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.