A Wretched Cavalcade of Failure and Despair

 It occurs to me that the above could be the title of my autobiography but I have set my sights somewhat more narrowly in order to give a brief account of my performance at CanCon this year.  I use the term performance in much the same way as a drunken mother in law's behaviour at a family barbecue is referred to as a "performance".  

I rolled out of bed on the Friday when those parts of our nation that are so inclined celebrate it's existence.  Here I reacquainted myself with a couple of friends who had been selected, by me, to drive me to and from the venue this year.  After a quick breakfast consisting largely of protein and carbohydrates (definitely not the breakfast of champions in my case) we headed to the EPIC Centre which hosts the gaming convention which is where our modest little tournament is played out.

Yangtze Doodle

After some perfunctory greetings we sat down to do battle.  I was introduced to each of my opponents over the course of three days but their names all blended into an incoherent symphony of misery so I shall just say that first up I played some guy.  The first scenario was Yangtze Doodle which pitted a group of culturally offended Chinese against a bunch of Japanese invaders.  Some Chinese set up in a village while a group of Japanese try to drive them out.  Another group of Japanese set up in a different village while some other Chinese try and drive them out.  In the middle of this military push me pull you is a bridge, for some reason the shining beacon that both sides are prepared to spill blood to obtain.  I had the Chinese.

My troops in the village awaited the oncoming Japanese while the Japanese in the village awaited my oncoming Chinese.  By the end of the first turn three quarters of my village garrison were dead or irretrievably broken thanks to my inability to roll less than ten on a morale check.  That was pretty much the end of the game.  I did indeed fight my way into the other village but his other force pretty much unopposed wandered up to the bridge and had a picnic while my troops poured out their blood for a few houses.

The Badger's Breath

In this one I commanded a group of Canadians in late war western Europe.  They were attempting to prevent the escape of a fleeing group of German paratroopers.  The Germans are well gunned up with a trio of StuGs and some weird arse antiaircraft gun mounted on a Czech tank chassis but they could be no match for my elite Canadians with a carrier, a Sherman, a mortar and a Sherman Firefly, definitely the queen of this particular battlefield.  Although style points have to go to my Badger.  The Badger was a variant of the Ram Kangaroo which was itself a variant of the Ram tank which was itself developed on the hull of the American M3.  Suffice it to say it was a tank chassis with a monstrous flamethrower attached.

The Germans had to attack across a valley and the quickest way to reach said valley was over a ridge.  I set up my mortar and the Sherman to cover the ridge while my Firefly guarded the flank and the Badger lurked behind the trees at the Canadian end of the valley to fry those who approached.  My opponent, some other guy, played right into my hands.  His StuGs crested the ridge and parked in my line of sight while his infantry plowed forward under the watchful gaze of my mortar crew.  It was now that I learned something about my supposedly elite Canadians; they couldn't hit the side of a barn from inside the barn.  Having failed all my defensive fire shots and then all of my subsequent prep fire shots I had to watch as his StuGs required just one shot to kill my Sherman and disperse the troops manning the mortar.  Utterly unopposed his troops and StuGs raced across the valley to where my Badger and remaining troops waited in horror.

It wasn't all bad news, the Badger fried a squad and a half of German troops so thoroughly they became air pollution and my Firefly killed a StuG and the AA tank as well as taking out a couple of infantry squads.  Unfortunately the smoke from the burning vehicles provided enough cover for the rest of his forces to get through.  This game was at least hard fought but I lost it in the final turn.

Backstabbing Paratroopers

With nothing but misery in my first days gaming I mustered my personal resources and resolved to do better the next day.   The next day saw me pitted against a different guy playing Backstabbing Paratroopers which saw a (not very large) collection of Soviet paratroopers and partisans trying to prevent a somewhat larger group of Germans from capturing some village buildings.  I had a board to defend whereas the Germans could pick their spot and throw their entire force against it.  Pick their spot the Germans did.  I was actually quite pleased with my performance in this one as my troops retreated under far heavier firepower and managed to hold the Germans off for quite some time.  Not as it turned out long enough however and my opponent grabbed the required buildings in the final turn.

Blackjack is Back

OK, I do remember my opponent in this one because it was Richard Weilly who is a frequent opponent.  It's early 1945, snow covers the ground and any sensible German is learning English and trying to pretend they've never heard of the Russian front.  For my sins I commanded some of the Germans yet to get the memo.  My force was, shall we say, mixed with some hotshot 658 SS squads and some deeply suspect 447 SS squads making up the numbers.  Yet another StuG graced my OB as did two Panthers which surprised me by surviving the battle.  Rich had the Americans with a pair of gyro stabilised Shermans, a couple of other Shermans and an M26 Pershing, truly the Panther's equal if not its superior.  Backing up this plethora of armour was a host of elite infantry looking to push their way through a rather tatty German defence.

For a while I was hopeful in this one as Richard's dice did to him what mine had done to me in earlier scenarios.  He got no smoke, couldn't pass a morale check and only by being very reticent with his tanks did his armour survive the first couple of turns.  Eventually of course the dice evened out and I hadn't really been able to inflict sufficient (read, any) casualties on him.  Slowed but not stopped Richard deployed massive firepower to gradually crush my troops and inch forward.  Despite the presence of all the tanks their contribution was rather muted, a silly move cost me my StuG and Richard dropped a Sherman into the cellar of a building he drove in to but for the most part the tanks acted as fleets in being, preventing the other from interfering.  With my infantry shot to pieces with very little by way of reply Richard was able to swarm down one side of the board to victory.

