Travelling Pathetically - Just One Bay After Another

After I emerged from the Lane Cover River valley covered in glory (and not leeches as some predicted) I decided for a more modest achievement for my next walk.  I gazed at the map of Sydney and realised I had given scant attention to the southern shore of the harbour.  There were good reasons for this.  Much of the southern shore of the harbour is occupied by the dwellings of those with the money to afford a dwelling on the southern shore of the harbour.  Such dwellings had not left much space for bushland however if I zoomed in on the map and squinted closely it did seem that there might be a shred of greenery not completely built over between Rose Bay and Watsons Bay.  Indeed there seemed to be a walking track of sorts.

"That's it!" I announced to a collection of disinterested plush toys.  "I shall walk from Rose Bay to Watsons Bay."

"You do know there's a perfectly good ferry?" asked the platypus.

I did indeed know there was a perfectly good ferry.  I caught the perfectly good ferry to Rose Bay to commence my walk.  The journey across Sydney Harbour was enlivened by my discovery that Sydney ferries now have the sort of welcoming speech one normally encounters on aircraft.  Welcoming you aboard, wishing you a pleasant journey and informing you of what to do in the unlikely event that the ferry's journey becomes more downward than onward.  When it got to the part detailing the emergency exits I stopped listening.   It's a ferry for gods sake.  The emergency exits are the entire sides of the vessel.  I doubt if the crew are going to order me back on board if I hurl myself into the sea from the wrong spot.

With a specific part of the ferry's side committed to memory should the worst happen I sat back to enjoy the trip.  I had picked a good day, ie hot and cloudless which meant that the harbour was at its best.  Whether this would be ideal for walking was another matter.  Rose Bay emerged blinking from the harbour and attempted to look its best as I approached.  Rose Bay is famous for two things; a golf course which occupies about half of the suburb and its status as Australia's oldest international airport.  

Back in the early days of international air travel the cost of laying down concrete runways of sufficient length for international aircraft was considered prohibitive.  It was much cheaper to land the aircraft on water which didn't need much in the way of construction work.  In the 1930s flying boats from BEA (proud ancestor of its wretched offspring British Airways) and PanAm's famous clippers would carry passengers and mail from the world to Sydney and back again.  And they landed at Rose Bay.  The whole thing came to an end after the Second World War.  During that time so many long concrete runways had been built to facilitate bomber fleets that the world came out of the conflict with an almost embarrassing oversupply of land based international quality airports.

Still Rose Bay airport still exists as the home for a seaplane tour company.  Another good thing about a water airport is the lack of maintenance needed on the runways.

Seaplane parking at Rose Bay

Having alighted at Rose Bay and turned my back with barely concealed contempt on the golf course I peered at the map on my phone and set out on my journey.  I was sensibly dressed for walking in sturdy shoes and long pants.  However the first thing I walked across was Rose Bay beach for which I was completely unsuited both sartorially and psychologically.  When I reached the end of the beach I discovered that I wasn't going any further.  Some extra frantic peering at the map told me I would actually have to leave the sea and walk through Rose Bay shops and reunite with the foreshore a little further on.  I didn't actually get lost but I did go down a couple of wrong streets before I found the right one.  To show willing I did take a photo of the harbour from Rose Bay before plunging into the suburb itself.

Like I said, it was a nice day

Having struggled through the traffic choked main street of Rose Bay I emerged out the other side and pointed myself back towards the foreshore with a very impressive church staring down at me.  Specifically what was impressive about the church was the church's ability to snaffle the best real estate wherever they turn up.  This one managed to give an almost medieval look to what is a very modern suburb.

The worshipers of some grim, dark god look down upon the villagers with disdain

And Rose Bay is a modern suburb and getting more modern by the second.  The reason for this is because it is quite old (by Sydney standards) that means that most of the ground was built on yea these many years ago.  What that means in turn is that if you want to build anything you pretty much have to knock something else down.  Virtually the entire suburb seems to be in a permanent state of renovation.  Fortunately I left the scafffolding and discreet notices indicating that somebody had paid off the local council and finally made my way to a modest piece of bush.

Here's the thing, there isn't very much bush here.  As noted before people have been living here since some of the colonists decided that a water view was worth being the first to be looted if the French invaded.  However clinging to the very edge of the water a small shred of bushland survives (an oversight I suspect).  This glorified nature strip revels in the name of Sydney Harbour National Park (to be fair there's more in other spots) and much of it has walking platforms so that you don't sully the earth with your tread.  Essentially we are walking along the cliffs which fringe the harbour and which turned out to be slightly more trouble to put houses on that it was worth.  I was rarely more than a hundred metres from somebody's house and frequently much less.  But the day was warm and the little patch of bush was doing its very best to be properly bush like and if you turned your head away from the houses you could see the harbour through the trees and you realised that this tiny strip was worth preserving after all.

Houses to the right of me but this was to my left

I thought that this wouldn't be a particularly strenuous bushwalk and I was right but it was a little more difficult than I anticipated as there was a fair bit of climbing up and down the cliff.  From time to time branch lines of the walking path struck off to take you down to some secluded beach and on a couple of occasions the path itself wandered down there before climbing up the other side.  There were plenty of people on the path but they weren't bushwalkers for the most part, they were people who had parked their cars and were now wandering down to this beach or that.  The difference was noticeable.  For the most part people I have encountered on my bushwalks have offered a greeting varying between formally polite and overtly cheerful.  The people I passed today gave the impression they would stab me if I spoke to them.  So I didn't and this seemed to please both of us.

In welcoming nature lovers or at least people not inherently opposed to nature per se the sign had waxed lyrical about the flora and fauna that frolicked unmolested in this tiny patch of pseudo wilderness.  I have my doubts about the fauna side of that.  There were some birds it is true but there didn't seem to be much of anything else, even lizards were in short supply.  Perhaps most telling of all was the complete absence of signs indicating that fox baits had been laid.  This tells me that even a fox has difficulty finding good eating here.  My attempts to find the Clare McIntyre memorial fungus went almost unrewarded and I'm not sure if the one I did see was a fungus or some sort of tree disease.

The Clare McIntyre memorial fungus, possibly

Fortunately for my scalp there were sufficient trees to more or less protect me from the sun which was useful as I had foolishly forgotten my hat.  As if to deny my previous comments about the inadequacy of the National Park a sign proudly proclaimed that a brand new species of tree had been discovered here only a few years ago.  It was discovered and promptly labelled as endangered which isn't surprising as there isn't space for more than about three of them.  I wish them luck.

