Wingo was a wanderer by nature. In tales of his childhood he recalled staying in the jungle until night fall, only brought back to his village by the enticing thought of his mother huddled over the fire preparing food.
After more than a decade of nothing but backpackers hostels, a last minute decision to get some winter sun dumped me in a 4 star, beachside resort in Paphos, southern Cyprus.
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.
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”.