woman quickly gets up from her chair. I think she may have been snoozing.

'Oh,' she says.

I take off my helmet, just in case she thought I was an alien. I'm not. I'm from Queensland.

'Are you open?' I ask.

She looks at her wristwatch, perhaps to see how long she's been asleep. It's midday.

'Of course. How can I help?'

I offer her my empty water bottle. 'Could you fill this, please?'

She hesitates. Am I planning on buying anything?

'And I'll have a bottle of ginger beer,' I look around for food. 'and a packet of potato crisps, please.'

She fills my bottle and yawns.

'Not many people here today?' I venture.

'It's Tuesday.'

Is Tuesday a solar-system-free day in these parts?

She looks at my outfit.

'You rode up here?' Emphasis on the here not the up. Meaning, she's not impressed.

'Do you get many cyclists?' I ask.

'I only started a week ago. You're the first.'

'It's a lovely climb.'

'Hhhmmm. The ride down should be fun.' she offers.

'Yep, the wind in my hair.' I'm bald. It's my attempt at humour.

'That'll be five dollars,' she says.

I sit on a plastic chair in the outdoor area, admiring the view. The sky is cornflower blue, a few clouds taper across the horizon. It's eerily quiet. Secretly, I was hoping to hear the clank of the telescope opening, with men in white overalls and hard hats rushing about on serious astronomical business. Perhaps a grey haired, goatee-bearded scientist would wander across and tell me about last night's discovery. A new asteroid. And he's still contemplating a name for it. He'd glance at my bicycle and mouth the word, 'Roubaix', slowly scratching his beard, considering...

Refreshed on salt and sugar, I hop back on my bike and begin my descent.

Whaaaooooo!!!!!

Luckily, there are no cars coming up the mountain because I'm all over the road trying to stop my bike from reaching terminal speed. How fast do asteroids travel? Who cares, when you're riding a Roubaix! I barely have time to admire the letterbox gallery as I roll past, my face contorted in a weird clown grin by the force of the wind. I just need a scarf and a beret to complete the perfect letterbox.

In praise of small town cafes

2011-11-09T17:06:00.009+11:00

Heaven knows, they are few and far between. Once I find a cafe in small-town Australia, I frequent it whenever I pass through town. Great coffee, quirky menu items and friendly staff... a simple recipe for return customers.

Here's a list of a few recent experiences:

Keith - great name for a town. Claiming to be the 'lucerne capital of Australia', it's 225 kilometres south-east of Adelaide and has a population of just over one thousand. And those in the know were munching down big sunday breakfasts at the Henry and Rose Cafe when I last passed through. Good coffee, and the friendly waitress added an extra slice of raisin toast because she considered the two slices too thin. And a mint with my flat white! My uncle Keith would have been proud.

Mount Gambier on a sunday has all the verve and excitement of a funeral directors conference. 'So this embalming fluid lasts an extra hundred years?'

We thought the Whistling Cat Cafe was an op-shop when we first walked in. Racks of second-hand tat, shelves of old-fashioned lollies, mismatched furniture and an owner with a booming laugh. We had delicious toasted panini and good coffee, served while we sat in old armchairs with a view of main street, where gloomy men in top hats and evening wear walked ponderously behind a hearse.

Port Macquarie has a lot of old people who retired here from Mount Gambier before those glum men got their gloved hands on them. Doris, Edith, Ernie and Stan prefer Lipton to short blacks, but I'd recommend Casualties Cafe (it's in the old ambulance station) to everyone. A dreadlocked waiter brings me an excellent toasted sandwich and piccolo while I read about his skateboard coffee-delivery runs in the newspaper clipping pasted to the wall. Just up the road is the Corner Cafe/Restaurant who use Campos coffee, and served me a lovely Confit Duck Maryland for dinner. And side salad of Ricardoes Tomatoes. And local goats cheese with vinocotto. And a five layer chocolate cake... I was hungry that night.

Which brings me to my favourite cafe in a very small town which many of you would never have heard of, and probably have little reason to pass through. The dot on the map in question is Adelaide.

The fabulous Red Door Bakery is in suburban Croydon and does some serious Bourke-Street Bakery channelling with it's designer sausage rolls (pork and sage; lamb and moroccan eggplant), creme brulee and sour dough bread. If you're ever in Adelaide, stop here for lunch. Oh yeah, and bring your bicycle... Adelaide is the bike capital of Australia.

Great Ocean Road Cycle - Day Three

2011-11-03T17:57:00.007+11:00

Lorne to Apollo Bay. Two hours of cycling in the morning before most of the (four-wheel) tourist traffic wakes. Time enough to take a few photos, so I'll let them do the talking for my final day on the Great Ocean Road.

And, to celebrate the end of my ride, Lorne hosted the Sculpture by the Sea.

Great Ocean Road cycle - Day Two

2011-11-01T16:50:00.011+11:00

I hereby appoint myself President of the 'Change the name of Lavers Hill to Lavers Mountain' committee, after spending the better part of an hour cycling up to said village. Day Two started at Port Campbell with rain and south-west winds. Not even the joy-riding helicopters were taking off! After a quick photo-op at Loch Ard Gorge and the Twelve Apostles, it was a left-turn inland and a twenty-kilometre climb to Lavers Mountain (yes, I know).

Hills don't attract mist, mountains do, okay! After a slog through the rain and mist, I had a delicious lentil burger and signed up most of the townfolk to my new committee - it seems the locals prefer the idea of a mountain home.

It was still raining, but I didn't care. Downhill all the way to Apollo Bay, I assumed. Oops. Downhill was fun, even in the wet. Thankfully the four-wheel-drives kept their distance. From Glenaire to Hordern Vale was a serene cycle through a sheep-meadow valley. And then another long climb to just above Apollo Bay. My Garmin was telling me I'd climbed 1,477 metres today, my knees were saying 'double it, Buddy.'

After ninety-seven kilometres, the rain stopped, the sun came out and Apollo Bay welcomed me with the toot of a truck horn... although he could have been warning me to get out of the way. I waved happily. The apartment manager wondered why I was so wet when I checked in? I smiled, 'It's always raining on Lavers Mountain.'

Great Ocean Road cycle - Day One

2011-10-31T16:02:00.007+11:00

8am. Cold, overcast, wind blowing from the south-west. Good, I'm heading south-east, from Warrnambool to Port Campbell, along the famed Great Ocean Road. But first, I take a slight detour along Logans Beach Road, across the Hopkins River and up a hill, before ten kilometres of expansive ocean views.

I'm sure Paul Jennings lives around here? Maybe he could offer a fellow author some advice on how to sell more books. Write better books, I hear you answer!

Back to the Great Ocean Road. Except the next forty kilometres meanders between dairy farms. Hey Cow! The smell of new mown grass, mud and cow dung mixes with the saltspray air. The road is rough in patches and the cloud cover shows no sign of moving along with the breeze. No cafes around here either, so I plough on for the morning before arriving at the Southern Ocean and the Bay of Islands National Park.

From now on, for the next twenty-five kilometres, it's tourist photo opportunity time. Me and a hundred grey nomads in campervans. The temperature has even reached double figures!

At Peterborough, I finally have my morning coffee and the cycle into Port Campbell is downhill, the ocean to my right, more cows to my left and lunch up ahead.

Tomorrow is Port Campbell to Apollo Bay... with the dreaded Lavers Hill in between.

Women and Sport - how to judge a (male) sport

2011-10-09T10:28:00.005+11:00

I live in the Blue Mountains, a cloud-draped windswept interruption between glittering Sydney and the western plains of NSW. And this weekend, as the shrubs outside my study window bend in the 40-knot gusts, I'm scanning the television news for word of the football results. Those of you who know me, will understand, when I say football, I mean the world game, the round-ball game, not the three other codes of 'football' played, predominantly with the hands and yet, perversely called football.

On the television is news of a Rugby League coach going to the highest bidder and lots of close shots of scantily-clad women at the Bathurst 1000 race, just down the road from me, where it's probably 10 degrees as I write this. I hope those 'pit girls' as they are embarrassingly labelled, are well paid.

Which gets me thinking...

Maybe the best way to judge a sport is by how it treats and views women. Let's start with the pit-girls of motor racing.

While the drivers are kitted head-to-toe in flame-retardant overalls plus helmets and gloves and risk life and limb on the track, the 'real' attraction seems to be scores of these young women cavorting for the cameras and the largely male, beer-fuelled audience. Even the ad-campaign pre-race had as many shots of women as the drivers. I'm confused as to who the real 'participants' of this sport are? Let's strike motor-racing as a socially-responsible and relevant past-time, shall we.

Next, Rugby League. Yes, I know, I'm choosing the easy marks first! Despite the regular newspaper headlines of players mistreating and abusing women, the league persists with cheer squads of, yep, you guessed it, scantily-clad women welcoming the players onto the field. Oh yeah, and celebrating when they score. Yes, and I did mean to use that embarrassing pun, 'score' because that's how many players appear to treat the opposite sex. Just another opportunity. One further step into the 'ghettoisation' of Rugby League, methinks.

Rugby Union? Well... it doesn't really think of women too much. They didn't go to the right private schools to figure in the network of Old Boys who run this sport. Women are good as spectators and certainly very helpful as mothers organising the afternoon tea. But, well quite frankly, no-one's clinching a business deal with little Johnny's mother over a few ales after the game are they?

Australian Rules is hugely supported by women, mainly Victorians! Oh okay, all over Australia, women attend the games. I've even had the pleasure of sitting in the grandstand listening to one middle-aged woman advising Big Bad Barry Hall to, and I quote, 'kill him Barry!' whenever an opponent went within striking distance of her hero. I'm mystified by the attraction, but, yes, women do follow and watch Aussie Rules. In their thousands. And, maybe a small percentage of that number actually play the game - not in organised leagues, but in school competitions. Again, in Victoria. So, good luck, to Aussie Rules. At least, there are no cheerleaders.

And now, to football (soccer if you must). I go to Sydney FC games and readily admit, the majority of the audience is male. I'd hazard 65/35% male to female ratio. Pretty good, but not much different in ratios to the other three footy codes, I imagine. But wait... at half-time Sydney FC allow local junior football teams to play on the sacred turf of the SFS - short five-a-side games where players get their chance to impress the crowd. And, there on the field are girls as players. Young women as participants, playing in front of the thousands. Not cheerleaders, not (only) supporters, but players, involved in the game.

And, sure enough, Sydney FC has a women's football team that plays in a national competition. And some of those players play in the National Team, The Matildas (great name, by the way). And this sport is broadcast nationally on the ABC. I know, I've watched it and been enthralled at the pace and the skill level of these players (Lisa de Vanna and Elise Kellond-Knight to name two). And, this surely, is the future of sport in this country, and the world... a game that can be played by both sexes with skill, verve and passion. A sport where women belong. As players... and supporters. And not a cheerleader in sight.

For I have seen the future of (male) sport... and it's female!

riding the rails in the Baltic States

2011-09-28T16:12:00.003+10:00

here's an article I had published recently in the Sun-Herald travel magazine.

A tramspotter's playground

I’m standing on a street corner in Tallinn, Estonia waiting for the Number 2 tram to take me into the medieval old town perched on a hill overlooking the Baltic Sea. Beside me in the queue is an old woman, wearing a scarf and wheeling her shopping trolley like a threat. She holds a bouquet of flowers wrapped in black cellophane ‑ a celebration or a funeral?

The fire-engine red tram clangs down the street and I’m transported back to suburban Brisbane in the sixties, beside my mother, the smell of jacaranda and mango heavy in the air. Mum would hold my hand as we clambered aboard a dreadnought tram to the city. I prefered the old dreadnoughts to the sleek silver bullets and drop-centre carriages. What child doesn’t want to ride on a dreadnought?

Gallantly, I offer the Estonian woman my hand to board. She ignores me and trundles to the one remaining seat. I stand on the wooden floorboards, gripping tightly to the overhead strap and once again feel the sway and rattle of a child’s toy made large. I lean forward to see if the driver is wearing a peaked cap. I’m tempted to reach across and open the window, like my mother would on the Brisbane tram, to feel the exhilarating breeze of childhood. But it’s a cold April, with the wind whipping off the Baltic and people are dressed in overcoats and scarves.

