Not with a bang but a whimper

With apologies to T.S. Eliot, who famously described the end of the world, this is apparently also the way redundancy ends. On my last day of a glorious, difficult and tumultous period in my life, that began after I was unexpectedly made redundant, I have sat down to write about my last walk in the healing process. For although there are more walks to do, and I have committed to doing them, they will inevitably be weekend walks of a different character.

Walk #13, my last walk, by pure chance was a non-event. It happens to be so much of a local walk for me that I actually walk out my back gate to join the path that goes round Iron Cove. Consequently, I have done it many times, in company and alone, meeting friends along the way, in sunshine and once, famously, in driving hail. So it needs no planning.

On this official occasion, I had been out all day, and got home at dusk. I was at a celebratory lunch for a friend's birthday, so had wisely chosen to walk to and from the venue. By the time I arrived home, I felt I had done my day's quota of walking. But the dog, who had been cooped up in the back garden all day, had other ideas. It was getting too dark to take her on our routine walk down to the off-leash park at Hawthorne Canal, so we set off on the Bay Run. It's a 7 km circuit, some of it attractive and some not. I join it at the end of Lilyfield Rd, and always walk clockwise. This gets rid of the unpleasant noisy, smelly part of the walk along the busy CityWest Link first, and leaves the last part of the walk back through the tranquility of Callan Park. Even at night, this is still a preferable direction.

So we walked in the dark, and did our 7 kms. It felt like nothing more than exercise for the sake of it, but it tired the dog out at least.

Back to work on Monday.

Back to the bush, and back to the office

Lesson 1 for those who wish to use a dictaphone is that, if you leave it switched on when you finish using it, you will find that its batteries are flat when you next go to use it. So once again, the reminiscences of this walk are made from memories, though I did have the camera.

Elvina Bay is a tiny little town nestled at the head of McCarrs Creek in Ku-rin-gai Chase National Park. It's just near West Head, the site of one my earliest, and favorite, walks. It is distinguished by having no road access, other than for a fire track. Locals travel in and out by boat or on foot. Which is why, when you drive into Ku-rin-gai Chase along West Head Rd, and find yourself at the end of the road at West Head, you have done this because you have looked in vain for a sign of any substantial size directing you to the town of Elvina Bay. Oh well, it's a nice drive, and you also can take the opportunity to use the toilets at West Head before heading back in search of where you are supposed to have parked the car. The sign to look for is one of those small green NPWS wooden signs marking the Elvina Track. There's a small parking lot, but the whole thing is well screened by the roadside bushes. For reference, it's 2.3 kms past the toll booth, which is once again empty and locked up on this winter Monday.

Coming by car will have you starting near the "end" of the loop track as described in the book. The official way to arrive is by ferry from Church Point, but I wasn't sure how frequent the service would be on a winter weekday. Again though, like the Bundeena walk, this would be a lovely adjunct to this walk on a warmer day, and I will come back to try this option in the summer.

The track down to the town is the fire track, so it's easy to follow. Initially flat, it quickly heads steeply downhill. A pleasant walk, but not very challenging. There is a site where there are Aboriginal engravings close to the start of the fire track, on the right as you head towards the coast. Look out for a concrete block that marks the track junction. According to the book, there are "a group of three shields, a figure with a headdress, and a large emu". I found the latter two easily enough, but searched in vain for the group of shields. I did find two kangaroo engravings though, which the book doesn't mention, so I felt we were even at that point.

Although it is early August, the spring wild flowers have started to bloom, making the stroll through the bush picturesque. I even encountered a wallaby, of the real, as opposed to the carved, variety. There are some beautiful filtered water views as you come close to the town.

The township of Elvina Bay consists of some lovely houses stretched along the waterfront, serviced by a dirt track running behind the foremost ones. At every gate, there is a wheelbarrow, testament to how the locals transport their shopping from the ferry to home. It seems idyllic, but must be a bit miserable when it is cold, wet and dark. But to counter this, the hammocks strung out in the gardens tell of other, more appealing, aspects of the lifestyle. A second wallaby stared at me from someone's garden, then went back to its wallaby life.

I sat in the sun on one of the ferry wharves - incredibly, there are two wharves for the ferry, a north and a south one - and ate my lunch looking out over the bay, pondering the imminent end to my relaxed lifestyle. Yes, I am about to be employed again, having done only a third of the walks, and none of the full-day really taxing ones. I am surprised at my lack of progress, and a little disappointed that the winter inclement weather has kept me from walking as much as I would have liked. I make a promise to myself that I will complete my original plan to do every walk, even though now they will be with the weekend crowds. I treasure the solitude afforded to me at Elvina Bay, and hope always to remember the lessons I have learnt in the last six months about what really matters.

After lunch, I headed north to the end of the town. Here, the track turns back up the hill. Just after it starts, there are two simple tombstones that tell of a lonely life here in the mid-18oos. One is for Fredrick (sic?) Oliver, the other says simply F.O. Presuming that Fredrick didn't die twice, I wonder if this is perhaps father and son.

