Just what is it about Paris?

The French. You either love them or hate them. Or love France and hate the French.

Just what is it about Paris that makes it flavour of the month for sea change (or country change) biographies and blogs? Why IS it the city of romance? Why does my local $2 shop sell hat boxes covered in drawings of the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame?

Your roving reporter spent a week there earlier this month to find out.

Paris smells of pee. Mainly men, some dogs. Every tree along the Seine near the Musee D'Orsay and the Louvre has been anointed by a hundred penises. As it hadn't rained for a while, the smell was intense.

If you want to move to France, you'd better speak French. Unlike here, where all government paperwork is available in about sixteen different languages, French paperwork is only in French. French officials only speak French. Parlez-vous Francais? Non? Tant pis… va t'en!! And French officials are legends when it comes to being obstructive. Not that I have tried to move to France but in my travels I spoke to a couple of expats who told the same story.

The drivers are bonkers. I was insane enough to drive through Paris in 1988 and I wouldn't be game to do it now. We had three wild rides in taxis which had my right foot permanently jammed 'on the brake'. So as a pedestrian in Paris I took my life in my hands. Drivers don't stop for pedestrians at pedestrian crossings. You have to wait until the road is clear and hope a Vespa doesn't come screaming out of nowhere when you're half way across. Scooters, motorbikes and bicycles have a scant disregard for red lights, especially if they are making a right hand turn. So what if you have a green light to walk? They'll be inching closer, itching, just itching, to run you down. Don't ever look them in the eye; it might be all the encouragement they need.

Paris is full of crowds. Forget going up the Eiffel Tower, it costs a bomb and you'll be queuing for years. Especially if you're waiting for the lift. The Louvre and Notre Dame also measure their queues by the furlong.

The French love their strikes. While we were there the RER (Railway) was on semi-strike; some of the trains were running but not to the usual schedule. There was also a baggage handlers' strike at the airport, making us happy we'd come on the Eurostar.

And let's not forget the scam artists who prey on tourists in likely spots, e.g. the Quartier Americaine (the part of Paris on both sides of the Seine near the Louvre. It's not really called the Quartier Americaine. I made that up. But it should be. It's where the American tourists hang out.) They pretend to be deaf mutes and ask you to donate ten euros to them and sign their badly-photocopied Official Donation Form (bollocks to that!). And there is the Paris Gold Ring Scam; I had a couple of those tried on me. I was stupid enough to have my camera out of my bag at the time, looking like a tourist. A simple snarl of "Va t'en!" usually had them apologising and moving away. When I swear in French my accent is perfect.

We were also accosted by very well-fed and reasonably well-dressed beggars at Gare du Nord station; there seem to be more beggars around than two years ago. The French economy is fairly buggered but not that you'd know it from all the locals eating out at cafes every night.

And those were all the downsides I found. Not that I looked hard.

We lived in an apartment for a week, in the 11th arrondissement. It was up four floors in a 120 year old building with an original and worn staircase. I suspect the paint on the stairwell was original too!

The apartment is owned by a young guy who works in IT and we found it on airbnb.com.  Our neighbours were all permanent residents, owning or renting their apartment. We were living like locals in a 50 square metre house with the tiniest kitchen imaginable. A two burner hotplate, a sink and a microwave inside the front door. Even the toaster and cutlery had to live in the living room. This is not atypical for a Parisian apartment; I think it's why a lot of people eat out at cafes.

Downstairs, on either side of the iron door onto the footpath, was a boucherie  and a boulangerie. We didn't buy anything from the butcher's - I was tempted as it all looked delicious - but got our daily fix of baguettes and croissants from the baker. Ask for a baguette traditionel and croissants du beurre to make sure you get the good stuff. And this WAS good, and a fraction of the price you'd pay at a decent Sydney bakery.

A block down the hill was the supermarket with an impressive wine section and big fresh veggie section - not to mention a huge cheese and pate section. Dinner sorted. The supermarket was small but had everything you'd need at a reasonable price. In Paris itself - within the route peripherique - you don't find big shopping malls and shopping centres; they are in the outer suburbs.