Tallinn’s trams began as horse-drawn vehicles in 1888. Today, much of the rolling stock is new and sterile, but some relics remain from Soviet times, a tramspotter’s playground.

The old town can be easily walked in a morning, the three-metre thick citadel walls enclose a jumble of medieval buildings and cobblestone lanes. Locals sit at outdoor cafes, sipping kefir (a fermented milk drink) and hope the wavering sunlight will improve. In the park beside the domed Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, a young woman offers me a bow and arrow. For small change, I can attempt to pierce the circular target five metres away. After failing dismally at my three attempts, I buy a packet of cinnamon-roasted almonds in consolation and watch teenage Robin Hoods hit the target with nonchalant precision.

My favourite building is St Olaf’s church, erected in the 12^th century with the distinctive steeple added three centuries later making it, briefly, the tallest building in the world before it was struck by lightning and burnt to the ground. Since that initial disaster, it has been completely rebuilt twice more and suffered repeated lightning strikes. The tower’s viewing platform offers panoramic views… or so I’m told.

Back to the trams. My wife and I take the Number 4 line to Pirita Beach and stroll along the deserted sand, watching the ferries departing for Helsinki and Stockholm. The Council has erected work-out equipment among the trees behind the beach where rotund men wheeze and drip Vodka sweat. We share apple cake and excellent coffee in a café beside the ruins of St Bridget’s church, ransacked by Ivan the Terrible in 1575, before hopping on the red rattler tram back to the city. My journey is complete when the driver announces the stop before our Bed & Breakfast – ‘kuus-klaa’ - that’s certainly not how it’s spelt, but the romance is in the extended whisper of the first syllable.

A more serious tramspotter town is Riga, Latvia. The network opened in 1882 and now extends to eleven routes with one hundred and twenty-three kilometres of track. When we arrive on a dark night threatening sleet, I tell my wife I plan to ride them all. She shudders. I imagine it’s because of the cold.

In the suburbs of Riga is Mezaparks, touted as Europe’s first garden city when conceived in the early twentieth century, now home to diplomats, bankers and our welcoming Bed and Breakfast. Extravagant villas slumber in the forest, guarded by alsatians and high fences. Our genial host offers guided walks throughout the area, touching briefly on the dark past of a German concentration camp. ‘In this forest, hidden away,’ she mutters. After the war, the Russians seized the villas and many families were forced to live together in each house. Maybe it was such cohabitation that helped the Popular Front, who used this suburb as a base in their struggle for Latvian independence in the eighties.

Mezaparks is also the starting point of the Number 11 tram, the prince of tram routes. The two-tone blue carriage begins its journey on a wide boulevard boarded with flower gardens, outdoor restaurants and children riding bicycles along forest paths. After a few kilometres it trundles beside the Bralu kapi (Brothers cemetery), resting place of the Latvian Riflemen, national heroes of the Great War, and the adjoining Meza kapi (Forest cemetery), where defiant Latvians laid flowers during Soviet occupation at the grave of their first President, Janis Cakste.

After the serenity of these well-tended shrines, comes the austere apartment blocks of suburban Riga where the architectural horrors of Soviet times is slowly crumbling. Washing hangs from windows, rusted pipes protrude and the advertisements on our tram selling sleek BMW’s seem to thumb their nose at yesterday’s poverty.

Before the tram crosses the River Daugava, we alight and wander the art nouveau extravagance of the area bordered by Alberta and Elizabetes streets. The Art Nouveau museum is entered through a dizzying confection of a staircase, worth the price of admission alone. The prominent nouveau architect, Konstantins Peksens, lived here until 1907, designing over two hundred of the surrounding buildings. I couldn’t resist snapping a photo of the art nouveau bedpan in the child’s room.

Afterwards, we walk beside the Number Eleven tram for the rest of its route into the old town. At the Riflemen monument we debate, like much of Riga, whether the memorial glorifies the Latvian soldiers or reminds the citizens of recent Russian domination. The noble faces of the statue remain mute. They stare defiantly westward.

We stop for a lunch of borscht and potato pancakes, washed down with Hungarian wine, in a restaurant opposite the curiously named House of the Blackheads. In the afternoon, we wander cobbled streets across town to the neo-classical Central Markets, constructed by reusing the roofs of German zeppelin hangers in the 1920’s. Each building has stalls offering a smorgazboard of hard cheeses, sauerkraut and dried or fresh fish. I seek out a stall hawking black bread and buy a loaf. My wife raises an eyebrow. Before we board the Number 11 tram back to Mezaparks, I explain my mother occasionally bought a heavy loaf at the grocer near our tram stop. The name of the bread in faraway childhood Brisbane was… Riga black loaf.

Home at last.

Getting around:

Tallinn: Tram tickets can be bought from kiosks for .96 Euro ($1.30)

Riga: 24-hour tickets available from kiosks for 1.50 Lats ($2.80)

Getting there:

Finnair (in conjunction with Qantas) fly to Tallinn and Riga, via Singapore and Helsinki. (from $2700 return)

http://www.finnair.com

An overnight car ferry operates between Stockholm and Tallinn ($290 double, one way inc car)

http://www.tallinksilja.com/en/

Staying there:

Tallinn: Tihase B&B, Tihase St 6A, Tallinn - self-contained cottage available, $80 per night. Rooms $50 double.

http://www.tihase.ee/

Riga: Homestay Riga, Stockholmas St 1, Mezaparks. Double $100.

http://www.homestay.lv/indexmenu.htm

Austinmer to Bundeena - Australia's best bike route

2011-05-20T09:33:00.006+10:00

The day starts with a coffee in Chedo's Cafe, Coledale - I'd ridden exactly three kilometres, only eighty-nine to go! After relaxing in the sun, I tackle the climb up Stanwell Tops. Torturous, but the view from the top is certainly worth the effort. One more hill and I'm into the Royal National Park, the second oldest 'National Park' in the world after Yellowstone. While it doesn't have bears, elk and coyotes, on this weekday morning there is barely a car around and I'm alone with the fairy wrens, shrub turkeys, bubbling creeks, tree ferns, and burnt-out abandoned cars (betcha Yellowstone doesn't have this species!).

I'm tempted to turn off for Garie Beach, but instead decide to pedal on to the Bundeena exit and the gentle slope down into the village on the inlet opposite Cronulla. The ferry has just arrived and the day-trippers are out in force. I sit on the rocks and devour a hamburger. Bicycling is my excuse for excessive eating. A family are fishing on the pier. They seem more concerned with drinking coffee and soaking up the sun than catching anything, which is wise.

Meanwhile, the lycra fool gets back on his bike and cycles slowly back to Austinmer. This has to be one of the best on-road bike routes in the country - endless vistas of ocean (is that a whale, or an cargo ship waiting outside Wollongong?); shady rainforest kilometres in the middle section; the opportunity to swim at Garie or Wattamolla; light traffic mid-week and a train line or ferry at either end to help you back to Sydney. Which gets me thinking - I could start a ride at the Olympic Stadium, Sydney and stay on bike path for the majority of the ride to Cronulla; take the ferry across the inlet; and ride all the way to Wollongong - a one hundred kilometre extravaganza. Maybe next time.

The highlight of my return cycle to Austinmer is without doubt the fist-clenching descent of Stanwell Tops where I contemplate overtaking a bus - bloody slow vehicles! I enjoy the views instead and the thought of another coffee, plus baklava, at Chedo's.

being a kid again?

2011-04-18T19:04:00.005+10:00

When I was a child, the things I most enjoyed doing were playing football and bike riding. I could barely contain my excitement when saturday arrived. I'd pack my boots and socks into a bag, jump on my bicycle and cycle the seven kilometres to our home field, often arriving hours before kick-off, just so I could watch the other games and maybe find another kid to kick a ball with. On sundays, I'd ride my bicycle across town to the local airport where I'd hang-out, watching the planes take off and occasionally venturing down to the dirt race-track where the stock cars did their thing on saturday nights. I'd pretend I was a dirt-bike racer, endless circling the track to the cheers of an imaginary crowd.

I'm fifty-two now and the only two sports I play are... football and bicycling. I've written enough about football on this blog (it is called poetry, football and travel), but cycling is surely the easiest sport for middle-aged men like me - no need to join a team, just buy a bike, some hideous lycra and a jersey (dress-ups for men!!) and away you go. And, best of all - the further you ride, the more you can eat, guilt-free, during the cycle. Only in the interest of keeping up energy levels, of course.

Today I did a loop from Rylstone to Mudgee and back again, one hundred and ten kilometres of relatively traffic-free cycling, with a home-baked muffin (thanks, Beautiful Wife!) for morning tea looking over Lake Windemere, followed by a lunch-stop at the Butcher Shop Cafe in Mudgee. Lots of hills, cows, newly-shorn sheep, vineyards, olive groves, more hills, the obligatory snake, not too much roadkill, more hills and a perfect sunny day. Like being a child again...

In defence of Bruce

2011-04-16T08:55:00.003+10:00

Recently, a Facebook friend posted a link to Bruce Springsteen's 'born to run' saying she liked this song but hated Bruce. Fair enough. Facebook is full of opinion. But when other FBers posted that they hated him too, and particularly 'born in the usa', committing the same sin as Ronald Reagan and totally misunderstanding the song, I felt it was time for a defence of Bruce:-

What other popular musician writes heartfelt first-person narratives on:-

- illegal Mexican immigrants crossing the border for a better life 'across the border' and dying in the process 'Matamoros Banks'

- of a suicide bomber in 'paradise'

- of a firefighter alive after 911 in 'nothing man' or dying in the twin towers in 'into the fire'

- of a regular bloke trying to make sense of living in the times of George W. Bush in 'long walk home'

Geez, what musician has written a five-minute song good enough to base a entire movie on as Sean Penn did with Bruce's 'highway patrolman' for his directorial debut in 'The Indian Runner'?

No musician writes about souls in turmoil like Bruce. Get past the stadium rock of his early songs and listen to what he's saying.

'you can't make a living from poetry' and other cliches

2011-04-05T10:30:00.006+10:00

Absolutely love the creative and quirky ideas that Australian Poetry is coming up with to get poetry recognised in this country, but if I read another poet saying that you can't make a living as a poet, I'm going to bellow! It's a cliche and untrue and self-defeatist and against everything I imagine Australian Poetry is trying to achieve.

That said, I loved the title of Fiona's poem, 'She Looked Bored until Her Burger Came' - will seek out her poems soon... and hope she joins me and others as full-time no-other-bloody-job-ever poets in this country.

poetry and football - Shakespeare to Messi

2011-04-01T11:25:00.007+11:00

Poetry and football?

My working life has been devoted to writing poetry that is clear, crisp, concise and other descriptions that don't necessarily begin with C. For thirty years, I've happily stepped in front of an audience (any audience) and been reasonably confident (another C word!) that what I have to say will interest at least a few people in said crowd.

I attempt to write poetry the way I try and play football. When I was nine years old, I played my first game for South Coast United in the wilds of outer Brisbane. The coach, recognising my zeal, didn't assign me a position. His words, and I quote, were 'Just go where the ball is.' Freedom on the football field at age nine! What more could a child desire? I still recall a moment in that game, when I had the ball at my feet and the coach's son was ahead of me in a goal-scoring position. Between us stood a defender. I simply passed the ball into the space between defender and the goal for Brett to run on to and score. I savoured that pass and learned to love being the provider, not the scorer. For the next ten years, the same coach allowed me the privilege of playing my own game while Brett racked up the goals. I saw truth and beauty in the finely-timed, yet simple pass. I still do. For just a few seconds on the football field, it's the chance to have mastery over my immediate world - how do I pass? at what pace? And where? behind the defender? A chip over his head? My best answer on the field is generally to do the simple thing well.

Whenever a team-mate tries the impossible, yet artful, forty-metre diagonal ball, I sigh in frustration. Everyone thinks they're Shakespeare, or Lionel Messi. Me, I want to do the simple thing perfectly and hope it adds up to a beautiful whole. A bit like writing a verse-novel... line by line, I reckon?