At one point I passed by a cemetery or rather what I suspect used to be a cemetery back in the day.  A sturdy fence had been erected to prevent the dead from hurling themselves into the sea.  If you want a viking funeral you really have to put in your will.  Once you're in a box floating you out on a longship becomes a little problematic.

No need to fear the walking dead, they've been fenced off

After the cemetery the path decided I had enjoyed enough altitude for a while and swooped down to sea level to intersect with a beach whose name I don't know and have no intention of looking up.  It was quite compact as beaches go and would have looked very nice if it wasn't covered in people.  If they were whales this would have been a mass beaching event.  I had to restrain the impulse to drag them out to sea.  Those parts of the geography not covered by humans were quite picturesque however.

Definitely picturesque

Once I had picked my way carefully through the beach denizens and started climbing up the other side I encountered a truly enormous tree.  No wonder those other trees are endangered, this one was taking up enough space for a forest.

This is one tree

Giving the tree as wide a berth as possible I continued heading up.  Having flirted with the waterline the path was now apparently intent on seducing the cliff top.  In return for separating me from the water the path repaid me with spectacular views out over the water I could no longer touch.

That's the area I walked through and you have to admit it does look authentically bushlike

Despite the idyllic nature of the surroundings terrors lurked around every corner.  I wouldn't have realised this if signs didn't go out of their way to tell me.  I encountered the sign below at the top of a cliff.  They seem to be keen to include every warning on the one sign I'm surprised they didn't include something about meteor strikes.

For the record I was standing on the top of the cliff with the apparently unstable edges.  The shallow water didn't bother me because it was at the bottom of the cliff but the threatened appearance of "slippery areas" held out the threat that I could travel from the top of the crumbling cliff to the disturbingly shallow water in an unpleasantly short period of time.  Somehow I survived the journey and lit a candle for those before me who hadn't made it (I presume they number in the thousands) may the God of Futile Endeavours look kindly up their sacrifice.

I was now coming to the end of the bushwalk part of my bushwalk having arrived at Nielsen Park which is apparently a "heritage listed historic site and park".  Why?  No idea but there was a decent amount of it.  I followed it until I ran out of bush.  Along the way I came across Shark Beach which was closed for renovations.  Who in the name of a sweet and merciful god names a recreation area Shark Beach?  It might be accurate but come on, a little discretion please.  You don't see chemical works calling themselves the "Mutated Children Chemical Plant" do you?

Before I left Nielsen Park I did manage a semi satisfactory bird photograph.  Cindy Parker, if you're reading this I would appreciate an identification.  I'm really hoping its a shag on a rock because I have the maturity of a thirteen year old.

An unidentified bird

From the park I could see my destination laid out before me.  

My destination, somewhat obscured by an inconveniently placed rock

 

Unfortunately to get there would involve walking through Vaucluse.  From now on my journey would be down suburban streets albeit somewhat high rent ones and therefore isn't particularly interesting.  I did walk through the grounds of Vaucluse House, not for any specific reason, they were just in my way.  Eventually I wound up in Watsons Bay where a ferry was very kindly waiting to cart me back to Circular Quay and my journey home.

Invaded!

I fixed the serried ranks of stuffed plush toys with a gazed filled with cold fury. 

"I am disgusted with the lot of you!  Our home has been invaded!  The sanctity of our domicile has been violated!  And what did you lot do?  Nothing!  Just sat there like a bunch of stuffed..." my voice petered away in embarrassment.

"Oh keep going," invited the puffin.  "Exactly what did we sit there like?"

"Look, I didn't mean,"

"Besides," interrupted the spider, "what did you want us to do?  Copy your example and leap onto the table squealing like a girl?"

"I was startled."

"So was everyone else within a five kilometre radius.  Do you know how penetrating your screams are?"

"Alright, look there are faults on both sides.  Let's just agree to keep a closer eye on the perimeter in future."

"Perimeter?  Do you mean the door?"

"Also the windows."

Yes there have been intruders in my little home.  Not once, not twice but thrice in the last couple of weeks a pair of Indian mynahs have found their way into my flat and they are showing disturbing signs of settling down.  On the occasions I have disturbed these feathery interlopers all of the cunning they displayed in entering my flat in the first place vanished and I had to watch them battering themselves to death on my windows until I got sick of the noise and opened a door.  The final straw came this morning when I was woken up by something walking on me.  Said something turned out to be the aforementioned mynah (or one that looked just like it) which managed to escape my shrieks of vengeance (or terror according to my stuffed animals) and flee the scene.

I'm normally pretty relaxed about animals wandering in and out of my house.  My two rules are "no shedding" and "don't shit on the carpets or, by extension, the furniture, benchtops, bookshelves and television".  The mynahs have broken these rules from the first day and so far show no signs of remorse.

Mynahs are listed among the world's 100 top invasive species (I'm assuming humans are pretty high up on that list as well) and seem to adapt to pretty much everywhere.  They even live in Canberra for gods sake which isn't something I would do if you paid me.  The latest place they are invading is my apartment.

Although they're called an "invasive" species it would be more accurate to state that they're an immigrant species.  They didn't turn up by chance.  As with most environmental accidents this one was largely self inflicted.  Mynahs were introduced into Australia in an attempt to control insects and other pests.  Seriously we've got to stop doing this, I'm not sure what we're going to have to introduce to control the mynahs but I'm suspecting that anything less than dragons would be a complete waste of time.  Meanwhile the mynahs revel in the nickname "flying cane toads" after another ill advised attempt at biological pest control.

While I wait for the dragons to turn up I seem to have little alternative to hermetically sealing my apartment and bidding goodbye to fresh air for the duration.  Multiple visits in a few weeks is obviously not a coincidence.  At this point the mynahs probably think, not without reason, that I will die before they do thus leaving them free reign to occupy my apartment as they see fit.  Meanwhile I'm organising my plush toys into an impromptu neighbourhood watch in the hopes that future incursions are driven off.  Given their poor showing to date I'm not particularly hopeful.

Silly After Action Report - The Narrow Front

 Major Jubilation T Cornpone looked around as grim faced GIs moved purposely forward.  Here and there teams struggled with flamethrowers and satchels of demolition charges.  Ahead the semi ruined town, littered with suspicious looking question marks waited for them with an almost malevolent silence.  Cornpone shouted encouraging words as he almost imperceptibly moved himself towards the rear.  His subtle but inexorable progress was halted abruptly when he ran into the colonel.  Cornpone raised his hands in surrender but swiftly changed one of them to a smart salute as recognition dawned.