I Have No Idea What I Played on Sunday

By this time my brain was so lacerated with defeat that I could have been playing monopoly.  The scenario was one of the ones that used the Sparrow Force map and pitted Australian's against Japanese in Timor.  Here's a tip, if you want to win a scenario don't play the scenario designer.  I took the Australians in this one and advanced boldly forward hampered only by the predilection of my elite and first line troops to flee for the rear if the Japanese so much as shouted "Bang!" near them.  By halfway through I was ready to concede but my opponent, tournament organiser and scenario designer Andy Rogers persuaded me to continue.  Blinking away tears I did so.  Things did even up and I swept through capturing all but one of the buildings I needed but too much time had been lost and the final turn saw a desperate charge through the open to try and capture the final required building.  It was messy, the ground turned red.

After this final humility lesson I slunk off by myself until it was time to leave.  It was a profoundly depressing experience leavened only by good company, enjoyable meals and a pleasant ride home.  OK, I guess it wasn't too bad really.  Also Lake George had water in it which is always worth seeing.  Andy organised a great tournament and did an excellent job of herding the collection of cats he had been foisted with.  As for me, ordinarily I would be playing Dave Wilson my usual opponent on Monday night but by mutual agreement we put it off for a week.  Dave so he could get some rest and me so I could find a reason to live.

Travelling Wearily

 “I need to leave at a decent time this evening,” I announced to my work colleagues flaunting an economy class ticket on one of our shabbier domestic airlines (which, to be fair is all of them).  I waited for the gasps of envy but strangely they didn’t come.  Nevertheless by dint of hard work and a collaborative team effort (I let everyone else do the work) I managed to slip the corporate chains and flee my office in plenty of time for my flight.

Which is probably why the airline waited until I had actually arrived at the airport before cheerfully informing me that my flight would be an hour and a half late.  Assuming it turned up at all.  With suddenly far too much time on my hands I looked around for something to do.  Ten seconds later I gave up.  I have in the past been, shall we say, a gnats critical of Sydney’s international terminal but I realise I was wrong.  It is a glittering beacon of excitement and hope by comparison with its low rent domestic cousin.

If the international terminal is like a badly lit shopping mall (it is) then the domestic terminal is like a badly lit DFO which has fifty thousand items that no one on god’s earth would ever want piled haphazardly all over the floor but ran out of the one thing you wanted half an hour ago.

I dined on something spectacularly overpriced.  I’m not entirely sure what it was but I think it had bacon in it.  That’s a pretty safe bet, most of the things I eat have bacon in them even, occasionally, the cereal.  After what for want of a better term I shall call dinner I found a bar where in return for spending half my disposable cash on a glass of wine I was permitted to sit and watch the tennis. Aryna Sabalenka was playing Coco Gauff and with the exception of the tennis racquets it bore a remarkable similarity to certain dreams I have.  The grunting, screaming, sweating and low level cursing in Belarusian were all familiar at any rate.

Having enjoyed the “tennis” for a while I headed off to find my departure gate.  The corridor narrowed as I walked along, the lights flickered, the brushed concrete changed to exposed brick and when I saw my first skeleton chained to a wall I knew I was getting close.  Eventually I arrived at what appeared to be a run down cow shed.  It was attached to the terminal but one got the impression that this was only because the terminal couldn’t get up and walk away.  I swear there were goats grazing outside.

Here I waited until a bus pulled up.  A couple of dozen passengers including me hesitated for a moment not daring to hope that the time had finally come.  Eventually the sole airline employee present informed us that if we wanted to get on the plane then getting the bus was an essential first step.

The bus swept us past rows of large planes.  Then it swept us past a bunch of smaller planes.  Finally it pulled up beside the powered metal tube that would take us to Canberra.  I could tell right away why the flight was delayed, they were waiting for the Airfix glue to dry.  If you stuck wings on our bus you would have a larger and more plausible aircraft.  Still we were here now and the driver seemed disinclined to let us stay on the bus so with varying degrees of reluctance we boarded our petite princess of the sky.

I had gained a window seat in return for indicating my readiness to help in an emergency by pushing out the emergency exit I was sitting next to.  I didn’t realise said exit weighed over ten kilograms and that I was effectively being asked to tear off a chunk of the plane and hurl it into the night while terror stricken passengers trampled me to mush in their frantic attempts to preserve their worthless lives for a few more seconds by throwing themselves bodily through the hole I had just created.

The flight attendant shambled his way through a safety announcement while apologising and pointing out he was very tired and should have been off duty two hours ago.   I hope the same couldn’t be said for the pilot.  Eventually they wound up the elastic and the plane trundled towards the runway only twenty minutes late.  That is twenty minutes later than the hour and a half it was already late.

Ten minutes later we were still trundling towards the runway and I started to suspect the pilot was going to drive us to Canberra.  The flight attendant explained between yawns that there was a build up of flights trying to land and we had to wait for space on the runway.  I’m not sure why, a decently sized slingshot could have launched this plane into the sky.  Eventually a narrow window appeared and we made a mad dash for the runway before anyone else could land on it.  I doubt if we used a tenth of the runway before our little plane was airborne and rattling towards Canberra.  The flight attendant shambled around with a bottle of water and some random cookies.  These were labelled refreshments but could well have been the remnants of his packed lunch.  He forgot what one of the types of cookies was despite only having a choice of two.

As we neared Canberra we hit some turbulence which would probably have gone unnoticed on a 747 but which made our aerial steed plunge like a bronco.  I gazed at the emergency exit and wondered if I should get a head start on the plane dismantling.  I underestimated our narrow tube’s toughness however and it erupted out the other side of the turbulence and plonked us on the ground at Canberra with nary a bruise.  I patted the aeroplane on the fuselage on my way out and told it I had always had faith in it.  It called me a liar and threatened legal action for sexual harassment.  Next time I take the train.

A Date With Destiny

The time is almost upon me.  The time when I gird my loins and square my shoulders, or possibly square my loins and gird my shoulders, and head for the centralised collection of Work for the Dole programs that is our national capital.  Here I and a select handful like me will meet amongst a horde of crazed hobbyists, crazed role players and the just generally crazed to participate in a wargaming competition which I'm sure you will all agree is a thoroughly sane way to spend a long weekend.