And yet, sometimes I have to stop myself savouring the moment after passing - I realize I'm standing still on the field admiring the pass instead of running into position for a possible return ball. It's a bad look - to be so delighting in what you're doing.

It's much easier in my study to sit back after writing an acceptable sentence, or line, or paragraph - to read it aloud and enjoy the moment.

But here's the thing.

Poetry is my job, it's given me a good living for three decades, and I have no desire to close my keyboard anytime soon, but...

but... please don't ask me where truth and beauty mostly resides? I've tried with all my effort to find it in my study, and the failed attempts have given me a highly enjoyable job for a long time. But, every time I step on the football field, I know I'll find it, only for a few seconds... no matter what the result, no matter how I'm feeling - football allows me the indulgence of sheer poetry. Of all the scribbled lines of misdirected passes and dribbles I scrawl on the field on saturday, one... hopefully more... will be what I'm thinking about, and savouring, when I go to bed that night.

A football tragic, I am.

The highlight of any year...

2011-03-04T12:50:00.005+11:00

It's that time of the year again, when I start getting all tense and nervous, wandering the house, looking for something that will take my mind off the most exciting event of the year.

No, not the CBCA shortlist announcement, or the NSW Premier's Literary Awards, or the multitude of great literature festivals (Somerset, Voices, Sydney Writers, etc).

This is even more important than any of these.

It's the start of my football season!

This year, I've decided to play in an Over 45 league - yes, one exists. For too long, I've played against youngsters half my age. And, even though it means a trip to Sydney every saturday, finally, I may not be the oldest player in the squad.

First game tomorrow... wish me luck!

Fiction or fact?

2011-02-23T16:58:00.006+11:00

I have just finished visiting a school in the suburbs of Melbourne where Year Ten study my verse-novel, 'by the river'. The two hundred and fifty students seemed to enjoy the book and were eager to ask questions about it, in particular, 'how much of the story is true?'

This is the question I get asked regularly and it's the one I dread. I never know how to answer it succinctly and to the audience's satisfaction. Instead I tend to ramble about how the 'little' things in the book are based on my life; the scene with the butterfly swarms, the father getting up at daybreak to bicycle to his foundry job; the scenes of swimming in the creek; searching for the fruit bats; etc.

But the 'big' story of loss and leaving is fictional.

But, then again, we all go through loss at some point in our life and many of us leave our hometown eventually, so while the events depicted in the novel didn't actually happen to me when I was a teenager, they have happened at some time, in some way, in my life.

You see, already I'm rambling!

It just seems so wishy-washy and pretentious to say whatever I write about is based on the truth. But isn't that why we write - to make sense of what we've experienced? And the finished novel is the author tying up all those loose ends of real life, giving order and meaning to the debris...

black painted fingernails... and the year ahead

2011-01-19T12:44:00.004+11:00

2011 sees the release of my new YA novel, black painted fingernails, by Allen & Unwin. The likely back-cover blurb goes something like this:

‘How about we toss a coin? Heads, it’s west and a lift. Tails, it’s still west, but no lift.’

James is heading into the country on a teaching round, but his life takes a new direction when a mysterious girl asks him for a ride. Sophie has him all worked out: you live with your parents and they bought you this car, and a very nice car it is too…

But gradually James gets past her wild hair and attitude, and Sophie trusts him with a secret she’s been keeping too long.

A captivating and tender-hearted story about living the life that’s true for you and being open to love.

I'm looking forward to talking about it as I visit my usual 150-odd schools this year. I've tours already booked for Victoria in February; Queensland in May; Fiji in July; and South Australia in October (planned to coincide with the Masters Games - yep, more football!).

middle-aged men and bicycles

2010-11-24T14:47:00.004+11:00

I'm not sure what it is about middle-aged men and bicycles, but there seems to be a lot of us around. I'm the first to admit, people my age shouldn't really be seen in public dressed in lycra, but it's kind of necessary when riding any distance to avoid... ahem... chafing. So, I apologise about the photo.

I've had a Trek mountain bike for ages which I'd occasionally take along the trails near my house in the Blue Mountains, dodging potholes, branches and copperhead snakes. But after riding around Piedmont earlier this year and being utterly amazed at the number of Italian men taking to the hills on expensive sleek road bikes, I decided to take the plunge and buy a hybrid/road bike. It's only an entry-level Specialized, but already I've done 1,700 kilometres and it's certainly easier riding than the Trek.

This week I spent two days riding the Central West Slopes with the highlights being a delicious lunch at Taste in Canowindra; a $30 (!!) hotel room in Eugowra, and sharing brekkie at the same hotel in the morning with a rather wobbly mouse - like me, he'd probably eaten too much chicken schnitzel the night before.

If I don't fall off too often, I eventually plan to cycle the Canal du Midi - we drove along the route in June and it looks perfect for bicycling with villages every thirty kilometres or so, most with accommodation and patisseries ...

the future of the book publishing industry?

2010-11-17T08:48:00.005+11:00

I've been thinking about the perilous state of the book publishing industry. Authors have never really been the best-paid professionals and with the advent of e-books and people wanting (expecting) entertainment items for free (or very cheap), the squeeze is definitely on.

Is it possible that one day in the near future, authors will be releasing their books/writings on-line for free or subscription, and hoping to make an income through appearance fees? This is how the music industry has gone with bands making money from touring rather than records.

The only difference is that what bands do live is usually "entertaining" - can authors of dense, wordy tomes compete live? Is there a future opportunity for the so-called paupers of the paupers (the poets!) to rise up and become the new leaders of the "live words" industry?

I'm not so sure.

However, for the past twenty years, I've made an extremely comfortable living by doing just that - my books usually go into reprint and my live "shows" in schools (two hundred a year on average) are booked a year in advance. So, it can work. But only for those authors who want to tailor their performances to an audience. And only for those authors who have a "performance". Methinks, the future will see lots of authors signing up for "how to speak to an audience" workshops... or selling themselves into schools at an ever-increasing rate.

Any comments?

In Defence of Food

2010-11-09T19:30:00.004+11:00

My favourite non-fiction writer would have to be Michael Pollan. I've read and re-read his two influential books on food, The Omnivore's Dilemna and In Defence of Food. After the first reading of In Defence of Food, I decided to follow his loose guidelines on how we should choose what we eat. It's not a diet, just some simple food selection rules, like;

- eat mostly plants, especially leaves

- you are what what you eat eats too (meaning grass-fed cows, not grain fattened feed-lot meat systems)

- Avoid food products that make health claims (packaged food makes health claims, an apple just sits on the shelf, unadorned)

- Shop the peripheries of the supermarket and stay out of the middle

- get out of the supermarket whenever possible!!

- Avoid foods products containing ingredients that are a) unfamiliar b) unpronounceable c) more than five in number or that include d) high-fructose corn syrup

and my favourite, and the one that I think you should follow if you can't remember the above,

- Don't eat anything your great grandmother wouldn't recognize as food.

Which means plain yoghurt is in, flavoured yoghurt is out. Butter is in, margarine out. Wholemeal grain bread in, soft white (additive rich!!) bread definitely out.

After six months of following these rules, I'd lost five kilos and cut my cholesterol count significantly. Not that these things mattered as much as the fact that I really enjoyed eating and seeking out fresh natural food and, in the process, not buying as many items from giant multinational food producers and retailers.

And after two years of eating like this (and not regaining the lost weight, etc), I decided to take the next step and start growing a few leaves in the backyard. As a gardener, I'm a really good poet. But, after a few months, we've started eating regularly from our garden - lettuce (lots of varieties!), basil, spinach, cavolo nero.

And now the tomatoes are in beside the garlic, pumpkin and cabbage, although the capsicum and beans got badly treated by the recent snow (yes, in November!!). I can't believe how easy it is and how cheap, and ridiculously satisfying to go outside a few minutes before dinner and harvest the greens.

And, no, I'm not considering adding a cow for future slaughter, or chickens for sunday roast. I ain't a farmer, just a Michael Pollan devotee.

Read his books if you can - they suggest a realistic future for humankind and our relationship to food.

the football intelligence of Australian fans

2010-10-10T16:17:00.003+11:00

Yes, this is going to be a rant.

My mate and I went along to the see Australia vs Paraguay at the SFS on saturday. An impressive 1-0 victory, with the team playing attacking, pressing football under the new coach, Holger Osieck.

In the second-half, Australia really took the game to the technically-gifted Paraguay team and justly got the winning goal. After the goal, the game entered it's most exciting phase with Paraguay trying to equalise and Australia holding them out. I admit, I was on the edge of my seat and truly absorbed.

Until...

Most of the crowd started doing the mexican wave. WTF!

Instead of watching a really wonderful tight football game between two teams placed in the Top 25 nations in the world, twenty-thousand dickheads decide it's better to watch each other stand up and sit down! There seemed to be little understanding of the quality of football they were seeing. No, it wasn't Barcelona vs Real Madrid, but clearly the Paraguay team (quarter-finalist at the last World Cup) and the Australian team deserved much more attention than this.

I'm pleased to say the wave stopped after a few minutes, but it made me wonder whether we deserve to win the bidding rights to the 2022 World Cup if the best we can offer is this.

Let me finish by saying, Australia under Holger Osieck is a much better team than the defensive rubbish Pim Verbeek dished up. And he even seems capable of smiling and telling a joke.

the morning after (a dismal election night)

2010-08-22T15:16:00.005+10:00

I feel sick... and sad... and angry... and would kindly ask the very old and frail Gough Whitlam to please arise from his retirement and lead us from the darkness and back towards the light on the hill. (where I can see the kindly Mr Chifley waiting for us all)

Four months in a Citroen

2010-07-23T16:21:00.005+10:00

Cathie and I have just arrived home after four months travelling around Europe in a Citroen C4. We drove 22,000 kilometres through fourteen countries, miraculously without receiving a speeding ticket, being in an accident or witnessing any bureaucratic hassle whatsoever. I'm still a little jet-lagged, but here's a list of impressions, in random order, of the trip.

- Alternative power - Europe is years ahead of Australia in utilising solar and wind power. There are numerous solar panels on rooftops in cold and snowy Sweden; wind turbines on the hills in Portugal; solar-panel "farms" in Spain; wind turbines on the strait between Denmark and Sweden. Even "new" European countries like Estonia and Lithuania seem to have more wind and solar than Australia. I was given a lecture on Australia's backwardness by a farmer in Belgium as we stood gazing up at one of his many solar panels (while standing beside his reed bed!) and just before eating a dinner prepared from food grown on his small farm. In Sweden, a German man told me about his business specialising in marrying wind and water energy - that is, wind turbines to pump the water uphill to massive dams where it's stored until Hydro power is needed. And here in Australia? We can't seem to be able to place pink batts in our roofs!

- The roads - We've lived in Katoomba for fifteen years. The "highway" over the mountains was under contruction when we moved here... it's still isn't finished. In Portugal (supposedly an economic basket-case), we drove over perfect four-lane highways throughout the country. In every country we travelled, except Poland, the roads were much better than here - dual-lane carriageways being the norm.

- The drivers - Don't let anyone tell you the Italians are hopeless drivers, the Spanish are unpredictable, the Germans too fast... all those cliches. Nowhere in Europe did we see any driver staying in the overtaking lane longer than required. If you loiter in the fast lane, a posse of Audis threaten. Consequently, traffic flows much faster, no-one weaves in between lanes and you always know what the other driver is doing. We drove at 130 kmh most of the time (in the slow lane!).

- The world is a safe, friendly place - We usually stayed in small towns and villages where English was not necessarily spoken (and our Estonian or Portugese or Latvian is not the best...), yet everywhere we travelled we met people eager to help and people willing to communicate, often using limited English. Nowhere was our inability to speak the native language frowned upon - we tried to communicate using hand gestures and bad mime - this was enough to get by no matter where we were. In two trips across Europe totalling nine months and over 40,000 kilometres, we have never felt threatened or in danger - I feel safer in Krakow or Vilnius than I do in the Brisbane city mall at night-time.