And across the road was a cafe where I'd head for my daily fix of coffee. Ask for un cafe and you get an espresso; a flat white is a cafe creme. I love the sharp taste of un cafe, drunk within a minute of arriving at the table before it turns bitter.

I got propositioned during my afternoon cafe fix one day at the cafe by an ageing roue.  He was a sweetie and didn't speak any English - not that you need anything except the language of lurve, non? So my pathetic French was well and truly tested and I had a great conversation with him.

When I wasn't walking - and I walked for about five hours a day on average - I was hopping on the metro to get to my walking destination. The metro is fab; trains every three minutes. You buy tickets, or carnets, in books of ten and it works out as about $2.50 per trip. Once you're in the metro you can swap trains etc on the one ticket. I had a morning's fun just riding around; I took the metro going in the wrong direction and had to change and swap over. All part of the Paris adventure.

The architecture is beautiful. I loved walking along the street - any street - and looking up at the apartment blocks, none of them taller than six storeys with an attic. Mostly stone, some brick, each with slightly different decorations. Paris is built on a human scale, and I love that. Peeking behind gates I saw courtyards with posh cars, old cars, smart tubs of fruit trees, lines of washing… as diverse as you could expect. Especially on the day when I got lost thanks to my iPhone app. I didn't realise that when I pinched it to enlarge the map swivelled around. I'd been aiming for the Seine. I ended up at Place de Clichy after a vigorous two hour walk through a very suburban, untouristy, pleasant but not overly opulent or rich part of town.

Even in the non-posh areas, such as the part I got lost in, there are joys and interesting sights around every corner. The shops are interesting; even washing powder and dishwashing liquid seems more exotic with a French label. (I have a vision of me bringing back a bottle of dishwashing liquid and getting pinged by Customs. "What on earth is this?" "Dishwashing liquid. Look, it's Pamplemousse scent, have a sniff. Mmm.")

The French have a sensible attitude towards animals and hygiene. Dogs are welcomed at cafes; outdoors as far as I know but possibly indoors too. There was a dog at the table next door when we had a farewell dinner at our local cafe and watched France wallop Switzerland in the World Cup (Mondiale to the French). Every happy smoker lit up like a chimney too without the slightest hint of being ostracised. And there were two very Parisian girls at another table who managed that casually put-together but magically elegant look that French women just do so well.

I could do an entire blog post - or more - on Parisian chic and how these women must have a gene that enables them to do magical things with scarves. Perhaps that's another reason Paris represents an almost-mythical place for some; the hope that somehow they will transform into a French woman.

And the French themselves, scarves notwithstanding? For the most part they were as delightful as my hopeful, would-be suitor, Marcel. Even though my French is execrable it got me food, drink and everything else I needed (including books! yay!) and most shopkeepers were happy to talk slowly to me once they understood I was from Australia.

I had halting conversations in French, some in English, and only found friendliness. I spoke to women who had the same breed of dog as I; there are quite a few about in Paris. I shared a table with a Parisienne near the Trocadero with a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower and we spoke in two languages about our countries; she gave me a great tip for an exhibition to go to.

And maybe that's the real key to the love affair people - me included - have with France. French is such a beautiful, if complicated, language. Things just sound better in French. That pamplemousse I mentioned earlier; it's grapefruit.

I learned French for one year at high school and enjoyed it but as my attendance record was so crap I gave it up. My Mum learned French and while she'd forgotten most of it could obediently trot out that staple sentence of 1940s schoolgirls: La plume de ma tante est sur la table (the pen of my aunt is on the table). I used to tease her with my own version: La plume de ma tante est le cul de mon oncle (the pen of my aunt is up the arse of my uncle). Being me, I learned the rude words first. I did two years' part time Conversational French study twenty years ago but have forgotten most of that too, worse luck. I can read French more easily than I can speak it or understand it when it comes at me rapid-fire.