We will sit in our corner of the convention centre looking out at the great unwashed (and definitely undeodorised) mob and reflect smugly on how different we are from these losers who devote vast amounts of time and money to these childish and trivial entertainments.  Then we'll go back to our war go bang bang game which largely consists of cardboard counters and a rulebook and which none of us has spent less than ten thousand dollars on and counting.

Yes CanCon is upon us again.  The Australia Day (or whatever) long weekend is the signal for me to head in the direction of Canberra in the company of those of my acquaintances who can still tolerate my presence for two and a half days of hard fought competition against Australia's best*.  Actually the number of my acquaintances who can still tolerate my presence is apparently none since I am flying to Canberra alone.  However once there I shall meet up with fellow cardboard molesters Dave Wilson and Mark McGilchrist who between them will be transporting me to the competition venue (they don't know this yet, I like to keep it a surprise).

Traditionally I have done well at this tournament.  I have turned up and frequently got through two or three turns of the game before screaming about how everything is rigged and hurling my dice at the ceiling or, on one or two occasions, my opponent.  I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times concerned fellow gamers have had to coax me in off window ledges as a result of poor play.  Mind you the number of times amused fellow gamers have gathered around shouting "jump, jump, jump" has now reached a level where I can no longer consider it a coincidence.

OK, I haven't done terribly well at this tournament.  I never do terribly well at tournaments because I'm not a particularly good player.  What I have to hope for is some spectacular pieces of dice related good fortune fall my way thus enabling those who deserve victory to be crushed beneath my chariot wheels.  This happened once at a competition I attended in America.  I was matched with a genuinely superb player and the look of absolute outrage on his face as I diced and bullshitted my way to a victory kept me warm for many nights to come. 

Once the dust has settled and the medication has started to take effect I shall of cause give a brief update of the games played and results gained and post it on this blog if only because I'm afraid that the thing is becoming a bushwalking blog by default.  It's useful to remind people that I have two strange hobbies that no sane person would contemplate.  I call that having a balanced personality.  Others refer to it as "suffering from multiple conditions".

*"best" being defined as "those who bothered to turn up"

Travelling Pathetically - Unfinished Business Edition

 Back in the early mists of time when life was easy and Covid merely a bat sandwich at a Wuhan biological warfare facility I walked around Mosman.  At the time I was intending to walk from the Spit Bridge back along the harbour foreshore and wind up at the Sydney Harbour Bridge.  Sadly my less than robust body failed me and after fourteen kilometres of wandering through the hot sun I limped and staggered to a halt while still in Mosman.  It really is quite a large suburb.  Since that time a sense of incompleteness has nagged at me.  It nagged at me so badly that a mere three years later I decided that the time had come to finish this walk and make my way boldly from Mosman to Milsons Point.

In deference to my habit of wandering around random bits of semi-wilderness I had been given a shirt for Christmas specifically designed for hikers.  It apparently whicked away the sweat that was an inevitable consequence of such activity leaving the walker comfortable and ready to proceed.  The shirt was a miracle, it did indeed whick away the sweat and then deposited it on my body giving me the distinct impression that I was walking in a bath.  I am gradually getting if not more professional then at least more professionally equipped.

Starting from Mosman meant getting to Mosman which, since I was walking along the foreshore, meant taking a ferry.  I turned up at Circular Quay to find my noble (and arguably seaworthy) vessel sheltering in the shadow of the CelebrityEDGE.  The CelebrityEDGE is a gargantuan cruise liner whose name manages to be both flatulent and fatuous at the same time.  If I encounter a celebrity edge I'm likely to push them off.

The CelebrityEDGE. Surely there are better ways to spread disease.

We sailed out of the CelebrityEDGE's long shadow and entered the more picturesque parts of the harbour (ie those bits not occupied by the CelebrityEDGE).  It was a pleasant trip to Manly, the sun was shining and the ferry didn't sink.  Soon I was making my way along a harbourside carpark enroute to a walking track that would take me at least part of the way towards Milsons Point.  I took a photo of Mosman Bay for no better reason than it was the starting point of my walk.

Mosman Bay because it was there and didn't move when I photographed it

Behind Mosman Bay Marina is the path that would take me at least to Cremorne Point.  After that there would be a certain amount of making it up as I went along.  The path followed the shoreline because if it did anything else it would bump into peoples houses.  As with my previous walk in Greenwich the "bush" is essentially a fringe between the shore and the nearest place people could build houses.  To my left the land sloped down to the harbour adorned with trees, plants and all of the usual accoutrements of bushland.  To my right aforementioned houses loomed to basically inform the bush that flat land was off limits.

A path through the bush trying hard to pretend there isn't a house 50 metres away

 

It was hardly plunging through the wilderness, the path was sealed for much of the journey but if you looked left instead of right you saw the harbour peeking through the trees and you could imagine yourself in pristine nature.  At least you could if you imagined that pristine nature could nevertheless provide sealed walking paths and periodic signs imploring you to be kind to the little bit of bushland that was left.

If you looked left...

To the right was evidence of what had happened to the remainder of the bush.  Large, handsome homes that were built at a time when wealth was if not synonymous with good taste then at least synonymous with being prepared to hire good taste.

And on the right.

The paucity of the bushland didn't seem to concern its inhabitants however.  I stepped off the path for a moment to investigate a small dirt trail that actually just circled around a tree and came back and encountered a lizard sunning itself.  It was more than happy to pose for photographs.  Incidentally there was no information as to why this particular tree got a path all to itself.  Possibly its there simply to encourage people to take photos of the lizards.

OK, I seem to be developing a lizard fetish

My unnatural lizard urges temporarily sated I plunged on pausing only to take a shot of the Clare McIntyre memorial fungus (well mushroom really) that popped up out of nowhere.  I should really rename this blog "Shooting Lizards and Fungi".