- The Food - Everywhere we went the "staples" of life (bread, wine, coffee) are cheap - there is really no need for "designer" bread and wine (aka: Sydney Morning Herald "boutique" food) because everyone demands good quality staples. Consequently, an espresso in Italy costs A$1.20; bread in France costs A$1.30, wine throughout Europe can be bought in supermarkets for A$4 a bottle (and not rotgut either - decent local wine). In Australia, the Herald goes on and on about our emerging "food culture" - which basically means good food at ridiculously expensive prices. We'll never have a real food culture until the working class demand good-quality staple items for low prices - not sourdough bread for six dollars for heaven's sake! And espresso for four dollars!

We discovered the best way to find good cheap restaurant food in Europe was to look for delivery vans, trucks or workman utes parked outside in the car park - if the local workers ate there, we'd be guaranteed hearty food made from local produce washed down with regional wine. Try that in Australia and you'll end up at a pub with frozen schnitzel and chips. In Italy, we dined on saffron risotto, roast pork, salad and veges washed down with a bottle of wonderful sparkling red, and coffee - two people for A$28. A real food culture must come from the ground up - not as a fashion item for the middle class.

And for our next trip?

We hope to go to Morocco and Canada and... maybe... the Trans-Siberian railway. I have a yearning to try Yak butter tea.

The Dutch... it's much too much (ouch!)

2010-07-13T00:50:00.007+10:00

Every Dutch person I've ever met has been, without exception, a joy to spend time with. The phrase "hail fellow, well met" keeps popping into my head as I'm talking to my Dutch friends, whether in their own country or abroad. I dearly love my Dutch publishers, a bunch of friendlier, nicer, more intelligent people would be hard to find.

BUT. (you could see that coming, couldn't you)

The two memories I'll take from this World Cup are:

1) Pim Verbeek, our Dutch coach of the Australian team (thankfully now resigned) showing absolutely no spine in sending our team out to face Germany with no strikers. So defensive and mindlessly unimaginative, it makes me shudder still to remember that game. We'd lost that game before we took the field. After three years of Pim Verbeek as our coach, our national team has gone nowhere - full of old men in need of retirement. Thank goodness, he's gone.

2) The World Cup Final - the greatest stage of world sport and the Dutch team go out and basically kick the crap out of Spain in order to stop the Spanish playing their brand of beautiful football. And why? The Dutch team is strong, with speed to burn, brilliant midfielders and a resolute defence. And yet, instead of playing to exploit the weaknesses in the Spanish defence, they play negative football. Let's blame the coach, shall we? To repeat a sentence from above, the Dutch team had lost before they took the field. For a country that has produced Guus Hiddink and Johann Cruyff, it was painful to watch. And, in the end, their tactics got them nowhere. The better team won.

The negative team lost. Sport is just... for once!

The photo accompanying this blog? Our hotel room on a recent visit to Rotterdam - imaginative, fun, humourous, optimistic - everything I think about the Dutch. Everything, their football team and coaches weren't at this World Cup.

I've just eaten sixty-seven snails

2010-07-10T05:22:00.004+10:00

Yes, I counted them. My beautiful wife could only manage forty-eight. I hastily add they were not the french garlicy-oversize snails, but cute little round-shelled pulled-out-with- a-toothpick snails that are a regional speciality in Sintra (Portugal), cooked in salty, oniony brothy (yes, that's a lot of y's) soup. So, together we ate one hundred and fifteen snails and left at least sixty on the plate AND this was only a half-serve. The family at the next table were sucking and toothpicking two bowls. The snails had the must-eat-just-one-more taste of soft oozy pistachio nuts. And we finished the meal with the biggest bowl of fruit salad I've ever eaten. Snails and pineapple... I'll be sad to leave Portugal.

Editing, swimming, eating

2010-07-07T03:44:00.008+10:00

For the past two weeks, I have had the immense pleasure of sitting by a pool on a kiwi-fruit farm in Portugal, editing my new MS, black painted fingernails. Each day has been the same - three hours of editing, a few laps of the pool (it's thirty degrees by ten in the morning), then Cathie and I walk to the village where we have the choice of numerous cake shops - two portugese custard tarts and pingoos (kinda like a macchiato) later we walk back up the hill and dive into the pool. I work some more until lunch, where we drive to a nearby restaurant that serves hearty simple food - we have a new rule where we eat in rural Europe - if there are Citroen delivery vans or old Fiats parked in front of the restaurant, it's bound to be good. Sure enough, the local is always crammed with workmen hunched over huge plates of slow-cooked meats and pitchers of wine.

After lunch, I work for another hour or two, but really I'm waiting until the next World Cup game starts. The B&B we're staying at has a wide-screen television and a trainee worker named Daniella, a bright intelligent young woman who knows more about football than I do. One of her many tasks appears to be to sit with the old Australian and talk to him during the game. I enjoy this immensely.

The hosts, Maria and Jose have been so wonderful, I'm sorry we have to move on tomorrow for Lisbon. But, my MS is completed (for now) and the World Cup is drawing to a close.

My final prediction. Germany. Daniella agrees, so it must be good!

The World Cup - a few thoughts on a Sunday afternoon...

2010-06-27T21:41:00.005+10:00

Half-way into the World Cup, a few observations:-

- I love the way the "first-world football press" (read England and Europe) suddenly discover that the rest of the world ie: "third-world football" (read Asia, Africa, Australia, USA) can actually play football and don't need a gang of over-paid stars to win games, but can do it, as South Korea, USA and Japan have done with technical knowledge, team unity, and tactical organization.

I have particularly enjoyed watching Japan absolutely dismantle Denmark, Australia outplay Serbia (we beat them even with the hindrance of a crap coach!) and the USA and Algeria draw with England. Which, for those of us who actually know football, is not really a surprise, England being a team of adequate footballers lacking the technical skill to usually get past the round of 16 (and I wrote this before the Germany thrashing!!!). The real surprise is that people keep believing that the first-world somehow has a mortgage on the Cup.

Yes, the winner will probably come from Germany, Spain, Brazil, Argentina or hopefully Chile who in this tournament have played with attacking vigour, width, intelligence and have a left-wing coach (I know that shouldn't matter, but it does to me, okay!).

But wouldn't we all love to see a final where the best team won, not the so-called "best" players. So I hope for Japan or Chile, crazy as it sounds. And implore everyone to cancel their subscription to FoxSports and the Premier League - it ain't real football and it ain't necessarily the best football.

DOWN WITH THE HEGEMONY OF THE PREMIER LEAGUE!! Long live the J-league, the K-league, the South American leagues and... of course... the A-league!

SLICE

2010-06-21T17:01:00.003+10:00

I'm very pleased to post that my new YA fiction novel, "SLICE" is now out with Woolshed Press, an imprint of Random House. It's wonderful to be working once again with the fabulous publisher (and friend), Leonie Tyle, who released my first ten books with UQP. Leonie now has her own imprint at Random.
SLICE is the story of sixteen year old Darcy, who means what he says... he just shouldn't say it aloud.
To coincide with the launch, I'm spending a week guest blogging on the Random Blog. (And sunning myself beside a pool in Portugal.) Please visit when you can. The blog that is, although you're very welcome in Portugal - what a fabulous country!

The World Cup

2010-06-09T06:10:00.007+10:00

Enough of travel blogging for a while. Now for something really important… the World Cup. I’m in Europe for the whole tournament, so I’ll have the pleasure of watching most of the games in bars during the evening, rather than waking up at 4.30 in the middle of a Katoomba winter.

The biggest game, of course, is this Sunday when Australia play Germany. It’s wonderful that we’ve qualified again, but I have to say how apprehensive I am about the squad and the coach. Pim Verbeek is a very cautious man and it appears as though he is going to pick the same starting eleven as four years ago, with Viduka replaced by Cahill. All great players, but many are… ahem… past it. Too old, too slow. I fear that will be the refrain after the game.

So, instead of saying I told you so after the fact, here’s my predictions (and please, let them not come true!!!!)

vs Germany. A loss by at least two goals. Craig Moore will be found out in defence. He’s been a wonderful player over the years, but he’s lacking match fitness and is too old. A younger defender should have been chosen by Verbeek.

Okay, I'm cheating now - editing this blog after the first game to sadly admit I was right. A 4-0 thumping by a very impressive Germany against a team playing a formation of 4-6-0!!! Or was it 4-4-2, with two midfielders doubling as forwards? Whatever, it was horrible and reeked of Verbeek's limited coaching skills. And we paid the price. And, in my book, Moore (and Chipperfield) were at fault for one goal and Neill for the other. Now we only have to beat Ghana and Serbia!!!! And please, no going on about the awful referee. He was a little card-happy, but we were a leaderless rabble. Oh, what we would have done for a genuine number 10 to take control of the middle of the park. Maybe Nicky Carle? Sorry, Verbeek left him at home.

vs Ghana. A draw. 1-1, most likely. Tim Cahill the probable scorer. (oops, not now he's suspended for the game) But we’ll be chasing the game for most of the ninety minutes.

Okay, still cheating here and writing after Ghana game... which ended 1-1 as I predicted. Although Cahill didn't score. But a much improved display and the good news is that we have to find another centre back for the last game against Serbia, so I have some hope left. And the best news is only one more game (most likely) with Verbeek as coach and Arnold as his assistant. What a waste of four years they have been. Please, FFA choose a coach who values technical skill and intelligence.

Which will leave us having to beat Serbia to progress.

vs Serbia. A loss by two goals. Please don’t let it be so, but my money is on Serbia being the surprise packet of the tournament (and beating England in the next round… hee hee hee!!). They’re too big and strong in defence and too organized around the park for us to jag a win against them.

Posting this after our dramatic 2-1 win - very proud of our effort. And Moore's replacement Beauchamp was much tighter in defence. The only reason we don't progress to the next round is that farce of a game against Germany when Verbeek's tactics screwed us. I'm very glad to be proven wrong with my prediction this time. And so glad to see the back of Verbeek!

So that’s it. And what will we have gained from the exercise?

The pure pleasure of being at the biggest event in the world, bar none. And the joy of watching our team.

But, with a more adventurous coach and with some exciting and younger players, like Nick Carle, Simon Colosimo, Matthew Spiranavic in the team it may have been much more fun.

Yes, I know I’m talking as though it’s already over. I hope we thrash Germany, Ghana and the Serbs. And wouldn’t it be nice to meet England in the round of 16?

But… check here next week, when I truly hope to eat humble pie and say how foolish I was to ever doubt Sir Pim.

Tuscan food

2010-06-02T18:14:00.005+10:00

We’ve been staying in Volpaia, a small village in Tuscany for the past week. Underneath the apartment we’ve rented is a wine storage tank. Over breakfast, I imagine inventive ways of pushing a long hollow tube through the vent in the floor and dipping into all that chianti…

The village has two restaurants, a café, a wine and olive oil producer, a church and perhaps two hundred residents. It’s located high on a hill looking across to the tourist destination of Radda in Chianti. For five nights straight, we’ve eaten at La Bottega. The chef, Carla Barucci, has mastered the art of stews and slow-cooked meats. The menu reads like a Tuscan cliché – wild boar, rabbit with truffles, pork with herbs and chianti, sausage and beans. It’s all delicious and ridiciously cheap.

Today, to walk off the extra weight of all those meals we hiked ten kilometres across the hillside to Panzano to a butcher shop with a restaurant upstairs. How could we resist? And we did have ten kilometres to walk back home. We opted for the Mac Dario (pun intended) meal – ten Euro for a burger with Tuscan bread, fantastic chunky potatoes, celery and side vegetables and a bottle of frizzante water. For an extra three Euro we got Dario’s own wine and finished the meal with olive oil cake and coffee. The meal took ninety minutes – a slow food take on fast food. We “had a nice day” without anyone wishing us one!

Venice - almost better than watching the football

2010-05-24T05:20:00.003+10:00

Okay, I'm sorry to sound like a tourist, but is there any more unique city in the world than Venice? The evening light on the buildings, the colour of the water, those bloody gondolas, the million tourists walking around open-mouthed (like me), the quiet alleyways where suddenly you're the only person here, the hours spent walking back to your B&B because you're lost. One of the few cities in the world where it's kinda fun to get lost!