After a week there, the longest time I've spent in Paris, it does have a magic for me. Could I live there for a while? Yes. Even though it would mean an apartment about one sixth the size of the house I have now and no garden save the obligatory pots of red pelargoniums on the balcony, should I be lucky enough to have one.  I do love the place, but I think I'll have to visit in winter one year to make sure my love isn't just a summer love. I love the metro, the bonkers drivers, the fresh and wonderful food, the phone deals which mean really cheap broadband and free international phone calls, the  flights of stairs and the French themselves.

I did have one beautiful moment though, when the legendary French Service With A Sneer reared its head. We were at Charles de Gaulle airport, wandering around before boarding the aircraft home, when I spied an elegant shop (below) selling macarons. I had been very good during my week in France - not a pastry had passed my lips, nor a macaron. I had five euros left and bought one each for G and myself.

The exquisitely pretty mademoiselle behind the counter (you can see her in the pic) managed condescension with such silence, and a mere lift of one eyebrow, that I realised here was the personification of the French that people love to hate. It wasn't just that I was a cheapskate. The guy before me bought about 90 euros worth of them and received the same treatment. My faith in The Superiority of the French was restored. It was the perfect ending to a fabulous week.

Bugger the hospital corners - I like my bed made my way!

I have a beef with hotels, B&Bs and other places at which I've stayed over the years.

I hate, desperately hate, the way they make the beds.

The sheets are turned down and tucked in so tightly that when you get into bed, your shoulders aren't covered. The blanket or duvet barely reaches to my nipples. I love to have at least a sheet over my shoulders except on the hottest nights. As a female of a certain age, I'm prone to waking at 2am screamingly hot (oh, OK, I have hot flushes. I'm menopausal), in which case I throw the covers off for a few minutes until I'm back to normal. But I like to have the choice. I don't want to spend all night with the top half of me too cold, awaiting the next hot flush.

Inexorably therefore, at any hotel, I have to remake the bed somewhat - untucking the sheets, blankets and duvet at the foot end and hauling them up towards the pillow.

I also untuck the sheets at the side, as I like to stick a leg out of bed as well if I get too hot. At home, there is usually at least one cat sleeping on the bed. In winter, I'm likely to have both of them tucked behind my knees (my knees, you'll note. G is too fidgety for them to get a good night's sleep behind his knees). So a little foot ventilation is necessary. I'm used to folding back the bottom end of the blanket or duvet to allow for the heat given off by the cats. Amusingly, I found myself doing that at hotels in Tasmania before I remembered the cats were back in Sydney.

My other alternative is to drag the pillow half way down the bloody bed so I can get the blankets up to my chin.

I'm not sure where the trend came from for making beds with blankets that don't come up to the pillow, but I suspect I'm not alone in remaking hotel beds to make them comfortable and practical rather than simply neat-looking.

What about you? Are you a fan of the hotel/hospital style of bed making, or do your sheets and blankets tuck happily under your chin at night?

Paradise may have its serpents, but it still appeals

Outside it's raining; it's blowing on the windows and on the seemingly endless row of neighbours' roofs. My glimpse of the sky is cut into segments by terracotta tiles and brickwork. I feel closed in, in a way I didn't feel for ten days earlier this month.

I've been in Paradise, you see. Godzone Country. In other words, Tasmania. In this underpopulated island there are big skies. When it rains, you can see the rain approaching for many kilometres. Even in Hobart and Launceston, the world is on a human scale and you still get the sense of space and sky.

It's even better in the country. We stayed by the sea in Bicheno for a few days, watching the weather change kilometres away and the seas turn from dead calm to white horses to waves crashing against the shore and up through the blowhole. It rained - it poured! - but somehow that didn't matter. We chucked on our raincoats and headed to the shore to watch nature at work. Who cared if it was only 13 degrees with summer a fortnight away? Not us. I prefer cool climate holidays to tropical islands anyway.

We stayed in Ross, in the midlands, where the river had broken its banks, creating a wide blue pond that reflected the wide blue sky. Around us the hills were green and gentle. Tassie has had a very wet winter and spring, and the island is rejoicing in it. Lushness everywhere.