As far as I'm concerned mushrooms, toadstools and fungi are all pretty much the same

The path widened out into a small park with the occasional bench and tree placed for decorative purposes (as opposed to growing because that's simply what they do).  A couple of people disported themselves on the flattish grass and there was a brush turkey wandering around because of course there was.  I'm starting to suspect that there are only two brush turkeys in Sydney and they just keep following me around.

OK Shooting Lizards, Fungi and Brush Turkeys

I was now walking through or at least adjacent to the Lex & Ruby Graham Gardens.  In case you hadn't worked it out the likelihood of a strip of bushland along the shore being left untouched for the last two hundred years is pretty low.  The bush that grows there now is primarily what started growing after we stopped killing everything in sight.  A lot of the escarpment was used in the traditional manner, ie we tossed our rubbish there and generally it looks a lot better now that it probably did a hundred years ago.  Part of the reason for this is Lex & Ruby Graham.  Lex Graham was bathing in the harbour when a bulb floated by.  On a whim he plucked it out of the sea and planted it in a convenient bit of dirt.  To his amazement the thing took root and started to grow.  Inspired, Lex and his wife Ruby started cleaning up the escarpment in the immediate vicinity (thousands of bricks, a washing machine and tons of other crap) and planting other things in the hopes they would follow the bulbs example.  They did and in the process the Grahams transformed what was essentially a rubbish tip into a bit of bushland.  Not likely to be the original plants occupying the area but I think we can agree that any plants are probably an improvement over bricks and a washing machine.  A path leads through the garden down to the shore where there is a small rock pool where Lex was disporting himself when the critical bulb made its appearance.

I took this path myself and got almost to the water's edge but was prevented from getting any further by the back of another individual sitting gazing out at the water.  The reason for his obstructionism became plain when his (wife, partner, former primary school teacher) hauled herself naked from the water.  At that point I got a phone call from my parents because the situation couldn't get any more awkward so why not. At least I was able to concentrate of the phone call while she got dressed and they made their departure.  I ran into them a couple more times over the course of my walk but we didn't stop and reminisce. 

On a slightly more suitable for work note I took a photo of a small but handsome sandstone cliff I passed by on my way to not actually seeing the rock pool.  I made my way along it for a bit but the path petered out so I returned to the more established route.

A small overhang

   

Random garden photo #1

Random garden photo #2

Setting back out along the path I came across Cremorne Reserve, a parklike area (ok, its a park) where all pretense of bushland peters out.  Instead I walked along beside sculpted grass adorned with people picnicking and doing all of the other things people do for recreation at the seaside.  I walked to the end of Cremorne Reserve and with that the walking trail I had been following came to an end.  The remainder of my journey would be suburban with brief intervals where parks had intruded into the wealthy's grasp of the foreshore.

I was essentially doing a point to point.  From Cremorne Point I made my way to Kurraba Point.  Once at Kurraba Point Neutral Bay and Kirribilli Point exercised their siren song on me.  Panting in the heat I stumbled down suburban streets (and frequently up suburban streets when I realised I had been reading the map upside down) snatching rare opportunities to reintroduce myself to the coast line and the occasional piece of well disciplined greenery.

This is either Kurraba or Kirribilli Point, they were all starting to blur together by this stage

I saw Admiralty House which is the Sydney residence of the Governor General and Kirribilli House which is the Sydney residence of the Prime Minister.  Despite these handsome dwellings both are forced to spend a lot of their time in Canberra.  I imagine each of them sitting in their respective offices in our nation's capital staring at photos of Admiralty and Kirribilli Houses and weeping gently to themselves.  I was tempted to take photos but decided I didn't want to explain myself to the AFP so you're going to have to google them like ordinary people.

I did wander down to Kirribilli ferry wharf to take a photo of such of the shoreline as presented itself to me.  Then I wandered away again because there was one more point on my agenda.

The shoreline at Kirribilli.

The harbour bridge had been an increasingly intrusive presence as I headed towards it.  Now I could hardly avoid it because I was walking straight towards it.  Milsons Point my final destination loomed and the bridge showed me the way.

Getting closer

Finally I stumbled into Milsons Point, the shade of the bridge above me.  I gazed across the harbour and got definite confirmation that my journey was over.  Yes, there it was the damned CelebrityEDGE.  A photo of its rear seemed an appropriate bookend to my walk and the sight of it's rear is reassuring because it gives the impression it might be leaving.

Please go away

With a little time before my ferry I wandered around Luna Park (because it was there and so was I).  People were dragging kids around and sweating in the sun pretending they were having a good time.  Or possibly they were having a good time and it was the heat exhaustion making me cynical.  Either way Luna Park has one thing going for it.  You can't see the CelebrityEDGE from there.

Human Semi-Interaction

 I have been trotting around random patches of bush in Sydney for the last few years now.  In between pestering lizards and photographing fungi I occasionally meet other human beings.  No, that's not correct.  In between pestering lizards and photographing fungi I occasionally pass other human beings.  They rarely impact my consciousness for any longer than it takes to step politely out of their way and I'm sure that my own intrusion into their awareness is similarly minimal.

However it occurs to me that it might be helpful to record the types of people that one might encounter on such trips for the information of others.  I do this out of a selfless desire to educate and inform and not at all because after fourteen odd years (and some of them have been very odd) I have completely run out of original ideas for this blog.  Please enjoy the brief anthropological survey below and reflect on the amazing diversity of our species.

Bushwalkers;

Let's get this one out of the way right off the bat.  Of course the bulk of people I encounter are bushwalkers.  After all what else are we all doing here?  Bushwalkers fall into two basic types which I have designated the bushwalker superior and the bushwalker inferior.