We're staying in the same B&B as two years ago. The new owners are just as friendly and helpful as the previous people. Tomorrow we plan to ride the Grand Canal ferries back and forward for a few hours before Cathie goes to the Peggy Guggenheim Museum and I watch Australia v New Zealand in football. Yes, that is how sad a football fan I am. But, it's only for ninety minutes in the heat of the day. And it is against the Kiwis! After we win and Cathie has had her slice of culture, it's back on the boats for an meander.

A ride through Piedmont

2010-05-17T02:07:00.004+10:00

For the last two days, I have been bicycling around the hills of Piedmont in northern Italy. Yesterday, I rode to five hilltop villages in an afternoon. No, I'm not super-fit, it's just the villages are very close. You go down one steep hill and up another and it's time for a coffee. In each village, there's a church, a cafe and few stone houses clinging to the hillside with a panaromic view of the snow on the alps between Italy and Switzerland.

Today, the owner of the B&B where we're staying took me on a 36km sweep around the hills and rice paddies (the highland and the low!), stopping only for a too-brief espresso before pushing on. For one moment, I had a vision of the perfect business - taking tourists like me on back-breaking but invigorating bicycle rides around an area that deserves to be as famous as Tuscany. Vineyards, great restaurants, the alps and the coast both an hour away by highway, very little traffic on the backroads... I'll stop now... I'm sounding like a real estate salesperson.

the Lithuanian Health Care system

2010-05-04T05:00:00.004+10:00

Sometimes, when you're travelling, things don't go to plan. So, when a piece of dust blew in my eye on saturday instead of blinking rapidly and waiting for it to dislodge, I scraped and scratched with dirty fingernails and damaged my cornea. And I spent the next twenty-four hours in mild, but frustrating pain. Eye drops? No help. Rinsing under a tap? Water goes up my nose!

Sunday afternoon in Vilnius, with no Lithuanian language to speak of, I went looking for a hospital.

No-one at hospital reception could speak English, so they called for a doctor, who immediately referred me to an eye specialist who was on duty all the time. Yes, Sunday at 5pm, I got escorted to the ninth floor where a young and attractive specialist looked carefully into my eyes (I demurely gazed back) and told me I'd scratched my cornea. She prescribed antibiotic drops and applied soothing ointment.

Thirty minutes after arriving, I'd seen two doctors and walked out, prescription in hand. The cost? Free if I was a European citizen. Sixty-two Litas for me. Approximately Twenty-nine dollars. Astounding. Brilliant. And the drops cost six dollars.

It's Monday and my eye is significantly better. Thank you Lithuania.

And the accompanying photo? Me and Lenin salute the modern Lithuanian Health Care system.

a day in the life of my stomach

2010-04-30T03:45:00.005+10:00

In the past fortnight, I've had the pleasure of reading at the Stockholm International School in Sweden and at the Copenhagen International Poetry Festival in Denmark. Both events were well-attended and lots of fun!

But I don't want to write about that just now.

I want to talk about food!

Here's what I ate today, with A$ prices in brackets to give you some idea of the high-life we're leading!

It started with breakfast at our B&B in Tallinn, Estonia. Muesli with kefir (kind of like yoghurt) and black bread with cheese. Orange juice.

We then drove south heading towards Latvia, but had some spare Estonian money we thought we'd shed. At Parnu, we found a brilliant cafe that served delicious apple cake ($2 a slice) washed down with perfect cappuccinos ($2.50). We walked around in the rain for awhile, wondering how to get rid of the rest of the spare change. We ended up in another cafe where I had a slice of black bread with red caviar ($1), another slice with sardines ($1) and yet another slice with sardines chopped up with... something tasty? ($1). We gave up trying to get rid of the money and changed it at the bank for Latvian Lats.

We drove into Latvia and dumped our bags at the B&B in Riga, then caught a wonderful tram into the Old Town where we had dinner. A bowl of Borscht Soup with black bread ($3.60) followed by beef goulash ($8), washed down with a glass of white wine ($3.60).

On the way home we bought some bananas (50 cents) in a pathetic attempt to kid ourselves we're eating healthy. Who cares. Everything we ate today was delicious!

Tomorrow, it's the potato pancakes we spied on the way out of the dinner restaurant.

Copenhagen International Poetry Festival

2010-04-17T18:05:00.006+10:00

Next week, I'm visiting a school in Stockholm to read poetry to the students (all fifty-one nationalities). After that, it's back to the lovely house surrounded by lakes in the Swedish countryside for two days of bicycling and then down to the Copenhagen International Poetry Festival, which includes events such as handing out poems to commuters (shouldn't there be a law against that??) and readings beside the grave of Hans Christian Anderson. I'm scheduled to read at a few sessions - remembering childhood (tick); love (tick), and one on football (double-plus tick) - both Australia and Denmark have made the World Cup. In fact, we play each other in June in a warm-up match. Should be lots to talk about. Oh yeah, I'm also one of those poets handing out his work on a Copenhagen street corner. After twenty-five years and twenty books, it's come to this...

Spring in Sweden

2010-04-16T01:09:00.006+10:00

Every time I pass a freshwater lake in Australia, I have the urge to jump in and swim across to the other side. Something to do with a childhood spent near too many creeks, rivers and beaches, I suppose.

It's spring in Sweden. Today is a beautiful sunny day and we stopped beside this lake not far from where we are staying. If I dived in here, I would crack my skull on the ice and die of hypothermia. So I compensated and spent a few childish minutes tossing boulders into the lake. They barely cracked the ice. We have canoes at our Bed & Breakfast. Can you canoe on ice? Maybe I'll stick to the bicycle and cycle around it instead, pondering how far an Australian childhood is from a Swedish one.

solar power in Sweden

2010-04-15T05:04:00.007+10:00

Yes, this is a very boring photo. It's the local high school in Bastad, Sweden. Although Sweden is very cold most of the year, often bleak and snowbound, the school has a full bank of solar panels on the roof. Dotted all over the surrounding countryside are power-generating windmills - they even have them plonked in the water on the strait between Denmark and Sweden. It's like this all over Europe. Solar power. Wind power.

Now, what country do I know that has lots of sunshine? And a fair amount of wind?

That's right, my own.

Let's dig up another few tonnes of coal, shall we?

the life of a long-distance poet

2010-04-11T04:50:00.005+10:00

I've always travelled for poetry, doing schools and festivals over the past twenty-two years in fourteen countries as diverse as New Zealand, Vietnam, Croatia and Spain. So, I know just a little about hotel rooms, eating out and driving on the wrong side of the road. Let me make a few sweeping generalizations.

In Australia, I pay a (relative) fortune for average hotel rooms where the air-conditioner makes as much noise as the overweight salesman snoring in the next room. In small towns, I dine at the local bowls club or the corner pub and eat too much meat drowned in too much sauce with too many chips and never enough salad. In cities, I seek out the restaurants I know from previous tours and treat them with the respect and patronage they deserve.

Driving? I fume in the fast lane at the person in front doing exactly 100 kmh which he (yes, it's aways a he) imagines give him the right to hold up as much traffic as he wants.

In Europe, in small towns, I stay in the Chambre d'Hote, or zimmers, or B&B's which offer a comfortable (soundproof!) room, often in a farmhouse three centuries old. The hosts provide a substantial breakfast included in the price which is always below A$100 per double. Sometimes, they also provide a three-course meal (with wine!) for around $30. If not, they recommend a restaurant in the village. It's always cheap and cheerful and the food is local and well-cooked.

In cities from Paris to Prague, I stay in one-star hotels (yes, one-star). The rooms are clean, sound-proof, warm and have character. They cost less than $120 a double and frequently include breakfast.

I drive in the far-right (slow) lane of three-lane highways at 130kmh. If I want to overtake, I can in the fast lane, but I know that no matter how fast I drive, I should only ever use this lane for passing. If I hang out there doing 150kmh, I will be tailgated by an Audi or BMW wanting to do 180 kmh. This is as it should be.

I'm writing this in a lovely room overlooking a green meadow of cows in the north of The Netherlands. We're paying A$72 (including "breakfast with milk straight from the cows outside", our hosts told us). She recommended a restaurant in a very small town a few kilometres away. It was full and surprisingly up-market. The menu was translated by the affable waiter and the food was absolutely delicious, prepared largely from local produce and very substantial.

Tomorrow, we're driving to Germany, in the slow lane, at a gentle 130 kmh.

Easter in Burgundy (Which one's the donkey?)

2010-04-02T23:41:00.006+11:00

We're spending the Easter weekend in the chambre of an old tower attached to a beautiful stone house with a dog called Custard (who is the star of a children's picture book written by the owner). In a (nominally) Catholic country, you'd expect everything to be closed on Easter Friday.

Non.

The children are still at school, the boulangaries are open, the Council workmen are diligently weeding the village park and the donkey is pleading for apples. The man in the silly beanie is walking home from a hilltop village that has its very own ancient lavoir fed by a spring where the town washerwomen scrubbed the clothes in a different century. From their vantage point, they would have looked across the pastures to the surrounding villages. It's pleasing to report that the hand-scrubbing has gone, but all the villages still exist with bakers and schools and small restaurants and tabacs and churches and postal vans (the French love snailmail) and town halls where the notices are posted for all to read and the music events program for the district runs to an impressive twelve pages and if I had a stray few dollars I may be tempted to buy that medieval chateau on the distant hill, but I don't... so I'll go and eat a raspberry tart and find another apple for that appealing fellow with the big ears.

Hotel de Polis

2010-03-25T02:30:00.005+11:00

Just imagine you're an architect and you've been given a brief to design a hotel with the monumentally boring name of Hotel de Police. What do you do?

Simple.

Have a god-like Adonis straddling the top-floor balcony going around two sides of the building.

Tres magnifique.

Paris in spring

2010-03-24T02:36:00.005+11:00

I’ve just finished an enjoyable and very quick stopover in Malaysia where I worked a day at the Australian International School in KL. The students were wonderful and very responsive and after five shows in a day, I slept most of the overnight flight to Paris to wake to a perfect spring day and thousands of french people chain-smoking outside government buildings; young women in high heels fondling obscenely large cheeses in fromagaries; old ladies walking ugly pug dogs down cobblestone lanes; tourist lines snaking around the corner at Notre Dame; and not one French person being rude or unfriendly. If you try and speak their language and make a complete fool of yourself, then without doubt the French will respond with courtesy and passable english. Today’s example was arriving to our hotel at 8.30 in the morning and trying to explain in childish french jibberish that we’d like to leave our baggage here until we’re allowed to check in at the appropriate time. The desk clerk smiled and offered us the keys to an available room. Try doing that at an Australian motel early in the morning.

Fact I didn’t know: Number One

The owners of the huge palm oil plantations in Malaysia release deadly cobras to protect their precious fruit from rats. When it comes time to harvest the crop, the workers wear big boots and long pants and watch where they walk. It’s illegal to kill a cobra. Not sure if it’s equally illegal to be killed by one.

Reader Beware - unrestrained gloating ahead

2010-03-17T10:14:00.004+11:00

I've just received in the letterbox, two reprint copies of the my first verse-novel "love, ghosts and nose hair" from UQP, who, being a friendly publisher, always send me copies of every new reprint. I open the book and see that this is the ninth reprint since the original was released in 1996. I'm very pleased and proud. It makes "nose hair" my second-best seller behind "the simple gift" which this year went into it's eleventh reprint.

Not too shabby for books of poetry. Or verse-novels, to be more precise.

And no, I don't really think it means that hundreds of teenagers and adults are storming the doors of bookshops to buy these volumes - I'm sure it's due in a very large part to the support I receive from teachers who order multiple copies for class sets.

A moment while I bow in gratitude to all those teachers.

And now the gloating - I'm pleased the teachers do this because I've always wanted to turn young people onto poetry, and I believe my verse-novels get teenagers interested and excited by poetry. If we want people to gain a love of poetry, it makes sense to get them interested at a very young age - that's why I write what I do and that's why I visit so many schools to conduct performances.

It's the best job in the world.

And while I'm having a break from writing verse-novels at present, while I concentrate on prose, I've no doubt at some stage I'll return and begin my eleventh verse-novel.