We were snowed on at Mt Wellington near Hobart. From the top of Mt W you get, if the mountain isn't in cloud, a superb view of Hobart itself. Our time there was limited so we took a chance and drove up, passing joggers and cyclists who clearly had masochistic tendencies. Higher and higher, until little blobs of snow sat at the side of the road. I was excited. I love snow. What I didn't expect was that before we would reach the summit the weather would turn and we would be caught in a snowfall. Not a heavy one, but enough to make me pull on hats and gloves, laugh and stand in it, catching snowflakes on my tongue. Beside me a family of tourists were clearly unprepared for the weather and stood in shorts, skimpy tops and flip-flops, shivering for the camera.

As quickly as it started the snow stopped, and we were wreathed in cloud with crunchy white stuff underfoot.  Driving down the mountain Hobart reappeared when we slipped below the cloud base, dotted along the riverbanks on either side of the Derwent. It's a town that looks at peace with its environment; not too encroaching, with the only blot being the high rise Wrest Point Casino at Sandy Bay.

Launceston is even nicer in that regard, with heritage buildings - none over six stories - and a friendly feel; ten minutes' drive and you're out of town and in the country, with spring all around you, exuberant with wild colour. The road winding beside the Tamar gives you panoramic vistas. Launceston isn't a blot on the landscape, there is no pall of smog hanging over it - or Hobart come to that. You know it's there, behind those hills, but it has a kind footprint.

Our final few days were with G's family in a remote spot down the side of the D'Entrecasteaux Channel, near Gordon, a one horse village whose one horse was probably a Shetland pony.  The Cousin lives on 5 acres outside town, up on a hill with the Channel visible through the gum trees. There's some space around the property for fire protection, and the farmlet is home to native chooks, goshawks, possums and the odd tiger snake. The bloke next door has set up a rescue home for retired racehorses, but in a very minor way; he only has half a dozen as that's all he can support. The Cousin is building a veggie and fruit garden and is going to enclose it in chicken wire because of the possums.  It's a magical spot only an hour south of Hobart, on a two lane road that winds along beside the channel through villages and small towns. From the Cousin's deck you can see forever.

We drove away from the Cousin's place feeling very envious. Neither of us is particularly handy with our hands - unlike the Cousin, an ex-carpenter and builder - so we probably couldn't manage the maintenance on a property like that. But oh boy, did we ever wish we could!

I had been to Tassie before but G hadn't, and I could see the stars forming in his eyes from the first day. Like me, he was bewitched by the place. After only a few days he was thinking sea change. Not right now, as we have my elderly Mum to look after, but in the future.

All Paradise has its serpents, however, and Tassie has a couple of big 'uns. One is the cost of living. Despite being a farming island a hell of a lot of stuff is imported from The Big Island/The North Island/The Mainland, which puts the prices up. Petrol is 20c a litre dearer than Sydney. Utility costs are higher too and if you have a really dry summer you can cop water restrictions as the dams aren't as big. Winter is cold, so heating your property is more expensive. The Cousin is a dab hand with a chainsaw and has plenty of firewood to hand, so his heating bills won't be horrendous.

Land and housing, on the other hand, is cheaper than Sydney (most places are!!!!), except for upmarket areas such as Battery Point and Sandy Bay in Hobart. Lovely suburbs right close to town but almost at Sydney prices. If you had a good enough house in Sydney you could sell, move to Tassie and live off the leftover money, invested wisely.

Unemployment is another serpent. We drove through several towns down on their luck with businesses for sale or simply closed down and boarded up; not pretty enough for chocolate-box photos, and with no outstanding natural beauty nearby, they are truly struggling. (Fingal springs to mind here.) Life is not pleasant if you're living in a small town and unemployed, wondering how you're going to keep your poorly insulated house warm next winter. The Cousin keeps his doors and windows locked and blinds down even when he drives to the nearest town to pick up groceries, as crime is a real problem in the less affluent rural areas.