From here, the track is fairly basic, but there is a lovely deviation to a small waterfall with a rock pool that is well worth seeking out. When I did this walk, it had been raining heavily for the previous few days, so at times I was hiking uphill straddling the temporary creek that had formed in the rutted track. This meant that, watching my step as I was in the mud, I perhaps didn't appreciate my surroundings on the way up as much as they warranted. This is a charming walk, and in a few weeks, when all the flowers are blooming and the mud has dried, it will be even better.

I sat on a fence post in the carpark at the end, and ate my orange, and was content enough with my day.

The dog

In the time since my last walk, we have acquired a dog. She is a lovely golden labrador and of course it seemed axiomatic that she would now come on my walks with me, when location allows. So a suburban north shore Harbour walk seemed the perfect place to start. This walk officially starts at McMahons Point and ends at Waverton, but as I intended to do the return trip, and it's easier to park at Waverton, I did it in reverse, starting at Balls Head Rd at the old BP terminal.

The first thing about walking with a dog is that, when she's only new, it's a bit like taking a baby out. By the time you remember the lead and the ubiquitous plastic bags and organise her into the car, both the camera and the dictaphone get left behind. And the second thing is that the whole nature of the walk is changed, so that the focus becomes the dog, and not the surroundings. This dog is not silly, and she has learnt that pulling on the handbrake is usually a signal that we have arrived. (Makes hill starts a point of confusion for her.) So as I pulled up to the kerb in Balls Head Rd and applied the brake, the dog was beside herself with excitement at being in this new place, with a plethora of smells to experience. She surged out of the car, with me trying to get the backpack onto my shoulders whilst wrestling with a lead that was fast being wrapped around my legs. Eventually we both gathered our composure and set off at a trot, the dog dictating the pace.

The first part of this walk takes you through the landscaped cliff park that marks the site of what was once the BP oil terminal. They've done a great job in converting industrial wasteland into a very attractive park, that speaks to its history without being dominated by it. In keeping with its industrial heritage, the stairs traversing the cliff face are those metal open-weave ones. It is at this point that I discover that the dog is terrified of them. Some time later, I have managed to half-coax and half-carry 25 kgs of dog down to the bottom of the cliff, and have chosen not to think too much about having to do the journey in reverse on the way back. I have not paid very much attention at all to the view, which is magnificent.

At the water's edge at the end of the BP park lies Waverton Park. Waverton Park is reached down a few flights of solid stone steps. Stone steps are completely safe in dog world, so she flies exuberantly down them, towing me behind. Somehow I stay upright. On a warm day, I would have stopped here to sit in the sun at the little beach while the dog had a swim, but the weather was cool, and threatening to rain, so we pressed on.

Private properties spill down to the water's edge at the eastern end of the park, and at this point you must take to the streets for a short and unedifying distance, before heading back down to another waterfront reserve known as Sawmillers Reserve. Here there is another small beach with a rusted boat hulk on the shoreline as testament to its working history, if the name isn't enough of a clue. This would be a pleasant park in which to picnic on a warm day, for there is plenty of shade.

At the end of the park, another short detour through the streets brings you out to Blues Point Reserve, and it is worth spending some time here absorbing the view. For those who know Sydney, Blues Point Reserve is notorious for being overlooked by Blues Point Tower. I use the word 'notorious' advisedly. Harry Seidler (the architect) might have built a controversial structure, but he certainly recognised a spectacular site when he saw it.

At the very tip of Blues Point, you can look straight under the Harbour Bridge to the Opera House beyond, framed in the arch of the Bridge. It's probably the most iconic Sydney image, and I wish I'd remembered my camera. But 1000s of photographers before me have taken the same photo, and I've since realised that the only missed shots I should mourn are those that you can't find on Google Images, photos such as the one of my tennis ball in the West Head post.

The dog, having been panting enthusiastically for the whole walk, is now clearly thirsty. She will happily drink from a tap, so I search in vain for a working tap. But, presumably because people left them running, all the handles of the public taps have been removed so that they can't be turned on. I try a few bubblers to see if they will have enough pressure to spout over the edge of the bowl, but for once they all appear to be in perfect working order for human use. We walk on round the corner to the wharf at McMahons Point, officially ending the walk, but the focus has shifted from the walk to solving the problem of the dehydrated dog. Some concerned workmen who are employed on the Blues Point harbour wall renovation join me in the vain search for a tap. I have visions of featuring on that Animal Rescue show, where irresponsible pet owners are pilloried on prime-time TV. Suddenly, I realise that the plastic bag I am carrying - as yet unused - has more than one potential use, and I hold it under the dribbling bubbler tap until it is full. With some encouragement, the dog lowers her nose into it and drinks. My pet-owning credentials are restored! We can now focus on the return trip, and the thought of those stairs awaiting us at the end.

My next walk involves a National Park again, so the dog will have to stay home. Oh dear, what a shame.

For David

After something of a hiatus, due to doing some walking overseas, various other priorities, and some most inclement weather, I am back walking the coasts and harbour of the greater Sydney area. Still a little with my head in Italy, I forgot to take my camera on this walk, so you will have to use your own imagination, dear reader.