The bushwalker superior is a noble beast.  It strides through its domain as if by right.  Boots adorn its feet, a pack rests comfortably upon its back, there is a hat to protect its brain case from the scorching solar rays and in extreme cases a pole is held in each hand officially to aid mobility but in actual fact to assist in brutal dominance battles within the pack.  One glance at this creature is enough to tell you that it probably uses those poles when it walks down to the shops for a bottle of milk.  Sometimes alone, sometimes in a small group these creatures have no love for the bush.  Rather it is a hated rival against which they measure their strength seeking glory and prestige on a battlefield no one but themselves would bother turning up to.

If you encounter these beings in the wild nod politely or mutter a greeting and step respectfully to the side to allow them passage.  They will return your greetings as etiquette demands and your stepping respectfully to the side will impress them with your good manners and minimise the danger of them accidentally sticking a walking pole through your shoe.

The bushwalker inferior is a much less impressive specimen.  I am one of these myself.  We wander aimlessly along bush tracks pausing for photos, accidentally treading on lizards and generally reducing the noble art of bushwalking to a pathetic farce.  The appearance of the bushwalker inferior is a mocking copy of its noble cousin.  Something adorns our feet, they may be boots but they're just as likely to be tennis shoes.  Our water bottles were purchased from a convenience store on the day of the walk because once again we forgot to prepare in advance.  Hiking gear consists largely of clothing slightly too casual to be worn to a wedding.  At best a cap will cover our thinning hair and at worst we stagger along half dead from heat exhaustion.  We do not carry fucking walking poles!  Quite a lot of us (from my experience) are middle aged to elderly Asians taking a constitutional.  We will return your greeting with enthusiasm and might even stop to chat for a couple of minutes if you're so inclined, anything to put off the moment when we have to start walking again.  The main difference between us and the bushwalker superior is that the latter likes the exercise while we like the location.

Picnickers;

Depending on where you walk you might not encounter this particular specimen.  Obviously they tend to gravitate to areas that are flat enough to lay down a blanket and where the children are less likely to fall off a cliff if left unsupervised for thirty seconds.  If like me you take your walks in areas essentially surrounded by suburbs then you will encounter this type more often as ragged bits of bushland quite frequently abut neatly mowed reserves and parks where people drag their families in the desperate hope that a change of scenery will somehow render their presence a little more tolerable.  Another term for picnic incidentally is "collective punishment".

If you encounter picnickers while on your walk whatever you do don't interact with them.  They're already having the worst day of their lives and the sudden appearance of a sweaty, wild eyed, half mad stranger from nearby bushland in close proximity to the most vulnerable members of their family is not likely to incline them to welcome your arrival.  If you have a camera then in the name of god do not take any photos until these wretched endurers of the outdoors are safely in your rear.  Otherwise you may find that the next type of people you encounter are of a law enforcement variety.

Locals;

These are people who live quite near whatever native remnant you're currently soiling with your presence.  The paths that you are recreating along are simply footpaths to them, a means of getting from one spot to another within their immediate neighbourhood.  And because it is their immediate neighbourhood they tend to react in much the same way as you would if a complete stranger suddenly wandered into your backyard.  They're not fans of bushwalking or bushwalkers at least as far as it pertains to their particular locality.  Don't talk to these people, they will stab you.

There are two types of locals; wealthy locals and not wealthy locals.  Female wealthy locals have plastic surgery and greyhounds.  Male wealthy locals have women who have plastic surgery and greyhounds.  As you can see a fear of being stabbed is not the only reason to give these a wide berth.  Wealthy locals are quite common as the type of suburbs that have attractive pieces of bush in close proximity to them tend to be occupied by higher income brackets.

Not wealthy locals occupy areas where the bushland exists simply because the property developers haven't finished bulldozing it yet.  Or possibly a small patch was simply not economically viable to destroy.  These people tend to mind their own business and it would be a very good idea if you did the same.  I encountered a group of four such on one occasion.  Well actually I encountered a group of two as the other two fled into the bush on my approach and didn't come out until after I had passed along.  I had a polite but stilted conversation with the two who apparently didn't have outstanding warrants but both sides were visibly relieved when I made my excuses and departed as swiftly as possible.  One of them was carrying a shovel for reasons I was far too sensible to ask about.

Bushland Regenerators;

Yes I know that sounds rather like a reverse vajazzle but in actual fact these noble defenders of the bush are part of the reason why anything green still grows in the Sydney region.  Where ever you walk you will encounter signs discreetly informing you that this or that local bush care group is lovingly tending to the patch of ground you are clumping over, nurturing native plants, removing noxious weeds, cleaning up rubbish and trying to persuade storm water to flow to less environmentally sensitive areas.  These people are heroes.  They are also invisible.  While evidence of their presence in the form of the above mentioned signs abounds not once have I actually seen such a person tugging out a noxious weed or telling encouraging stories to some delicate native plant tentatively reestablishing itself in an area that used to be a toxic waste dump.  I can only assume that they do the bulk of their work at night.  I honestly don't know how you might communicate with these and can only suggest that a ouija board might be your best bet.

Mountain Bikers;

Fuck those guys!

 I hope that the above is of help to you in identifying the various subgroups of humanity you may encounter as you crash helplessly through the bush.  Just remember, they're probably not as scared of you as you are of them.

Travelling Pathetically - Filling in the Gaps Edition

 The Christmas break beckoned to me as the perfect opportunity to take long, wide ranging walks through Sydney's bushland, becoming one with nature and preparing myself physically and mentally for further challenges to come.  But then it rained or I was tired or there was something good on television or there was something bad on television or I simply couldn't be bothered.  The upshot was that I barely left my home for the entire Christmas break and when I did it was in the context of "takeaway coffee and cake" rather than "roaming the wild magnificence of nature".  I did make one exception.  At some point during my voluntary coma I opened one eye and thought, "I really should make an effort."  That thought was rapidly replaced with "perhaps I could pretend to make an effort."  Finally I settled on trying to look as though I was pretending to make an effort and in that spirit I made my way to Greenwich.

