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.