This walk is one I have done before on a very memorable day. It's a loop walk from Bundeena in the Royal National Park, just south of Sydney. For those of you who don't know it, the Royal National Park is a spectacular major tract of bushland and coast that emerges suddenly from the suburban Sutherland Shire moments after turning in the gate. On a June weekday, the ticket booth is deserted, but entry to the Park will normally cost $11. Money very well spent. Once past the turn-off to Audley, there is nothing to see but bush-covered hills stretching to the horizon in all directions. It seems that you must have left Sydney behind many hours previously. As I drive, a flicker of movement high in the sky catches my attention, and I look up to see the hawk, but instead find the plane coming in to land at Sydney Airport. Coming round a bend, the high rises of Cronulla come startlingly into view, with greater Sydney stretching beyond.

Driving into the Park in my hermetically-sealed car on a glorious sunny day, it would be easy to believe that it is summer, save for the long winter shadows that already lie across the road in the early afternoon, and the t00-green verge. Last time I came here it was summer - January 26, Australia Day. I was with a very close friend, and we caught the ferry from Cronulla. If you can spare the time, this is a charming way to arrive in Bundeena.

A short walk from the small centre of Bundeena through pleasant suburban streets takes you onto the western end of Jibbon Beach. On Australia Day, there was barely a grain of sand not occupied by people, and the waterline was guarded by a flotilla of pleasure boats that formed such a barrier that there were few spots for swimmers to pass in between.

But today, despite the sunshine, I am for a while the only person on the beach. So I kick off my shoes and sit down in the sand to eat my lunch. Two seagulls watch me closely, and I wonder what seagulls eat when there is no-one to feed them chips. There is a parallel here with humans who survive on a diet of take-away food, and have lost the art of cooking. Do seagulls lose the art of fishing?

After lunch, I walk on down the length of the beach. A rustle in the vegetation bordering the beach catches my attention, and I am surprised at a kangaroo being so bold. But in fact, it is a deer. We gaze at one another with mutual curiosity before she turns back to grazing and I to walking. At the end of the beach, the path turns into the scrub and immediately I come upon a whole herd of deer; at least four that I count before they scatter. I imagine that they must be well-used to crowds in summer, and presumably keep away from the paths then. But today I am a solitary walker, and have broken the deer rules for when company is to be expected. Later, on my way back along the beach, I see the sign that explains that they are Rusa deer, and a significant pest, decimating the littoral rainforest and coastal vegetation, assisted by weed invasion and unauthorised camping. I feel a little guilty for having found pleasure in seeing them.

Heading along the coastal path towards Jibbon Head, there is a turn-off to the right that is worth taking. It leads to some Aboriginal rock engravings. Sadly, they are completely unprotected, so that if you wished, you could walk all over them, or even deface them. I step carefully around them on the soft rock. Some previous visitors have felt the need to leave their initials behind, to demonstrate their artistic and cultural inferiority. The carvings clearly show the Aboriginal interaction with the marine environment. There are two whales that dwarf the other carvings, just as they would in the real world. A stingray and a turtle swim past in the rock, and a lawman raises his hands above his head, as if being held at gunpoint. He has no face. I see the carved kangaroo that I had expected to see in reality a few minutes earlier.

Returning to the main path, I come round a corner to be entranced by an echidna ambling across my route. Remembering that they can only see objects if they are moving, I freeze, and spend a delightful few minutes watching it unhurriedly continue with its echidna day. Once it disappears, I look out to sea and have my earlier question about seagulls' fishing abilities probably answered. There must be a large school of fish there, attracting an equally large flock of seagulls. Many of the seagulls are floating in the water, but some swoop overhead, calling in that raucous cry that everyone learns from their first excursions to the beach. Perhaps the ones just floating have indeed lost the art of fishing.

The Jibbon Bombora breaks off shore, a wave that arises, swells and breaks seemingly out of, and into, nowhere. But sailors know it signals an underwater reef.

On the coastal side of Jibbon Head, the path is very wet and muddy, with pools of water lying around despite the sunshine. I pick my way carefully along. It is in remarkable contrast to the bayside path, which was completely dry despite being such a short distance away. Clearly it must have rained a great deal on this side as the weather drives in from the ocean. Focusing on trying not to slip over in the mud, I find myself suddenly at the end of the path, where it emerges onto Shelley Beach, and am hit by a wave of emotion with remembrance.

I mentioned earlier that I had last done this walk on Australia Day. That was the day after I had learned that I would be redundant; that my lovely job, which I had enjoyed so much for more than four years, would go to someone else. Despite Jibbon Beach having been horrendously crowded that day, Shelley Beach had been deserted, just like today. There is a lovely shallow rocky inlet there, where the water washes in with every wave. On that hot day, I sat there in the water for hours with my special and most supportive friend, and we talked. We talked and we talked, through all my fears and my anxieties and my grief.

Today, it is strange to see it again. At 3.30 pm on a wintry afternoon, the inlet is in complete shade, and the air is cool. I'm not quite sure how I feel. So much in my life has changed since that day I was first here. I didn't expect to feel such a complex range of emotions coming here again. I knew it would be a little bit challenging because of my history here. But being here makes me think about life, and of all the unexpected and rapid changes of direction that it can take. And how all of a sudden, sometimes nothing is as you thought it was only the day before. And how the changes may be for the better, and or maybe not. And they may be for the better for one person but not for another. And whether it's better or worse, it's sure different.