"Not leaving us are you Cornpone?" asked the colonel, the good humour of the words belied by the acidic tone.

"No sir," lied Cornpone.  "Just making sure everything is ready for the attack."

"Good to hear, what's your plan."

Cornpone looked around in desperation.  His troops appeared to be a little bunched up on the right and inspiration dawned.

"Attack down the right flank and circle round behind them."

"That could work," replied the colonel in some surprise.  "Better get up there.  They'll need their best officers at the front.  And you might as well be there too."

"Yes sir," muttered Cornpone. 

"By the way, have you got somebody reliable on the horn to the artillery?"

"Yes sir, he's my cousin."

"This must be some new definition of "reliable" I haven't encountered before.  This is your last chance Cornpone, don't screw it up."

Cornpone saluted and very slowly made his way back towards the front.

"Today Cornpone!"

Cornpone increased his pace very slightly.  The colonel's aide approached his superior.

"Is it really fair to sacrifice a good regiment just to try and get him killed sir?"

"I would happily sacrifice a division for the pleasure of seeing that idiot eat a German bullet."

And there you have my military career in a nutshell.  Dave Wilson and I played ITR 19 - The Narrow Front which pitted elements of Roosevelt's SS - the 30th Infantry Division against the greyhounds of 116th Panzer.  The 30th suffered from the distinct disadvantage of being commanded by me.  The 116th in Dave's sure hands had no such handicap.  My Americans are attempting to seize the city of Aachen the capital (insofar as it had one) of the Holy Roman Empire (insofar as there was one).  Before Charlemagne's palace could be taken this little speed bump along the way had to be captured first.  This is a straight out city fight as I have to go through or around a bunch of heavily armed Germans to capture three buildings somewhat in the rear.  Standing in my way are buildings, rubble, debris, a dug in tank and quite a lot of heavily armed Germans.

To capture the three buildings I have a spectacularly impressive force.  Twenty five firepower heavy American squads stand ready to do my bidding.  Five second line, fifteen first line and five elite.  Commanding them are a mighty 10-2 and five other officers.  In addition to their small arms my force has two flamethrowers, three DCs, two .50cal machine guns, four medium machine guns and four bazookas. I also have a radio that connects me (at least in theory) with a battery of 100mm artillery.  Lest this seem inadequate the colonel has dialled in armoured support in the form of three Stuart light tanks and two Shermans.  This force is led by a 10-2 armour leader.  Said armour leader can also hop out of his tank with a radio and guide the artillery should my other radio man prove to be out of place.

That it has to be said is an incredible amount of firepower.  How could I fail to be successful?  People familiar with my other AARs might not feel the need to read any further.  Burrowed into the stone and rubble of this forlorn signpost on the road to Aachen are Dave's panzertruppen.  He has seventeen squads; six elite, seven first line and four second line.  They are commanded by five officers led by a not inconsequential 9-1.  They have a heavy machine gun, two mediums, five lights and a panzerschreck.  Dug into the rubble is a Panther tank, immobile but very heavily armoured.  Arriving on turn three are a pair of very mobile PzIV tanks.  Dave also has artillery in the form of an 80mm battery and a 75mm antitank gun.  He also has twenty three concealment counters.

Incidentally I feel morally obliged to give a shout out to Al Capp since I shamelessly appropriated the name of Dogpatch's very own military hero for my lead character.

Inspired by the name of the scenario I found the narrowest front I could identify and threw the bulk of my force at it.

At start set up

As you can see I set up the bulk of my force on the left to infiltrate their way down the left side of the board and circle into Dave's rear.  Three of my tanks were also directed on this route.  For the rest a 7-0 with the radio was on the first floor of a building in the centre and I had a line of squads staring across the road at their concealed opposite numbers.  I would allocate them a Sherman in the hopes that it could throw some smoke to aid their advance (nope) and generally keep the troops opposite them occupied while I cleaned up his flank.  To start with I hoped massed firepower would smash enough of his front line troops to help in my initial jump forward.  I had deployed as many of my second line squads as I could to lead the charge and generally act as bullet magnets.

End American turn 1

Thing didn't go too badly in the first turn despite malfing one of my flamethrowers on its first shot.  Massed machine gun and rifle fire swept away a goodly part of the German front and my force pressed forwards.  For just a brief moment it looked like the Cornpone Manoeuvre might work.  Over on the right the position took the look it would retain for much of the remainder of the game with concealed German squads skulking back in their turn and advancing forward to present an unbroken wall of question marks.  Casualties had been taken but this was war goddammit and bizarrely my 10-2 had not yet been killed by a sniper.  Incidentally there isn't any palm debris, we just couldn't find regular debris counters.

I pushed along down his flank and also through the rubble hoping to gain some space to move.  My narrow front strategy was causing serious traffic jams.  I grabbed a couple of rubble hexes whereupon Dave revealed his dug in Panther directly in the path of my troops.  A 9-1 officer and a pair of squads with mmgs fled after being subjected to 75mm fire, cowards.  We both attempted to call in our artillery but the spotting rounds were spectacular in their inaccuracy and the god of war would spend most of his time drinking in the green room waiting for the call.  

On the theory that it was better to get in close rather than sit under a rain of HE shells I plunged into CC with the Panther and its escorting squad.  This battle would rage for a couple of turns and I would need to reinforce the melee to replace the troops shot to death by their opponents but eventually the cat went down and the mice danced in the streets, very briefly before fleeing a hail of bullets.

End of American turn 2. Look Mummy, I found a Panther

 

With the Panther occupied brutalising the troops that had the temerity to advance into its hex I tried to move past it with my remaining force.  Over on the right my Sherman stubbornly refused to find rounds for its smoke mortar.  Move past I did and swung around to capture the first of the victory buildings.  It sounds impressive but actually Dave was trading space for time, pulling back his troops in the building to thicken up his remaining defences.  I had a moment of blind panic when Dave's sniper accurately targeted the hex containing my 10-2 but fortunately an 8-0 carrying a flamethrower was also in the hex and he bravely threw his body in front of his more valued colleague.  Of course that did leave me with a virtually immobile flamethrower.

End of American turn 3. I have captured the first victory building which is a mark of good tactics but not necessarily by me

My tanks broke the shackles and plunged southwards in preparation for the arrival of his PzIVs next turn.  As has been obvious throughout my playing career I am hopeless with armour.  I fully expected to lose every vehicle to his two PzIVs but hoped that by positioning my tanks in wait their destruction would at least delay the German armour hitting the flank of my attack.  Up on the north east flank my solitary Sherman continued its parade of impotence by failing to find any WP rounds and settled into sullen quiescence.  