Greenwich sits on the northern shore of the harbour between the Lane Cove River and Berry Creek both of which had been inflicted with my presence on previous walks.  This seemed like a good chance to fill a missing spot.  I would take the ferry to Greenwich Point and walk around an apparently bush strewn foreshore until I reached Gore Creek Reserve.  I would then follow the eponymous creek upstream until I started bumping into people's houses.

The appointed day for my walk dawned and to my irritation it turned out bright and sunny and I really had no excuse not to go.  Muttering imprecations against the rain gods that had failed me I dragged myself ferryward and psychologically steeled myself for a little walking.  The ferry deposited me at Greenwich Point from where I could choose to turn left and walk along the foreshore through such bush as hasn't been poisoned by home owners and property developers or I could turn right and wind up at the Gore Bay fuel terminal.  I decided on option one since that dovetailed pretty much with my original intentions.  Also I had no need for a container ship full of fuel.

 I made my way along what was somewhat optimistically signposted as a "bush track".  There was indeed a certain amount of slightly disheveled looking bush preventing me from toppling into the harbour and for that I thank it.  Given that the good citizens of Greenwich had their houses approximately fifty metres from the path I suppose I should be impressed that there was as much bush left as there was.  Revelling in the slightly tatty nature presented for my inspection and resolutely refusing to look at the houses on my right I made my way along the bush track heading inexorably towards the park that housed Gore Creek.

OK, I suppose it doesn't look too bad really

 Along the way the bush track stopped and I found myself blundering through what was obviously somebody's back garden.  I encountered a brush turkey, we gazed each other up and down and mutually agreed not to mention the others trespassing.  I did take a couple of photos in case I needed to rat it out to the police later.

This is someone's backyard.  I think you can understand my confusion

Hastily checking the map on my phone (I don't know why I do this, I have abundant proof that I can't read a map to save my life) I realised that the bush path had come to an end, as had the bush, and if I wanted to go further I would have to return to suburban streets.  Not wanting to end my days as a brush turkey's bitch I hit the streets and wandered reluctantly past rows of houses that I couldn't possibly afford.  Fortunately my sojourn in suburbia was brief as I made my way to the Bob Campbell Oval which is where Gore Creek stumbles into the harbour.  Google maps describes Bob Campbell Oval as a sports complex but since its basically a patch of mowed grass I think the term "sports simple" would be a more accurate term.  Towards the rear of the simple the trees closed in around the creek and suddenly I was walking through bush again.  What's more I was walking through lush, abundant bush rather than scrubby, clinging desperately to the cliffside trying not to fall into the harbour style bush.

Now this is more like it

Gore Creek trickled picturesquely on my right.  At least I assumed it trickled, in my mind every creek sounds like an incontinent three year old at the top of a flight of stairs.  What with bird song, and aircraft noise, and motor boats on the harbour and vehicles on roads which although out of sight were certainly not out of earshot the creek could have been singing Ave Maria.  In my defence it looked like it was trickling.

I followed Gore Creek along mainly because alternatives were few and as I went I became increasingly annoyed at the behaviour of the lizards.  Normally lizards hang around posing for photographs and I frequently have to kick them off the path so that I can proceed.  Not here, a few brief flickers of movement and the sound of panic stricken reptiles crashing through the bush was as close as I came to lizards for most of my walk.  I felt personally offended.  Am I not a friend to lizards?  Haven't I immortalised them in my blog?  Don't I manage to avoid treading on them most of the time?  Now the little reptilian bastards are treating me like a distant relative who wants to borrow money.

Muttering and fulminating over the fickle nature of lizards generally I pushed on through the bush.  Sometimes the path meandered close enough to the creek for a photo opportunity and I was able to take some photos of shallow water moving slowly towards Sydney Harbour.  For some reason I did so.  I was also able to sneak up behind a lizard and grab a photo before it fled through the undergrowth.

Gore Creek

A lizard I managed to take by surprise

With my lizard fetish temporarily sated I pushed on until I came to Lillypilly Waterfall, a small but charming waterfall that enabled Gore Creek to drop more altitude in two seconds than it had achieved in the previous couple of kilometres.  A helpful sign pointed out that the waterfall had once been much more spectacular and the pool at the bottom had been a popular swimming spot but then, well, development.  Now the waterfall is somewhat more modest and the pool at the bottom is fit for wading at most.

The waterfall is lovely but I'm pretty sure I don't want to go swimming in that pool

Leaving the waterfall behind me I also left Greenwich behind me passing briefly into Northwood before plumping for Lane Cove as the principal location for my walk.  I crossed a road and came to an area where the stream branched.  Actually since I was walking upstream I came to an area where two streams flowed into each other.  The stream to the left maintained the name of Gore Creek, I've no idea what the other one was called possibly Septic Tank Overflow.  Gore Creek flowed through a golf course so I followed the other one which flowed through the Lane Cove Bush Park (not to be confused with the Lane Cove River National Park a far grander affair).  Still the bush park had its compensations, bush, an apparently nameless creek flowing over sandstone (yes I did check for platypus, no I didn't find any) and the possibility of critically endangered fungi.

Yes, a small part of the bushland had been fenced off and a sign announced that said fencing was to protect critically endangered fungi which grew in the area.  I stared, I peered and finally saw something that might be fungi or might not and might be critically endangered or not or could have been anything at all really.  I took a photo which completely failed to clear things up.

I'm not sure if the fungi in this photo is critically endangered.  I'm not even sure its fungi

After almost pulling a muscle attempting to photograph something that may or may not have been fungi I headed on my path heralded by the sound of lizards fleeing my approach.  I could easily get a complex about this.  To make myself feel better I took another creek photo.

For no particular reason another creek photo

On I soldiered lizards fleeing left and right until finally I stepped out onto a suburban street.  My bushwalk had come to an end and now there was just the awkward job of finding out where I was and how I was going to get home.  This turned out to be slightly easier than I expected as I had come out reasonably close to the Pacific Highway and headed in the general direction of St Leonards.  Along the way I came across mushrooms and photographed them as a semi acceptable substitute for fungi.