The prettier towns, the tourist spots like Ross, have a fair percentage of Big Islanders as residents. They've moved from Sydney or Melbourne, cashed up, and can afford a pretty cottage in a nice place; often they have started their own tourism/hospitality business there. Cafes, BandBs…

Realistically if you are self-employed you can do okay, particularly in the trades people need, although the Cousin told us that Tasmania operates on Tasmanian Time, which means tradies have a relaxed interpretation of the word urgent. My business might survive in Tassie - heaven only knows it's barely surviving here, where there are thousands of potential clients. However if we moved south I'd be giving up the business and taking on art and writing fiction I should think. Ideally we would be in a position where I wouldn't have to work full time.

Until then… we'll be spending a bit more time there, exploring, researching, calculating. G is already talking about having a longer holiday in Tassie within the next two years. I did warn him ten days wouldn't be enough!

Still raining - but I can't see beyond the neighbour's house to find out what the weather has in store for me. Oh for those big skies!

The romance of rail

Occasionally I'm stuck in traffic on a railway bridge near my home. I don't like being stuck on bridges; that makes me twitchy. So I divert my attention from potential bridge collapses and imminent death by looking at the train lines below.

They snake off into the distance and around the bend, and I want to sniff the air and jump on a train. To anywhere. Just for the hell of it. Just to see where those silvery lines lead. To go to a place I wouldn't have any reason to go to; a place I haven't been before. The smell of the electricity, the mild rocking motion, and a sense of adventure, of zipping past all those cars trundling slowly down the roads, lifts my mood.

There's something about trains that appeals, despite my hatred of packed peak-hour public transport. Maybe it's the relaxation element (outside peak hour) where you can sit down with a book and let someone else drive. I can't read in cars but I can read in trains.

If I'm not reading, there's scenery. Well, in my case it's usually a troll through western Sydney, much of which ain't pretty, but it's interesting. The demographics change. The Indian woman sitting on her apartment balcony near Parramatta will be an Asian woman by the time you get to Strathfield. The houses on their quarter acre blocks - often fibro, often untidy - which back onto the train line give way to apartments around Parramatta and Westmead, then more houses on smaller blocks - brick, typically - until we hit the inner west and the lovely Italianate homes around Summer Hill and Petersham, and rows of terraces. Then it's into the funkiness of Newtown and Redfern before darkness envelopes us and we pull into Central.

A train ride is a sense of escape. It's still an adventure for me, as I don't ride the train every day. Train rides mean a journey into town for pleasure, or occasionally a client meeting. Earlier this week I had to go to St Leonards, so I took the train and gazed happily out at Sydney harbour as we crossed it on the coat hanger. Blissfully bluesky day, shimmering blue water; heartlifting. You can't always see that if you drive your car across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

So I find there is still a romance about travelling by train, even in suburban Sydney.

On my trip earlier this week there was real romance in the air, and I wondered what the relationship was. A guy sat opposite me; he was on the train when I alighted, munching McDonald's. He was in his thirties, unremarkable. At Parramatta a Chinese girl in her twenties or thirties got on and sat next to him, snuggling up. He put his arm around her, and for several stops they stayed like that, her head on his shoulder, his face turned towards hers, intensely talking. I was busy looking out the window on my side and only noticed the girl get off several stations later. I assumed the guy got off too, but no, he was still sitting there and got off at Town Hall. I wondered if they were having an affair, grabbing each opportunity to see each other, even if it was only travelling on the train for twenty minutes together. It brings a whole new dimension to the romance of rail.

Travelling south

I love the NSW South Coast. It's less busy than its northern cousin; could be because it's a bit cooler in general and quite bitter in winter. Most people aspire to travelling north from Sydney. If you travel far enough north, you hit Queensland. This is supposed to be a bonus. Wow! Queensland is glitzy - think white clothes and gold sandals, girls - and it's the place where school leavers go to party after twelve years of teachers and books. Queensland is shopping malls and nightclubs. It's hot and humid. It also has some extremely beautiful natural wonders and exquisite beaches, but it's the south coast that tugs at my heart.