Things didn't look too bad if you were of an optimistic persuasion.  One of three victory buildings was mine.  My flanking troops were queueing up to push forward and even the broken troops (whose numbers were growing) were starting to rally and come back into the fight.  My 10-2 (surely not Major Cornpone) having acquired a concealment counter from somewhere was bringing his kill stack slowly forward encumbered as they were by the weight of their .50cals.  I parked my Stuart with the 10-2 armour leader where it could menace Dave's new front line and Dave responded by promptly moving slightly to the rear.

The artillery took a coffee break as Dave managed to break both his radio and my radio operator.  The god of war got out a deck of cards and started playing solitaire.  With the artillery thus unsatisfactorily taken care of I moved forward.  I parked a Sherman and a Stuart in anticipation of his armoured reinforcements and brought the other two Stuarts up to menace his building defenders after first dismounting the armour leader to take over radio operation duties.  I needn't have bothered.  That left the Sherman far to the north, tired of trying and failing to get smoke I decided to use it to trail my coat.  I swung it around the corner keeping a couple of hexes away from his defenders and hoped to entice him into dropping concealment for a panzerfaust shot.  I guess you could say I was successful.  One German squad did indeed drop concealment, found a faust and promptly fried the Sherman despite firing at a moving vehicle at two hex range from inside a building.  Finally my Sherman was producing smoke.  In the next few turns it would produce fire as well.  A halfsquad with a DC made it across the street but would get no further.

Down where the action was my wounded 8-0 dropped the flamethrower and hobbled forward to shout encouragement from the rear while more impressive leaders guided impressive looking stacks of question marks to the front.

The ring is slowly constricting

I frequently bemoan my utter incompetence at using armour (while not actually doing anything to try and improve) but just on this one occasion the armour gods gazed benevolently upon my hapless flailings.  Dave brought on his PzIVs circling one around behind my parked Stuart and sending the other to challenge it front on.  The Stuart spun its turret round and killed the PzIV approaching from the rear while a combination of fire from it and the Sherman immobilised the other and sent the crew fleeing for the spurious safety of the outside where they were promptly broken.  In one turn I had effectively destroyed Dave's armoured support.  Which was good as things hadn't necessarily developed entirely in my favour elsewhere.  Up in the North an ill advised attempt to rush across the street had resulted in ghastly casualties with the result that Dave actually managed to advance a unit forward in an attempt to destroy my position completely.  This worked partially and the only reason why it didn't work completely is with most of the action happening in the South we kept on forgetting that the damn thing was there.  My first attempt to test his victory building defences was thrown back in bloody rout but on the plus side I did learn where his 75mm gun (which I had completely forgotten about) was located.

My brief moment of glory against Dave's armour (Don't look at the North)

I followed up my armoured triumph with an act of far more typical stupidity.  Dave had advance a 9-1/mmg stack out into the street preparatory to pulling it back into the final victory building.  I decided to risk a Stuart by rolling around and seeing if I could kill them in the street.  It was foolish because I parked a hex or so away and tried shooting at them and Dave promptly fried them with a faust in defensive fire.  Since I was committed to taking the risk I should have tried for an overrun but instead I lost a Stuart for no good purpose.  In better news I had managed to break his hmg position which to be fair had threatened more than it produced and I seemed well placed for a final push against the second building.  What could possibly go wrong?  Oh yes, artillery.

Despite having foolishly lost another tank things don't look too bad

I had finally got my 10-2 led kill stack to where it could do some good and that plus my new flamethrower team in an adjoining hex obliterated his defences in the second victory building.  In return Dave finally connected to his artillery and dropped 80mm HE down onto my troops and his surviving broken units alike.  My troops in the building itself protected as they were by stout stone walls didn't suffer too much but the support troops moving up through the debris were shattered and fled the metal rain screaming.  Oh wait a minute I was the one screaming, my troops fled in proud silence.

Somebody woke up the artillery

This left me with a bit of a dilemma.  I had a couple of decent kill stacks in the second victory building which was essentially mine (although it would take another turn or so to make it official) but I was now desperately short of troops to charge headfirst into fire to capture the third.  Time was also on the point of running out.  Dave had finally pulled his troops in the North back to reinforce the third and final victory building and the tattered remnants of my force up there followed at a respectful distance and tried to make it look like they were pursuing a beaten enemy.

So it all ended in the usual mad scramble as I attempted to make up for the time I had inadvertantly wasted.  I actually thought out my attack carefully (something I should have done seven turns ago but still).  I still had a lot of valuable assets and I used them all (except the artillery, I was now so close there wasn't any point.  I had managed to chase off his radio operator and I had no desire to advance into my own 100mm fire).

My remaining Sherman covered itself in glory by figuring out how to work its smoke mortar blinding some of his defenders.  My 10-2 stack (now with a green halfsquad in possession of a German hmg just for laughs) made it across the road and settled into the rubble.  A Stuart defied the panzerfausts to sleaze some more defenders and then my flamethrower team and whatever remnants I could scrape up plunged into the cauldron.  It all went disturbingly well.  My flamethrower team broke their opponents and his troops in the smoke hex declined to wait for close combat.  Dave was now clinging on to three hexes of the building and I had one turn to turf him out.

The final push begins

In his turn Dave frantically filtered troops around the rear towards the victory building.  I would like to say I stopped him or at least inconvenience him.  It would be more accurate to say I watched him but I cared not for numbers.  I had taken a bite out of the victory building and in my final turn I intended to swallow it whole.  Well I almost did.  My 10-2 led kill stack wiped out one group of defenders despite hindrances, concealment counters and stone rubble.  Dave dropped an artillery mission on to his own head and broke the 10-2 but by that time the damage was done.  I rammed a Stuart forward into the debris to cover any attempts by Dave to reinforce.  Then I drove the other Stuart into another building hex to lock down his troops and pushed forward.  Despite this it all ended slightly tamely.  I cleared out a couple of hexes and wound up in melee in the third but the deciding moment came in the hex with the tank in it.  His boys ambushed me and promptly withdrew thus assuring themselves of a building location that I had no further time to capture.