Not really a Clare McIntyre award contender but possessed of their own subtle charm

I had a destination in mind, St Leonards railway station from which I could begin my journey home but before I did that I wandered through Gore Hill Cemetery.  Not deliberately it just turned up and I found my way in.  I like old cemeteries, all crumbling graves and overgrown paths.  I mused on the fleeting nature of existence as I passed by forgotten memorials to forgotten people.  Well no I didn't, what I did muse on was the human habit of fetishising the dead.  For some reason doing things to dead people seems to be taboo in virtually every culture (except for Haiti where dying is basically a work for the dole program).  I've never quite understood why after all if you have to rob, mistreat or abuse somebody the dead are those least likely to complain or suffer any real harm as result of your actions.  I'd much prefer you did horrible stuff to the dead than the living.  Most people don't seem to see it like that.

Gore Hill Cemetery, mowing optional

 

Leaving the cemetery I almost walked into Royal North Shore Hospital.  Having a hospital so close to a cemetery is either a sign of administrative efficiency or a serious vote of no confidence in the medical staff.  I hastened away before some wannabe Frankenstein decided to test his latest techniques on my hapless carcass.  As I passed through the carpark the lizard population redeemed itself with a solid looking blue tongue more than happy to preen for the cameras.

Worth the wait

And a second photo to prove the first wasn't a fluke

I skipped delightedly towards the train station and spent the rest of the day in a lizard induced high.  Sometimes it is convenient to be so easily pleased.

Silly After Action Report - The Arab Legion

Captain Abdul Mahut Behbey el Efanti stared aross the searing desert sand towards the low hills sparsely adorned with the sort of scraggly vegetation that made you wonder why nature even bothered.  From a track between the hills he could hear the sound of vehicles.  The French were coming.  He turned to his troops crouched over an ancient machine gun.

"Get ready," he whispered.  To his right was an ancient truck plastered with random bits of metal, his armoured support.  Wisely el Efanti didn't place too much faith in it.  It was difficult to take an armoured vehicle seriously when bits of the "armour" dropped off every time you revved the engine.  He was also more than a little concerned about the machine guns his troops had been equipped with.

"Where did they say we got the machine guns?" he asked a corporal next to him who seemed a little under employed.

"I think the Household Cavalry stole them from the British Museum," was the reply.

"Stealing from the British Museum, that's new."

"Sadly the machine guns aren't."

I selected this scenario to play based purely on the title and the fact that I don't know of too many scenarios involving the Arab Legion.  Dave very kindly pandered to my less than scientific method of scenario selection and took up the doomed cause of the Vichy French while I commanded Glubb Pasha's finest or at least most geographically convenient.  The Arab Legion are tasked with defending a small and utterly worthless Syrian village from the predations of the French.  Dave needs to control ten building hexes or amass 30 CVP while my soldiers of Jordan win by avoiding those two situations.

I have seven second line British squads led by three officers including a 9-1.  In addition to this rather slender force I have four incredibly heavy and very old medium machine guns which labour under ammunition shortage and red to hit numbers.  I also have two "armoured cars".  God knows what these are but they are depicted by Chinese counters which doesn't fill me with confidence.  They have a cmg and an aamg which can't fire through the vehicular covered arc.  These vehicles are technically there to support me in actual fact they're really just there to help the French get the CVP they need.  On turn three the Household Cavalry comes steaming to the rescue with four tiny Daimler scout cars.  Their armament is derisory but the armour is quite impressive for their size.

Fighting bitterly to hold onto France's least desirable province are the men of the 1st Light Desert Company.  Dave has nine first line squad equivalents transported to the battlefield in four large trucks.  They also have three officers, five light machine guns and three mediums.  Rolling on in armoured support are no fewer than six AMD 50 armoured cars.  They carry stubby 37mm guns and a machine gun which for some reason sticks out the rear.  These would be Dave's go to tools for victory.

 I set up two forward outposts in the only semi defensible terrain forward of the village.  In the east a squad and a Chinese gun truck lurked among the olive groves.  The job of the squad was to lunge forward and take possession of the two forward buildings, just to make Dave fight for his prize and hopefully slow his progress a bit.  In the west two squads with an mmg and a leader prepared to make fight for the only other two buildings forward of the village with the other gun truck in support.  The remaining force went into the village with a pair of mmgs (guided by my best leader) covering the track and a third mmg (under a less impressive leader) guarding the eastern flank.  I think I had fantasies of catching Dave's forces in a crossfire as they obligingly manoeuvred  under my sights.  Strangely Dave didn't cooperate with this delusion.

End of French turn 1.  Apart from one long range shot my guys remain nestled beneath their concealment counters

The first couple of turns were largely violence free as Dave closed the gap between our two forces.  His trucks rolled up onto the hills to deposit his infantry out of sight of my defenders while his armoured cars sought positions of advantage.  Incidentally we forgot that the French armoured cars have to use platoon movement until turn two.  Dave was able to link up five of the cars but the rear most one (naturally containing his 9-1 armour leader) failed its independent movement die roll two turns in a row.  In my turn my easterly squad lunged forward and did indeed occupy the forward buildings.  So far everything was going according to plan.  This would be the last moment when I could say that.

End of French turn 2.  That is quite a frightening armoured force Dave has amassed.  Mine, not so much.

The second turn saw Dave's trucks kick their passengers into the sand and head for the rear at a great rate of knots.  Infantry started moving towards my flanks while on the track five armoured cars (their commander was still trying to start his vehicle in the rear) prepared to strike.  I could do little except wait for the oncoming storm and pray safe in the knowledge that all would eventuate as god willed.  Inshallah.

