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.