Endgame, not quite good enough

So I stumbled at the final hurdle.  Those who know me will be astonished that I reached the final hurdle, I was a little surprised myself to be honest.  Dave played a canny game delaying me just enough but always withdrawing before I could bring my firepower to bear until he didn't have a choice.  As for me, well it certainly wasn't the worst game I've ever played.  Grotesque mistakes were few (ordinary mistakes were far more prevalent) and I don't think my initial plan was a bad one.  Many thanks to Dave for the game and can I just say how much we are enjoying playing the ITR scenarios.  They always seem to produce a great game regardless of outcome.

"It is with deep sorrow that I must report the death of Major Cornpone who fell at the head of his troops.  His loss will be felt by the entire regiment and his noble sacrifice will inspire others to final victory.  I can only hope that when the entire division hears of this loss they will be as motivated as I am this day."  The colonel finished reading and looked up, "What do you think?"

"It's very nice," said Major Cornpone, "but I'm still alive."

"Yes," replied the colonel with a smile best described as carnivorous,  "about that."

I Never Learn

 Consciousness crawled slowly and somewhat reluctantly back into my body, made a few disparaging remarks about the furniture and finally settled down.  I opened an eye, I was lying face down on the carpet.  My carpet didn't look any better at close range than it did from a distance.  I became vaguely aware of voices in the background.

"Is he dead?" asked the platypus with what seemed like genuine concern.

"If he is I want his shoes," said the puffin.

"He's not dead," replied the plague doctor.  "If he was I would have removed his eyeballs."

"Why?"

"Don't you have a hobby?"

"Should we help him?" asked the spider.

I suddenly became aware of some suspicious mechanical noises.

"Already on it," replied the plague doctor.  "Behold, my mechanical leech inserter."

I heaved myself up off the floor.  Actually I heaved myself about eighteen inches above the floor before flopping back with a whimper of pain but it was enough to give them pause.  The puffin even stopped tugging on my boot.

"Keep that thing away from me," I rasped.  My throat was dry and every muscle in my body ached.  The plague doctor looked a little disappointed.

"Are you sure?  I've been wanting to test this for ages."

"I have never been more certain of anything in my life."

"You look like shit," said the puffin, not offensively just making a statement.

Slowly I dragged myself up into a sitting position.

"I've been playing soccer," I explained.

Understanding nods came from the plush toys.

Yes, I've been playing soccer.  People who have read this blog for a while will know that I used to play corporate soccer in my lunch break with a team of people from work.  Those readers will also know that I was quite spectacularly bad at it.  Then covid hit and suddenly gathering people together in a relatively small area was frowned upon.  Once we all got over worrying about that I got cancer and what with one thing and another it has been several years since I dragged a team t-shirt over my flabby body and stumbled down to the Domain to shame the traditions of football with my presence.

 Now however eager young colleagues have presented themselves as hungry for football and because my commonsense was apparently removed along with my prostate I decided to go with them.  I hadn't got any fitter in the intervening time and indeed an argument could be made for saying that I was in worse shape than ever.  The roster of available players was long and I thought I could just trot on and stumble around for a couple of minutes before waving to a substitute to drag my exhausted body off the field.  Naturally when the time came for the game we had barely enough players to make a team and there were no substitutes available for anybody.

Onto the Domains battered and somewhat lumpy grass I trotted and we faced down a team replete with replacements.  My colleagues played well, indeed they greatly impressed.  At least they greatly impressed me.  For my part I gasped and staggered and did my best not to throw up on the ball.  The only thing I impressed was the grass when I lay down on it and prayed for death.  Sadly the gods I worship have already proven they can get a lot more malicious amusement out of keeping me alive.  I waved my foot at the ball and occasionally hit it which I consider a personal triumph.

Now a couple of days later my body is extracting revenge for my inflicting the horrors of exercise upon it.  Stiffness has beset all of the parts of my body except one (work it out) and pain and general misery is my lot.  Still I drag myself around if only because experience has taught me that it is better not to spend too long immobile in the company of my plush toy room mates.  The puffin has a distinctly predatory gleam in its eyes when it looks at me lately and even the platypus seems to be calculating the odds as to whether its better to keep me alive or just let me go.

There's another match next Tuesday and I hope to be fit for it, by "fit" I mean "alive", but after that I'm going to have to book some massage to ease the aches in my body.  I suppose if that doesn't work there's always the mechanical leech inserter.

 

I May Have a Problem

 "Wow, you must like my coffee," said the young girl behind the counter at our work cafe on the occasion of my third visit to her in the course of the day.  I muttered something positive but at the same time non-threatening and work appropriate in response and she turned away with a smile to make my coffee.  My only alternative was to break down and admit to a near stranger that I am a complete caffeine whore who would cheerfully trade my body for a cold cup of International Roast.  

Indeed things have got so bad that those nearest to me decided to stage an intervention.  I came home the other day to find my plush toys waiting for me in a semi-circle.  Even the puffin was there having been let out of rehab early to participate.

"Take a seat," offered the plague doctor.  I pointed out that the puffin had recently sold all of the furniture to buy black market cleaning products.

"I haven't sold the floor," rasped the puffin, "now sit the hell down."

With me semi comfortably settled on my rather shabby carpet the plague doctor began.

"Now, you know we all love you and care for you..."

"I don't," snapped the puffin, "who's got the Ajax?"

Summoning a deep breath the plague doctor continued, "and we're getting increasingly worried about your caffeine consumption."

I was so outraged I almost choked on the coffee filter I was chewing.

"This is an ambush," I muttered somewhat indistinctly.

"It's an intervention," corrected the spider, "by those who, erm, well by those who have to put up with you on a daily basis."

"Mornings are the worst," said Humpy.  "I would never have left the desert if I'd known that every morning would consist of you throwing items out of the kitchen until you find where the platypus has hidden the coffee.  And then there was the screaming."

"That was because the damned puffin had filled the coffee tin up with bootleg drano."

"Which you boiled and drank with sugar and milk," snapped the puffin obviously still irritated.

"I think you need medical assistance," said the plague doctor, "your humours are definitely out of balance."

"Of course my humours are out of balance.  I've just been ambushed by a bunch of caffeine hating freaks."

"And then there's the hallucinations," added the the Lucius the Bear.

"What hallucinations?"

"You do realise you're currently conducting a conversation with a group of plush toys?"

I woke up covered in sweat on my kitchen floor.  I gazed around wildly but there were no plush toys to be seen.  Trembling I dragged myself up and looked around the apartment.  The plush toys lay where I had hurled them last night after an inadvertent spilling of my late night coffee had triggered an outburst of rage.  I stared at the plague doctor intently but it lay on its back staring at the ceiling.  I nodded approvingly and, with normality restored, I turned on the kettle and reached for the coffee tin.  Which was empty except for a couple of leeches and a note in the plague doctors handwriting.  "Take two daily with breakfast, and keep off the coffee".