Entering the gates of heaven

Another spectacular Sydney autumn day, calling me to walk the Harbour shore in the sunshine. I can't believe that I am already up to Walk 9, bringing me to the quarter-way mark. That's just in number of walks of course, as to date I am still doing the short easy walks. Truth told, the longest walk has still only been 5 kms. I've done this walk before, as it's quite close to where I live. Last time, as it's a circuit, I started and finished it close to home, technically beginning at roughly the halfway mark if you follow the instructions. But in the spirit that I undertook this project, this time I elected to follow the walk as mapped, which meant catching the Light Rail to the Fish Market first.

The Fish Market is a great place to begin. It being a strenuous task to sit on a tram for a few minutes, my first action after alighting was to head for the nearest coffee provider, buy coffee and sit in the sun before starting off. Some serious walkers (the kind who wear lycra) might decry such lack of commitment to beginning the walk, but I still completed the circuit, so what's to mind?

On a weekday, the Fish Market is quiet. I'd only ever been here before on a weekend, when the crowds of people fight with the crowds of seagulls (and sometimes pelicans too) for space. So it was an unexpected pleasure to find I could sit in stillness and contemplate the odd directions that life suddenly takes.

Resisting the temptation to fuel my walk with hot chips, I moved off and headed up the sweeping ribbon ramp onto the Anzac Bridge. This path takes you almost within reach of some of the many apartment buildings that litter Pyrmont. The traffic noise is constant, and I wonder how anyone can bear to live so loudly. Some of the balconies have tables, chairs, barbeques and children's toys, so the residents must spend time out there, despite the lanes and lanes of traffic that ceaselessly rush past. At one point, there are offices at eye level, and I was suddenly filled with a sense of good fortune at the fact that I was outside walking in the sunshine instead of sitting behind the air-conditioned glass.

I love the elegant beauty of the Anzac Bridge. I remember loving it from when I first came to Sydney to live. Sydney, the home of the iconic Harbour Bridge. But for me, the Anzac Bridge tells me I am home. For the first few months here, I crossed it twice daily travelling to and from work. One night, I was driving home in heavy fog after dark. The arches of the Anzac Bridge soar up towards the heavens at any time. But that night, fog obscured the top of the arches and the road ahead, so that as I passsed through the first arch and headed towards the second, all I could see was the base of the arch opening into the fog. I felt as if I were driving through the very gate of heaven.

Walking across the Bridge should be lovely, and there are aspects of it that indeed are. From the middle, you can stand at the rail on one bridge, looking across the old Glebe Island Bridge that was its predecessor, to see the Harbour Bridge further on. The Glebe Island Bridge, now home to seagulls and weeds, was once the gateway to the western suburbs. An opening bridge, I can only wonder now at the disruption to the road traffic flow that must have happened whenever it swivelled to allow marine traffic through. Now it is permanently open, and the cars flow unceasingly and unknowingly high above on their alternate way.

I stopped to look at a single weed clinging tenaciously to the edge of the bridge, high above the water. Quirkily, the wind had wrapped some cotton wool debris around it, as if to protect it as it grew. I took another photo. It occurred to me as I clicked away with my camera, and spoke my thoughts into the dictaphone I now carry on my walks, that I might create some suspicion on such a public bridge, so vital for Sydney's transport, in our terrorism-obsessed community. The Anzac Bridge has CCTV monitoring at all times, and a white van waited at the end of my path...

But my dreams of notoriety were short-lived as I walked off the bridge and turned down the hill towards James Craig Rd unchallenged. So much for "Be Alert But Not Alarmed". I'm going to throw away the nation's fridge magnets.

At the end of the road, the walk turns and heads east into Bicentennial Park at Rozelle Bay. This is a beautiful park, and an ideal spot to stop for a picnic lunch in the sunshine by the water's edge. So I did. Spreading trees and wide swathes of green lawn abut the sparkling water of the bay, where dogs swim for tennis balls and dance in greeting around one another. The whole is somewhat lessened again by the constant noise of the traffic passing over the Anzac Bridge. The fact that the park is on the flight path doesn't help either. But the view more than makes up for it.

From this aspect, seeing my beautiful bridge across the water, I was struck by the balletic nature of its pose. I have always seen how it dances lightly across the water, but now I also see the slow dancer's plie as the roadway at the base of the spreading tutu is held carefully balanced on symmetrically bent concrete knees.

From here, it's a lovely stroll along the waterfront, passing some of the grand old houses of Glebe, until you are almost back at the Fish Market. At the last, buildings find their way to the water's edge, and so the walker must turn inland briefly to enter the Fish Market through the back entrance, from Bridge Rd. I had thought of another coffee, but as I walked in past the tables of lingering diners in the late afternoon sunshine, I saw a man with a beer, which seemed like a very suitable ending to a most enjoyable autumn walk. So I sat with my beer at a table in the sun, and watched the seagulls watching me.

City cacophany

I am sitting on the ferry, on my way to Circular Quay to do this city walk, next to a middle-aged Eastern European man and his little grandson. I learn that the grandson will be three in July, and we chat about him. Suddenly, the man breaks off our conversation to say reverently of the Harbour, "It's beautiful, isn't it?" I agree that it is, and we sit in silence looking at the majesty of Sydney, until I forget to hold my breath as we move beneath the Harbour Bridge. My daughter once told me that wishes only come true if you hold your breath all the way through the journey beneath the Bridge.