Here's a snapshot of my holiday there last month... maybe you can see why I love it. Bear in mind the temperatures here were warm; in Sydney (and Queensland) the beaches you see in these photos would be crowded. Sadly in saving these pics in Photoshop they have lost a bit of their vibrant colour as I used the 'save for web and devices' option. Just turn the brightness on your monitor to full.

Here is the Sea Cliff Bridge at Coalport, north of Wollongong. We stopped here for some birdwatching, watching raptors soar high above us. Look far into the distance for the southernmost suburbs of Sydney, and wave them goodbye.

What's a seaside trip without a lighthouse? This lovely specimen is at Kiama. Below it on the cliffs is a blowhole. The tide wasn't very high so it wasn't blowing too much. T'other half suggested that it was turned down because it was midweek and outside tourist season :-).

And here's our piece of paradise, our cottage where we spent our honeymoon three years ago:

This place is my secret. I've been coming to this house for ten years. I shared it firstly with a special friend from the UK. True love in the romantic sense never eventuated, but he is still one of my closest and most loved friends. It felt funny when I brought my husband here for our honeymoon... I was so used to visiting with Pete! Anyway, the interior is simple and limewashed, with seaside touches that aren't quaint or trite. It simply feels like home. There are no signs telling you where to put your rubbish etc, the fridge is stocked with generous breakfast goodies, and you can smell the sea from the balcony.

And here is the beach in question, in sunshine and sunset. We swam at all hours of the day depending on what else we were doing. Two days we swam at sunset, cooling off after a warm day's sightseeing.

The local river spills out into the sea... here is the view from a couple of hundred metres in the other direction:

The beaches here are pristine. Locals take pride in their environment, and arrange working bees to clean the beaches. But who would want to litter these lovely natural spaces? There are plenty of litter bins about, and we never saw anything on the beaches that wasn't washed up by the tide (which we removed and binned) or was of the sea itself.

Couldn't help clowning around...

Below , the rocks of Tuross Head. Around the point there is a perfectly good swimming beach, but these pics below remind me of the wildness of the south coast, the hazards for the unwary boatman. I've been here on windy days where the spray hits the top of the cliff and the headlands are shrouded in mist.

Even better is Bingi National Park:

On the little narrow road leading out to Bingi, we saw something most townies never get to see - a mob of wild kangaroos. This photo is just a fraction of them. We estimated there were well over 100 of them! They were grazing in the paddocks beside the road, and at first we thought there were only a dozen. But then we saw movement in the long grass as more and more of them brought their heads up to look at our car. A big male, clearly a leader, came closest and saw for a good ten minutes staring us down. Something spooked them eventually and they were off, bounding gracefully in several directions. Around ten of them jumped across the road in front of us, one after the other. My friends from Scotland got brilliant pics of that. It was a superb moment, seeing these lovely animals in their own environment.

And from the golden sands to the peculiarity that is Guerilla Bay - it reminds me of a Greek island. Very rocky, shingles, whitish sand.

And here's Guerilla Bay at the busiest I've ever seen it:

Magic, eh? It's my dream to live down there one day... away from the hustle and bustle, shopping at the local farmers' markets, walking on the beach all year round, riding my bike on the quiet roads down to the beach...

It's been HOW long? Ooops...

So much for posting on a daily or almost daily basis. It's been a month. We've had people staying with us and have been touring around - to the NSW south coast, to Canberra,to the Hunter Valley, as well as playing tourists ourselves in Sydney as we showed our Scottish visitors around the city.

Sydney isn't as bike-friendly as Melbourne. Bike racks in the downtown area are not utilised as well as they could and should be, but then it's a brave cyclist who takes on aggressive Sydney drivers, particularly in the city itself. That being said I did see some nice bikes around, particularly some 80s vintage ladies' cycles; however my camera wasn't at the ready and these bikes were in full flight, carrying their riders sturdily.

Canberra is a cycle city. In fact there's a shop which combines bicycle and coffee culture quite nicely in Kingston:

A peek through the window showed tables in front and bikes in back. My visitors aren't really cycling people so I didn't dash in to get a fuller measure of what was inside, but a brief inspection through the front door showed the back of the shop laden with city bikes, road bikes and fixies.