 

Travelling Pathetically - Lane Cove River Completed

 For some reason I gazed out upon one of the hottest days we've had so far this year and decided "yes, today is the day I complete my bushwalk".  I packed twelve hundred mls of water (not enough) a muesli bar and, for reasons I can't begin to explain, a history of the Byzantine emperor Theophilos and thus equipped set out on my journey.

The first part of my journey involved figuring out how to get to my start point.  My previous walk had ended at a picnic area near a bridge over the river and my first task was to get back to it.  Some hasty google mapping told me that a train to Chatswood would put me in the vicinity of a bus stop.  The buses that attended said stop would drop me exactly where I need to go or rather start.  I have only traveled to Chatswood twice in my life both times for the purpose of immediately leaving and going elsewhere.  This is possibly the best reason to go to Chatswood that I can think of.

The last time I was at Chatswood was several years ago and the place was a chaotic mess because they were in the middle of building a major train/bus interchange.  This time the place was a chaotic mess because they've finished.  I got off the train, followed the signs, wandered around desperately and eventually wound up circumnavigating the entire station.  "Interchange" apparently means "bus stops in the general vicinity".  With a mild sense of achievement and a more than mild sense of annoyance I finally presented myself at the bus stop in question to find that the next bus wouldn't appear for another forty five minutes.  I caught a taxi.  The driver was somewhat incredulous that I would be going for a walk.  He also didn't seem to know that the Lane Cove River was there until we actually drove over it.  Still I finally arrived and alighted at the picnic area I had left somewhat tired and dispirited a couple of weeks earlier.

Start point, ten minutes up the road from this bridge is Chatswood if you're interested

I looked at the river and then, as is becoming usual, turned my back on it and followed the path away from it.  I say path but it was actually a series of steps which clambered up the hillside through such bush as had not been demolished to install the road.  Aforementioned road was close enough for traffic sounds to filter through the trees and I gazed down on traffic when I paused for a photo.  Actually I paused to gasp for breath but justified it by taking a photo as well.

A gasping for breath photo

Once the climbing bit was over I was able to set out on a path somewhat more horizontal than vertical.  The signs helped.  I was walking along bits of the Great Northern Walk although I was subverting the paradigm by heading in a southerly direction.  The Great Northern Walk was created by essentially giving a collective name to a bunch of existing paths and adding helpful signs directing you to the next bit when one part ended.  Despite the bush around me I was actually walking through suburbs (North Ryde at this point I think) and the path would suddenly become a sealed road and then veer into the bush again before returning to the road and passing by houses.  On my right hidden behind a fence was the Northern Suburbs Memorial Garden and Crematorium.  I don't know why the fence, I'm pretty sure the occupants won't escape. 

Once past the Home of the Dead the path graciously deigned to present itself again and led me back among the trees.  For this I was grateful not just for the scenery but because it was extremely hot.  Signs told me that I was on my way to Fairyland.  They also told me that fox baits had been laid in the area but I ignored those ones.  Ahead of me the Fairyland Pleasure Grounds awaited me.  They had obviously been waiting for some time and were a little past their best.

Fairyland used to be a farm.  The owners raised fruit for Sydney's burgeoning cocktail industry until they realised they were making more money selling snacks to people pleasure jaunting up the river.  They promptly converted their farm into a picnic/games/family entertainment area.  There was swimming, there were games and general wholesome fun.  Not quite my idea of fairyland but each to their own.  The place closed down in the 1960s was purchased by the National Parks authority and allowed to return to nature.  Unfortunately it didn't return to the right sort of nature.  The place is full of invasive species which various volunteers are currently engaged in tearing out in the hopes that the apparently somewhat less ambitious native vegetation will take the hint.  A small bench remained to remind one of times gone by and I sat on it and stared out at the river.

Yes the river had reappeared.  It had taken a significant right hand turn and my walk had essentially cut across the arc and deposited me back by the riverbank at Fairyland.  I looked at the water and was rewarded with the sight of small fish defying the pollution content by making their lives there.  The fish were small but nuggety, solid blocks of flesh with fins.

The view from Fairyland

Leaving the death defying fish behind me I followed the path and, of course, immediately left the river again.  The fates had apparently decided I had seen more river than I deserved.  The next time I would see it I would be on a bridge looking down.  For right now I suddenly found myself in a slightly rainforesty area with ferns and water trickling down from nearby cliffs.  

Cliffs, trickling water, vegetation etc

It has to be said that fewer animals presented themselves for my inspection than on my previous walk.  Even the lizards who had been complete camera whores on my earlier jaunts satisfied themselves with rustling in the bush with my every step but never once stepping out onto the track.  Compensation came in the form of a magnificent crop of fungi which had gathered around this somewhat damp area out of direct sunlight.  I took far too many photos of them most of which I shan't bore you with.

OK, I lied

But seriously check out these fungi

Clare McIntyre Award winners all

With my head reeling from a fungi overdose (eating them probably wasn't the best idea I've had) I continued on my merry and somewhat hallucinated way down the river.  As if to debunk my claims of a lack of wildlife I rounded a corner and almost bumped into a brush turkey.  Compared with the magnificent specimen I had seen on my previous walk this one was a little shabby and disheveled (like I'm one to talk) also it wasn't interested in posing for photos.  It was obviously keen on keeping a little distance between myself and it but the only way it could think of to do this was by walking further down the path that I was walking on myself.  This led to the slightly odd situation of my walking through the bush preceded by a brush turkey like some sort of escort.  I was starting to wonder if I would actually wind up following it home and discover I had adopted a brush turkey.  Fortunately we came to another bridge where the path forked.  The brush turkey went one way and I went the other.

The bridge symbolised another change for here the path ended.  If I wanted to continue I would have to cross the bridge and pick up the path on the other side of the river.  Since the alternative was lying down to die on this track and presumably having the brush turkey pick my bones cross the river I did.

Welcome back to civilisation

I plodded across the bridge and then up the hill on the other side.  After a quick check of the map I turned around and plodded back down the hill until I encountered the beginning of the path lurking modestly behind a carpark for a business down by the river.  Said business is ringed by fences warning people to keep out and noting there was apparently a heck of a lot of stuff on their site that could kill you if you were foolish enough to ignore the keep out signs.  It also implored you to call an ambulance if you should be accidentally killed or words to that effect.  In fact the signs dwelt on that for so long that I couldn't help but suspect a certain hint of relish behind the words.  I wonder if the site is frequently overrun with thrillseekers facing near certain death at the hands of whatever the hell is lurking behind the fences.  Resisting the almost overwhelming temptation to jump the fence and find out I instead skirted the edge and found myself on a footbridge taking me back to the other side of the river.  