I arrive at Circular Quay right on lunchtime, which is not to be recommended. Joggers fight for pavement space with office workers looking for lunch in the sun, and tourists stopping to take photos of each other. It is almost impossible to walk up towards the Opera House without multiple small detours around oncoming pedestrians, and I have quite a strong urge to turn around and go home. The frenetic pace continues as I make my way up the east side of Sydney Cove to round Bennelong Point and through the Queen Elizabeth II Gate into the Botanic Gardens. I expect it to be quieter here, but still the noise and the crowds continue. There is an almost constant steady drumming of the runners' hooves on the asphalt, accompanied by the rasping of their breath as they sweat their way through their lunchtime exercise. Defeated, I retreat for a minute to sit behind a large clump of palms, deliberately choosing a spot where at least part of my view is blocked, wanting to reduce the sensory stimuli to a manageable level while I regroup. After all my peaceful ambles through bushland, this walk is too much of a contrast to enjoy at this point.

My equilibrium somewhat restored, I move out from behind my shelter to lunch on the lawn in the sun. Even now, I cannot sit high on a seat and survey the panorama, but choose instead a spot where I can't see over the low stone wall that circles the Harbour. My view of the Harbour is restricted to two small circles, through drainage holes in the wall, where the water snorts as it swirls, as if an animal. The little red "scenic train" trundles past. Most often, this contains small children on their parents' laps, but today, bizarrely, it bears a Muslim woman who has topped her headscarf off with a Russian fur hat.

Lunch over, I stand and look across Farm Cove. Across the water, a set of stairs heads up the hill. There is a constant stream of people in both directions on the stairs, and from this distance they look as if they are being carried on a conveyor belt. It is not until I round the southern end of Farm Cove and start up the east side that two things happen. The crowds disperse, perhaps a function both of increasing distance from the office blocks, and the end of the lunch hour. And I look at the water for the first time, and see how richly green it is. Near the set of steps that I had seen first as a conveyor belt, there are people stretching and warming up their muscles. They bend and lie prostrate, and to me they are paying homage to the sun god who warms their skins. A tourist couple passes, wearing matching shirts to publicise their connection to each other.

By the time I round the point and am looking across at the naval base, my walking serenity, and my pleasure in the walk, have found themselves. I re-enter the Gardens at the Victoria Lodge gate and amble in the sunlight across the green lawns and down the shady paths. At the Gardens shop, I buy a guide to the gardens for $3, and intend to return another day to explore again.

It is now mid-afternoon, and the anxiety of earlier has dissipated. I want coffee, so head to the Art Gallery cafe, where I sit outside, near a Buddhist monk, and try not to hear the roar of the traffic on the Cahill Expressway below. I think of spending some time in the Gallery, but am nearing the end of the afternoon, and am conscious of the call of my family duties, so save that for another time. So back to Circular Quay along Macquarie St, whose buildings are no doubt redolent with settler history, but I am without a guide to tell me of it.

Later, I think of why this walk, which I had done before in a less structured manner, evinced in me the reaction that it did. And it was because I am using these walks to heal, to think in the sunlight and the shade of the bush and the quietness, and sometimes just to empty my mind and sit looking at a tennis ball. Not to be a tourist in my home.

For a visitor to Sydney, this would be a marvellous day excursion. But it's not a walk. And the icons are so well known that photographs would be superfluous. But I hold my breath as the ferry passes under the Bridge on the way home.

Diving behind the glass

Of all the urban "bushwalks" I have done to date, this one is easily my favourite. (Nothing yet comes close to West Head, but that's not what I would call urban.) I'd done this walk once before, and looked forward to repeating the experience. It begins inconspicuously at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac that abuts the bushland in Castlecrag. You can park outside someone's house, then walk a few metres to the start of the track, which is clearly signposted. Turning off the road and heading down the hill, you walk past the side of the last house in the street, and are immediately enclosed in bushland. It's a magical experience to go from urban normality to treed solitude in just a few seconds. Mysteriously, as soon as the house is out of sight, the sounds of the city disappear. All that can be heard are birdcalls - kookaburras, magpies, sulphur-crested cockatoos - and the rustling of the undergrowth as the ubiquitous skinks scurry for cover. On this day, I had much to think about and, as the reality of city life dissolved behind me as I walked, I felt as though I had dived behind a sheet of glass that protected me from what was on the other side of it, showing me what was there, but keeping me outside my life.

Walking down the hill towards the creek at the bottom, innumerable spiderwebs wrapped around my face. Far from being distressed by their clinging sticky embrace, I was entranced that, on a sunny weekday mid-afternoon, I was clearly the first person down the path that day.

There was much to capture my attention during a delightful and solitary amble through the trees before the waters of Crag Cove came into view. Some sculptured fungus caught my eye, artistic in its presentation on the tree trunk. Just as the path rounds the end of the promontory and begins to head back west along Castle Cove, there is a side path that leads to a rock overlooking Crag Cove. I sat on the rock and watched the fish jumping in the waters below. Yet another beautiful place, in the middle of a major city, where I have sat alone and felt at peace.