Actually, (whisper whisper) I'm half-way through a verse-novel for children - it's just having a nap in my bottom drawer at present.

melbourne and steak tartare

2010-03-03T09:13:00.003+11:00

I've just returned from a wonderful five days in melbourne where I visited too many schools to name (on average three a day) and ate copious amounts of french food at a restaurant within walking... stumbling... distance of my B&B in Richmond. All the waiters spoke french, the cook regularly walked outside to have a cigarette, and I got to eat Steak Tartare, which tasted like raw steak with eggs and spices, which it is!

I hastily add that this dish was ordered by Hilary, my editor at Allen & Unwin - a brave soul willing to tackle not only piles of raw meat but pages of my next poorly-written manuscript! My publisher, Sue and I wisely ordered food that had seen a stove.

Over creme brulee, We discussed the possibilities for my "verse-novel that never was" black painted fingernails. It's now a prose fiction I am enormously excited about - I can't wait to do another (hopefully final!) rewrite - it should be out in 2011.

The other highlight of Melbourne was spending time with my son Joe and his girlfriend Natalie who were having a last holiday week before returning to University. What did they do? Hung out in cafes, went to galleries, visited lots of bars, and drank wine on the backdeck of the B&B... and made me wish I was twenty years old again.

the simple gift - stage play

2010-02-12T12:03:00.005+11:00

The wonderful people from BOOTLACE Productions at Coffs Harbour are staging another series of performances of my verse-novel, the simple gift at the Jetty Theatre in Coffs.

I had the pleasure of being in the audience for a few performances last year and was mighty impressed with the actors, the stage design, and the great adaptation and direction by Sue Dickinson. Sue and most of the cast are back for this second season, so I'm sure it will be as entertaining as it was last year.

The link for bookings is here:

Dates for the play are:

Thursday 4 March 11 am (school show)-full house already

Friday 5 March 11 am(school show), 8 pm

Saturday 6 March 8 pm

Sunday 7 March 2 pm

Wednesday 10 March 8 pm

Thursday 11 March 11 am (school)

Friday 12 March 11 am (school), 8 pm

Saturday 13 March 2 pm, 8 pm

Day One of another school year

2010-02-09T15:48:00.003+11:00

Today was my first school visit for 2010 and it marks my 21st year of visiting schools on a regular basis of approximately two hundred schools per year. That's a lot of schools and students. Think about it... students who heard me speak all those years ago are now in their mid-thirties. I've even visited schools where the teachers were once students in one of my shows.

I still get a buzz out of my schools shows. Not every show is word perfect, not every show changes every students perspective on poetry, but I know, by the response of the majority of students, that I've shown them that poetry can be accessible and relevant and... dare I say it... entertaining.

Today I visited Lurnea High School to do three shows with over three hundred (male) students. Students like Wahid and Jake and Samer make this job worthwhile. I thank them for their attention and support. And the teachers for taking on the extra workload of inviting me to the school to talk poetry.

I hope the desire remains with me for a few more years yet!

A real journalist

2010-01-18T08:51:00.005+11:00

For years, my long-suffering and wonderful wife has had to endure repeated monologues from me over breakfast about the state of journalism, how newspapers don't "do" research anymore, now it's all just opinion. And that opinion is inevitably from right-wing hacks like Miranda Devine (shudder) or Gerard Henderson (double shudder).

But, thanks to my iconoclast-loving son, Joe, my wife can now have a relatively peaceful breakfast of pancakes and George Monbiot - a journalist and author with The Guardian in the UK. Joe bought me his book, Bring on the apocalypse: six arguments for Global Justice, a collection of his articles over the past few years. I devoured it in a day. A journalist who backs up opinion with sources - a rare delight.

Don't trust me though - go to his web-site and read his work.

And feel content that you never have to buy the Sydney Morning Herald again!

fifty-one!

2010-01-01T15:12:00.004+11:00

Happy New Year.

Happy Birthday to me.

Delicious cake.

Wine wasn't bad either...

But, as 2009 retires gracefully into the memory bank, perhaps I should do a quick review of what happened to me, before I forget!

We started the year in Sydney, in a rented flat in Newington, with me trying to write two manuscripts at once. In between bike rides along the Parramatta River, I converted an unpublished verse-novel "black painted fingernails" into the start of a prose ms and enjoyed it so much, I just kept writing. By March, I had a messy first draft. Secondly, I took an 8,000 word short story with a lead character I really liked and converted that, by the end of 2009, into a prose novel called "Slice: juicy moments from my incredible life" which is due for publication in August 2010 by Woolshed Press (Random House). I'm really looking forward to it's release, after we get back from Europe.

The rest of 2009 was preoccupied with school visits, scoring twenty goals and making the Grand Final for my Sydney football team, Lokomotiv Cove and playing football at the Masters Games, where we won a silver medal.

By September, we'd decided that Sydney wasn't really for us, so we moved back home to Katoomba, where for the first time in my thirty-year career (if that's the word for it!) as a writer, I had my own study. I now look out through double doors and across the verandah to my backyard, and on a really clear night, I can see the lights of Sydney on the plain. Most nights, however, all I see is mist and cloud and rain and fog and all the other delights of living 1,000 metres above sea level.

Provence travel article in Sun-Herald

2009-11-30T19:27:00.003+11:00

My latest travel article, on Provence, was published in the Sun-Herald (Sydney) on Sunday, link here. Last year, Cathie and I spent five months driving around Europe. We leased a Citroen in Paris and vaguely pointed her in the direction of Istanbul. One of our first stops was Provence, with all the tourist cliches you can name - lavender fields, sunflowers, vineyards... you get the idea. But what really impressed us was the number of small villages in France (in fact, throughout much of Europe) that still retain their culture, identity and social life. We stayed in a BB in Provence and within walking distance were two beautiful villages. Sablet had two boulangaries, a restaurant, a few cafes, a butcher, a market on thursday... even it's own book fair attracting authors from throughout France - all this in a village of 2,000 people! The photo is of Gordes, not Sablet. Yet another beautiful village built on a mountain top. To read about it, go to the article link above.

Katoomba - freezing one day... Arctic the next

2009-11-24T10:16:00.006+11:00

You've got to love Katoomba. Like the rest of NSW, we sweltered in the high thirties (Celsius) on sunday, even with our usual strong westerly blowing in. But on monday, while Sydney welcomes the change, recording temperatures between fifteen and twenty, up here the mercury plunges to eight overnight and doesn't go up much during the day. It's mid-morning in late November and the temperature outside is eleven degrees. I ring my son in Sydney and he's off to the beach. I'm in my study with the heater on. Something about living at one thousand metres, I guess. Outside my study window, the mist starts rolling up the hill. In a few minutes, I won't be able to see the back fence. Oh well, back to my next book, called black painted fingernails about a couple driving across the western plains... in thirty-five degree heat.

Now, how to get in the mood...

A rant about coffee

2009-10-28T18:43:00.002+11:00

Okay, I'm a coffee wanker. I like my espresso machine and I appreciate a good strong coffee. But I'm away from my Gaggia at present, on tour in Qld. So I'm at the mercy of overly sun-tanned, multi-tattooed, self-important wankers otherwise called baristas.

I hate the foibles of asking for a coffee nowadays.

Years ago you simply asked for a strong latte... or flat-white... and that's what you got. Now, I have to ask for a "double-shot, extra-hot latte, please?" If you don't do this, you receive a tepid weak coffee from a waitress in a black t-shirt two sizes too small. You return the coffee to the barista and smile, saying "Sorry, it's weak and cold." The wanker looks at you like you're ignorant scum and says, and I quote, "That's how they make it in Italy." He shrugs and then makes you a coffee designed to bring on a heart attack, burning the milk in the process.

Now, I've been to Italy but I don't really want to debate my travels with anyone who spends that long under a sun-lamp, but asking for a hot coffee just doesn't make sense. Coffee is meant to be hot. And strong.

Soon, I'll have to say "Can I have a double-shot, hot, coffee espressed through coffee beans in a implement that I can drink out of, please?". I repeat, coffee is meant to be hot... not burnt, not tepid, not "double-shot" - what is that? I'm ordering a coffee not a whiskey?

I blame Starbucks. And Gloria Jeans. And baristas with brains and senses addled by too much sun.

the best pizza I've ever eaten

2009-10-24T14:43:00.002+11:00

Five years ago, Cathie, me and the boys drove to the Queensland country town of Kenilworth, fifty kilometres inland from Noosa (popular holiday destination of down and out poets). It was lunchtime and we vainly searched the main street of town for somewhere to go. We found a rundown timber house/cafe that looked worse for wear. The verandah had plain floorboards and a few mismatched tables and chairs. There were no customers. Jack and Joe decided not to stay and took themselves off to the pie-shop up the road (typical Qld boys!!!).

Cathie and I sat down and were waited on by a very nervous teenage boy. Hovering in the background was a short, bearded man with dirty hands and unkept hair. He looked like an ageing bikie. The menu listed a few pizzas and salads. We ordered one of each. We waited for a very long time. The dishevelled vertically-challenged bikie kept coming out and prowling around the garden. We both noted he hadn't washed his hands. Thoughts of late-night visits to the emergency department of the rural hospital with food-poisoning filled in the time waiting for our pizza.

The boy finally brought our lunch. One pizza with tomato, pine nuts, bocconcini and herbs. It was thick and juicy and tasted like heaven - no, cancel that - it was thick and juicy and tasted like ripe tomatoes, delicious bocconcini, crunchy roasted pine nuts and garden-fresh herbs (now we know why he kept coming out to the garden... and getting his hands dirty!). The crust was light and crunchy and crispy and nothing like a pizza crust - more like French pastry (but not sweet!). We looked at each other with full mouthfuls and felt instantly sorry for the boys who were missing out on this. The salad was tomato, fetta, herbs, cucumber, olives, lettuce and dressing. Fresh and much too big a serving for two people.

Jack and Joe arrived back complaining about cold pies full of gristle. We gave them a taste and they swore profusely at missing out on this. We promised we'd bring them back in a few days.

Eventually the bikie came out (there were still no other customers) and started talking to us. He was French (of course!). And here's the kicker... he didn't make the best pizza I've ever eaten - the boy did! Daniel, the french bikie, just told him what to do. His (dirty) hands hadn't touched one piece of pizza. We asked if we could come back in a few days for dinner. He shrugged and said yes. We got his phone number, just in case he wasn't open. He'd already given us the impression of disorganized genius.

A few days later, the four of us were back. We ordered the same thing only double. The boy wasn't there. Daniel would be cooking. It took even longer to prepare. There were still no customers. It tasted even better. Jack and Joe agreed. Daniel came out afterwards and talked about his plans of setting up a take-away; of making ice-cream; of baking cakes (his mother had taught him the art of pastry back in France); of awakening this town to the culinary delights of his homeland.

That was five years ago.

We've visited every year since, generally squeezing in three dinners in a week. Always the same meal. Only twice have there been other customers. Mostly, we ring ahead and Daniel opens just for us. We wait (ages!) drinking his french wine and chatting. We went last night and he showed us the back of the restaurant where he has plans to cater for big dinner parties. The place could easily hold over one hundred people.

We were the only customers.

Daniel got so involved in talking to us, he burnt the pizza and made us another. He sat down with us and ate the burnt one. The salad was even larger and tastier. The pizza... perfect.

How much?

Thirteen dollars for pizza. Fifteen for salad.

Every time we've left feeling full and satisfied and eager to tell everyone about his genius.

And now we have.

La Escapade in Kenilworth. It won't be open. Just wander the verandah until Daniel comes out and plead for a pizza and salad. You just might get lucky.

Masters Games - Gold Medal Final

2009-10-19T17:07:00.003+11:00

I tried everything - even making the three men marking me smell my underarms, but, unfortunately very little worked. We finally met a team who didn't play boring English-style cross-the-ball-at-every-opportunity football. We played a bunch of Greeks who wanted to pass it! They outclassed us from the first minute. Despite going two goals behind inside ten minutes, we managed to fight back near the end of the half and I scored a long-range header that sailed over the keeper from eighteen metres out (which shows just how hard my head really is). It stayed 2-1 until the last few minutes when they tucked away two more for good measure.