The innocuous facade of the factory of death

The path took me to a neatly trimmed park but by persevering to the end I picked up the path again and dove back in among the trees.   You could smell the salt in the water now and while bush was on my right increasingly what was on my left was mangroves.  If you didn't know this a whole bunch of helpful signs told you (and also that fox baits had been laid in the area).  Mangroves we were breathessly informed were an essential part of keeping the river clean or at least cleaner than it would be if there weren't mangroves.  The trouble with mangroves is they look grimy, slimy and they stink.  You can forgive any environmental devastator for thinking that this was one area that probably wouldn't be missed.  Mangroves in short resemble the set from a horror movie although possibly not a good one.

To avoid sullying the fragile mangroves with my tread a boardwalk had been built allowing the casual walker to traverse this environmental iron lung without getting their feet muddy.  Signs waxed lyrical about the amount of life supported by the mangroves (which all seemed to be out when I visited) and the environmental benefits to be derived therefrom.  As if that wasn't enough one part of the walk also boasted wetlands.  Wetlands are terribly important environmental something or others that stop the mangroves from bursting onto dry land and terrifying the villagers or something like that.  I walked through or rather, over, mangroves and wetlands trying to determine where one became the other without much success.

Mangroves.  All they really need is a guy in a hockey mask with a chainsaw

A rustling among what on balance was probably wetlands made me turn and I caught a glimpse of a kookaburra busily beating to death part of the profusion of life putatively inhabiting the area.  Unfortunately by the time I got my camera ready it had finished.

Responsible for the reduction of wildlife in the area by at least one.

My path had taken me away from the river although not from water (that's difficult among mangroves) rather a couple of creeks flowed into the river and rather than crossing them immediately the path chose to wander up them for a while before hopping across and then traveling down the other side again.  This happened not once but twice and I plodded wearily along while the river skipped ahead and giggled at my tardiness.

One of the aforementioned creeks.  I'm going to assume that green colour is natural

Finally back shadowing the river again I took advantage of what I'm almost certain was a path through the mangroves to the river bank.  I slipped and slithered over the sticky mud whispering apologies to the profusion of wildlife which sensibly kept out my way.  Once at the river bank I found oyster shells and took a photo of them as the only evidence of all of that wildlife supposedly around before struggling back to the path property.  

At some point in the not too distant past these were oysters

 

My journey along the river was coming to an end although perversely my walk wasn't.  After struggling through or at least over the mangroves the path ended at a suburb street.  I had arrived at Hunters Hill where the inhabitants had better things to do with the riverside than let trees and mangroves grow, build houses for example.  A decision now had to be made.  Where the hell was I going to go now?  I had effectively finished the walk.  The national park had ended and walking along the riverbank would involve trespassing on the properties of the sort of people who had enough money to get the police to listen to their complaints.  And yet I felt incomplete, I hadn't as I had intended walked from one end of the river to the other.  There was a solution.  I actually know where the Lane Cove River meets the Parramatta.  Its at Woolwich and I had seen it when I did my walk around those parts some weeks earlier.  Walking to the ferry wharf would effectively complete the journey and also provide me with a method of getting home.

I set off not among bush now but along suburb streets past houses, schools and all of the accoutrements of civilisation.  I discovered suddenly that it was incredibly hot.  It had been warm in the bush but once on a concrete footpath, next to a tarmac road and with minimal tree cover (although Hunters Hill is leafier than many suburbs) the sun beat down on me.  I had already walked about nine kilometres and this was another three.  I stumbled along down one street after another.  I did try walking along the river when a park presented itself but with neatly trimmed grass and houses and yachts surrounding me it wasn't the same and eventually I plodded up to the main road and simply pointed myself at Woolwich ferry wharf.

Eventually and it must be admitted with a certain sense of triumph I stumbled onto the ferry wharf approximately five minutes before I died from a combination of exhaustion and dehydration.  I celebrated by drinking the last of my water (I really did not bring enough) and once recovered took a final photo of the Lane Cove River before it lost its identity in the burgeoning bulk of Sydney Cove.

The Lane Cove River meeting the Parramatta, not visible is the exhausted maniac holding the camera.

With that done I sank trembling onto a bench and waited for a ferry to transport me a little closer to my home.  I also finally saw a piece of wildlife.  It was a handsome yellow and silver fish dangling dramatically from the line of a boy who was fishing off the wharf.

Travelling Pathetically - Lane Cove River Edition Part 2

 Another weekend arrived and in a thoroughly uncharacteristic display of perseverance I returned to the scene of my departure from Lane Cove National Park when a few spots of rain had chased me away from my goal.  Once again Cheltenham was graced very briefly with my presence as I hopped off the train and retraced my steps through suburban streets (well street) towards the bush.  Soon the tarmac faded away and the tell tale signs of the Australian bush appeared.  Those signs were ones announcing that fox poison had been laid in the area and others informing the more olfactorily sensitive of  a "possible" sewer overflow.  One sniff was enough to delete the word possible from that sentence.  It was either that or the government had been conducting chemical warfare experiments.  I paused to wrap a urine soaked cloth around my face (not that this had anything to do with sewer overflows or chemical warfare) and plunged into the somewhat odiferous bush.

The day was warm (whiny climate activists would say hot) and the sun was shining which was a distinct contrast to my previous journey.  Perhaps in deference to this fact birdlife, suspiciously absent from my first walk presented itself in all its noisy glory.  Cockatoos, swarmed, screeched, swooped and shat.  I paused for a photo and in response the cockatoo in question crapped all over my backpack.  My walk wasn't five minutes old and an avian sewer had overflowed onto me.  Cleaning myself up as best I could I stumbled onward the warm positive feelings I had toward cockatoos just a few minutes earlier a distant memory.

This handsome fellow would crap on my backpack about thirty seconds after I took this photo

 

The first part of my journey involved retracing my steps to the place I left the path last time.  I presume I did this as I wound up further down the Lane Cove River at the end of my walk than I was at the beginning.  Before I got to the river I had to follow the creek that I had walked beside to exit last time.  As is my wont I examined the water closely for platypus.  I didn't see any for which I was rather grateful.  Given the smell I suspect any platypus sightings would involve seeing them floating belly up on the surface.