Heading back west along the shoreline, there is a folly to be seen across the water: Innisfallen Castle. Castle Cove and the suburb of Castlecrag are named after this whimsical construction of the Willis family, built in the early 1900s. Until the 1960s, the family lived in the castle without connection to electricity or town water supplies, perhaps recreating the doughty forebears of earlier centuries.

At the western end of the reserve, the path turns uphill, and intersects with the path to The Sugarloaf picnic area in the Harold Reid Reserve. Supposedly, the name "Sugarloaf" comes from the resemblance of the piles of rock to old lump sugar. A bit like finding three stars and seeing a figure in them. The road around the Sugarloaf is paved, and you will undoubtedly encounter walkers here. Those ones who don't want to get any dirt on their expensive trainers. But there is a lookout, with one of those large engraved tablets mapping the geopgraphy, and a wooden goanna of unclear purpose.

As I walked back down the hill in the fading light to rejoin the original path taking me back to my car, I was surrounded by colours. As the light disappeared from the sky, wildflowers were made sharp against the grey, and the pink of the rocks grew richer as I looked.

This is a lovely walk, suitable for all except the larger members of our society, as near to the end there is a short descent between two rocks where someone of rounder girth could become wedged. If you cannot squeeze past this point, there would be no option but to retrace your steps and essentially repeat the walk. A problem if it's late in the day, and you are running out of light, as I was.

Next, a venture into the city to take in the delights of the Botanic Gardens, with perhaps a side trip to the Art Gallery as I walk past.

Hiking up hills

There are not too many reasons why I would rather live on the lower north shore than in Sydney's inner west. But Mosman is definitely ahead on points as a place to implement a get-fit regime. This walk starts at Mosman Wharf. A sensible way to get to the zoo from there is to board a ferry and float round the point, sitting stretched out on a seat in the sunshine. Not to walk straight up and over the top of the peninsula. And then to do it again in reverse on the way back. Take note of the street names, so you can give an accurate location to the ambulance switchboard operator when the pains in your chest start.

As always, I had some trouble navigating there in the first place. I managed to be in the wrong lane as I came off the Harbour Bridge, and missed the turn-off to Mosman. Then, having turned around and tried to find my way back, I experienced an all-too-familiar surge of recognition as I realised I was trapped in the lane that heads down under the Harbour waters through the tunnel, and spits me out almost back at my starting point. Yes, this is not the first time that I have done this, contributing senselessly to the toll operator's coffers as I resign myself to my fate, pondering the idea of writing a neuroanatomy paper on my complete inability to navigate, even though I can do so much else in life.

At least when you arrive, there is plenty of parking, and even a shop should you need supplies for the trek ahead. The first part of the walk is pretty unremarkable, and you could just start it on the other side of the peninsula if you wanted a short walk with minimal exercise. But emerging out onto the flat grassy area that is Sirius Cove Reserve with heart pumping is a powerfully invigorating experience, and the council has thoughtfully provided bench seating, where you can repay your oxygen debt, slake your thirst, and all the while gaze out over Little Sirius Cove and pretend that you don't really need to stop and rest.

Having recovered, it's time to move on through the scrub around the foreshore to discover a hidden, surprisingly little known, treasure. As you approach the point of the Cove, there is a track leading down to the water's edge, to a place known as Curlew Camp. This is a significant site in Australia's art history, where the likes of Arthur Streeton, Tom Roberts and Frederick McCubbin painted 'en plein air', in the mode of the French Impressionists. Streeton planted two coral trees, of which one remains. Its red flowers in spring must be beautiful, even though it is now considered an exotic pest, and could not be planted there.

Just metres further on from the junction of the path down to Curlew Camp is another track. This one leads out to Little Sirius Point, a delightful spot to sit on the sandstone outcrop and enjoy those Sydney icons - the Bridge and the Opera House - across the water, and watch all the boats dancing around the Harbour.

Back on the main track again, I was excited. When you catch the ferry to the zoo, there is a view of a little deserted beach just around the foreshore from the zoo wharf. I had always gazed at its golden sands, and thought it could only be accessed by boat. But this walking track takes you to Whiting Beach. As I cleared the last few bushes, and saw the sandy beach open out in front of me, I was about to kick off my shoes and revel in running along this beach, feeling the sand rise up between my toes. But then I was stopped short by a sign - a sign of the sadness of humanity. I kept my shoes on, and looked around for the syringes. I saw none, but I saw so much rubbish. Fishing lines, plastic bottles, broken glass. A plastic confectionary container rolled around at the water's edge, and I thought of my tennis ball at West Head. I thought of the tennis ball being left behind in a child's or a dog's forgetful exuberance, and I compared that with the studied nonchalance with which this plastic box was thrown away. I picked up as much rubbish as I could carry, and walked sadly off the beach in search of a bin.

Sometimes those experiences to which we are most attracted disappoint us the most, and sometimes when we have no expectations, we are delighted.

A tombolo is a tied island

Barrenjoey Head is a tombolo, and perhaps therein lies its problem. Neither one thing nor the other; trying to be wild and separate, but forever tied to the mainland and hence to urban life.

