Letter from Australia
1 Feb 11
He has recently rediscovered two circular letters in which he recorded his early impressions of his adopted country.
This, dated January1971, is the first.
I like Australia. Or, to be precise, I like Sydney and Crookwell, which are the only two places in Australia in which I have spent any time so far. I don’t think I could have chosen two places from which to judge Australia better; possibly I might have chosen an even more extreme contrast to Sydney, but few places, I think, more typical of the Bush than Crookwell, where I spent Christmas and the New Year: it is a town of some 2000 people, 28 miles from the nearest “large” town, Goulburn (pop. 21,500), and 180 miles from Sydney.
If I expected a blazing hot Christmas, as pictured on the emigration ads in the London Underground, I was to be disappointed: Crookwell sits atop the Central Tablelands, exposed to every East wind that blows. No sooner had I become acclimatised to Australian summer [see below] in Sydney, than I found myself shivering in a climate resembling an English summer. I stayed on a 1000 acre property enjoying the extraordinary name of “Weedalga” which housed, apart from the family of eleven whose guest I was, some 4000 sheep, 70 cows, one horse and 50 million flies. The family was extremely hospitable – and friendly, as I discovered once I had mastered the art of interpreting a broad Australian drawl spoken without opening the mouth. The house itself is about three miles from the town, one mile from the next house, and half a mile from the road: the road was tarmac as far as the boundary of the property, and I assumed was the same everywhere. Not so: on Christmas Day we drove to a “neighbouring” farm (about 10 miles away), and all but about a quarter mile was on dirt road: that quarter mile lay between the two name posts of a “village”, which appeared to consist of one house. I ventured beyond the farm on only two other occasions: once when I decided I needed some exercise, so drove into town with my hostess, and walked back, along the railway line which runs across the property; a train had passed that morning and, as there are only three a week, I felt confident of not being run down. I was more apprehensive at the prospect of meeting a snake or, even worse, a funnel-web spider, a vicious animal which, although only one to two inches long, had succeeded that very week in spreading a panic throughout the whole of NSW, by attacking three people in quick succession, killing a 17 year old expectant mother in the process.
In fact, the animal life of Australia has been singularly unfriendly of late: apart from funnel-webs, sea wasps (a type of squid), bluebottles (a type of jellyfish) and
blue-ringed octopi have
grabbed the headlines daily.
My other excursion was to Goulburn, where I celebrated New Year’s Eve in the Workers’ Club. I beg my readers not to be misled by the unfortunate image which that expression conjures up in England: the Australian Worker is the most prosperous member of society, and his club provides accordingly. After eleven days relaxing in the Bush, I returned to Sydney.
I have started half way through my time in Australia, to avoid boring those of my readers privileged to have received previews of this journal. Very briefly, my first 2½ weeks in Sydney, before Christmas, were spent as follows: ten parties (one planned, the rest spontaneous), four days on Bondi Beach, one barbecue dinner in the Royal National Park, and half an hour attending an interview with Allen, Allen & Hemsley, the largest firm of solicitors in Sydney (and in the Southern Hemisphere): fortunately, the interview resulted in a very acceptable offer of employment, so that I didn’t need to waste any more valuable beach weather.
I have been asked for my impressions of the “man in the street” here, and of course it is difficult to generalise.
However, I think I have met enough Australians to say that, on average, they seem much happier than Pommies, and much more concerned to enjoy life: they work hard, but play harder; the beach the pub (“hotel” here) and sport are all much more important than the War in Vietnam or the state of the economy.
The general lack of interest in news provides little incentive to the press, and the standard of most newspapers is depressing; but this lack of interest is part of the “fun” attitude to life here, and there is no doubt that people DO enjoy life here more than in England.
Everyone is friendly here, even when being rude, and it would be very difficult to maintain an “English“ reserve
here for very long.
The weather is clearly a large factor in encouraging people to feel happy and, although the summer here has been a little disappointing so far, by Australian standards, (the temperature in Sydney has exceeded 90 degrees only once since I arrived), one can still rely upon the sun shining on the way to work practically every morning; when it does rain, it tends to do so in short, heavy showers, and continuously wet days are very rare.
Although there is currently much talk of inflation, and the imminence of economic troubles, there is little evidence yet that Australia is anything but extremely prosperous. The City stores and shops (which are of West End standard) are bulging with consumer goods of every description, and although these are generally more expensive than in England, salaries make them more accessible to families in almost every income bracket.
Food, on the whole, is cheaper here, and people seem to eat more of it – particularly meat.
One thing I found most strange at first was the sight of so many people eating while walking in the streets: there are countless milk bars, fruit juice bars, sandwich bars, coffee shops, hamburger shops and ice-cream parlours, and most of their wares seem to get eaten in transit.
It may be bad for the digestion,
but it is a contagious habit.
It remains for me to try to describe Paddington (or Paddo, as it is generally known locally), the inner suburb in which I live. I say “try”, because its most remarkable facet is its atmosphere, and atmosphere has of course to be felt to be understood.
I might describe it as a cross between Chelsea and New Orleans – the houses are old, terraced and have balconies with ornate iron balustrades, and are interspersed with occasional antique shops and art galleries – but that would not take account of its streets, most of which are narrow, winding and hilly.
Anyway, it has plenty of character, which apparently escaped the notice of the local populace until very recently, as house prices have doubled in the area in the last few years. It is also very convenient, as fairly frequent buses bounce from my door to my office, in the heart of the City, in 20 minutes.