So we settled for the silver medal. A fantastic effort from a bunch of blokes who'd never played together until eight days ago. We won five games, drew one and lost one. I top-scored with five goals, followed by "own-goal" with two. Congratualtions to the South Coast Masters on winning gold and us blokes for winning silver!

Masters - Quarter Final and Semi-Final

2009-10-16T19:03:00.003+11:00

Yes, two games in one day is pushing these fifty year old bones a little too hard. The Quarter was against Glenmore Park, a team I've played many times over the years, generally to be on the losing side. Not this time. A scrappy, hard-fought 0-0 draw. We went to penalties - to win it 4-3. I didn't take one - I was sixth in line, and not needed in the end. I dips me lid to the blokes who took our penalties and of course to our brilliant goalkeeper, Ian.

Three hours rest and then to the semi-final against... ahem... Dunrooten United, a team from Maitland, NSW. Everyone was exhausted and the quality of play suffered a little, but the fitness of our defence and midfield told in the end. I scored a lucky goal in the first half for us to take a 1-0 lead. Secretly, I think we were all just hoping to hold on. But a long free-kick from Jeff, our left-back allowed me to get on the end of it in the box and volley home the second. The rest of the game was Ian saving shot after shot and our defence scrambling brilliantly. They scored in the last minute, but it was all over. A 2-1 win and a place in the Gold Medal Final on sunday. I'm supposed to be driving to Qld that day, so it may be a very long day. I've got four goals so far to lead the scoring, closely followed by "own-goal" on two!!!! And I'm still stuck in the unfamiliar position of centre-midfield... but I almost starting to enjoy it. As someone asked on the sideline "Does this mean where one of the best two 0/45 teams in the world?" Tell him he's dreaming!

Masters - Game Four

2009-10-15T22:34:00.003+11:00

The final game of our Pool was against NSW Fire Brigade. They needed to beat us 6-0 to qualify. We needed to win to be top of the Pool and make the quarter-finals. The game was sloppy, disjointed, clumsy and not much fun. We won, 1-0. I scored the goal early in the game and didn't really get another shot, despite finally playing as striker, until near the end, when I hit the post. Great defence from our team though. Tomorrow, we play a quarter final in the morning and, if we win, we play a semi-final in the afternoon. Two games in one day. I think not. It's been a great run from our team in the Pool - we've been outplayed a few times but finished undefeated.

Masters - Game three

2009-10-14T18:34:00.003+11:00

Today in horrible windy conditions, we played the undefeated top team in our Pool from Canada... and won 2-0!!! The opposition must have had twenty shots to our single effort, yet once again, goalscoring means everything in football. Our left full back Neil scored a great opportunist goal with fifteen minutes remaining. We defended with ten players behind the ball for the rest of the game, only to see great pressure from Tim in midfield force an own goal. Which means "own-goal" is leading our goal-scoring list so far with two, followed by a few of us on one! Tomorrow, we play the NSW Fire Brigade and need to avoid losing by a few goals to make the quarter-final. Amazing. One grumble from today - the notion of time-wasting when leading is something I really don't like. Sure, it's okay to dribble into the corner and shield the ball, or pass the ball around without actually going anywhere - that's fine - if the opposition want it and are good enough, they can come and get it off us. But, to waste time when the ball goes out for a corner or a throw-in is just cheating and shouldn't be condoned.

Anyway, I'm off to the pub to watch Australia v Oman. Football never stops!

Masters - Game two

2009-10-12T20:09:00.005+11:00

Playing on an even more perfect field, we old men recorded a 2-0 win over Lokomotiv Lochiel who had the best shirts I've seen in a while. I "scored" a header in the first five minutes only for one of my team-mates to be given offside - what about passive offside, I ask? Can I make some outrageous generalizations about our team (according to Nationality)? The Kiwis are fit, fast and direct. The Canadians are huge, dependable and even-tempered. The Australians? A rag-tag bunch of skill and emotion and football brains (no, I'm not talking about myself). Tomorrow is a rest day and then the most difficult game against a team from Canada who have won three in a row. Yikes.

Masters Games - first game

2009-10-12T08:26:00.002+11:00

A very respectable 2-2 draw for my football team, Hawks 45, in our first game at the Masters. We played a team from Lake Macquarie who were, frankly, much more composed and assured on the ball. After the first fifteen minutes we were 2-0 up thanks to an excellent striker's goal from Brent (Homer) Simpson and a cool finish (if I do say so myself) from me (my first Masters goal!). We then tried to hang on for the next 45 minutes (games are one hour at the Masters). It was never going to happen. The highlight for me was the magnificent fields we have this week. At Football NSW headquarters are five fields that have... wait for it... grass. Green, lush, easy-to-control-the-ball-on grass. Heaven. Next game against a team called Lokomotiv Lochiel - I can't wait!

Masters Games begin

2009-10-11T09:06:00.003+11:00

The World Masters Games began yesterday and my football team, Hawks 45, are equal top... after getting three points for a bye. Oh well, it's a start. We actually had a friendly against a much fitter, younger bunch of Tasmanians who beat us convincingly. It looks like I'm playing in the highly unfamiliar position of central midfield. I believe I'm expected to tackle, run AND pass. I can't really see myself achieving all three in the one game. Our team consists of five Australians, two Canadians and eight Kiwis, including a very good goalkeeper (something tells me he'll be busy over the next week). We have four games scheduled over the next six days. Updates posted here if I can make it from sideline to the computer.

And while we are on football, Joe and I went to see the Australia - Netherlands game last night. Two gripes. Can FFA please hire an announcer who can pronounce football players names correctly. Dirk Kuyt is not pronounced Derek Quet!

Second gripe? Brett Holman. Nick Carle spends 90 minutes on the bench while this klutz loses the ball nearly every time he touches it, which is rarely, and then spurns our only chance of the game in the 88th minute. I know he plays in the Dutch League, but what has he ever done for Australia?

This armchair critic will now go and fall over the ball, holman-style, five times in one hour during the Masters this afternoon. Wish me luck!

Adieu Sydney

2009-09-21T09:43:00.003+10:00

We are moving back home to Katoomba next week and perhaps I should make some observations of our ten months in Sydney. The apartment we rented was full of natural morning light and spacious for the two of us, now that our young men have moved away (sob sob). I loved the bike trail outside our apartment block that took me along the Parramatta River every afternoon, or even all the way to Botany Bay if I was feeling adventurous. In fact, that's what I'll miss most. And the proximity to so many food shops - the poet who ate Sydney should be the title of my next book. And I really liked that not one game of football was cancelled due to bad weather - every weekend I could look forward to playing for Lokomotiv Cove without scanning the distant skies for rain clouds and arrogant council rangers wanting to close the sports field so the grass can grow untrammelled by overweight footballers.

Things I didn't like? The obvious, I'm afraid - the traffic, the noise, the self-obsessive nature of most large cities. Cathie and I quickly decided that instead of paying rent, we'd rather travel, so next year's Sydney rent money is going to be spent in Europe instead.

I also missed the small community feel of Katoomba. I'm not really one for walking down the main street and talking to everybody I meet, but Katoomba does have a... peculiar atmosphere all it's own. We move back next week and for the first time in my life, I will have a study of my own. Eighteen books have been written in the lounge room. I hope I can toss off another eighteen in my study looking out over the garden. Or perhaps I'll just daydream about pruning the hedge?

Another season done and dusted...

2009-08-31T07:51:00.005+10:00

My Team, Lokomotiv Cove Over 35 finished the season extremely well, winning three semi-finals in a row to make the Grand Final yesterday where we came up against a frighteningly good Pagewood team who had won the past five first division titles. Despite losing our South American playmaker and English enforcer in the first fifteen minutes to injury, we held them for sixty minutes. Pity a game is ninety minutes. 4-1 the final score. This season I scored twenty goals and played every game, some better than others. It now means I've been top-scorer ten out of the past eleven seasons... still waiting for a golden boot award! But football is never over - next month, I play in a NZ team in the World Masters Games 0/45 Division. Playing five games in five days in the heat of October should be fun...

"Spaghetti" review

2009-08-10T09:09:00.007+10:00

A lovely review of Untangling spaghetti appeared in Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald (August 8), written by Angie Schiavone who has previously said good things about my books (bless her!). My only quibble is I'd rather be thought of as a prince...

"The king of poetry for children is Steven Herrick. Having written several haunting verse novels, he has returned to his earlier work for children and Untangling spaghetti includes his favourites - poems previously published and often performed at school visits. It's fitting, then, that the collection has such a warm, nostalgic feel and it's not surprising that Herrick's two sons were his original inspiration. In the book's introduction, Herrick reminisces about how the boys would tell him stories of their days at school, which he'd then turn into poetry. Herrick's poems - and, indeed, this collection on the whole - are so well-balanced. On the one hand there's humour and light-heartedness; on the other there's depth and thoughtful care. Whether the subject matter is football, food, schoolteachers, love or loss, this vivid poetry shows that good things can come in small packages." Lovely!

And here's an equally positive review for the USA edition of Cold Skin that appeared in the September 2009 edition of The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books.

"Herrick has taken readers to small Australian towns before and introduced them to a variety of characters who live there, but never before has he crafted such a careful and balanced treatment of the complex motivations and deeply felt emotions as he has here. Set in a small coal-mining town in the late 1940s, this verse novel begins innocuously enough with a focus on a strong, soft-hearted boy named Eddie, who wants to leave school to work in the mine. His father, Albert, has returned from the war, disappointed by the fact that all he did was drive trucks yet also painfully aware of his cowardice. Other characters, whose individual voices are powerfully rendered in poems variously introspective, defensive, sweet, and wise, include Eddie’s dissatisfied brother; his smart, boldly sexy girlfriend; a pompous mayor; a sagacious, ethical newspaper editor; a lecherous and embittered teacher; a cautious, lonely policeman; and Colleen, a beautiful, intelligent young woman who longs for something more than her small town can offer. When Colleen disappears and is later found dead, Sergeant Grainger knows that he doesn’t have much time to find her killer before the men in the town take matters into their own hands, but he is careful to avoid making assumptions about men he has known most of his life. The resulting exploration of the multiple perspectives and emotional aftermath of a horrendous crime in a close-knit community is tightly focused and wisely realized, particularly in its attention to the traumatizing effects of war, the nature of accountability, and the complex relationships among men."

What the government should do

2009-07-29T11:24:00.007+10:00

I've been busy sending off letters to politicians regarding the Parallel Importation of books issue, trying not to be too defeatist about what I expect will happen... which is the government will yet again cave in to "market forces" and act "for the good of the market" - all complete and utter rubbish and the very reason the economy is utter crap at present. (Yes, "utter crap" is a technical term used by economists and poets!).

I yearn for the days when governments acted for the good of the people, of society, not for "the good of the economy". And I find it supremely ironic that one of my letters is dispatched to the Minister for Arts, Peter Garrett. If anyone should be able to understand this issue, you would hope it's an artist who's aware of the possibility of our culture being overwhelmed by cheap US imports...

Here's my prediction... the government will cave in... they'll make lots of conciliatory gestures about increased funding for the book industry... recognizing that they'll have to prop-up an industry that at present is highly competitive and functioning perfectly well. How stupid is that?

And that increased funding will go to bureaucracy and show-piece events that cost a bloody fortune and are designed to give us all a warm fuzzy feeling about our literary culture. And are forgotten in a few months. What they should do is two things:

- leave the Import Restrictions as they are and let the Industry continue to prosper.

- Peter Garrett should increase PLR/ELR to twice it's present budget. Public Lending Rights and Educational Lending Rights are the fairest, most equitable, wide-ranging government funding scheme I know - every writer benefits annually with minimal bureacracy and no hierarchy of funding - if you're a writer and you have books in libraries, you receive a royalty. How bloody brilliant is that? It goes without saying Gough Whitlam (that's him in the picture!) brought it in. At present, the budget is something like nine million dollars per year. That's the wage of one Macquarie bank executive!! Increase it to eighteen million dollars and watch our literary culture really flourish.