In my turn I managed to break one of his units taking up position on an inconvenient hilltop (well it was inconvenient for me) but sadly not his mmg team.  My squad in the east which had so boldly staked its claim to the two forward buildings now slunk into the rearmost of said buildings in the hope of avoiding the terrible retribution coming its way.

End of French turn 3.  Dave makes his move in the west (bottom)

With his armoured cars and an infantry stack giving my lone squad in the east their undivided attention Dave sent the rest of his infantry forward against my position in the west.  Defensive fire resulted only in a squad going berserk.  With Gallic shouts they lunged forward towards the exact sort of crossfire I had been hoping for.  Sadly the results were a little sub optimal.  One of my trucks broke its cmg and the other results didn't even achieve that much.  The berserk squad shrugged off the hail of poorly directed fire and broken weapon parts and readied itself for the final charge next turn.  In the east retreating to the rearmost building proved to be a wise move and my squad got away with a pin result.

 

End of British (Arab) turn 3

With my turn 3 the Household Cavalry arrived just in time to witness one of my hapless Chinese trucks being blown apart by the less than impressive 37mm gun on an armoured car.  I was somewhat at a loss as to what to do with these little vehicles.  Their 2FP armament didn't seem to threaten infantry much more than armour and being open topped their crews were not immune from small arms fire themselves a fact proved when Dave promptly shot one of them up terrifying its crew so much that they drove immediately for the rear.  The other two circled up onto the westernmost hill, breaking a French squad on the way.  There they sat trying to pretend they knew what they were doing.  My mmg team had their moment of glory, immobilising an armoured car the crew swiftly left but later got back in.  On the other hand my other Chinese truck broke its cmg as well, cheap imported rubbish.

Speaking of cheap imported rubbish I managed to break the car killing (or at least car hurting) mmg when I took a shot at the berserk guys as they rushed towards certain death.  Once again they survived the (distinctly lighter) hail of fire and jumped into CC with the squad now reduced to throwing bits of broken machine gun at them.  But that wasn't the only close combat as Dave now rushed forward to deal with my forward defences.  In the west a squad leapt into close combat with my armoured truck while in the east approximately half the French army swamped my poor isolated forward squad.  Dave really went all out with this one.  He sleazed the defenders with an armoured car and then poured three squads into CC while moving another stack carrying his two remaining mmgs next door.  My heroes neatly ambushed his troops and fled before the combat could be resolved.  Of course this left them sitting in the open adjacent to three squads worth of troops but it was the best I could do at the time.

Meanwhile his sniper managed to kill one of my officers the accompanying squad naturally failed its LLMC and suddenly my eastern mmg position was gone.  I was now desperately short of officers as one of the two remaining was locked in melee with his berserk squad.  Somewhat to the rear his armour leader had finally persuaded his driver to turn the engine over and his last armoured car was trundling towards the battlefield where a pair of scout cars awaited it.

I think time is running out for my eastern defenders.

Over in the east there was a brief moment of glory as the squad which had withdrawn from melee took an 8+3 shot at its neighbour and managed to break all three squads and their leader.  Sadly they didn't have much time to celebrate as return fire from the next position along wiped them out.  I reversed my surviving truck out of melee which in retrospect was possibly a mistake as it allowed Dave to reinforce the melee with his berserkers who had so far made no impression on my defenders.  Up on the hill Dave's newly arrived command AC took a shot at one of my scout cars but their so small you need a microscope rather than a gunsight and both of them rolled around behind his car, sadly failing their own bounding fire shots.

At first glance things didn't look too bad.  The main village was as yet unthreatened and I was still contesting the buildings in the south (I killed half his berserkers in CC) but this was misleading.  Half my force was gone and my remaining machine guns plinked harmlessly at his armoured cars while Dave pulled his troops together for a final push.  The simple fact of the matter was I had no answer to his armoured cars.  Their 37mm guns were more than capable of killing any of my vehicles and it would be sheer blind luck if I was able to inflict any harm on them.  As the end turns approached Dave used them more aggressively, essentially daring me to try and knock them out.

Well I tried.  My little scout cars now well to the rear rolled up behind his armoured cars and did their best to make an impression with their cmgs to no avail.  I slipped my only available officer across to the east to rally the squad there.  They celebrated by destroying their mmg on their first shot (I rolled five boxcars in the last two and a half turns of the game).  Dave's other armoured cars (ie not the ones occupied with my scout cars) rolled around and destroyed my other truck which had been a monument to worthlessness the entire game and started menacing what was left of my position there.

My peashooters are doing their best but Dave laughs at my attempts.

It all ended rather anticlimactically.  There was no final charge on the village.  Dave sniped another of my officers and killed the third in CC.  That plus the three vehicles destroyed put him on nineteen CVP.  The deaths of a couple of other squads was more than enough to tip him over.  I managed to kill a couple of half squads and break some infantry but never enough to truly slow him down.  His armoured cars absolutely ruled the battlefield, roaming with impunity and laughing at my feeble attempts to stop them.  The one immobilisation was the sole result I achieved against them despite hitting them with enough metal to overstress their suspensions if nothing else.  Both Chinese trucks broke their MA on the first shot and two mmgs also broke.  Not a single officer survived the battle.

Despite the miserable tale above we both enjoyed this game but agree that it seems a little tough on the British.  The simple fact is that they have no answer to the French armoured cars except to roll incredibly low, a lot.  The French for their part can afford to lose all six on the road to victory but the British vehicles are little more than rolling CVP.

"Do we have any of those machine guns left?" asked Captain el Efanti as the tattered remains of his force attempted to regroup around a water barrel.

"A couple," replied the corporal.  "The men are using them as clubs.  They work much better like that."

Suddenly a noise attracted the captain's attention.

"Glubb, Glubb, Glubb."

He leapt up electrified.

"We're saved.  It's Glubb Pasha himself come to rescue us."

"Actually that's Sergeant al Khaponi drowning himself in the water barrel."