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.