Anyway... back to some real writing... a book that may well be published with characters talking to someone called "Mom" and she's getting "pissed" instead of "pissed", if you get my meaning.

Maybe I should get blue hair?

2009-07-19T18:55:00.011+10:00

I have just arrived home from the wonderful Whitsunday Youth Literature Festival. A big thank you to all the organizers who made my time in Mackay such a pleasure. One major highlight was the literary dinner at the brand new Entertainment Centre with over four hundred guests. I read a few poems and then giggled non-stop through the highly amusing keynote address by Jean Kittson. My six sessions were huge and the lines at the book-signing table most impressive - I hasten to add not as impressive as Emily Rodda and John Marsden - those two writers are absolute superstars.

And finally I managed to overcome the dreaded Queensland Festival writer-in-a-tent-syndrome. Didn't sweat, didn't lose my voice, didn't topple off stage, didn't spill the glass of water. Mackay in winter is a warm hospitable place.

Football tragics only

2009-06-23T18:16:00.006+10:00

A post only for football tragics, I'm afraid. My team, Lokomotiv Cove have been having a wildly up and down season, winning games 10-0, losing other games 6-0. How does that work? Simple. Some bozo at the federation decided to put the 0/35 first and second divisions together, leading to an eighteen team competition. Imagine Manchester United playing... Scunthorpe. And where are Loko? A creditable seventh, getting soundly beaten by the top six who are very aggressive and mildly skillful, but beating everyone below us. The oldest man in the team, that'd be me!!!, had a good weekend, scoring five in a 6-1 victory. For a beautiful action shot of Herrick in full-flight, go here. And where did the free-kick go, you ask? Easy... miles over the bloody bar. Beckham, I'm not.

On a slightly related note, my son Joe and I have season tickets to Sydney FC this year. Looking forward to some european influence in the coaching department. They may even pass the ball this year!!

the odd shortlist AND a new book!

2009-06-04T16:27:00.007+10:00

Rhyming boy, my first prose fiction has been shortlisted in the Australian Speech Pathologists Book of the Year Awards. The longest shortlist I've ever seen, here.

And Cold Skin is shortlisted in the YABBA Children's Choice Awards, here, with some serious, I mean Premier League, opposition - Morris Gleitzman, Emily Rodda, Matthew Reilly, Garth Nix, Catherine Jinks and Moya Simons... yikes!

So, let's forget all that shall we and talk about my new book, which is one I've been wanting to have published for years and years and years... well, since I turned forty-five.

It's called untangling spaghetti and is the selected poems from my three poetry collections for children. Full of poems I still perform on a regular basis, poems that trace the childhood of my two sons, Jack and Joe - some true, some slight exaggertions, some major fibs and some just plain silly. The boys are no longer children, but young men. Hairy young men. I trust they'll forgive their father his indulgence in writing about them. Despite popular opinion, that is not me on the cover.

A new career - I don't think so

2009-05-25T08:26:00.010+10:00

I had my first travel article published yesterday in the Sun-Herald (Sydney) Travel section. It was as exciting as getting my first poem published thirty-two years ago... well, almost. All day, on my wanderings around Sydney, I kept looking for people reading the newspaper. Wisely, most people seemed to have better things to do. The article was on the wooden churches of Maramures County in Transylvania - nothing at all to do with Dracula. The churches were built in the 17th and 18th century in reaction to ruling kings forbidding the erection of stone churches. The response of these simple, devout communities? If not stone, then wood. Wood carved and joined and spliced and adorned and sculpted into fairytale edifices that defy not only kings but history. Cathie and I drove around in awe. I regularly stumbled backwards into a ditch trying to photograph all of the tall - eye-poppingly tall - spires.

In the same travel section was an article on cycling around Thomas Hardy country by fellow Children's author Richard Tulloch, who is a regular contributor. I love his articles (and his books!) - full of humour and wonderful detail. Maybe when I grow up, I can write half as well as him.

Best Loved Australian Plays

2009-05-17T11:38:00.004+10:00

ABC Radio and the Australian Script Centre recently ran an online poll for the Best Loved Australian Play. The Top Five plays were announced on Radio National by the convenor of the poll, Gail Cork.

Number One (with 7.8% of the vote) was the adaptation of the Tim Winton novel Cloudstreet (by Nick Enright and Justin Monjo). Coming third (with 7.1% of the vote) was the adaptation of my verse-novel the simple gift (by Sue Dickinson).

WHAT!!!

Yes, I kid you not.

Above Don's Party; Summer of the Seventeenth Doll; Cosi.

Now, let's not get silly here.

The reason it came in number three was because many many people, unknown to me, who saw the recent production in Coffs Harbour obviously loved the play and decided to vote for it. Kudos should go to the actors and production crew and, of course, to Sue Dickinson, who put so much inspired thought and effort into adapting it to theatre.

the simple gift is not better than the plays mentioned above - it just touched a nerve in the people who saw it - enough for them to want to vote for it.

I hope it inspires Bootlace Productions to continue their wonderful work in regional Australia. Perhaps they can get assistance to tour the production, particularly in NSW, where the book is relatively popular due to it's HSC listing.

Students who like reading a HSC set text? Now there's an interesting notion...

Cold Skin (USA)

2009-05-07T15:25:00.011+10:00

Front Street Books have just released my YA verse-novel Cold Skin in the USA. It's the fourth book of mine they've published (all in hardcover) and they always do such a wonderful job. I think this is my favourite cover of them all.

To quote from their web-site:-

First love, sexual awakening, murder, cowardice, vengeance and forgiveness ... these are the powerful ingredients for Steven Herrick's gutsiest book yet.

Someone should make it into a film!

But, now to really really important matters. Remember this blog is poetry AND football.

I apologise to all Sydney residents who were awoken in the early hours of this morning by my screams of joy when Barcelona scored in the third minute of injury time to go through to the Champions League Final, defeating the dark-side, Chelsea, a team built on oil-rich Russian millions. It was a victory for football beauty, exemplified by Lionel Messi and Andreas Inestia, two players recruited by Barcelona at a very young age and developed at the Barcelona academy, La Masia. How's that for an idea - don't spend millions buying players, just develop youngsters into becoming the best footballers in the world.

And then we have Chelsea. A bunch of quality players under an excellent coach. And yet... and yet... how can anyone admire a team containing Didier Drogba? A striker of immense talent and strength who spends most of the game diving and appealing for a penalty. It's kinda ironic that Chelsea deserved a penalty but didn't get one - The Boy who cried Wolf anyone? Maybe Aussie Guus should tell Didier to try football not theatre next time he takes the field. Here's a link to a real striker who never dived, no matter how often he was hacked. Pure poetry indeed.

across Europe in a C3

2009-04-13T08:43:00.012+10:00

Cathie and I are planning our next big adventure. After five months in Europe last year, we arrived home and decided we wanted to do it all over again. Yes, maybe even Bulgaria.

For next year, I've managed to arrange some school shows in Prague, The Netherlands and Stockholm. If anyone has any contacts, I'd be most grateful...

One of my favourite time-wasters is looking over Google Maps, trying to decide where to go. At present, we're leaning (no pun on the above building intended) to a few months in France and Italy, followed by a wandering route through Austria, Czech Republic, Poland, up to Estonia and across to St Petersburg. And then a ferry across the Baltic Sea to Stockholm, down to The Netherlands and finishing in Portugal. And bellydancing in Morocco as well. Cathie, not me.

All suggestions for travel destinations most welcome.

Without doubt, we'll be getting a Citroen C3 again - last time, it did 24,000 kilometres and only stopped (briefly) once. Pity it was in an Istanbul street...

... not far from Hagia Sophia and one million honking cars.

The C3 and I only had one accident.

Macedonia. Four men standing around a very old beat-up car (a Trabby??) on a dirt track beside Lake Ohrid. They wave me through. I don't think there's enough room. They wave me through again. Who am I to disagree with four large Macedonians! And I would have made it... if only the bumper bar of their car didn't stick out further than it should have. A terrible scrapping buckling sound. Their eastern bumper bar now faced west. The C3, barely a scratch. We all laughed, shook hands and no-one mentioned insurance. We crossed quickly into Albania, which has more black mercedes, petrol stations and driving schools than any other country in Europe. And mountains. Lots of mountains.

the Google Book Settlement

2009-04-06T15:35:00.004+10:00

Instead of working on one of the three manuscripts I've got going at the moment, I'm reading the details of the Google Book Settlement. I'm torn between thinking this is just another aspect of new media that will bring in much-needed exposure and revenue to we writers... or wondering if it's going to dilute the small revenue-base authors already try to exist on. A little like the Parallel Importation of Books issue. Someone is going to benefit... it's unlikely to be authors.

Now... back to real work.

Not a pretty sight

2009-04-02T16:41:00.005+11:00

Had a wonderful time last night watching Australia beat Uzbekistan 2-0 in World Cup qualifying. Spent the afternoon before the game looking at Uzbekistan on Google Maps. So that's where it is!

Today one of my publishers, Allen & Unwin, emailed me the link for my new schools poster. Take a look, here.

Not a pretty sight, indeed.

Lokomotiv Cove FC

2009-03-16T15:06:00.014+11:00

After a year away from the terrors of sunday park football, I've joined a fine bunch of old men called Lokomotiv Cove FC. With a name like that, how can we go wrong? It's a football club formed by the supporters of Sydney FC. Which means we have a naff light blue outfit... kind of like washed out (washed-up?) Manchester City.

It'll be my first year in a team without my son Joe for awhile. He's busy at university. I wonder if anyone will pass me the ball? Joe was always good for a defence-splitting pass, leaving me one-on-one with the goalkeeper, wondering what the hell to do next.

Occasionally , it worked a treat.

There were only nine teams in the league and yet the winners got a one hundred year old trophy that needed three people to lift it! Please note in the background, drab toilet block and trees without leaves. Lithgow, oh fair city.

Whereas today I experienced the delightful surrounds of Tempe, watching the planes swoop low during those boring moments of the game. A good trial hit-out. Yes, we won 12-1. Oh, okay, I got four goals, but that's enough of gloating.

What was a sheer joy was the whole ninety minutes was played without any referee - just twenty-two blokes huffing and puffing and calling fouls on themselves. Congrats to the players from Hurlstone Park Wanderers. And Lokomotiv.

the simple gift ... stage play

2009-03-15T11:28:00.000+11:00

I have just returned from Coffs Harbour where I had the pleasure of sitting in a 200-seat theatre with a capacity audience watching my verse-novel the simple gift performed as a play by the creative crew of Bootlace Productions. They did a wonderful job.

Brilliant set, crisp direction by Sue Dickinson and fabulous acting by all the cast transformed, incredibly, 100-odd "interior monologues" of verse into a dramatic... well, I'm not quite sure what...

you see, the actors don't address each other as in a normal play, they address themselves... their consciences if you will, and the audience...

How does that work?

It's hard to explain...

Imagine... performing a whole book of poems to an audience of two hundred seventeen-year-olds. Who laughed, cheered and appeared to be fully involved (at least in the two sessions I saw).

I've been trying to understand why it worked, apart from the quality of the production and the brilliance of cast and crew.

And I quickly claim no credit here - this is entirely the work of a dedicated bunch of theatre people from the Coffs Harbour region.

I think the answer lies in the "interior monologue" being transformed into soliloquys (Hello Mr Shakespeare). That is, the power of each character's thought given a voice. When Caitlin, in the play, says,

"I'd met someone

who I could lie naked beside

and not feel foolish

or embarrassed.

I'd met someone

I could trust

and feel safe with...

... I wanted to go to Billy

tonight

and tomorrow

and next week

and I wanted to prove it to myself

before I tell the world."

it seems such a forceful statement of intent (when delivered by an actor as good as Rhiannon Pettett), that the audience seemed to hold it's collective breath.

It's not naturalist theatre by any means, but I like it.

I've read my poems in thousands of schools over the past twenty years. But, to witness these poems, this book, brought to the stage in the care of dedicated actors and crew, and the inspired direction of Sue Dickinson, was a very humbling experience. I thank them all for allowing me the chance of seeing my words, my characters given flesh and form.