What I loved most about Canberra was being able to hike and bike almost every weekend. Within twenty minutes’ drive in any direction of the city lies an unadulterated, kangaroo-ridden countryside.
I was actually sunburnt. I’d expected to spend the weekend coping with such British staples as a sopping wet tent inner, blistered feet from drenched socks and that guilt we get from just wanting to give up and walk into the nearest hotel.
The heavy contrast of the Blue Mountains’ haze against the rich ochre of the ancient sandstone escarpments isn’t the only disparity in the Blue Mountains National Park.
I wake up slightly disoriented and quickly tug at the zip. A tepid breeze sifts through the tall trees overhead, casting flecks of sunlight on the leaf-littered forest floor.
Having recently returned from the famous, snow-covered landscapes of Mongolia, Eastern Siberia and Moscow, I wasn’t expecting much. When I heard that Pen-Y Fan had recently succumbed to a spattering of the white stuff, I smirked: “We’ll see”.