This creek will eventually meet the Lane Cove River and so will I

With my starting point achieved and the worst of the cockatoo crap wiped off my equipment I set out on my walk proper.  Despite previous experiences I had visions of strolling down a bush path with a river gurgling and bubbling a safe but still photogenic distance away.  Of course I was wrong.  The first thing the path did was strike away from the river and for the first three quarters of my walk river sightings were rare and treasured things.  Instead I struggled up the side of the river valley and then back down again, there would be a teasing glimpse of water and then the climbing would begin anew.  Somewhere just out of reach were the suburbs which encompassed this narrow strip of bushland but here among the trees it was easy to imagine civilisation was a long way away.

This is more like most of the scenery, not a river in sight

Despite the absence of cool tranquil waters the bush was as appealing as bush usually is and the presence of a decent tree cover took the sting out of the sun which was getting quite enthusiastic about its job.  I was happy tramping along, I knew the river would reappear eventually.  The park authorities are doing their best to talk up the park as a location teeming with wildlife (from all the signs it would appear it is teeming with foxes at least).  On the rare occasions that signs took a break from warning about fox poison and sewer overflows they would spruik the magnificent local flora and fauna.  Top billing was given to the powerful owl.  A photo was helpfully provided in deference to the fact that if you had enough daylight to read the sign you were not going to see an actual powerful owl.  The powerful owl is apparently endangered.  It makes you wonder about the condition of the weaker owls but the sign was silent on this point.

I wasn't worried about not seeing powerful owls as I can not see them at home.  However in a belated attempt to make up for the entire aerial crapping incident the daylight birds decided to put on quite the display for me.  Sulphur Crested Cockatoos, big, white and apparently loose of bowel had already made their presence known in numerous ways (some of them more intrusive than others) but now a rustling in a nearby tree alerted me to something else.  I saw a dark shadow, squinted, peered and realised I was actually looking at the bird itself.  A huge black cockatoo was hanging out in a tree with a bunch of its mates at a distance just too far for adequate photography.  They didn't get any closer but they obligingly hung around while I tried to take as many photos as possible.  These birds were immense, jet black with yellow banding on their tail feathers.

The best of some blurry black cockatoo photos

I was stunned at their size.  White cockatoos are hefty birds but these were in a different league.  One could imagine them swooping down and carrying off small children.  At least one could if you have my sort of imagination.  Glutted on black cockatoos I continued down the path and came face to face with a brush turkey.  In contrast to the more discreet cockatoos this one stopped three feet in front of me and posed for photos.

Upset at the attention the cockatoos were getting this brush turkey demanded equal exposure

And after the brush turkey which I had to practically elbow to one side in order to get by I took a couple more blurry cockatoo photos because well you do don't you?

I was cockahoop after my dual avian triumph and set out with a new spring in my step which was almost disastrous as a sudden flash of movement and crackle of undergrowth informed me that a lizard had removed itself from under my boot at the last possible moment.  Then to show there were no hard feelings it also paused for a photo.

This lizard departed my path in the nick of time

Somewhat shaken at how close I had come to depleting the world's lizard population I made a resolution to pay closer attention to where I was walking, part way through that resolution I came even closer to stepping on another lizard which fled into the bush just before it got my footprints on its back.  I paused, took a deep breath and really promised to look where I was going.

I continued along the path, from time to time I got a glimpse of the river now somewhat largely than the slender trickle I had witnessed up until this point.  I wasn't too worried as I was looking at hollow logs.  When I was a child one of the first nature programs I watched was In the Wild with Harry Butler.  Harry Butler was a bearded, camouflage wearing individual who would roam the countryside and upon finding a hollow log would ram his hand inside it and drag some long suffering animal specimen into the light of day for the entertainment of his viewers.  I was far too young to suspect that these might be pre-prepared hollow logs or at least that the program discreetly chose not to run the thousands of times he came up empty.  I was not mad enough to ram my hand into a hollow log.  Harry Butler might find a bandicoot but I would probably find a death adder or at least that the hollow was only a few inches deep and I had just broken all of my fingers.  Nevertheless as a hat tip to my impressionable youth below is the Harry Butler Memorial Hollow Log.

Harry Butler would find half a zoo in that thing

Sated on birds and hollow logs (I am disturbingly easy to please) I continued on.  Glancing to the side I noticed a snake.  At first I thought it was a bicycle tire then I thought it might be dead.  At this point the snake decided that I was very much alive and made itself scarce at a speed that indicated it might be motorised.  Not for the first time that day I made a resolution to pay more attention to where I put my feet.

Fortunately this chap was too intelligent to actually sun himself on the path

I have to admit that by this time my cup was running over.  Logs, birds, lizards, snake.  It made the absence of river quite bearable.  Now, however after a few hours walking the river was preparing for its big entrance.  It started quite modestly with yet another sign.  This one announced that I could take the shorter route to Lane Cove River weir or the longer route which was graced with the title of "Lane Cove Riverside Walk".  I decided to take the title at face value and signed up for the longer walk, what's another five kilometres between friends.

Technically I saw the river almost immediately.  This is because I had to get to the other side of it by crossing over the M2 motorway.  I took a photo from the bridge.

Beside the M2

Under the M2

And finally on the M2 with some genuine river

To be fair to the people who named the walk it did indeed make its way down to the Lane Cove River and I finally managed to enjoy my riverside stroll that I had envisaged from the get go.  It was getting late in the afternoon now and shadows were starting to lengthen.  This is apparently the time that every lizard in creation decides to race across the path on its journey from one place to another.  Forget watching where I put my feet, I consider myself lucky that I wasn't trampled in the rush.

Just one of the thousands of lizards that rampaged across my path

And finally a close up photo of Lane Cove River

With a definite sense of accomplishment I walked along the river taking the occasional photo but largely just glad that I hadn't succumbed to a heart attack before I reached the water.  This sense of accomplishment took a severe knock when I checked how long I had walked for and discovered that I had only covered twelve kilometres in about five hours of walking.  Admittedly I had spent a bit of time fangirling over the black cockatoos (there is a joke to be made about my being partial to a black cockatoo but I'm far too well brought up to make it).  I was certain I had covered more distance than that and was more than a little disappointed.  I hadn't made a formal decision on when to end the bushwalk but with my morale at a temporary low ebb my arrival at a picnic area with road access seemed like a good point to call a halt.  To cheer me up a family posed for me with their young children.

Well what the hell did you think I meant?

So on a modestly upbeat note I ended my walk.  I still have a chunk of the river to go so prepared to be bored again before too long.