It's taken me a while to write about this walk along Station Beach and up the headland to the lighthouse. For a start, I've been away, but it's more than that. The walk itself failed to satisfy me. It started with a long and tedious drive out to Palm Beach along the traffic-choked and red-light-littered highway that is Barrenjoey Rd. Then when I finally got there, despite the streets being pretty quiet on a weekday, I was still expected to pay $10 for parking. Now I didn't mind paying my $11 entry fee for Kuring-Gai National Park, because I like the idea of supporting the preservation of parks for all of us. And I'm sure the council that covers Palm Beach needs funds to maintain all their infrastructure in the face of the transient beachgoer onslaught that it tolerates every summer. I just didn't feel the same conviction that it was money well spent.

This is a not a good walk to do immediately after the West Head walk, because it suffers in the contrast. The lovely beaches where I had picnicked and swum only a few days before in glorious isolation were tantalisingly close across the water, as I waded through the seaweed that filled the shallows on Station Beach.

At the base of the climb to the lighthouse, there are two possible paths. I'd thought of taking Smugglers Track, but a sign at its base warned that it was a steep and difficult climb, so I elected to walk the gentler old service road instead. This is a pleasant climb up through the bush, and the path is undergoing repairs, so most of it is in good condition. Emerging at the lighthouse, somewhat short of breath, I was rewarded with what I'm sure are spectaular views, but by then I was strangely uninterested in the whole experience. I thought it unseemly to head straight down again, so wandered around in a desultory fashion. There was a fire on a headland to the north, and the prevailing wind was blowing the smoke straight back along the length of the headland. This created an impression of a ship on fire, which captured my attention for a while. Thoughts of naval battles and Spanish galleons came to mind.

If you climb the headland on a Sunday, you can tour the lighthouse. But I was there on a weekday, so had to be content with reading the signs instead. I did find the lighthouse keeper's grave, and was once again entranced by the curious word 'relict' to refer to his widow, who is also buried there. I have seen this word before on gravestones. It's from the Latin relictus, which is the past participle of relinquere, to leave behind. Our word relinquish derives from this. The first recorded use of the word relict for widow is in 1450. It is of course archaic now, for no good reason, because it seems to describe the state of bereavement very adequately. The person who is left behind.

My aimless meandering took me by chance to the head of the Smugglers Track, which is hidden below the Keepers' Cottages, and doesn't appear to be signposted. It looked pretty walker-friendly, so I started down, and found it an easy descent. I'm not quite sure of what dangers the sign at the bottom warn. Perhaps it's just a reflection of our increasing fear of litigation. Once again I shared my walk with a brown snake and a medium-size lizard, so it's sensible to wear closed-in footwear. Interestingly, the snakes don't rate a mention on the warning sign.

A generally unsatisfactory day was topped off with the discovery that the cafe at the beach had stopped serving coffee at 4.20 pm, and a nightmare drive home because a truck had tipped its trailer over on Barrenjoey Rd., blocking the only southbound lane.

Next stop Taronga Zoo (approached from Mosman), where I'm sure I won't be able to resist a visit to the new baby elephant before starting the return journey.

Goanna tracks and a tennis ball

How can I have lived in Sydney for more than six years, and in all that time no-one has once said to me, "You must go to West Head, it's magnificent."? In fact, until I started planning these walks, I didn't even know there was a West Head, just a North and a South one. Is there an East Head? I must look that up. So for all those out there who live in Sydney, and who've never had anyone say it to you either, I'm saying it now. You must go to West Head, it's magnificent!


The road into the park afforded entertainment in itself. As soon as I passed the entrance gate after paying the $11 entry fee for my car, the road blossomed from a narrow winding track into a wide, smooth, sweeping avenue lined with trees set slightly back from the verge. At one point it even had a shade of Englishness about it. Rest assured, that $11 is invested wisely. The park is beautifully maintained. A sign warned that endangered bandicoots were about for the next few kilometres, and I amused myself by thinking that if they were so endangered, they were unlikely to be much in evidence cavorting about the roadside. But then, perhaps it was that very cavorting that had led to their endangered status, as one by one they fell victim to the unwary driver. A large goanna had no qualms though about perhaps encountering a car, and stood looking distractedly into the bushes at the roadside before walking off in a very unhurried manner.

Goannas seem to be the opposite of an endangered species in Ku-ring-gai Chase. Although I only saw one in the flesh, there was evidence of them on both beaches I visited, with sweeping lines traced in the sand, bordered by footprints that gave rest to any thought of revisiting my encounter with the brown snake.

Despite the naysayers at the Bureau of Meteorology who forecast rain, the few spots on the windscreen as I drove up Mona Vale Rd were the only sign all day of any truth to their prediction. By the time I arrived at West Head Lookout, the day was gloriously sunny, and if there were any rain clouds about, they were hidden low on the western horizon behind the towering clifftops. Not only did I get to bask in the sunshine on the sand, but I had my swim after all, watched over only by a sea eagle gliding languidly above me. The water was bottle green and glass clear, with just a gentle swell helped by the occasional wash of boats as they proceeded up and down Pittwater.