But my favourite bike photo from my touring comes from the farm cottage where we stayed. The owner has created a little paradise (more in another post), with touches that really make this place a special haven in which to relax. This poor bike below...many years ago she was abandoned cruelly by the holidaymaker who propped her against the shed, forgetting even about the flowers so carefully chosen and picked from the roadside, and dashed inside for a cup of tea.

Poor thing! She must have been a very graceful creation in her day. She wasn't a brand I recognised - the headbadge was so rusted it didn't make much sense, especially with me lifting the basket of flowers with one hand and trying to shove my compact camera under and around with the other. It looks like a bow, doesn't it? Aside from the pretty headbadge the bike has been plainly built: lugs, but not fancy ones. As always when I see a sight like this I long to have the knowledge and capability (and money) to do a restoration job, as her geometry looks very comfortable. I doubt her owner would let me, though - I've been coming to this place for ten years and the bike has been there all that tine (so, actually, have the plastic flowers!). She's a landmark on the property.

As for bikes I can ride, the hot humid weather broke over Easter, and I was able to take Petunia on a good long run rather than just around the block or to the shops. I hadn't had a decent ride on her for ages - she had a broken valve in her back tyre I didn't fix over summer as it became clear it was a summer from hell and too sticky to do much riding. Any riding I did was on Penelope. Oh dear... it felt so weird riding Petunia again! I had trouble balancing. I even had to put the saddle down nearly two inches, as I'd also lost the art of mounting the proper way and needed to have a toe on the ground. After an hour I was used to her again, but still not as confident on her as I was last year.

So lots of relearning for me and Petunia. Penelope has spoiled me with her lovely balance and relaxed geometry. I'm so glad it's autumn, riding weather! Now... if only it would stop raining :-)

A trip down the coast

Penelope has been for her 30-day tweaking, and it was a gorgeous drive down the coast to Thirroul yesterday. It took about 90 minutes each way. It's doable by train, and you can take your bike on the train, but it's a good two and a half hours each way from where we live... so maybe something to do another time when we are feeling less pressured and not skiving a day off work.

But the view below, from a lookout near Austinmer, was enough to relax us. Heavenly! You can see it was a bit windy - there are tons of white horses on the beach. With a cool south wind blowing nobody was in swimming anywhere we passed despite it being school holidays here.

Here's Penelope on her rack down at Austinmer beach, where we stopped to breathe in gulps of salty air.

The villages between Sydney and Wollongong offer you the opportunity to step back in time. Yes, there are lots of modern houses but lots of charming old ones too, and commercial and public buildings like these two. Here is a theatre in Thirroul which has been put to good use as commercial premises, keeping its intriguing art deco meets Tudor exterior. This area was a popular holiday spot in the first half of the 20th century. Er...it still is! Although these days it's more an extended suburb of Wollongong.

Every little town had its School of Arts back in the day, and this sweet wee one is at Clifton. Here's where ladies practiced flower arranging, art exhibitions were held, and generally the School of Arts was a focus of life in the village.

And finally, the new Sea Gate Bridge at Coalcliff, completed in 2005. The road used to run alongside the cliff, but a landslide in 2003 washed the road away and essentially cut off half the villages from using the coast road - they had to backtrack inland to get from one town to another. Read more about this bridge and see some stunning pics here. It's a remarkable drive - you are held up on pillars high above the ocean.

After all that, Penelope had some minor tweaks, tightenings and adjustments done. I did an adjustment myself today (my middle name is now Spanner) with the saddle, moving it on its runners so it sits further forward. I was finding I was riding on the front rather than the seat; I have short arms and legs. A test ride this afternoon proved much more comfortable.

I also swapped the bolt that adjusts the seat post height for an adjustable one from my MTB. This may sound terribly girly, but it means I can adjust the saddle height now for maximum comfort for each pair of shoes I choose to ride in. Ahh-!!! I found riding in my Colorado clogs a different and uncomfortable experience than riding in my Geox flats, for instance. Mmm, I love tinkering!