I lay on the beach and thought about the last time I had been on an isolated beach. It was Australia Day this year; the weather was very similar, but my mind was very different. That day, the day after I had been devastated by news of my redundancy, was a day of healing by nature, of preparing me to start anew. Now only a few weeks later, I was thanking all the redundancy gods for this unprecedented opportunity to find what I had lost for so long - time. Time to enjoy the daylight outside, instead of behind sealed glass; time to discover parts of my home town that I didn't know existed; time to float on my back and marvel at the grace of the sea eagle; time to watch at the end of the day as two more sea eagles joined the one I had seen earlier, to dance in long slow loops above me in the fading sky.

At West Head Beach, where I stopped for lunch, a tennis ball was washing up on the shoreline as I ate. It was oddly mesmerising, and I was reminded of the Tom Hanks film Castaway, in which he befriends a volleyball. I thought of taking the tennis ball, but in the end left it to roll around namelessly. But I couldn't resist the urge to capture that encounter and stare at its unreality.

And it occurred to me to worry that I might so quickly lose this state of mind, and once again get caught up in a working life. I just hope I get to finish all my walks first, and remember to place the photo of the tennis ball on my new desk, to remind me of the day I watched a ball lap back and forth on the shoreline and that was enough for me.

West Head Excitement

Today I'm off to do Walk 4, to West Head in Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park. I've been looking forward to it ever since I completed Walk 3, because this isn't just a suburban outing. It's quite some distance north from my home in the inner west of Sydney, and I will actually be in the middle of a beautiful national park, instead of surrounded by civilisation. There are beaches and bush tracks, and no houses.

As it's something of a day excursion, I've had to plan ahead for this one, around my various other time commitments. So having last week identified today as the day, I've been anxiously watching the weather forecast. And when on Saturday, it appeared as though it might rain today, I was truly upset. But although the skies are grey, and perhaps my plans for a swim at one of the isolated beaches might need revising, I think I'll still be able to fulfil most of my planned day of walking, picnicking, reading and rediscovering my life.

Off to put on my walking shoes, with a nod to my friend, the brown snake of Greenwich.

There's more to life than work

Being made redundant for the first time is a bit like having your first child; even strangers feel they need to offer you helpful advice on how to cope with those first few tumultuous weeks. Everyone is well-meaning, and some of the advice is actually good. Such as the importance of exercising regularly.

But I could buy an exercise bike today and cycle myself into depression by the end of next week, so there's more to find in exercise than just doing some. Those of us who are used to the corporate goal-oriented world can find it pretty bewildering to wake up (late) in the morning and face a day, a week and even a month with no structure.

So I've found my structure in commencing to walk my way through "Sydney's Best Harbour and Coastal Walks", a book that I have had for a while now, and walked from occasionally. But now it's on in earnest. I've gone through the index, sorted the walks by length (starting with the shortest of course), doubled the length of the ones that aren't circuits, since there's no-one to drive that second car to leave a car at each end, and sub-sorted by grade, from easy to difficult. I'm sure I could make an Excel spreadsheet from it, file everything in folders and never get out the door, but I know about prioritisation, so today is already Day 3.

If I were to be a proper walker, I would of course kit myself up with an ipod, or preferably an iphone, strapped to my arm, wedge the earphones firmly in place and stride off grim-faced, looking neither right nor left. But instead, I look. And I listen. And I smile. And I think. I'm not sure what I thought about while walking from Watson's Bay to South Head, though perhaps I spent all my energy trying not to look too closely at some of those nude male bodies strolling with studied insouciance along the sand at Lady Bay Beach. Or worrying about the very overweight man who collapsed onto the sand at the water's edge as I watched. (How do you give CPR to someone who is nude? Where do you look?) But it was just his way of lowering his corpulent body into the water to wash the sand out of the multitudinous crevices....

And Day 2 brought the encounter with the snake at Greenwich, so perhaps I can be forgiven for not thinking about writing it all down until today.

Today was a quick 3 km turn around Cremorne Point, on Sydney's lower north shore. I thought I'd been there before, but it turned out I hadn't. Getting there involved the obligatory wrong turn around Neutral Bay, but I found Cremorne Point wharf without too many U-turns, so my navigation on the other side of the Bridge is improving.

It's almost a cliche, but the sky was clear and bright blue, and the Harbour sparkled in the sunlight. The path is a standard suburban footpath for the whole 3 kms, but apparently some people still need to dress in lycra and wear expensive running shoes to walk on it. In the height of dressing down, my apparel consisted of an old pair of denim shorts that are too big for me, a threadbare T-shirt, and thongs (of the footwear, not the underwear, variety). Oddly enough, I could still make it round the path despite this. I was surprised and pleased to find that, even though I was clearly lowering the average for the class of walker on the path, almost everyone I passed smiled at me, and offered a "Good morning".

If you haven't found this walk, and you live in Sydney, make a point of going. Shell Cove on one side, across the ridge of the peninsula and down along Mosman Bay back to the wharf. Kookaburras and clanking boats to listen to, many beautiful houses to envy, and a good cup of coffee served by a cheerful barista at the wharf at the end. The highlight though is the cliffside garden established by Lex and Ruby Graham, that overlooks Mosman Bay. Take your time, climb down the stone steps to the water's edge, and sit for a while to appreciate their years of volunteer work.

Next up, an excursion to the wilds of West Head......